“Why’d we stop?” I asked Don, reaching the corridor and some warmth. I only realized that I was frozen to the bone at the moment the heat hit me. I shivered. I was getting warm enough to shiver.
“We had a plan to talk to Kessler. We thought he’d talk to his own stepdaughter. He did. He let her on the bridge, where she stabbed him in the stomach. Borman’s taken over as captain. You’ve got to get to the infirmary to see if you can save Kessler.”
I almost went into shock over his words. I rocked against the wall of the corridor.
“She stabbed him?”
Don’s expression answered my question. There was no humor in him. Then I remembered. The day on the lido deck the Basque had begun to smile. She had left the deck with a carving knife. I had suspected something at the time. And the Mouseketeer flag. That flag was her statement and the knife her instrument. It was premeditated. She had been planning action against Kessler for a long time. What drove her fury?
“What about the cruiser?” I asked, as Don hustled me down toward the bilge. “And are the boys secure?”
He answered none of my questions. There was a blood trail leading into the infirmary. I threw off my coat and entered.
Kessler was on a table. Hathoot sat splayed in a chair, his complexion still ashy white from loss of blood and motion sickness. Blood ran freely from the edge of the table to the floor. I hesitated. I was only marginally a physician’s assistant, and certainly no surgeon. I had explored the interior of the human torso only twice before, and the results had not been good.
“The cruiser, Don, the cruiser,” I said.
If we all fell into Russian hands, then what difference would saving Kessler make?
“The cruiser’s still there, but there’s a chopper trying to land on our fantail,” Don informed me.
“Oh great,” I sighed, my voice probing the depths of despondency.
“It’s not the Russian chopper. It’s American. The guy on the chopper says he’s here from Customs and Immigration. He wants to land on the lido deck. He says his name is Maxwell.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE:
Stalemate
The doctor was examining Kessler, who lay on his back, as I stepped through the hatch to the infirmary. He had cut away any clothing surrounding the laceration. When he noticed my presence next to him, he moved slightly to the right in order to allow me room to see.
Kessler was unconscious, although his breathing was deep and regular. His wound was a vertical incision about ten inches long. It started above his left hip, just atop the iliac crest of his hipbone, and ended at the beginning of his rib cage where, apparently, a sharp steak knife had been blunted by the horizontal bone of that lowermost rib. I knew the cutting instrument was a steak knife because it lay on the table beside Kessler. The incision welled with dark red blood, which gathered in the gaping puncture, then spilled over onto the table. No pumping or pulsating in the blood flowing from the wound was detectable.
It appeared, from cursory examination, that the Basque had stabbed Kessler by thrusting straight forward into his side. Then, with the knife’s edge facing upward, cutting in that direction. The wound resulted from a calculated action, by someone who was attempting to inflict mortal damage. The blade of the knife, however, was only about four inches long. The Basque had done everything correctly in the execution of her attempt on the man’s life, but she had chosen her weapon unwisely. A longer, thicker blade would have made the doctor’s examination, and my own, merely pathological, as the captain would not have survived.
Don stepped into the infirmary behind me. I felt his presence, and worry, even before he spoke, which he did without preamble.
“The cruiser is just off our bow. We can’t go anywhere. Maxwell’s Coast Guard chopper landed on the lido deck and he’s waiting inside. Borman doesn’t know what to do. He begged me to bring you to the bridge.”
I had no idea of what to do about anything. We were in United States waters. That should have been the end of it, at least as far as the Russians were concerned. But that was not the case.
Borman knew nothing of what had happened at the gulag, other than with respect to the O’Donelly boy’s escape. I thought for a moment, while Kessler continued to bleed. Hathoot’s heavy breathing from the chair against the bulkhead intruded upon my thought process. I leaned down close to his ear.
“The cruiser is a problem. We’re in U.S. waters. I believe Alexi used the gun I gave him to kill Commissar Kasinski, and maybe a few others. I drugged Captain Cherno but now he’s out there, blocking our movements.”
I finished informing him, and he opened one pained eye to look up at me.
“He’s Russian,” was all he said, before closing the one eye again.
“I know that,” I fired back at him, in exasperation. “What do we do?”
His one eye locked onto me. “For more of that morphine, I’ll tell you.” His eye re-closed.
I had come to know the little Lebanese caricature of a mariner. Nothing was sacred to him, and his humor was dry, hard to follow, and often cryptic.
“Alright, alright,” he gushed out finally. “Have Borman tell that Russian to come aboard for a discussion about the problem. He’s Russian. They love to talk things to death over whiskey, chess, and cigars. Or women. Use ‘The Marlys Weapon’ on him.”
Hathoot shrank back down, his suffering fully in evidence by his contortions. I consulted Don.
“Do it. See if it’ll work. Tell Borman to stay on the bridge until I call him down to the lido deck. Give our good Captain Cherno drinks. Have Marlys serve him, semi-dressed like she was earlier. Borman can stall Maxwell by letting him know that the chopper landed without permission. That’s a violation of U.S. Federal and International Admiralty law. Reports are being generated. Let Maxwell absorb some of Cherno’s vitriol, while he thinks that one over. I’ll be up as soon as I’m done here. And make sure those boys are kept under wraps. We have enough trouble right now.”
Don headed out. I dogged the hatch behind him. Kessler did not appear to be mortally wounded, or that he might die without immediate attention. I moved to the drug cabinet, took down a bottle of morphine, and loaded two syringes with ten milligrams each. One for Hathoot and one for when Kessler returned to consciousness.
It was difficult to work on Kessler in his current state. At any second he might awaken into devastating pain, and his reaction to that could be cataclysmic. I injected Hathoot, who stared into my eyes with great relief, even before the drug had time to truly affect him. I could not administer the morphine to Kessler, however. It might depress his breathing and blood pressure too greatly. I set the loaded syringe nearby and then addressed the doctor.
“What do you recommend?” I asked him, directly.
He massaged the stubble on his chin, and then spoke. “Look into the wound. If there is herniation of the lining, then he has to be operated on immediately. If not, then he can be stitched back up, given an IV for hydration, some antibiotics, and he should be fine. He’s out from shock and loss of blood right now, but he won’t stay out long, unless we fail to stop his bleeding.”
The doctor could not see well enough to do even a cursory examination of the wound. I grabbed a laceration kit from the counter, ripped it open, and retrieved a forceps. I washed the wound in Betadine, and then pulled the skin and surface muscle tissues wide apart. I prayed that Kessler would not awaken. It took me several minutes of work, pouring saline into the wound, and then shoving four-by-fours inside to absorb the blood, before I examined it completely.
I found no damage to the intestinal lining, to my vast relief. The doctor handed me a suture kit, without my asking for it. Half an hour later I was done. I took a few minutes to start the IV of saline. Then, I moved over to the semi-comatose purser. I cut away his pant leg, flushed his bullet hole with more saline before wrapping both sides with four-by-fours and tape. Hathoot mo
aned constantly, but he did not give me too much trouble throughout the procedure. The Lebanese had grit.
I washed up, then instantly began to worry about what was happening on the lido deck. As soon as I thought that thought, there came a small knocking upon the metal surface of the infirmary hatch. I looked over at the doctor and then handed him the morphine syringe.
“If he comes to, give him that immediately. He can’t take over as captain right now or we’re all screwed. Keep him under until I come back.”
I dried my hands and undogged the hatch. Marlys frowned on the other side.
“I’m not some sort of prostitute,” she erupted angrily, and then went on, “Every time you use me for your purposes it’s to serve as a concubine, or sex surrogate, or something like that. I’m not going to do it anymore.”
I waited to see if she was going to give me a chance to say anything. When she stopped berating me, I reached out my right hand and touched her shoulder.
“You’re no prostitute or anything like that. I apologize. We’ve just needed your help so badly, and you have this tremendous natural beauty. Hathoot’s going to forgive the twenty thousand you — and your Mom — owe him. You’re doing more than your part. The Russian Captain is up there, waiting. Please help us.”
I nudged her gently back toward the direction of the corridor and stairs. Her scorn subsided. I had lied about the money, but I intended to make what I had said the truth, as best I could. But then she made me feel even worse.
“You’ve convinced him to forgive our debt?” she asked, weakly. I nodded again, guiding her toward the stairs. “Thank you,” she said, so sincerely that I felt like a complete manipulating con artist. “Alright, I’ll do it, whatever it takes. That Captain isn’t so bad, but he’s got wandering hands. I’ll do it for you, not for the money, though.”
She accelerated her climb up the stairs, leading me onto the surface of the lido. Her skirt was so short I watched white half-circles, the bottoms of her panties, ascend. I daydreamed, before I faced Captain Cherno and Special Agent Maxwell, about Marlys’ tattoo. Someone had recently told me that a tattoo applied just above a woman’s buttock area was referred to as a “tramp stamp.” I shook my head to clear away thoughts about Marlys and, in particular, about a certain area of her body.
Captain Cherno sat at the largest of the rounded booths inside the covered part of the lido deck. Agent Maxwell sat across from him. The Russian was drinking what appeared to be whiskey, while Maxwell drank something from a mug. I presumed it to be coffee. Marlys had her back up against the end of the bar. A full bottle of Black Label sat behind her, within easy reach. I approached the two men.
“Gentlemen,” I said softly, and then bowed, ever so slightly.
The Russian had seen me coming. His eyes had narrowed to slits upon recognizing me. He refused to acknowledge me any other way. Maxwell lit up.
“Well, well, well, look who we have here. The man from nowhere, who exists but does not. Professor Indiana, with all sorts of real diplomas from real institutions, but he’s not in any yearbooks.”
I hid my distaste for Maxwell as best I could. Any expression that might have given my feelings away went unnoticed, for he liked the sound of his own voice.
“Captain Kessler was kind enough to give me a bit more information about you from your file. You have never had a credit report run on you, gotten a traffic ticket, or even registered your name to acquire utility services. And, I ask myself, how is that possible?” He halted, briefly, but held up one hand when I tried to respond. “And, you son-of-a-bitch, you left me stranded on that god-damned island overnight. You stole my helicopter!”
He banged his fist on the table when he was finished, for extra emphasis. Captain Cherno fought to contain a chuckle upon hearing Maxwell’s grievances.
“Where is Captain Kessler, if I might ask?” Maxwell inquired, his voice dripping with venomous sarcasm.
Don walked onto the deck and then approached the booth where we were all gathered. He put an envelope in front of Maxwell, looked over at me with a twinkle in his eye, and then quickly left.
“What’s this?” Maxwell asked, holding the envelope by one corner.
I shrugged. “It must be something from the ‘acting’ captain. Kessler is indisposed.”
I did a little curtsy when I finished speaking.
Maxwell unfolded a piece of stationary he pulled from the envelope. I watched his face turn red and blotchy. When he finished reading, he slammed the paper down in front of him, but said nothing.
“You’ve left a trail of bodies behind,” Captain Cherno declared matter-of-factly. “I cannot simply let that go.”
He drank deeply from his whiskey glass when he was done talking, glancing over the top of the lip at Marlys. She reached behind her and then stepped to the Captain’s side. Flirtatiously, she rested her left hand on the man’s right shoulder board and then poured his glass two thirds full. The Captain almost glowed with her attention.
“I thank you,” he said, whispering the words, to make them appear more personal.
“What dead bodies?” Maxwell asked. Nobody answered. “What’s he talking about?” the agent said with more emphasis, his eyes meeting mine for the first time.
I ignored him, instead speaking directly to Captain Cherno.
“What is it that you want?” I prodded him.
“I want you. I’m not leaving without you. There’s a dead Commissar who needs explaining, not to mention a few of his guards. And then there’s the matter of Alexi, who also met his demise, at your hands. Somehow or other.” The captain then rubbed the right side of his neck with his left hand. “And you damn near killed me, as I recall.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO:
Dust-off
Perhaps you’d like to see a bit of the ship?” I presumed on the Captain, to change the subject.
I needed time in spades. Time with Maxwell. Time with the radio on board the Coast Guard helicopter. Time to get myself together. The Captain held up his glass and then drained it. He smacked it down on the table, causing Maxwell to jerk back a little.
“And are you, beautiful woman, going to give me this tour of the vessel?” he said, turning to face Marlys.
She knew her lines well.
“I’ve been instructed to provide you with whatever it is that you might want while you’re aboard,” she responded sweetly, then flashed her eyes at me.
Captain Cherno’s eyebrows rose halfway up his forehead.
“Whatever? “ he sputtered, momentarily caught off guard.
I frowned at Marlys, trying to send her a message, but she ignored me completely, instead leaning in to brush the captain with her hip, while she poured him a double.
Don retreated. Only Maxwell, the Captain, Marlys, and I remained on the lido deck. The chopper perched out on the flat expanse of the exposed fantail, its rotor turning with the passing power of the wind. The fantail rose and fell in great ponderous movements, as thirty-foot seas slowly swept the ship up and down.
Borman was using the bow and stern thrusters, I realized, working madly in order to keep his vessel faced into the wind and swell, or we would be in danger of damaging the helicopter, or even broaching the ship. The short, choppy, fast-moving swells of the shallow-bottomed Bering Sea were unpredictable, and very dangerous to remain stationary in, even with a ship the size of the Lindy.
I walked to the bar, and then leaned toward Marlys. I encouraged her to escort Captain Cherno.
“Take him on a tour. Meet me at my cabin in fifteen minutes. I have to fix things with Maxwell. And please stop acting like a strumpet. You’re not being funny.”
She waited a full minute to respond, her eyes on the Captain. Finally, she did.
“It’s ‘pudenda,’ not ‘strumpet,’” she chastised, before gracing me with the radiance of her fake smile once again.
I liked her vulgar comeback, her counter-punch, but I still shook my head in frustration.
“This way, Captain, my name is Marlys,” she purred, holding out her right hand for him to take.
The Captain stood, carrying his drink up from the table in his left hand, raising his right high into the air.
“Let me take a moment, before we go,” he said.
Two Russian seamen, who had been standing outside, but out of sight along the external port deck, appeared at their captain’s side. Both wore holstered sidearms. I was relieved that they carried nothing larger. One sailor produced a black portable radio, placing it into the Captain’s open right hand. Cherno spoke into the radio.
“I will remain aboard the American ship for an hour, possibly longer. If the helicopter attempts to take off during that time — shoot it down.”
He spoke English into the radio, although the voice that came back in acknowledgment was in Russian. I wondered if the man on the other end of the transmission understood at all, not that it mattered to any of us in our current situation. The two seamen returned to their positions out on the edge of the lido deck.
Captain Cherno accepted Marlys’ left hand with his right. “Please lead on. I am happy to accompany you to wherever it is that you want to take me, and to do with me whatever it is that you want to do.”
His leer told me that he meant every word of what he had just said. I then confronted Maxwell.
“I need to use the radio aboard the Coast Guard chopper,” I said. “I’m not sure I even need your permission for that.”
Which was the truth. The Coast Guard and Immigration had been amalgamated together in some strange fashion recently. But, I was used to dealing with the different laws and agencies of foreign countries, not the organizations within my own.
“My ass,” Maxwell said, his voice cold and harsh. “You’re not getting anything, much less the usage of my chopper, until you explain what the hell’s been going on. The last time we met you stole my helicopter, then left me abandoned on that God-forsaken island all night long. Who is dead in Russia? What the hell did you have to do with it? Who is this Captain Cherno and why’s that Russian heavy cruiser sitting off our bow? Feel free to start explaining anywhere you like.”
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