Fortune Favors (17 page)

“Prometheus,” Leeds began, “is quite simply a cabal of intellectuals intent upon remaking the destiny of our planet.”

Annie rolled her eyes again, but their host ignored her open incredulity.

“They took their name, rather hypocritically, from the Titan in Greek mythology—a figure renowned for his wisdom and his love of mankind. It was Prometheus who stole fire from the gods of Olympus and gave it to man, and it was he who made sure that Pandora’s Box also contained hope. But this modern Prometheus obscenity is more like Zeus, intent on locking the mysteries of our world away, hoarding the secret knowledge for their own schemes. And like the gods of Olympus, they delight in playing games with people’s lives, controlling them as a puppet master works the strings of a marionette. They are playing just such a game with your friend Nick Kismet. He is, unknowingly I believe, their greatest experiment.”

“Experiment?” asked Higgins. “What kind of experiment?”

Leeds brought his fingers together in a steeple beneath his chin. “I’m not sure they even know. They unleashed him on the world, and then sat back to see what sort of havoc he would wreak. And they have been protecting him. I believe you have witnessed their interference first hand, Mr. Higgins. How else would you explain your miraculous escape from the Republican Guard in Nasiriyah?”

“This is ridiculous,” scoffed Annie.

“It is the truth,” Leeds answered, unperturbed. “And without his even realizing it, Kismet has become their bloodhound, tracking down the world’s last remaining mysteries—mysteries like the Seed of the Tree of Life—so that Prometheus can hide them away...or perhaps use them for some nefarious purpose.”

Annie leaned close to her father, and
sotto voce
said: “What’s ‘nefarious’ mean?”

Higgins ignored her. “How do you know all this?”

“I have given my life to searching for the very mysteries Prometheus wishes to conceal. One cannot wade too deep into those waters without hearing whispers of the conspiracy...or of the Nick Kismet experiment.”

Higgins glanced at Elisabeth, who seemed to be hanging on Leeds’ every word. “Why are you telling us? What are we supposed to do about it?”

“Kismet must not be allowed to uncover Hernando Fontaneda’s secret. I do not wish any harm to come to him, but if he finds the Seed, then Prometheus finds it, and they will not share its magnificent power with the world. They most certainly won’t share it with us.”

Leeds smiled again. “So, what I want from you, put simply, is this: join me in my quest. Abandon Kismet, for his own good, and help me find the Seed before Kismet or Prometheus.”

Annie bit back a caustic reply and instead watched her father’s reaction. She felt a surge of disappointment when she realized that he wasn’t going to reject Leeds’ offer out of hand. “He won’t stop looking, you know,” the former Gurkha said, after a long pause.

“No, I don’t imagine he will. That is the very reason that I seek a partnership with you. Time is of the essence. I have resources which can expedite our search, but you...you possess the information that can point me directly to the goal.”

“You already pumped us for that information,” Annie retorted. “What else do you think we know that you didn’t get from that phony séance?”

Leeds inclined his head in a conciliatory gesture. “It may be that you have some crucial piece of knowledge, the importance of which none of us realizes. And it may also be that your contribution to the endeavor will arise, not from what you know, but from what you will do.”

Annie stabbed an angry finger at Leeds. “You know what? You can go fu—“

Higgins cut her off, gripping her knee in his left hand. “I need to discuss this with my daughter. Privately.”

Leeds’ smile returned. “I know just the place.”

* * *

Kismet rolled over onto hands and knees. His gut seemed twisted around the bruises forming in his abdomen. Nevertheless, he climbed to his feet and began pushing through the crowd toward the street.

He scanned the boulevard in both directions, and then looked over at the park entrance. The men who had accosted him were gone. He couldn’t fathom how MacKay had managed to reach New York ahead of them in order to lay an ambush, but his aching insides told him that the silver-toothed thug had not made the trip alone.

He charged down the steps, dodging traffic, in a beeline for the 81
^st
street intersection with the Transverse Road. It hadn’t been five minutes since he parted company with Higgins and Annie, but MacKay and his team had evidently been watching all along, and might have already made a move on his friends.

One of Central Park’s famous carriages—a red and yellow
Vis-a-Vis
, drawn by a single chestnut gelding—was parked just beyond the entrance. The driver, wearing a formal jacket and an old-fashioned top hat, nodded in his direction as he passed, prompting Kismet to pull up short. “I think my friends may have come through here a few minutes ago; a big guy with dark hair, and a tall, skinny girl with short brown hair.”

The driver nodded. “Saw ‘em. They caught a ride with my buddy, Jack.”

“A ride? A carriage ride?” Kismet frowned. “Just the two of them?”

“Not sure. But I know Jack’s route if you want to follow ‘em.”

“Do it.” Kismet swung into the coach, settling into the front facing seat. “There's a big tip for you if you can catch them.”

“That’s what I wanted to hear,” answered the driver with a grin and he climbed up onto his seat, perched about the front wheel. He gave the reins a shake, and horse and carriage lurched into motion together.

Kismet drummed his fingers impatiently on the carved wooden sides of the coach. The animal's hooves and the clatter of the metal rimmed wheels on the paving stones started a low tremor, which passed through every molecule in the cab. Kismet gritted his teeth against the annoying sound, absently wondering how the starry-eyed lovers that frequently made use of the carriages could endure the din.

The horse drew the cab along the gradually curving Transverse Avenue. Children played on the edge of the pond off to the left, oblivious to the anxiety he was experiencing. Unable to simply sit idle, Kismet leaned forward, peering over the driver's shoulder to catch a glimpse of the other carriage.

“Can you push it a little,” he shouted over the rumbling, trying not to sound rude.

The driver shrugged and cracked his buggy whip over the horse, urging the gelding into a trot. The clatter of hooves and wheels on the asphalt was like a blaring siren ahead of the carriage, warning pedestrians to get clear. They did so grudgingly, voicing their opinions with characteristic New York politeness.

“Hang on, back there,” the driver shouted over his shoulder. “I know a shortcut.”

Despite the warning, Kismet was jounced violently as the carriage turned sharply to the right, just a few hundred yards past the East Drive underpass. The metal-shod wheels banged over the curb, and then the ride got a lot smoother and a lot quieter as they headed out across a manicured lawn. The hooves and wheels left a pockmarked trail of divots in their wake, but when Kismet glanced around to gauge the reaction of other park visitors, he saw no one. They were moving into the Ramble, the park’s thirty-eight acre manufactured wilderness.

A stand of trees lay directly ahead and Kismet knew the driver would have to slow down in order to go through the wooded area, but to his surprise and dismay, as soon as they reached the tree line, the driver pulled back on the reins, stopping altogether.

“What the hell kind of shortcut—?” Kismet fell silent as he saw the dismounted driver peering into the covered passenger area. He had removed his top hat, but the most conspicuous thing about him was the semi-automatic pistol in his right fist.

“This is where you get out, sir. Don’t worry about that tip. It’s been taken care of.”

In the sudden quiet, Kismet heard the rumble and clank of a piece of machinery emanating from the woods. He stared at the driver, meeting the man’s gaze rather than looking at the gun. There was a hardness there; this man believed he was capable of pulling the trigger. “Tell me something; are you one of Leeds’ true believers, or just hired help?”

The gunman ignored the dig. “Get out.”

Kismet complied, keeping his hands elevated. The driver maintained a standoff distance of about ten yards, enough to ensure that he would have time to pull the trigger if his captive tried anything. He gestured with the gun, pointing toward the tree line. Kismet knew that his odds of surviving this trap would be greatly reduced if he complied, but he there seemed to be little alternative. Without taking his eyes off the gunman, he moved into the trees.

He emerged into a clearing—a secluded meadow ringed by trees—and immediately discovered the source of the machine noise. Parked in the middle of the open area was an enormous gasoline-powered industrial wood chipper. In principle, it was no different than a backyard mulch machine, but this device was designed to chew up entire tree trunks. It was so big it had to be towed by a truck. A six-foot long chute, lined with a series of rollers, led to a pair of spinning wheels which would grab anything that touched them and thrust it into a nest of rotary knives. Another metal chute, like a square-pipe, curved up out of the body of the machine like a snorkel, and was positioned above a pile of woodchips in the back of a small flatbed truck parked alongside the chipper. The gasoline engine was running, and all the wheels and knives were turning, but nothing was being fed into it and nothing was issuing from the output chute.

“You’re so bloody predictable, mate.”

Kismet tore his gaze away from the chipper and turned to the source of the voice. Ian MacKay stood a few feet to his right.

“Oh, I think you’ll find I’m full of surprises,” Kismet said.

MacKay just laughed, his hands resting on his hips. Kismet did a slow sweep and found another man positioned to his left. This fellow, one of the pair that had grabbed him on the front steps of the museum, held a long metal pole topped with a vicious-looking pruning saw. The ersatz carriage driver brought up the rear, still wielding his pistol.

“You really went to a lot of trouble,” Kismet remarked. “I’m touched. What did you do with the work crew? Kill them?”

“Naw. Just gave ‘em the afternoon off with pay, so to speak.” MacKay’s eyes took on a hard edge. “I don’t suppose you’d save us all a lot of trouble and just jump in. Won’t hurt for more than a second or two I reckon.”

“Where are my friends? If you’ve hurt them...” He didn’t complete the threat; he knew how hollow it sounded.

“Least of your worries, mate.” MacKay nodded to his cohorts, and the man to his left immediately thrust the pole-saw at him.

Kismet hurled himself out of the way, diving into a shoulder roll that took him to the middle of the clearing. As he came back to his feet, he spun around to face the trio of attackers. He now saw that the carriage driver had put his gun away, and now held a small gas-powered chain saw, which he triggered menacingly as he advanced. MacKay just stood with his hands, balled into fists, resting on his hips.

Kismet didn’t know why they hadn’t simply shot him. Maybe they were afraid of leaving telltale forensic evidence or had it in their heads that they could somehow make his death look like an accident. He wasn’t about to ask.

The three men spread out, trying to establish a perimeter and prevent him from escaping. As noisy and intimidating as the chainsaw was, Kismet was more concerned about the man with the pole-saw. If he was going to survive this, he was going to have to take the initiative, and quickly.

He took a step sideways, closer to the rumbling chipper. Then, as his assailants moved to take the ground he had ceded, he lunged toward the man with the pole-saw. It was a feint only; he caught himself before putting his weight on his outstretched foot, but it was enough. The man reacted instinctively, stabbing the saw blade at him again, and this time Kismet was ready. Turning just enough to avoid the thrust, he wrapped an arm around the sturdy aluminum pole and yanked it forward. The saw wielder was pulled forward, off balance and his impromptu weapon twisted out of his grip as he slid face down across the grass.

Kismet spun around and whipped the pole toward the man with the chainsaw. The man parried, triggering the chain reflexively, and the cutting tool met the pole in a shower of sparks. The vibration traveled through the hollow metal rod like an electric shock and Kismet felt it slipping from his grip before he could even think about trying to hang on tighter. His opponent immediately advanced, raising the chainsaw overhead as he did, and slashed down with all his might.

Kismet stumbled backward and the whirring teeth on the chain sliced through the air where he had been. The saw narrowly missed him and plunged into the soft ground, throwing up a spray of dirt and grass. Kismet barely saw any of this though; his foot struck the man from whom he’d taken the saw, still supine on the ground and struggling to rise, and he tripped backward, flattening the man a second time.

It felt like it took an eternity for him to fall, an obscenely bloated moment in which he flailed his arms, unsuccessfully trying to restore his balance. Yet, even as he fell, his mind was turning over possible courses of action. He twisted, trying to land on his side, so as to grapple with the fallen assailant. Doing so would give MacKay and the other man time to advance, but it would reduce the odds that were stacked against him by a third.

Before he could act on his plan something slammed into the back of his head and a curtain of darkness fell. He was still conscious, but for a few seconds could do nothing but lay motionless in a daze. Except he wasn’t on the ground and he wasn’t motionless. Strong hands had reached under his arms and hauled him more or less erect. His heels dragged across the ground for a few yards and then he felt himself being lifted into the air. As his vision cleared, he caught a glimpse of Ian MacKay’s silver toothed grin of delight, and then there was another burst of pain as he was slammed down on the chipper’s feed chute. The roller wheels offered no resistance as MacKay gave him a shove and he began sliding headfirst toward the machine’s gaping maw.