The Golden Catch

by Roger Weston

  “Did he come back again?” Frank asked.

  “That was the last I saw of him.”

  “You said there was a Russian ship in town?”

  “Yeah. The Pinisha. Flew a Russian flag. I never miss a ship coming through. Can’t keep track of all the small vessels, just too many, but I rarely miss a ship. We get a couple freighter landings a week here: an import and an export, and of course the American President Lines ship. Crewmen usually come through here. The Pinisha was a general cargo ship. Showed up about the same time the Asian guy did. She was docked for most of the day. I never did hear what her cargo was. Anyway, she’s been through before.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah, a few months ago. I remember her captain. Ordered eggs and bacon for dinner. Drunk. Wouldn’t quit talking. Said if there was ever an opening in the crew mess, I was his man. Lot of foreigners come through here: Japanese, Russians, Koreans—but this guy was something else. Spent all of an hour braggin’ about his glamorous lifestyle on the Pinisha. Being a bit of a ship buff, I listened, though he was laying it on thick. Struck me as funny that a Korean commanded a Russian ship.”

  “He told you that?”

  “Oh, yeah. Said the ship was registered with Russia for convenience. Then he left me a twenty-dollar tip for a twenty-dollar meal.”

  Frank looked at Wade for several moments. “Did you say registered with Russia for convenience?”

  Wade nodded. “That’s what he said. Tell you the truth, I’m glad he didn’t stop in this time.”

  “Well, that’s—” Frank paused and stared at Wade. “What company did he work for?”

  “Wait a minute.” Wade walked into the back. When he returned, he was shaking his head. “The man gave me a card, but I lost it. The writing was in English, but I can’t remember the company name. I never considered going to work for him. In case Bentley asks, he has nothing to worry about. As I said, there aren’t many secrets around Dutch Harbor, and there’s only a few restaurants, so I hear things. Most folks passing through stop off for a bite. The burgers are worth a long walk.”

  “I’ll vouch for that, and I appreciate the information. Do you have a number where I can contact Bentley? It’s important.”

  “Wait a minute.” Wade left and returned with a piece of paper which he handed to Frank. “Here you go.”

  “Bentley’s lucky to have you working for him.”

  “Happy to help, you being his old friend and all.”

  Frank laid cash on the table to pay for the coffee, plus a twenty-dollar tip. He stood up and lifted their bags. “If anyone else comes around asking about me, I’d appreciate it if you’d say you don’t know me and haven’t seen me.”

  “No problem. Ma’am, you come on back, you hear?”

  Frank left the bags in the lobby, and they went up to the second floor. They walked slowly down the hall. Twice Frank looked over his shoulder. The hall was empty. The boards creaked under their feet. He knocked on the door.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  November 30th

  The door swung open.

  Frank’s trail boss, Brian Nash, craned his long neck out the doorway, glancing down the hall. He said, “Come on in. We’re just playing rummy.”

  Frank made introductions and explained that Abby was going to Kiska.

  Clay Krukov got up from the table, his long black hair brushing his shoulders. He looked at Abby with his narrow dark eyes. Clay was like a brother to Frank. They fought together in the jungles of South America long before Clay ever worked on Frank’s crab boats. After Frank sold his fleet, Clay stayed on as a ranch and boat hand.

  Frank said, “I have to tell you something important.”

  Brian leaned against the wall. The sleeves of his checkered shirt were rolled up, and he crossed his arms. “This have anything to do with an Asian askin’ all over town about you?”

  Frank looked at Brian for a moment. “What did he want?”

  “Asked where you could be found. I saw him board the Pinisha.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I didn’t know you,” Brian said.

  “How about you, Clay?” Frank said.

  “Same.” Clay had his brown fingers half buried in his caribou-fur pants. “I’ve got my reputation to consider. Nothing personal.” He grinned.

  Frank raised his eyebrows. “What was up? Really.”

  Clay said, “Didn’t seem like a friend. Gave me a bad feeling.”

  Frank noticed Abby was watching Clay closely with her lips compressed.

  He walked over to the window, pulled back the curtain and looked out. The snow was coming down hard outside. It was getting dark. Below a couple of crab fishermen walked by. Someone with their back to Frank was walking over to the small boat harbor.

  Frank let the curtain fall and turned back to the others. “Either of you familiar with the Pinisha?”

  “I’ve seen her in the Shelikof Strait,” Clay said. “But that was a few years ago.”

  “Not me,” Brian said.

  “I’ve seen her out there too, ” Frank said. “She’s probably a tramper.” He walked slowly across the room. “I went to Korea because I found a few artifacts that I wanted to investigate.” He stopped and faced them.

  “I didn’t tell you the whole story. I didn’t want to say anything until I got all the facts. But now I think someone’s following me.”

  Brian craned his neck slightly forward. “What are you talking about?”

  Frank hesitated, rubbed the back of his head, nodded slightly. In a hushed voice, he said, “A fortune in Korean gold relics on Kiska Island.”

  Clay stared blank-faced at Frank.

  Brian squinted, and his atom’s apple moved when he swallowed. “You kidding us?” he said. “On Kiska?”

  Frank said, “I didn’t give the location to anyone I didn’t trust. A couple people knew I was researching a shipment of gold that disappeared during World War Two, that’s all. Unfortunately, I made a mistake. I paid a man to buy access to classified government archives in Seoul.” Again Frank lowered his tone of voice. “That man is now dead.”

  Clay looked down and whispered to himself.

  The lines on Brian’s forehead became deep wrinkles. His crossed arms dropped to his sides as he stood up straight. “My God, who are these people?”

  Frank started to speak, but Brian cut him short, stepping forward. “My wife’s alone on that island--”

  “So are Luke and Ingrid. I don’t think they’re in immediate danger. The shipment of treasure I tracked was presumed lost at sea. Whoever these people are, I don’t believe they know where the gold is. Still, we can’t take chances. We have to leave immediately and see that we aren’t followed.

  “Regardless of what happens, if we’re in danger--Brian, if our families are in danger--it’s because of the gold. You’re my friends, you’ve both been loyal to me, and I trust you. Whatever happens, I want to cut you both in on a share, but I can’t cut you in until I know I have a share to cut you in on. I’ve got to arrange a deal with the Koreans. It’s complicated; that’s why Abby’s coming along. She’s an archaeologist.”

  Clay glanced at Abby, lowered his head.

  “I’m more concerned about Karen than any share of gold,” Brian said.

  “Once we get out of town, we’ll all be a lot safer. Meet me at the Hector in thirty minutes, but watch your backsides getting there. Make sure you’re not followed. And stay off the radios.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Frank and Abby caught a cab to Red Claw Seafood’s dock. Frank told the cabby to wait for him. Bud Galer, an old friend, was the foreman at the cannery. Bud was holding the supplies Frank ordered from ACME, including Christmas presents.

  Before Frank went into the cannery office, he hesitated and glanced down the dock . . . No one around. Nothing out of the ordinary. He entered the office behind Abby.

  An Aleut woman with thick glasses and a friendly grin greeted them at the desk.


  “I’m here to see Bud.”

  “He’s not here. He’ll be back tomorrow.”

  “My name’s Frank Murdoch.”

  “Oh, yes, Mr. Murdoch. Bud said you might stop by. I’ll have our forklift take the supplies out to your boat.” The woman got up and disappeared through a door leading into the cannery.

  Frank and Abby walked back out on the dock, which was covered with packed snow. Numerous boats lay idle across the water, crab boats lined up at piers. A few purse seiners and trawlers who called Dutch Harbor home slept with their hawser lines secured to bollards. Across the harbor a single-engine seaplane floated in the cold pulsating water. Just down the dock from Frank, a sheet of ice covered a stack of half-ton crab pots. Here and there, halogen lights lit up snow flurries.

  A fork lift rolled down a loading ramp and swung around Frank’s way with three loaded pallets. The bleary-eyed driver stopped by the Hector. He got down and they boarded the crabber. Frank opened the door to the accommodations and showed Abby to her cabin.

  “I’ve got to help this guy. Why don’t you make yourself at home.”

  Abby sat down on the berth.

  Frank walked over and put his hand on her shoulder. “Everything will be alright,” he said. “We’ll cast off within the hour. After that, we’ll be lost to the world. After I go out, I want you to lock your door and keep it locked. I have to take care of a few things. We’ll be out of here real soon.”

  “Frank, I’ll be fine.”

  On the foc’sle deck, Frank climbed into the crane operator’s cabin. With the fork lift driver’s guiding hand on deck, Frank removed the hatch cover with the crane, onloaded twelve pallets, and closed the hatch again. Frank thanked the man . . . who was happy to assist and would return to help cast off.

  Down on the weather deck, Frank paused and took a deep breath of the fresh Alaskan air. Fog floated overhead and snow blew down and added to the dusting on deck.

  He left his bags in the wet room, climbed three decks to the wheelhouse and started the big marine diesel engines. In his office he unlocked the top drawer of his desk and withdrew his .357 magnum handgun. He made sure it was loaded. He stopped to check on Abby again before he went outside.

  “Did your father teach you how to shoot?”

  “I’m pretty good with an M-16.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “I used to go with my dad to the shooting range.”

  Frank handed her the .357. “Hold on to this. I don’t think you’ll need it, but I’ll be gone for a little while. Whatever you do, don’t shoot Clay or Brian. They’ll be arriving anytime.”

  With the Hector warming up, Frank returned to the dock, and the cab dropped him at the Russian Orthodox Church. Standing there, he beheld the tired old historic structure with its onion-dome cupolas and crosses looming in the night. He went inside, finding the pews empty. It occurred to him that he might be the person who could pay to have this old church renovated and restored to its original splendor. He dropped to his knees.

  “Blessed Father, I . . .” He trailed off. Indecision gripped him and he remained at the pew for some time. Finally, he stood up. He had to go. Shouldn’t have come here. Walking out of the church, he felt stress spread from his heart into his shoulders and neck, his temples and eyes.

  Back at the Hector, numbing wind blew a thick screen of snow through the boat’s halogen mast lights as water lapped up against her hull. The acrid smell of diesel fumes from her rumbling engines permeated the air.

  Brian and Clay were ready to go. The fork lift driver returned and threw off the Hector’s three-inch hawser lines. As the boat pulled away from the dock, Frank waved to him. Below on deck, Clay was prepping the Hector for open seas. Beneath Frank’s guiding hands the black-hulled crabber wound through the harbor, set out upon the open sea where wind howled through her rigging as she pushed through eight-foot swells, and began a 800-mile journey across the expansive Aleutian Island chain.

  Frank was greatly relieved to be at sea again. He felt confident they were now beyond the reach of trouble. He engaged the autopilot and went down into the hold to make sure the lashings on the cargo were holding. He was thankful that the refrigeration unit was operating. On the way back, he was crossing the weather deck when a wave broke over the gunwales and sent him rolling under a freezing whitewater froth. Frank cursed his carelessness. On his second try, he made it to the wetroom, shivering and tasting salt in his mouth. When he walked into the galley, Abby was sitting there having coffee. She looked at him with raised eyebrows. Frank met her warm gaze. In that moment, as he stood there freezing, something soft and silent passed between them.

  Abby got up and came to him. “Frank, what happened to you?”

  “A wave got the best of me.”

  She squeezed his arms. “You’re freezing.”

  “You been out there yet?”

  “No, and from the looks of you, I’m not sure I want to.”

  “You’re safer in here until the ocean calms down and it probably won’t. If you fall overboard, the life expectancy in these waters without a survival suit is ten to fifteen minutes. If there’s an emergency, you’ve got a survival suit under your bunk. Get it on quickly, because it’s the only thing that can save your life out here. I’m not anticipating any problems, but you need to be aware. Let me show you where it is.”

  In the small room they brushed against each other.

  Frank looked at Abby and felt a moment’s temptation.

  Abby said, “You’re shivering, you better get some warm clothes on.”

  “Yeah, I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  Frank dried off and changed his clothes. When he returned, Abby had coffee waiting for him in the galley.

  The door down the hall slammed. Clay came into the galley and brought the smell of oil with him. “Engines sound good.”

  “What’s that you’re wearing?” Abby asked.

  Clay looked at her suspiciously. “A gutskin parka,” he said. “It’s a sort of raincoat.”

  “Really?” Abby said, fascinated. She reached out and felt the material. “How did they make all these tassels and loops?”

  “I made them by twisting and braiding sinews and hairs and sewing them into the seams.” He frowned. “To you archaeologists I guess I’m a sort of living time capsule.”

  “You are to me,” Frank said. Now to Abby: “When we get to Kiska, don’t be shocked if you see a frozen walrus head on top of his cabin.”

  Abby’s eyes opened wide. “Really?”

  “Sure,” Clay said, “instant protein.”

  Abby sat back looking embarrassed.

  Clay started searching the shelves. Frank said, “Sorry, Clay, we were in a hurry. The pancake mix is still packed in the crates.”

  Clay’s shoulders sank and he turned around with a pitiful expression on his face.

  Frank looked at Abby. “Clay once hiked forty miles over moving ice flows just to buy flour for pancakes.”

  Worst part was I forgot the maple syrup,” Clay said. “I wonder what the anthropologists would make of that.” He walked out saying, “I’ll be in the engine room.”

  Abby shrank down in her chair, her face flushed.

  Frank shrugged his shoulders and sipped his coffee. “Don’t mind him. Different universities have sent archaeologists to the village he’s from. They stirred up trouble among his people. Don’t take it personally.”

  Abby shrugged.

  Frank took a deep breath and said, “I’m afraid I’ve caused you a lot of trouble. I meant it when I said you may not be safe in South Korea anymore. I want you to know I’ll pay to get you set up in a new apartment somewhere. Helping you out is the least I can do. Later on, when things settle down, I’ll pay to move your things.”

  She nodded and looked at Frank. “Thanks. Actually I don’t have much stuff. I live out of a few suitcases and backpacks. With all the excitement, I almost forgot about my apartment.

  “Frank, I’ve been thinking mo
re about your discovery. I meant it that your claim is uncertain. In America, archaeological discoveries on private property are often beyond governmental control, but that’s no guarantee. Every state is different. And with something this important, anything could happen.”

  “That’s not acceptable. I’m not fighting this in court--any court. I’ve got leverage and I’m not giving it up.” He slowly took a sip of his coffee and set the cup down as a wave doused the porthole. He bunched his shoulders and shivered. “We know the Korean government will want the artifacts for their museums. I’m not opposed to that, but it’s not that simple, either. I want you to call up the head of the Seoul National Museum and present them with an offer.”

  Abby said, “Better yet, why don’t I give your terms to an international antiquities lawyer I know in the Netherlands named Dane Leisbeth. He can mitigate a settlement out of court better than I can, and you’ll still be anonymous.”

  Frank nodded. “That’s a good idea. Let’s call him right now.”

  Abby looked at her watch. “With the time difference in the Netherlands, he should be in his office.”

  For the next few minutes, Frank explained his offer to her. Then Abby got the address book out of her purse, and they went up to the wheelhouse.

  “You remember what to tell him, right?” Frank said.

  She smiled. “You’ll arrange for a foundation to take possession of half the treasure and orchestrate a ten-year world tour. The rest of the treasure you’ll withhold as a good faith measure. If the Koreans interfere or assert a claim during this ten-year period, they’ll never see the missing treasure. All profits from the exhibit will be directed to a charity of your choice. After ten years, all the treasure will be returned to South Korea.”