Staring at the man who’d spoken as the pallet lightly touched the metal deck, he barked in Russian, “I’m boarding your ship! Get your chief mate down here. Now!”
Chapter 3
July 8—Seattle, three weeks earlier
“Why are you here?” The man sitting across from me wore a genial smile to go with the plaid button-down shirt and pale blue V-neck cashmere sweater. The kindly Mr. Rogers veneer wasn’t thick enough to hide a toughness that suggested he’d been in the military once.
“Jeri Nolan insisted,” I said.
After five minutes of get-to-know-you chitchat Brian L. Whitney, MA, LMFT, LMHC, started earning his therapist’s fee. He ran a hand over his shaved pate and leaned forward with a patient expression, elbows on his knees. “I know Jeri referred you, but why did you come?”
“I didn’t have much choice.”
Jeri Nolan ran a youth suicide prevention center in the Green Lake area of Seattle. I attended support group meetings with the regularity of a constipated cat. But I’d been better about volunteering time to the hotline, often stopping in for a few hours before going to work or after finishing my paper route to man the phones in the wee hours before dawn. The worst hours—in terms of talking people down from the edge—were between ten in the morning and noon and after school. A lot of people, especially teens, called the hotline in the evening just to connect with another human being, not because they were contemplating suicide at that moment. Those hours of talking to depressed people usually fried the night shift well before their eight hours were up, and I didn’t mind relieving them now and then.
Brian’s voice intruded on my thoughts. “You always have a choice.”
“She suspended me.” I heard the surprise in my voice. “Told me I couldn’t volunteer anymore unless I saw you. What kind of choice is that?”
“What did you expect?”
I glanced around his office, refusing to meet his gaze. Black leather and blond wood dominated. An open desk with a large computer monitor crouched in a corner, the rest of the room relinquished to a conversation area delineated by a couch, loveseat and two chairs around a low glass-topped coffee table where he could ply his trade. I’d taken the couch, my back to a window that opened onto a small patch of green belt. He sat in a chair across the glass table from me. Walls painted yellow kept the dark furniture from making the room funereal. Fenestration high along the wall behind him let in light from a skylight in the hallway outside, making the space cheery even on a gray day.
Scribbled notes covering a white board on the wall next to the door revealed topics of discussion in a recent men’s group session. Magazines and a box of tissues topped both the coffee table and an end table between the chairs, and books overflowed the two bookcases against the wall next to the desk. Some abstract paintings and framed inspirational sayings hung on the walls. The clutter was organized, neat. Homey and comfortable, not sterile like many physicians’ offices.
“You’ll like him,” Jeri had said, facing me down across her desk the week before. “He’s very down to earth, very genuine.”
“Which would be great if I needed new friends. But you want me to see him in a professional capacity.”
She knew me well enough to let her exasperation show. “Look, Blake, I’d take you on as a client myself, but I just don’t have the time.”
“It’s not necessary. I’m fine.”
She’d made up her mind. “No, you’re not. You don’t have to do this, but you’re not manning the phones again unless you spend time with Brian.” She’d considered me silently for a moment and switched gears on me with a small smile. “And you’ll appreciate this; his wife Marceil runs a not-for-profit tennis center over in Kirkland with an outreach program for kids. Eastside Tennis Center. You ought to look into it. You’ve always been hooked into the sports scene here.”
“A long time ago, maybe,” I’d said, startled by the notion. Once upon a time I’d played Huskies basketball, and had eventually gone into public affairs, with professional sports teams as clients. My ex-wife, Molly, had been the tennis player, but I’d learned after giving up basketball so we’d have a way of socially connecting with other couples. The idea of working with kids in a positive way in addition to the work I did for the hotline intrigued me.
“Fine,” I’d told her. “I’ll see him.”
Now I remembered something else Jeri had said to me. I finally met his gaze. “No offense, but don’t you specialize in sex addiction?”
“You’re avoiding the issue.” Whitney’s smile faded when I didn’t answer. “I counsel a lot of different people for a lot of different reasons. I’m pretty sure I can help you if you let me. Jeri said you had some problems at the center.”
Not long before, I’d spoken “inappropriately” to a kid who’d called in on the hotline late one evening. I’d grown tired of his whining, and while I’d loosely followed procedure, making sure the kid had no immediate plans to off himself, I’d called him on his bullshit.
“It wasn’t that big a deal.”
“The first time, maybe. But twice?”
“She told you?”
He nodded.
I winced. “All the kids I’ve helped… Don’t they count for something?”
“You’re here. That counts for something. It suggests Jeri’s program is important to you. Important enough that maybe you’re willing to work on the reasons why you did what you did.”
He meant the second time, the time a kid almost died because I didn’t take him seriously.
I swallowed hard to keep the anger from boiling up out of my throat. “It’s not tough to figure out. I was angry.”
“Good. That’s good. What were you angry about?”
“I was angry that some snot-nose kid had the temerity to complain about how terrible his life is when he has everything—money, a roof over his head, parents who care…”
He sat back and crossed an ankle over his knee. “Jeri tells me you had a son. What happened to him?”
Guile or no, the words were like gasoline on my anger. I clenched my hands into fists, but held them rigidly at my sides.
“I think you know.”
“Okay, then. Who are you really angry with? Him or yourself?”
“What do you think? Both.”
He glanced at his watch. “Hold that thought. This would be a good place to pick up next time. We’ll explore that anger if you’re willing, and see if there’s some place you can put it where it won’t be as destructive.”
“I can think of a few places,” I said wryly.
“Good. This is a good start. Does the same time next week work for you?”
I stood and shrugged. “Sure. What the hell.”
I hadn’t told him the reason I woke up with night sweats and jumped at small sounds had more to do with the people I’d killed than problems with Jeri or even my anger at losing Cole.
Chapter 4
July 8-19—Greenland, Barents. and Kara Seas, three weeks earlier
The cold, dank air smelled of diesel fuel, salt water and decaying seaweed, though the ship’s hold appeared dry and clean in the dim light of the few scattered bulbs mounted overhead. The scents, and sounds of creaking metal and water lapping against the hull, were so familiar Macready felt at home. He casually leaned against a bulkhead, arms and ankles crossed, watching the two crewmen maneuver the load of drums into a storage space with a pallet jack. He caught them occasionally glancing his way warily the way one would a rabid dog, as if unsure of his intentions. The third had left to find the chief mate.
The papers in Macready’s hand listed the number of barrels, tare weight and contents as “Refined Ore,” telling him nothing. He eyed the barrels curiously, scanning them for markings or some other sign that might indicate their contents. They revealed no secrets, and Macready worried that if the first mate called his bluff, he’d have wasted taxpayers’ money and accomplished nothing. He let none of his concern show. The only sign of his nerves was the s
weat that tickled the skin over his ribs as it rolled down his side under the winter parka. Soon, the clang of boots on metal signaled the arrival of the chief mate and the crewman Macready had sent to get him.
Dressed in a traditional pea coat and watch cap, the burly chief looked more like a navy blue fireplug than sailor. The shelf of bony ridge over his eyes formed a trellis for bushy brows. Heavy jowls pulled thick lips down into a surly frown. He looked at Macready like another problem to be solved.
Macready pushed himself off the bulkhead. “Chief?”
The hydrant grunted in guttural Russian. “Salko. Who the hell are you?”
“We need to take this outside,” Macready said, rolling his eyes at the crewmen hanging on their every word.
“Back to work!” Salko barked. He threw Macready a look of exasperation and led the way through a door to the passageway outside.
“What the hell is this about?” Salko said. “I’m trying to get this ship out to sea before nightfall. Who are you?”
“Borodin, if you like,” Macready said. “I’m here to make sure the cargo gets where it’s supposed to go.”
Salko peered at him from under the shelf of foliage. “What are you, FSB? GRU?”
Macready shrugged at the mention of Russia’s internal and military spy agencies. He wasn’t and never had been a spy. He was a soldier, more accustomed to achieving objectives through military action rather than watchful inaction. But Salko’s assumption worked in his favor, and he intended to exploit it. “Does it matter? And do you really want to know?”
“I should just take your authority for granted? You think I let just anyone aboard my ship?”
“Take your pick. Call them. I’m sure they’ll tell you, ‘Oh, Borodin? Sure, we put him in the field to see if there are any traitors aboard your ship, chief.’ Why would you want to bring that dermo burya down on yourself?”
Salko probably had weathered worse shit storms, but he grunted an acknowledgement. “Why make problems for me? Why not inform the captain?”
“If you’re anything like the first mates on ships I’ve sailed on before, you’re a smart man. You know why. You, not the captain, run the ship. You assign the crew. The captain wouldn’t know what to do with me. You do.”
“What should I tell him?”
“Whatever you want. I imagine he would want to know as little as possible.”
“And if you’re not who you say you are?”
“Then you’ll probably kill me and feed me to the sharks.” Macready grinned.
Salko stared at him for a moment and gave a barely perceptible nod. “Can you cook? The cook’s food is shit. We haven’t had a decent meal since we put to sea.”
“I can do any job on this boat.”
Salko looked him up and down. “No sea bag?”
“I travel light.”
“We have enough extra for you. But maybe I should get you a larger size to fit your boastfulness.”
Macready let one corner of his mouth turn up a fraction.
“I’ll have one of those sons of whores get you clothes. Come with me. I’ll show you where to bunk and introduce you to your new kitchen assistant, since you’ll be taking over the galley.”
“Fine. I trust your men will keep their mouths shut.”
Salko poked his head back through the door and yelled. “Vasily! Finish up and get your new bunkmate some fresh clothes!” In a lower voice he muttered something Macready couldn’t hear. He pulled the door shut and face Macready again. “They’ll keep their own counsel if they know what’s good for them.”
Salko turned and headed down the passageway toward a ladder leading topside. Macready followed close behind, breathing a little easier.
* * * * *
The Akademik Shirshov was an oceanographic research vessel. A little under 70 meters in length, the 1,200-ton ship carried a crew of 34 officers and sailors and a normal complement of about 25 scientists depending on the nature of the voyage. Designed to ply polar waters, the ship typically conducted exploration and experiments in the Arctic Ocean and the seas that bordered it—the Barents, Laptev and Chukchi, among others.
Macready picked up on the gist of the ship’s purpose pretty quickly in his new position in the galley. The crew lined up first for chow, getting in and out of the mess quickly, but the scientists lingered a while longer over meals. Listening in on their conversations as he replenished food on the self-serve cafeteria line, he got a sense of which scientists worked together and who reported to whom, helping him diagram a mental organization chart.
Despite their degrees and education, the scientists regressed to their teens at mealtime, forming little cliques, the whole group divided into two camps with subgroups in each. From what he could discern, the larger of the two camps comprised a broad mix of people. Led by four men in their fifties and sixties, the group itself skewed younger, with several people in their thirties and half a dozen much younger men and women, university students most likely. The camp tended to sit in groups by age range, but Macready saw a lot of interplay between the more senior scientists and the student interns. The group as a whole was cheerful and talkative to the point of boisterousness. Conversations, when group members weren’t joking around, centered on experiments with ecological samples taken from various sites on the ship’s route.
Quieter and more somber, the other camp had a contingent of just six, all men, all in their forties and fifties except one much younger man who sat slightly removed from the others, a sullen expression on his face. When they did speak at meals, their conversations sounded highly technical and focused solely on their work. Macready heard them refer to the alpha male in this herd of brainiacs as “Dr. Plushenko.” Gaunt with sharp features, Plushenko’s gaze missed nothing, and the others watched him warily, lavish with their compliments and deferring to his wishes to the point of sycophancy. Macready observed them discreetly, noting small details, learning as much about each man as he could in the time he was out front instead of in the galley. Plushenko, Macready quickly found out, also served as chief scientist for the expedition. Except where superseded by the captain, Plushenko exercised authority over all the scientific experiments and proceedings aboard ship.
Macready’s kitchen cohort, Ilya, bristled when Macready first showed up, but calmed down quickly when Macready explained that he had no designs on Ilya’s job. Almost as broad as he was tall, with a shiny bald head, Ilya resembled a bowling ball on a thick slab of marble. Having no desire to tangle with something as immutable as Mt. Rushmore, Macready put himself in a subservient role and played to Ilya’s ego, calling on the man’s years of experience for advice. Ilya had preened as he’d showed Macready around the galley, and had delighted in delegating the grunt work. At each meal, two other crewmen were assigned KP duty, so Macready was able to share some of the more onerous messcrank like scrubbing pots and peeling garlic or prawns.
Macready fell into the ship’s rhythms quickly, his early days as a seaman recruit imprinted in both mental and muscle memory. The scut work was mindless, letting him focus on the task of discovering what cargo the ship had taken on and its intended use. Both crew and scientists accepted his presence without question, though every once in a while he caught someone’s curious stare.
Vasily, his rack mate, presented the biggest concern. The young sailor evinced an inverse proportion of brawn to brains, giving knuckle-draggers a bad name. But Macready knew better than to underestimate the kid. Whatever threat Salko held over Vasily and his buddy Sergei, it was probably the only thing that kept Vasily from voicing his suspicions to someone higher up the chain of command. Macready knew the level of brutality that existed in the Russian military, and though a research ship offered better conditions, Macready had few doubts that crew discipline was any less brutal. Avoidance seemed his best recourse, so he stayed in the galley as much as he could, returning to his quarters only to sleep.
The few times Vasily looked askance at him, Macready was saved by the presence of at le
ast one of the two other crewmembers with whom they shared the cramped quarters. The lack of privacy was both blessing and curse. No one could make a move against him without witnesses, but he had limited freedom to roam and explore the ship and its mission. On his very first watch in the galley he’d found hiding places for his weapons and satellite phone to keep them away from prying eyes. And at the start of every watch on duty he broke into a sweat worrying that they’d been discovered until he had a chance to check for himself.
He was far less concerned about glances from other crew members or even the possibility of running into the captain. He felt confident that Salko had done his part and dropped a few words of warning in the appropriate ears, convincingly selling a reason for Macready’s presence on board. If nothing else, Salko would do what was necessary to protect his own ass.
Not surprisingly, Macready had little time to himself, but on his occasional breaks he managed to get out on deck, taking note of their course and approximate speed as he took some air and stretched. They steamed due east for the first few days, the ship’s engines rumbling at a relatively high pitch, close to their maximum. They slowed only to navigate the occasional ice field, the hull bumping its way through the sea of floes, leaving a trail of clear water in their wake. The captain was eager to get to the next destination or had orders. Either way, Macready knew he didn’t have a lot of time to work with, so he used the time on deck to clear his head and think. He needed to get back into the cargo hold and find out what those 55-gallon drums contained, and learn if the lab work carried out by the chief scientist’s small team had anything to do with that cargo.
His first opportunity didn’t arrive until five days in. Ilya had gone off watch for some rest, but Macready was draining and cleaning the steam table wells when Pasha, the young, sullen member of Dr. Plushenko’s team, came into the mess an hour or so after lunch. Meals held to a rigid schedule, but the galley traditionally put out fresh fruit when available, energy bars and other snacks for crew and researchers who got hungry between meals. Pasha strode over to a hot water dispenser at the beverage station to brew some tea. He wore a sour expression. A sheaf of hair fell over one eye, his sharp features standing out in profile. Thin to the point of asceticism, his body thrummed with nervous energy, reminding Macready of a whippet. The corner of Macready’s mouth turned up. The Russians loved their tea. Pasha banged a spoon on the stainless steel countertop, and Macready saw how rigidly he held himself.
Night Strike Page 3