Arch Patton

by James Strauss

  I shook it, and then spoke. “And here I thought you might want to enjoy the fruits of my work all night long.”

  We both laughed. Don had been enjoying those “fruits” since we’d left Nome, and probably before, without any drugs, and we both knew it.

  “What’s your plan?” he asked.

  First I told him of Benito’s encampment in my quarters. All he could do was howl. “What do ya think? Maybe thirty, no, make that forty milligrams of morphine to put her out.”

  He got hysterical. I kept my poise. Finally, he returned to a serious state.

  I explained, “The reason I didn’t want anybody from the team out cold is because I need to brief them on what we’re going to do. We’ll be in Provideniya in the morning.”

  Don interrupted me. “You’ve not sailed this coast before, have you?”

  He knew the answer. I went along with the interrogation, as he knew I would.

  He clarified matters. “In the morning we’ll actually arrive in the mouth of a long stretch of calm water leading to Provideniya. Provideniya is another hundred and fifty miles after that, plus we have to wait for a Russian pilot to be brought out. When we get to the port we have to collect everybody’s passports and turn them over to the authorities. Then we have to wait till they clear us. You’ll have plenty of time. We won’t be going ashore until the following morning.”

  My relief was palpable.

  “Ever done a ‘business thing’ like this before,” he asked, taking out one of the cigarettes he no longer smoked.

  He glanced quickly at the Basque’s unconscious form. I got the idea that she did not allow him to smoke in the cabin. He lit up while I thought. Don was my most important contact, player and the one man aboard I trusted completely. I would not lie to him if I did not have to. I held up four fingers.

  “Four? You’ve done this four times before? Where?” he said, his inflection telling me that he did not believe me.

  “Colombia, Morocco, Kenya, and Sierra Leone,” I ticked off quickly.

  “Okay, I believe you. I’m not sure why. But I’m glad. Glad you have an idea what you’re doing.” Don nodded his head, sagely. “What about the gold? What are we going to do? How are we going to do that? We can’t just claim we’re doing archaeological work and dig for gold!” He took a few more hits from his cigarette, and then extinguished it. “I’ve been up on that damned peak a dozen times. I’ve seen that cleft. It’s some sort of volcanic stress relief crack, I know. God, who would ever have thought?”

  I lacked answers to his questions. The gold was a nearly mythical quest. I could not reconcile these three facts: the gold was genuine, it was extraordinarily inaccessible, and, more importantly, subordinate to the mission. There was no sense thinking about some sort of great fortune if I was not going to be around to enjoy it. Missions of the nature I was embarked upon were insidiously dangerous, entirely unpredictable, and without a Plan B or fallback position.

  “That’s good news, about the channel we have to travel up. It’ll be calm, so we don’t have these swells to contend with, or all the seasick people.”

  I raised one eyebrow at the Basque when I said that, but Don only coughed.

  “I can get a night’s sleep, maybe,” I said, wistfully.

  “Where?” Don said.

  I grimaced and then went to the door. “See you in the morning. You need to know the target and I need your experience on the ground. We have one contact, a Doctor Khromov, director of the Anthropology Museum in Provideniya. Do you know him?”

  Don shook his head. “I know the place though. A neat little operation in an otherwise wreck of a city.”

  I closed the door behind me and headed for Marlys’ cabin.

  Marlys opened her door. She was wearing a white robe and little else. The robe had cascaded open when she’d turned. I swallowed twice, then stepped in, and closed the door behind me. She sat in her small chair, the robe splitting open when she crossed her legs. I could not help glancing down.

  “You Americans are so hung up on this body stuff,” she reproached me, shaking her head, but she did not cover her exposed legs.

  She rummaged in a dresser drawer while I looked at the open cabinet of her shrine. A single candle burned inside next to the shot glass of water. I wondered if my photo was still in there, but I was too low, sitting on the edge of her bunk, to be able to see.

  She took out a long cigarette and lit it, blowing the smoke toward me. I inhaled. Normally, the smell of cigarette smoke bothered me. Not so with her smoke. I inhaled, as if taking it directly from her lungs. I liked the smell and the feeling.

  Then I caught myself. I was in enough trouble on this mission. I did not need more.

  “You said ‘thanks’ when we were at the bar,” I said. But she just blew more smoke my way. “Thanks for what?” I went on.

  “For helping me with that little fat bastard Hathoot,” she finally answered.

  I replied, “I didn’t do anything, really. He came to me and told me about the twenty thousand in indentures. Later, of course, he said that I could have my way with you, as long as I stayed out of his business.”

  We looked at each other and she inhaled some more smoke. She was the first to speak.

  “Do you think you can have your way with me?” she asked.

  I rubbed my hands together in my lap, hard, and I felt tension build across my shoulders.

  “I have business in Russia. I think you’re … unusual. I think you could be very, very dangerous. First though, I must do this thing. I need your help. I’ll help you with Hathoot. I’ll help you get off the ship and out of his control.”

  My shoulders dropped in release. I watched her closely as she sifted my remarks.

  “My mother is his hostage in Sri Lanka. I can’t do anything. And you didn’t answer my question. But I’ll help you. I must help you. It has nothing to do with you, really.”

  She smoked some more.

  “We need to talk about the mission tomorrow so you know what to do,” I said, glad to talk about something other than that question. “Your mother’s not a problem. We can get her out, too.”

  “The Commander will never allow that,” she shot back, anger in her voice.

  I looked at her without expression. “However, Commander Hathoot may well become a non-issue in this whole affair … or, quite possibly, in life.”

  She met my eyes. “And I know what you want me to do.”

  I scratched my temple at that. “What?” I asked her, almost not wanting her opinion.

  She answered anyway. “You want me to do what I do. You want me to be me. And you don’t want me to wear a shroud when I do it.”

  I appreciated that, but she went on without emotion, “You need a good night’s sleep. I’ll help you.” She stood up. “Take off your sweater and the shirt under it,” she said, standing, and then turned her back to rummage again in her dresser.

  I complied, feeling exposed. I stood there, bare-chested. She held a piece of string out in front of her. She approached me, took my right hand and pressed it against the string, where she had placed one end against the skin of my chest. She backed up, pulled, and then made the string tight.

  “Now walk toward me slowly, pulling in the string with your other hand.”

  Slowly I complied, until I was standing six inches away from her. It was intoxicating to stand there, so close to her, and stare into her eyes. I caught sight of my photo, still adorning the shrine.

  “Okay, that’s it, you can go sleep in your room, she’s gone.”

  Marlys replaced the piece of string in her drawer and took out a small bottle of clear water, tightly capped. She took my hand and plopped the bottle into it. “Put this under your bed. It’ll keep her from coming back.”

  I nodded, dumbly, bottle in hand.

  “Who?” I inquired, innocently.
>
  Marlys smiled. “I think you know who, but if you want to sleep here, in the extra bunk, you can.”

  She patted the upper berth.

  My eyes went back to the open shrine, and my photo. I thanked her and left, putting my shirt and sweater on in the corridor. My cabin door gaped open, when I arrived there. Benito was nowhere to be seen. I locked the dead bolt. Slowly, I reached under the mattress and set the small bottle under the outside edge.

  “I’ll be double-damned….” I said, then lay down, and fell fast asleep.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE:

  Providence

  My body craved sleep, but my mind wouldn’t slow down. I pulled the Aguiak gold nuggets from my small table drawer. I rolled them around in my hand, like rough-cut dice without numbers. Then I took the Leica out of my pocket and shot some digitals. Gold was a disappearing commodity in the world I normally inhabited. I didn’t expect to complete the mission and be able to depart with the nuggets. Somewhere along that unpredictable trail ahead they’d probably find a home in someone else’s drawer.

  At least the photos would go into my journals where I could one day review them. Maybe one day, I hoped, I would even write of them. I stood, swaying with the motion of huge swells. My small cabin, so far forward toward the bow, was more like an elevator than a room at all. An elevator which moved up and down with great vigor, but also from side to side while it did so. I imagined never sleeping deeply again, on water or land, without reaching for safety straps to hold myself to a bed.

  I slipped the nuggets (fourteen in number, ranging from the size of my thumb to that of a little finger nail clipping), into my underwear drawer in the dresser. Absentmindedly, I clicked on the CD player, which started back on the first song. “The Man” song. I laid back and listened to the music, right through Izzy’s “Somewhere over the Rainbow.” I waited to see what the creative mind who created the custom disk would come up with next.

  “If you’re going to San Francisco—” the lyrics began.

  After shutting the machine down, I undressed, showered, then crawled back into bed, running through each person I knew aboard the ship and each person’s likelihood of providing me with a CD player and that particular musical medley. I slept, clueless, with no likely characters

  My Breguet read six. I had awakened because of a persistent knocking on my door. I groaned. It would be wonderful to just sleep-in someday, I thought grumpily to myself. I had kept my underwear on and I yelled for whoever was out there to please come in. Don called back that the door was locked. I unlocked the deadbolt, and then went into my tiny bathroom to shower and shave.

  “Big day! Big day! This is it! Are you ready?” Don was his usual clamoring of great good cheer first thing in the morning.

  I preferred to awaken slower and I resented his clamoring at such an early hour. I turned on the shower and climbed in. There was no escaping Don’s voice, however.

  “We’re in the gap. No swells, making about six knots so the passengers can all get their sea legs. Both sides of Providence Bay are gorgeous. Look out your porthole.”

  I showered on as Don continued with his litany. “We’re in the Chukotka Oblast, not that it matters. Oblast is like saying county in the U.S. Provideniya is an Okrug within the Oblast, however, which means it’s run by its own little Commissar.”

  I turned off the water. The shower was too small to dry off in, so I stepped out naked. I was getting used to the floating nudist colony mindset of the staff crew, but I was still not comfortable with it. Don continued to talk, bubbling over from his place on my bunk.

  “The town is a mess. Streets are mud and broken old concrete. Everyone lives in wretched tenement apartments built by the Soviets. Once, the place serviced submarines and was known for its fishing fleet, but no more. Now, it’s just kind of rots away. Very Russian. There used to be a great bar in town, but alcohol became too expensive to make and market. No fruit up here. Anyway, the museum is up the hill a few blocks. You gotta wear Wellingtons because of the waste channels running down the roads, and the mud. It’s summer, so it’s almost all mud. What’s your business got to do with the museum?”

  Time went by. Alas, blessed silence.

  “That Commissar you mentioned? The director of the museum knows him well. He’s willing to introduce me.”

  I dressed without speaking further. In the middle of putting my shirt on I heard a great clunk travel through the hull of the ship. I held my breath, and then begged Don for an explanation.

  “That’s the Bum Boat mating up with us,” he said. “They’ll drop a ladder to bring the harbor captain aboard. We don’t need him, but we have to pay, and do what we’re told. Kessler hates giving control over to anybody though.”

  I did not have to puzzle over that comment.

  “We’ll pull into port this afternoon sometime, but we’ll not be going ashore until early tomorrow,” Don said, rising from the bunk.

  I walked over and closed the door, which he had left ajar. I turned and inquired, “How long will we be in port?”

  Don sat back down as he calculated.

  “Ah, do you mean how long do we have to conduct this business of yours?” he replied. “At least the day. We almost always leave mid-day next, which gives us a day and a half, maximum. If Kessler wants to leave, there’s nothing to stop him, except exit immigration, which is almost non-existent, once we’ve paid the necessary bribes and fees, and collected all the passengers, of course.”

  Don rose examined my other bunk. It was made, and, obviously, had not been disturbed.

  “Ah, I note that this bunk has not been slept in,” Don said, running his hand over the top of the flat blanket. “How did you get rid of Benito?”

  He elongated those words, his eyes falling to my unmade bed. I played along.

  “No, she didn’t stay. I used a string and this.”

  I reached under the bunk and produced the sealed bottle of water.”

  Don’s face grew solemn.

  “That’s Santeria stuff! Marlys. Yemaya. You used the services of Yemaya. Are you crazy?” Don questioned.

  I recalled Don’s Catholic orientation, going back to my first day on board, and his fixation with the Miracle of Fatima.

  Religion was such a powerful force in history. I knew better than to oppose it. I revealed to him the story of Marlys’ mother, trapped into servitude in Sri Lanka by Hathoot and his cronies, whoever they were. Don placed both of his huge hands against his temples and squeezed.

  “So what did you promise her? Gold? Citizenship? Sex? What?” He let his hands fall, limp against his side.

  I composed myself before addressing his concerns. “Her mother, of course, and some freedom.”

  Don stepped to the CD player. He examined it before looking me in the eyes.

  “Like in the song,” he said, without either making it a question or making light of it.

  We breakfasted in the Filipino mess. Half a dozen eggs, plus fish they had caught over the fantail once we’d hit calm water and a slower speed. The eggs were over easy, the only way they served them. Filipe entered while we were still eating. He approached, and then looked for approval before sitting. Don and I both nodded back. Filipe drank black coffee. He made no attempt to engage us as we discussed the layout of Provideniya and its surroundings. I was particularly interested in the Commissar’s home, which was located about forty kilometers outside of Provideniya proper. In one of our few silences, Don reached out to Filipe.

  “We need assurance that once we’re in Provideniya, the World Discoverer does not leave port until we get back aboard and give the okay.”

  Filipe listened to Don’s plea without expression. A minute went by while I finished my fish and eggs. Filipe nodded. Twice. He smiled very slightly, and then nodded more vigorously, over and over again. I wondered if my ground assault team was not just a little bit too enthusias
tic about the coming mission.

  I drank from my cooling coffee and addressed both men. “Well, at least the doctor will be remaining aboard. We don’t have to worry about any prized carving being light-fingered from the anthropology museum in town.”

  I smiled at the old doctor’s expense. Filipe leaned close to Don and confided something, a confidence which Don quickly shared.

  “Filipe says that the doctor only admires and enjoys the carvings of the natives. He doesn’t collect them.”

  The doctor’s words from the night before now came back to me. Thank you for the help you think you have given me. Abruptly, I got up from the table, threw down my napkin and headed for the infirmary.

  The metal hatch was open. I entered and then dogged the hatch behind me. The doctor reacted in surprise from behind his small desk. I paced in front of him.

  “The carvings,” I began and then hesitated. “Where do they go?”

  I decided to accuse him of nothing. That he had taken carvings was beyond question to me, especially after finding his bag stuffed with them after Little Diomede, but I was after bigger fish. The old man looked down. He withheld an answer. I continued to think and pace.

  “What do you earn for being this ship’s doctor?” I asked, taking a different tack.

  “Three thousand a trip,” he said, his eyebrows raised. I calculated. Three thousand a trip, which meant about four or five thousand a month, gross. Not much for a doctor.

  “Who is it?” I said, stopping next to him, my hands on my hips. “Who’s paying you to take the stuff? How much morphine is going out of Russia and into those same hands? No ship carries enough morphine to medicate its entire crew, three times over, not even a combat ship.”

  I tracked a tear running down the man’s face. He took off his glasses and wiped his cheek with a tissue. I waited, feeling sorry for the old man. I was not aboard to investigate for the DEA or to represent native law enforcement with respect to missing native art.

  “I don’t care,” I assured him. “Nobody is going to know. You owe me. Let me help you.”