Arch Patton

by James Strauss

  “No, no, I don’t think so,” Borman stated, but his attitude was conciliatory as he spoke the words, his hands still palm out in front of him. “Indy here is, however, a rather small, innocent-looking and very violent man. He shot the purser without even blinking and then would have shot him again without hesitation. People died outside Provideniya. I don’t know how many died at his hand. I am simply making the correct and rational decision.”

  He directed his last comment at me.

  “Good,” I said. “Sorry we had to have this discussion. We’ll just pretend that our misunderstanding never happened. Borman, you take the helm. Günter, you go down to the lido deck and retrieve the Captain. Dutch is at the bar, of course, so enlist his help. First Mate Borman and I will wait up here for your return.”

  I disassembled the Kel-Tec, returning its parts back into my pockets. Günter was gone when I looked up. Borman stood at the helm. He gestured toward the bow.

  “That Russkie isn’t done with us. I just get that feeling from the man. I don’t like him.”

  Borman talked nervously. I settled him down, as best I could, by talking to him.

  “I’m just a tool, you know. Like any other tool. Use me. I’m on your side. I have good reason to be. I want and need the gold, too. I have the credentials and, as you suggest, quite possibly the most pertinent qualifications to accomplish that mission on all of our behalf’s.”

  I finished, then stepped over to the German. I stuck out my hand. He took it immediately, his grip strong and solid. We both smiled. I sensed that his smile was genuine.

  “You wouldn’t have needed a silencer,” he said. “There is nobody else who could have heard the gun.”

  “It was for dramatic effect. I didn’t really want to shoot you at all, much less poor Günter. He would be ruined for Marlys.”

  Borman snorted, his confidence fully restored.

  “But you would have shot us anyway, wouldn’t you?”

  I nodded. The man deserved to know, indeed, that I would have fired my gun. But I was not about to tell him that the Kel-Tec had no bullets and that none were available within a hundred miles of our position. I had bluffed and they had folded.

  “We have a deal then? Just like before?” he asked.

  I told him that we did. He went on.

  “We have to go on down to Antarctica. All of us. We don’t have any money. We need the jobs.”

  I didn’t quite understand what he was saying.

  “Most of us will have to wait four or five months to get back. Maybe more.”

  I understood then. Borman was fishing for some guarantee that he would have something in the deal. But I had no assurance to give. In my mind, the gold had become ephemeral. Only one nugget remained of the bullion and the image of the vein had dimmed to the point of hallucination. I uttered the only thing I could think of.

  “No problem. You’re in for a full share.”

  But I did not attempt to invoke the Kelly’s Heroes allusion. It seemed, up in the northern reaches of the Bering Sea, that nobody watched much in the way of old Hollywood movies.

  The hatch opened on the starboard side. Kessler thrust himself through it, pushing off the supporting hands of Dutch and Günter.

  “Captain is on the deck,” Borman broadcast loudly.

  Stiffly, the captain made his way to the chair I had vacated.

  “Where the hell is the helmsman?” Kessler grumbled in German. “And you,” he pointed at me, “land-lubbing anthropology swine, get off my bridge.”

  I hastened from the bridge without comment as he started giving orders to both remaining officers. “Make all speed for Sitka,” I heard, just as the hatch slammed shut behind me. We were only hours from Sitka and American soil.

  Back on the lido, passengers thronged the deck. Even in the thirty-foot trough waves, they milled about. Most had adapted, I realized, and had acquired their sea legs. I would not be making any more runs with my special morphine seasickness remedy. They even circled all about the exterior of the helicopter way out on the exposed portion of the deck. I could see its pilots through their canopy, just sitting and waiting. The Immigration agent was nowhere to be seen.

  I rested on the empty stool next to Hathoot. His color had gone back to a pasty white. The only thing holding him up was the residual morphine still in his body. Marlys came over and poured him another glass of water.

  “Can I see you in my cabin later?” she asked me, her voice more commanding than inviting.

  I stared at her necklace. Yemaya was back. I was no longer put off by her mystical alter ego, or whatever it was.

  “Sure, when do you want me?” I laughed.

  Marlys replied with a rare twitter. It made her all the more fetching. While Marlys attended waiting passengers, Hathoot removed the glass away from his mouth long enough to slur some words out.

  “So, is the Captain the Captain again?” he asked, his words much less garbled.

  I was baffled by how improved his health really was. I said nothing, accepting the Navy bowl of coffee Marlys had somehow prepared and delivered, before waiting on others.

  “Thought so,” he said. “You’re remarkably effective and dependable. I mean, for what you are.”

  I pondered his meaning, but he didn’t elaborate, as I drank my coffee. I realized that I was famished. My belly was entitled to more than peanut butter and jelly. There was no food at the bar. Since I had to visit the boys, I could stop at the Filipino mess along the way. I was also terribly tired, but I did not see sleep in the offing or even the distant future. I dozed while Hathoot basically talked to himself.

  “I can’t move, you know. I am quite stuck here. If I get down to Benito’s quarters, I can get some care,” he complained heartily.

  Yes, he was getting better. As Dutch came onto the lido, I beckoned him over.

  “Do I have any money left at all?” Hathoot asked.

  Ignoring his plea, I instructed Dutch to take him down to Benito’s quarters. At least I could do him that favor. What money Hathoot had left was jammed into my back pockets. About eight thousand, by my approximation, but I was not returning it to its owner. Not yet, if ever.

  Dutch escorted the Lebanese without my answering his question. They slowly staggered off. The flesh wound in Hathoot’s thigh would heal fast, unless there were problems with infection. How fast was the only issue. He could have almost full mobility, as long as he could take the lingering pain. And the doctor had morphine, even if he could no longer read the letters on the bottle he administered it from.

  I hauled my coffee with me to the bilge deck. At the mess I ate three old ham sandwiches loaded with mayonnaise and lettuce. The white bread was Wonder, or some such impersonation, and I loved it, or maybe I was just that hungry. I never sat down. I wolfed the remainder of the coffee, then made my way to the old workout room. The door was secured with a chain. Felipe had been at work.

  I went to his cabin where Gloria answered my knock, a key in her hand. I marveled that she knew I was coming. It was uncanny. The ways of the Filipinos were like the ways of the Chinese, inscrutable to the minds of Westerners. Filipe and Gloria both beckoned me in, but I wanted to check on the boys. I promised that I would return with the key.

  I found the boys in decent shape. Ivan informed me that the Filipino crew had taken them in as two of their own, whatever that meant. I referred to the Senator’s nephew as O’Donelly. He corrected me.

  “My name is Kenneth, or Ken. It isn’t O’Donelly, or kid, or boy. I’m an adult, not a child.”

  He battered me with words delivered in a strident child’s tone. I absorbed his anger, indicating my full agreement.

  “And thank you,” he went on, his voice softened. “Thank you from both of us, for saving us.”

  Ivan seconded that sentiment. I realized that they had had a lot of time to talk and swap storie
s.

  “You’ll be back with your parents soon,” I promised.

  They looked at one another. I felt something unpredictable coming, and waited.

  “I’m not going back,” O’Donelly announced, his voice revealing only deadly conviction.

  “You’re not? Then where are you going?” was all I could think of to say to that news.

  “I’m going with you and Ivan.”

  They both smiled at one another, before smiling at me. I was dumbstruck for a full minute.

  “Where are Ivan and I going?” I asked, trying but not succeeding in overcoming my confusion.

  “Wherever you tell us,” Ivan allowed.

  They both just stood there, like young idiots filled with the trust and loyalty they should have been dispensing to a parent. I knew not what cliché to utter or Biblical passage to quote. I had not considered the problems inherent in their situations after our landing on U.S. soil. Of course, they would have to be assimilated in some manner or fashion. I certainly had no intention of being accompanied anywhere by two young and inexperienced acolytes or of earning the enmity of a powerful senator who headed up the Appropriations Committee.

  “We’re headed into Sitka. We’re maybe hours out. Things are going to get a bit sticky with Maxwell and whatever authorities we might encounter there. You have no papers, neither one of you, and I am beloved by almost no one on or off this surreal ship. I’m going to leave the door unlocked now. Don’t leave this space. Just stand by until you hear from me, or anyone who says they’re from me.”

  They both assented, as if young Marines responding to the orders of a senior Commanding Officer. It made me more uncomfortable.

  Out in the hall, I intended to return to Filipe’s cabin and return his key. But the key was unimportant without the lock and chain. I ran into Dutch who was only slightly worse for wear from his bullet strike. He was assisting Hathoot, as if he had recovered, causing me to speculate as to whether being dumb was beneficial to physical recovery from wounds. I let the thought trail away. Dutch was like a hulking Labrador Retriever, except better. As a scientist, I knew it was unfashionable to think in such terms.

  I blamed my unscientific hypothesis on sleep deprivation and the wildly bizarre circumstance of the entire mission. I had not checked on Don and I had not seen anything of him. It was time to find him and confront the Basque in their lair. I did not relish that.

  I passed Benito’s cabin on the way, but there was nothing to see or hear. I expected to find Hathoot’s beaten and bloody corpse sprawled on the floor outside of her cabin. But he was nowhere to be seen, and neither was Dutch, his guardian.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE:

  Angel of the Morning

  I opted to refresh myself before checking on Don and the Basque. My cabin door was unlocked and partially open. I did not even gripe out of disgust for the violation. Somehow, my space and, in fact, my very person, had become part of the ship’s public domain, just like the rest rooms. There was no point in further complaints. Seemingly, my stock had sunk to new lows as my adventure was nearing its finish line. I could not help feeling that, despite the mission’s success to this point, I was about to lose something of great worth.

  Once inside the cabin I assembled my Sitka outfit. I emptied my pockets of the suppressor and the Kel-Tec, concealing them under my pillow. I curled up the two remaining Krugerrand belts and tucked them into pockets located on the back of my new vest. I distributed the bulky currency in every available pocket. It gave the vest heft, but did not tip off anyone that I was carrying a lot of money. I re-discovered the small radio, once again. I wondered if it still worked, but didn’t try it. I stuck it in my back pocket. I could toss it later.

  I stripped off the remainder of my clothes, went into the bathroom and turned on the shower’s hot water tap. I waited by the shower stall, naked, and deep in thought. Then I retreated back into the main cabin and pushed down the play button on Hathoot’s CD player. Nothing came out. I climbed under the steaming hot water and closed the glass door.

  From under the cascading waterfall I heard music, but I could not quite make it out. I twisted the handles to off and stood inside the stall dripping.

  “… Just call me Angel of the Morning, Angel … Just touch my cheek before you leave me … Baby … Just call me Angel of the Morning … Angel … Then slowly turn away from me…”

  I reversed the water handles to full on in order to drown out any more words. A chill passed through me that I could not shake, no matter how hot I made the water. Marlys had requested my presence in her quarters. What could possibly be more important than that, I concluded. My personal life consisted entirely of waiting for the next mission — or being on that mission.

  I certainly had no Marlys — or anybody vaguely like her — waiting for me in the real world. All I had was the Agency. I did not like the CIA — and the Agency did not like me. However, they had plenty of agents, while I had only one Agency. I was fast running out of time to build a domestic life for myself. My mission aboard the Lindy had driven that vital truth straight home, to the forefront of my consciousness.

  I had to keep my meeting with Marlys, above all else.

  I reached for a towel, staring at the rack. I had made certain a dry towel was on the rack before I had gotten in the shower. I stuck my head around the bathroom door jam.

  My cabin was filled with people. Agent Maxwell threw me my towel, with a wickedly nasty look on his face.

  “Take your time, Indy. Dry off. Get dressed. Wear your finest. You’re going to have a long time in front of you. Indeed, you might as well look as good as you can for the other convicts, while you’re at it. They’ll be the only ones having sex with you for many years into the future.”

  Upon completing his short, salacious speech, Maxwell held out two objects I had not noticed him clutching. I now recognized the suppressor and the automatic.

  “Apparently, there is a request for extradition, issued by the Russians, for somebody who shot a bunch of people with a small caliber hand weapon.”

  Maxwell’s grin was one of supremely twisted and bitter happiness, although I noted, with small satisfaction, that he still spoke too loudly. His ears had not yet recovered from the dust-off.

  Borman and Günter flanked him. Neither German had a facial expression. I could not tell where they stood with respect to the fact that Maxwell was obviously placing me under arrest.

  The last strains of “Angel of the Morning” were blaring from the CD player. Maxwell hit the off button. I dried, wondering if that song would be the last decent music I would enjoy for some time. I had heard that American federal prisons played mostly rap or hip-hop and that prisoners watched the World Wrestling Federation on television. Neither pursuit was one that I looked forward to.

  I dressed rapidly in the outfit I had prepared, being very careful to conceal the bulk of the gold and currency hidden in the pockets of my extra photographer’s vest. And Hathoot’s passport. I needed to return that to him for identification purposes. In truth, I missed my Brioni coat. Alaska was an intrinsically cold place, even in summer months, and I had no idea where I might be going.

  In Africa, the Agency took six months before bothering to get me out of prison. Six months inside any prison is a long time. That had been the longest of my seven prison stays. Soon to be eight, I reflected, ruefully. I hoped that the two boys would be all right without me.

  Maxwell then mouthed the magic words. “Put your hands on the wall and lean against it.”

  He spoke them with obvious glee, pulling a set of Smith & Wesson handcuffs from a hidden belt case.

  “Bulkhead,” I said, not budging.

  The man gawked at me.

  “What?” he finally said, befuddled.

  “Bulkhead. It’s called a bulkhead on a ship, not a wall. Isn’t that so, First Mate Borman?

  The German Offi
cer remained stoic, in both expression and sound.

  “Put your damned hands on the bulkhead, then!” commanded Maxwell.

  Slowly, I complied. He roughly cuffed me as he spouted more magic words.

  “You have the right to remain silent…” He ran on until the entire Miranda warning was issued.

  When he was done, he pulled me around roughly, as if the fact that I was in handcuffs meant that I was also subject to abusive physical treatment. I did not resist.

  Most American law enforcement agencies had long ago come to the same conclusion. Once a prisoner was in their “possession,” that prisoner was no longer truly human. He had that constantly, and consistently, made clear. The quickest and most effective way to instill and communicate dominance was through touch. The prisoner’s body was no longer private. It was the property of the arresting authority, to be prodded, pushed, probed and patted — at will or whim.

  “Herr Günter, it does not matter what they do or what torture they apply, I will never give up the information,” I assured the Third Mate with intensity.

  Günter looked at me strangely.

  “Gut! Das ist gut!” he blurted out.

  He and I both knew what I was referring to. Maxwell did not — and rushed right into my ambush.

  “What information?” he asked.

  “I will never reveal to anyone that you have no balls,” I said.

  I had always wanted to use that great line from the movie Ghostbusters, but through all the years I had never had the opportunity, until that moment. Maxwell kneed me viciously in the groin and I went straight to the deck in great pain. I crouched, my knees pulled up, as I tried to overcome the pain and get my breath back.

  “You colossal prick!” he screamed down at me.

  Through my pain, I almost smiled. Maxwell was an amateur at the arresting game. My emotional ploy had caused him to forget to search me.

  “Nein. None of that. You do not get to hit him. Not at all,” Borman informed, grasping Maxwell by both upper arms.