Into the Black (6 page)

"I would suggest that the altar stone you see in the photograph proves that someone did worship her.”

"Perhaps the stone was a theatrical prop. The legend of the Argonauts was a favorite of Greek dramatists."  Kismet knew the argument was weak, but he saw where Harcourt was leading and felt compelled to head him off.

"Then the set designer was rather over-eager, don't you think? That's white marble, a rather expensive choice for use as a decoration."

"Touché."  Kismet sighed, staring once more at the words on the photograph.  "All right, someone worshiped somebody named Medea. If it was the same person as the one in the legend, what does that prove? There are thousands of altars, temples and shrines to dozens of gods, nymphs and oracles.  Those temples in no way prove that such persons or creatures existed."

"You've gotten ahead of me, Nick. I merely present this to you as evidence of an aspect of ancient culture with which we are unfamiliar."

"And you think there's more to be discovered?"

"I am certain of it." Harcourt sat back and pressed his fingers together.  "However, let me return to the subject of Medea as an historic figure. Since history does not record the worship of her, and yet we see proof that she was worshiped by someone, what does that suggest?”

"Medea literally means 'a witch' or 'one who is cunning.' There's nothing to indicate that a woman named Medea really existed.  If the character in legend was based on an actual person, it is doubtful that her name was Medea, and even less likely that her worshipers would have memorialized her with that derogatory term."

"The word may have been coined because of her."

Kismet found his recall of both his Greek language lessons and Bullfinch's mythology shifting into overdrive.  "No. In fact, it is a Greek word, while the Medea of legend was not a Greek.  And use of the word certainly pre-dates the theoretical place in history when the journey of the Argo would have occurred.”

"Except for that," snapped Harcourt, seeming to lose his cool. He stabbed his finger at the photo. "An altar to Medea."

"Calm down," soothed Kismet. "You're right.  This would seem to support what you're suggesting."

Harcourt stared back, unsure of what to make of Kismet's apparent reversal. "I hope you're not patronizing me, Nick." He waited a moment longer, before continuing. "I believe that this altar stone is one end of a thread that will lead us through the labyrinth of legend to the truth about Medea, Jason, the Argonauts and the Golden Fleece itself.

"To begin with, the legend states that Jason and his companions successfully completed their quest, capturing the Golden Fleece.  He also took Medea for a bride, and returned to win back the kingdom to which he was the rightful heir.  Some versions even speak of him using the Fleece as a talisman to control the weather or heal a blight upon the land.  In any event, the Fleece was certainly a great treasure. Yet, following the end of the tale, there is no further mention of it in the mythology of the Greeks.

"What if there really was a Golden Fleece?  What if it was a symbol of powerful magic? What if Medea took the Fleece from her husband, and used it to create a cult of her own worshipers?  Do you see where this leads?  If we can locate the temple of Medea from which this altar stone was taken, we may find also one of the most spectacular artifacts in history: the original quest, the Golden Fleece."

"I counted at least three ‘what ifs' Andrew. You are basing your entire investigative process on folk tales."

"And why is that such a crime?  Heinrich Schliemann proved that the mythology of Homer was a suitable guide book when he discovered the ruins of ancient Troy."

Kismet dredged up what he knew about the famous German archaeologist who had plundered gold from a site in Turkey near the turn of the twentieth century.  Schliemann’s wife and partner had reportedly helped him smuggle the artifacts from the site and ultimately back to their homeland by concealing them under her skirt.  Those treasures, revered by the German National Socialist party prior to World War II had disappeared following the sack of Berlin, probably taken as booty by Russian soldiers and secreted away in the halls of the Hermitage.  It was just the sort of incident the Global Heritage Commission sought to prevent by keeping historical discoveries in their country of origin.  Harcourt, like Heinrich Schliemann, was a 'pop' scientist, who liked to make sensational claims that grabbed headlines, and Kismet had no qualms about voicing that accusation.

"Schliemann found a ruin and used the Iliad to fill in the blank spaces. That kind of circular logic might impress royalty and make you famous, but it does little to advance the true cause of science.  You of all people should realize that Andrew.  Or didn't you learn your lesson with the Beowulf debacle?"

"Schliemann's detractors are now my own, but what does that prove?  Merely that the institution of archaeology is governed by narrow-minded men; men without vision.  But I assure you I am not doing this to add to my acclaim.  The Fleece is a very important, possibly very powerful artifact."

Harcourt's rising passion had already validated Kismet's reticence, but with that last assertion the British archaeologist had crossed a line.  "Powerful?"

"Think of the helmet shard. You said yourself that the Greeks would not have wasted gold to overlay a war helmet. But the legend tells how Medea used a magical salve to make Jason invincible, a balm that she spread on both his body and his armor. I contend that the balm she used was derived from the power latent in the Golden Fleece."

Kismet found he was curious in spite of himself.  "How do you make that connection?"

"First, the Fleece was in the possession of her father, the king of Colchis.  One version of the myth suggests that it was kept in a temple guarded by an enormous serpent, and that Medea herself had access to both the temple and its guardian. The serpent motif is found extensively throughout ruins along the Black Sea coastline."

"And in just about every other culture in the world."

Harcourt conceded the point with a nod, but resumed his argument without missing a beat.  "Moreover, she was a witch. She would have believed that the Fleece had magical properties and would have sought to use it."

"Witchcraft and shamanism are also a part of most cultures, both historic and contemporary.  That doesn't mean those superstitions are real."

Harcourt smiled cryptically.  "A demonstration then."  He centered the helmet shard on Kismet's desk, turned so the outward curve faced the ceiling.  It looked almost as if a face was pushing through the desktop.  "Do you have a letter opener?"

Kismet dug into his pocket and took out an oblong olive-drab colored object: his pocket knife, a Benchmade 53 Marlowe Balisong knife.  The Balisong butterfly knife design, which had originated in the Philippines, was different than an ordinary pocket knife where the blade folded into the side of handle.  The Balisong handle was split lengthwise, and the blade rotated on two pivot points out of the grooved channels on either side.  Kismet squeezed the handle halves together just enough to allow the spring-loaded latch to pop open, then whipped his wrist around.  One half of the hinged handle fell away and suddenly three inches of gleaming steel flashed into view.  Kismet caught the loose handle half before it could strike the back of his hand, and with the handle halves together once more, the knife was ready for use.  He surreptitiously thumbed the latch shut, securing the handle so that the blade would not collapse, then held it out for Harcourt's inspection.  "Will this work?"

Harcourt blanched a little.  The Balisong was a tricky knife to master--more than a few first-time users had the scars on their fingers to prove it--but in skilled hands, the blade and handle halves flashing through the air could prove downright intimidating.  Kismet didn't normally like to show-off, but if it meant making Harcourt nervous, he was willing to make an exception.

"I should say so."  Harcourt took a step back.  "Now, if you please, I want you to stab at the helmet shard.  Don't hold back; you can't damage it."

Kismet raised an eyebrow.  He wasn't as protective about the relics as some of the bone-diggers, but he drew the line at wanton vandalism.  Still, what harm would one more nick or dent matter to a piece of combat gear?  He raised the knife over his head, drew a mental crosshair on the helmet piece, and hammered down with his fist.

What happened next was difficult to follow.  The blade seemed to skitter along the surface of the helmet shard, redirecting away to the right.  The tip gouged a deep furrow in the wood desktop.  At the same time, the violence of the blow was reflected in the reaction; the helmet piece shot away, banging against the wall before crashing noisily to the floor.  Kismet released his hold on the knife, leaving it upright where it had impaled the desk.  "Okay, what did that prove?"

Harcourt raised a forbearing hand as he retrieved the shard and presented it for inspection.  The soft gold showed no evidence of having been scored by the hardened steel blade.  The relic was undamaged.

"It's not what you think," Harcourt offered in the absence of a comment from Kismet.  "Your blade never touched it."

"What do you mean?"

"The metal which you take to be gold on that shard has a rather unusual attribute.  From a metallurgical standpoint it is indeed gold, but unlike ordinary gold, this substance can store a transient electrical charge, stealing electrons from the environment.  When an oppositely charged item—your knife blade—is directed toward it at high speed, an electrostatic field is created.  The helmet shard literally repelled your knife blade, pushing it away as it came close.  I had it analyzed by a top European research firm; it is a stable anion of gold—they dubbed it 'ubergold.'  It rather reminds me of orichalcum, the divine metal Plato associated with Atlantis.  Whether it is a naturally occurring substance is anyone's guess, but they all agree that nothing like it has ever been discovered."

Kismet stared at the British archaeologist, weighing the arguments the other man had presented.  The possibility that some kind of magnetic gold might have imbued an object with extraordinary abilities was intriguing, but merely as a curiosity.  It would take a lot more for Kismet to want to get on board with Sir Andrew Harcourt.  "Well, that is interesting, but I don't see how it supports your broader theory.  You still have nothing more to offer than conjecture based primarily on myths and legends."

"I admit that it is a rough beginning, but the goal will be worth the effort if we succeed."

"I still am unclear as to why you want me along. Why not contact England's liaison to the Commission?  I imagine he would jump at the chance to accompany the Queen's favorite archaeologist on his latest quest."

"As you might well imagine, celebrity brings with it the jealousy of one's peers.  To be honest, I suspect that you are the only one of my colleagues likely to assist me in this endeavor.  Oh yes, I do think of you as a colleague; I sense that you are genuinely interested in the pursuit of truth, unlike most of the bureaucrats in UNESCO.  And you have a reputation for delivering the goods."

Kismet was unmoved.  "I shouldn't have to remind you of your obligation to remain objective, Andrew.  We can't let myths and legends affect our perspective. Archaeology is about uncovering the past; reading history in the ruins and bones of ancient civilizations. It's not about proving pet theories, and it certainly isn't about chasing after magical talismans."

Harcourt suddenly broke into a grin, as if he had landed a sucker punch in their verbal sparring match.  He stood abruptly, retrieved the helmet shard and returned it to his case.  He left photographs on Kismet's desk.  "I'm surprised you can say that after having looked upon the Ark of the Covenant."

Kismet felt as though he had been hit broadside.  "I think you've got me confused with someone else," he replied slowly, straining to control his expression.

"Oh, really?  My mistake." He picked up the case and strolled toward the door. "Consider my offer, Nick.  You have a chance to be a part of history.  Be seeing you."

Kismet did not move, struggling to keep his balance; the inside of his head was roaring with the sudden rush of adrenaline.  He strove to remain imperturbable as Harcourt exited, but the moment he heard the Englishman's footsteps in the hall, he jumped up, retrieved his knife and ran to the door.  He opened it a crack and peered after his departing guest.

Harcourt strode purposefully for the exit.  A moment later, someone else appeared and headed down the vacant hallway toward him; a shapely feminine figure in a remarkable strapless black cocktail dress that seemed, like Harcourt's helmet shard, to defy the laws of physics. 

Kismet groaned; beautiful as she was, at just this moment Lysette Lyon was the last person on earth he wanted to see.  As the taller man passed by, Lyse paused and looked over her shoulder at him.  Kismet waited until Harcourt turned the corner leading to the elevator foyer before bursting into the corridor.

"Nick."  She flashed her lethal smile. "Sorry I'm late, but this weather has slowed things down and parking was a nightmare."

Kismet pushed past her.  He could hear the sound of the elevator in the shaft.  If Harcourt was taking it up from the lower level, it stood to reason that he would be leaving through the front entrance facing Central Park.

"Bad timing, Lyse. I'm sorry, but our night on the town will have to wait."  As soon as the elevator doors thumped shut, Kismet sprinted past the foyer and down the hallway to a flight of stairs at north end of the building.  He could hear Lyse's heels tapping a quick staccato rhythm in his wake.

Rounding the banister, Kismet flashed a wave to the guard posted at the seldom-used 81st Street entrance and pushed through the door.  He hastened along the perimeter of the castle-like structure, ducking low alongside the massive stone walls, and paused at the corner where he could surreptitiously observe the stairs that faced the park.  Harcourt was descending the stone steps, moving purposefully toward an idling black Lincoln Towne Car.  As he approached, the driver of the vehicle got out and opened the back door.