“So a man like you would then stitch up a man like me. And, if you were to take the stitches out, without further incident, then maybe a man like you and a man like me might be even.”
Borman blew more of the obnoxious smoke overboard. I watched him blink. I looked down upon the dock. The military was fast dispersing into other jeeps I had not seen. They’d been parked behind one of the buildings. All the vehicles headed down an alley, disappearing from view. The pier emptied.
I sized up Borman again. I wondered if Don, Dutch and I, all together, were a match for the man. He was built like a German Panzer. I debated the pros and cons. In spite of my bravado in front of the Basque, I knew it would not be wise to harm any of the crewmen. Certainly not the Captain or the First Mate.
Only days earlier, a cruise ship not far from our stranding on the Isle of the Tsar of Russia had experienced a fire. No one had been hurt. Yet, I was certain that the media was still circulating stories about it up and down the West Coast of the U.S. I needed to avoid an international incident, not initiate one. I prayed to my venerable Catholic Saints that this would be the first extraction in which I participated that had no fatalities.
I headed for my cabin with Borman right behind me. I stopped at Don’s room. I uncharacteristically knocked, since I had Borman in tow. I heard nothing from within. I opened the door wide. The Basque sat just where I expected to find her. She stared beyond me at the Mate with an expression that quickly grew chilly. I picked up the canvas bag and looked inside to make sure it held the items I had given Don, plus the medical supplies. It did. I saluted the Basque, closed the door, and accelerated down the corridor.
“Mouseketeer business, I presume,” the First Mate said.
I didn’t answer him. When I got to my own cabin, I unlocked the door. Borman then leaned against a bulkhead. I went inside. I grabbed my heavy coat, a pair of gloves, and a knit cap. I had no idea how long I might be exposed to the weather. It was fifty degrees in the Russian port, but that could be very cold if you spent a lot of time out in it. I took the radio and put it in my left front pocket. The automatic, from which I removed the magazine, went into my right. The gold I stored in one of the huge jacket pockets along with the weapon’s suppressor. At the last second I reached into the bunk side table and took out the Aguiak nuggets. I put them in my coat, too.
Borman had waited. I locked the cabin door behind me, even though it contained nothing of further interest, except maybe the recorder-less CD player. Next, I led Borman to Benito’s quarters. Thankfully, she was inside. I entered her room without knocking. After all, technically speaking, we had slept together. She looked up from her desk. Without having to be told, Borman had remained outside.
“Trainable,” I proclaimed to myself.
“What?” Benito said, having heard me speak, but not discerning what I’d said.
“It was a pleasure,” I said, “having you last night.”
I grinned hugely. Benito did not smile back. She’d seen Borman standing in the corridor. She knew he had heard my comment. She did not deny it, however, instead just awaited whatever point had brought me to her cabin.
“Passport,” I said, barely audibly, as if we were co-conspirators.
She grumbled, but reached into her bag fumbling around for a minute. Finally, she produced my blue U.S. Passport. I slipped it into my pocket. I was not about to be caught on Russian soil without a passport. Not under operational circumstances.
I went to the top of the gangplank. Dutch was there. Even though the sun warmed us both, he had also thought to wear his heavy-duty coat. Perhaps he might be a bit smarter than I had given him credit for. Borman followed us down to the dock, where Don and Marlys chatted. Marlys’ coat did not come down below the bottom of her micro, making an ambiguous statement. I swore, when she walked away, heading with Don for the museum, that the swell of her buttocks was visible at the bottom of the skirt line. When she sat down at the museum …. Well, I wanted to be there to behold such an event. Dutch and I, including our ally, Borman, began the long walk to the cemetery.
The Mission Plan had commenced.
“Shot, over,” I said, to myself.
Neither Dutch nor Borman indicated they understood. “Shot, over” was an artillery term from my old days in the Corps.
When you called for artillery fire, you waited once you had made the call. When the gun fired, they told you on the radio “Shot, over” to let you know that the round had left the barrel of the artillery piece. Then you looked at your watch, because usually you had between fifteen to forty seconds until the rounds impacted, depending upon how far away the guns were. Of course, you didn’t really have to look at your watch. The gunners calculated the flight too, and then said “Splash” five seconds before rounds impacted.
It took just under half an hour to walk to the cemetery. The place was amazing, I realized, as we went through the wall sectioning the burial ground from the town. The cemetery was on the northern tip of the spit. That part rose up a good hundred feet above the rest of the town. It was not ruled by the tundra, which was why it was the ground chosen for burials. The locals buried people in Provideniya by digging right into the rock.
We walked about the place. Ornate railings bordered every grave. Each was well maintained, with crockery set upon stones at almost every site. I picked up a piece. It was fine Russian stuff, thin and magnificent, really.
“What’s all the eating stuff for?” Dutch asked.
I put the piece back where I’d found it.
“They come here on the weekends and holidays. They have meals with their loved ones.” I said. “And nobody takes anything because such things are just not done.”
I emphasized that last because even my fingers tingled with the idea of possessing some of the fine crockery. I moved to the cemetery’s outer edge. It was a tremendously impressive place from which to view the harbor. Down below, a Zodiac cruised up and down the coast not far from us. I held up my right hand and made a fist. Filipe immediately raised his own in a similar salute. An ancient salute, from one warrior to another. I knew Filipe comprehended.
“More Mouseketeer business, I presume?” Borman injected.
I nodded as Filipe nosed the craft into a small cleft just below and to the north of us. He stopped the Zodiac and then raised his arm again. I replied. Borman shook his head in disgust. Filipe’s Zodiac was empty. The Lindy’s passengers had not been ashore in quite a while, yet Filipe had not been able to interest any of them in his excursion. He’d come alone. I hoped that Kessler was not on the bridge with his Zeiss binoculars. If he were, then his forehead would, right this minute, be creased with concern. Borman sat on a gravestone. He pulled another cigar out of his pocket and began to smoke.
Dutch pointed at a Russian Orthodox crucifix. “Why is the bar on the bottom, you know, where Christ has his feet, always at an angle?”
I was stunned. I had not expected to discuss anthropology during the mission’s operational phase.
“Mythology tells us that on the historic day, three men were crucified. One thief on each side of Christ. One thief was good and one thief was bad. The bar points upward toward the good thief.”
I finished. Was Dutch going to ask what distinguished a good thief from a bad one? The answer to that question I didn’t know, but it didn’t matter. He never asked.
Don came around the corner of a building and headed towards us. He was alone and I was troubled. The plan had both Don and Marlys returning to the cemetery, preferably with the Museum Professor in tow. Borman tossed his cigar down before grinding it out on a gravestone. Don approached and sat down in one of the chairs that accompanied just about every gravesite.
“Where’s Marlys?” I asked, quietly, glancing at Borman who registered nothing.
Don looked to the heavens.
“She’s doing her job. Khromov’s entranced, not that his assistant is
too enthusiastic.”
I instantly presumed the assistant to be a woman. I liked the image of a large, middle-aged, beefy Russian woman confronting Marlys in the presence of a vulnerable professor.
“And so?” I blurted, getting frustrated about having to force every word out of the man, although I realized it was because Borman was there.
“Khromov’s gonna come to see you at the Sarda, around one. We can have the place open and serving all the Vodka we want. He’s already done the deal with Commissar Kasinski. You get a personal audience tomorrow. It’s going to cost you a couple of bottles of Bacardi Light though.”
When he stopped talking, all three of us turned toward Borman.
“What the hell’s going on?” he said, jumping from the gravestone, as if it had suddenly become red hot.
I reached my hand into my right pants pocket. I positioned the automatic, but did not draw it out.
“What’s going on, First Mate Borman, is a choice. You can either throw your lot in with Kessler or with us.”
“What in hell are you taking about?” Borman said. “What is this with the Commissar? What are you people up to?”
He stood then, with his hands out, and his mind obviously confused.
“We’re going to get a kid out of that Gulag tomorrow. We’re going to try to do it the easy way, but if that doesn’t work, then were going to do it the hard way. We want your help.”
I spread my hands, as if that was all I had to say.
“Gott im Himmel,” Borman shrieked while starting to leave. “I’m going back to the ship. This is exactly what the captain was talking about. You people have all gone nuts.”
“Borman,” I said, softly, but with deadly intent. I still did not draw the automatic.
The First Mate stopped, gauging my tone.
“Has Kessler told you about the gold?” I inquired.
Borman’s mouth formed the word “gold” but nothing came out.
“I thought not,” I went on.
I reached into my pocket and then stepped closer to him. Slowly, I pulled nugget after nugget out of my pocket. He held out his hand as I held out mine. I dropped half a dozen of them onto his open palm.
“Real gold?” he asked, his voice quavering while he examined the nuggets closely.
“From one of the northern islands. It’s why Kessler left the ship. It’s why I’m filing for an archaeological dig on the island. Just about everyone knows about it — except you. Why is that? You’re in for a full share,” I stated, matter-of-factly, “if you want to throw in with us. We aren’t planning a mutiny. We just want to get this kid out, then plan how we’re going to get the gold off the island.”
I didn’t even know what a “full share” of anything was, I thought. I was beginning to sound like Kelly in Kelly’s Heroes and I was hoping that Borman would play the role that Don Rickles had in the movie. A role of complete and total unabashed greed.
“How do I know that this is all for real?” Borman asked, finally taking his eyes from the gold, which he made no move to return.
I removed the suppressor from my coat pocket and then tossed it to him.
“What’s this?” he demanded, catching the blue steel cylinder with his spare hand. He pulled it up to his face, sniffed it, and then held it out at arm’s length.
“Schalldämpfer,” he said, quietly.
It was the German word for “silencer.” His eyes zeroed in my right hand, still pushed deep into my pocket. He lifted his eyes to stare into mine.
“Mouseketeers? I am to be a Mouseketeer?”
He tossed the suppressor back to me as he spit out the question. “Can I keep these…sir?” he asked, holding the nuggets I had given him in the palm of his hand.
“Yes, but put them away and show no one else. Now, let me fill you in on this mission.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO:
High Noon
Sarda” was the name painted on the side of a large white building not far from the dock. We walked to the site, always on broken or badly cracked concrete. When we had arisen that morning, I had checked the dockside from my porthole. Four huge cranes had surprised me. They were not the ordinary dock variety, but the huge monsters I was more accustomed to seeing in the harbors of Singapore or Denmark. Past the cranes, “Sarda” was visible in red letters high up on the wall of the old building. There was only one door, which was ajar as we approached.
Don pushed the door open. All four of us entered what was obviously a former warehouse. There were no windows at all. It was one huge room, laid out with many round tables and chairs. The bar consisted of stacked shipping pallets. Behind the pallet bar was a long mirror, cracked in a dozen places.
I brushed my hand over a table. It came away clean. I was doubly impressed when Dutch threw a light switch and it worked, although the light produced by hanging ceiling fixtures was not bright, it would do. Immediately, I dispatched Don and Dutch to the ship for cases of alcohol. It was likely that word was already flying through the community that Sarda’s was about to re-open, at least for as long as the expedition ship was in. Don had voiced his concern about getting into the bar storage area as Marlys was still occupied doing whatever she was doing with Khromov at the museum.
“Take this,” Borman said, tossing Don a key ring. “It’s got a master for that area. I don’t know which one. Try them all.”
Don caught the keys and then led Dutch out. He had an expression of concern on his face. I didn’t trust Borman and I also had no compunction about shooting him if necessary. I did entertain, for just a moment, whether the suppressor would be quiet enough. Provideniya was a dead zone. Any sound reverberated between and around its ugly buildings. If I had to shoot someone, indoors was preferable.
It took almost an hour to fully brief Borman about everything that had happened and what needed to be done. I detailed the find on Aguiak Island. During that part of my lecture, Borman took out his supply of gold nuggets to roll around in his hand like Captain Queeg in The Caine Mutiny.
“I’ve never heard of this quality coming directly from the ground. I mean anywhere,” he explained. “It’s almost like it was planted there. Look at this,” he held up one of the purest of the gold chunks. “I’d say that’s almost twenty-four carat, right there.”
I traversed the enormity of the find with him again. I also went into some considerable detail in describing the vein. The gold was real. I had spent enough time in digs around the world to recognize in situ settings. With only picks and shovels, more than a ton of the rich ore could be taken out of there in days or less. But I only wanted to assure Borman that there was no trickery, and that we had, as a goal, the acquisition of as much of the material as we could get. At a later date, of course.
Don and Dutch returned, each carrying a case of liquor. They set up shop behind the bar while Borman and I continued our crucial discussion.
“You must not trust Günter,” Borman warned, when I had finished. He eyed the row of shot glasses Dutch had found and lined up atop the rough wood of the bar’s surface.
“Why not?” I asked the First Mate directly.
Borman took out a cigar and then lit it slowly.
“The stiff-necked boy is spineless. He’s the captain’s toady. He tells him everything.”
I immediately thought of the CD player. Someone with authority and keys had had access to that recording device. Günter was attached to Marlys, but how powerful that attachment was was anybody’s guess. I trusted Don and I relied on everyone else’s self-interest. Usually, I was right about the self-interest.
Marlys stepped through the door. I met her as a portly Russian wearing a cheap off-the-rack suit followed her in. There was an even larger Russian, this time a woman, who shadowed him. Marlys looked unruffled. She gestured that I should hold out my hand to the man I believed to be the professor. I liked him even before we sho
ok hands. His smile was huge with great shovel-sized teeth showing through.
“You would be the anthropologist, I presume?” he said, gripping my hand in iron. I did not wince, but it was hard not to. “This is my assistant, Dora,” he gave a perfunctory jerk of his shoulder, indicating the woman’s presence behind him.
The large woman smiled very shyly.
“She has the child you’ll be taking.”
Marlys spoke next. “The Professor says that the arrangements you’ve asked for have all been made. He has done his part. Now you must take the woman’s child with you when you leave. He has no possibility of any kind of real survival or future here.”
“Thank you,” Khromov responded, holding out his hand again.
Instead of taking it, I clapped him on the shoulder and laughed.
“Great. Sounds great. Now let me tell you what you have to do with the snuff boxes.”
I waved to Don behind the bar. He came out with a bottle of Johnny Walker Red and a handful of shot glasses. The professor and Dora, his assistant, sat at Marlys’ table as if commanded. Don plunked a shot glass in front of each of us, then poured a round. I held mine up to make a toast, but the Russians did not wait, instantly downing theirs, bottoms-up, then hitting the table hard when they put the glasses down. I put my own drink down, without drinking. Control was spinning away from me once more. How could I reassert it?
“Hathoot has to be convinced to come ashore. What can you do to help us?” I said to the Russian.
I had not asked Don if he had mentioned Hathoot’s name, but it was too late to get his advice. Khromov downed a second shot and then became expansive.
“I shall see to it, as soon as I get to the museum. Whatever you need, I will do. I have three boxes I will send to the ship. If they do not draw him out, then I do not know the man at all,” he assured me as he licked his lips. “I will guarantee you that he is here in the morning. We can meet at Sarda’s, if you would be so kind as to open it tomorrow.”
Arch Patton Page 23