Arch Patton

by James Strauss

  Felipe and Gloria approached. Filipe held out his hand. I shook it. Gloria gave me a big hug at the same time. I tried not to notice her wonderful breasts pressed into my side. I thought of Marlys, smiling broadly at the associative thought. Hathoot continued.

  “They must sail for Antarctica. All of the Filipino crew must. But, on the return trip, Filipe and some of his people can fly out of Hawaii to Nome, if you need them.”

  I looked at Hathoot, then everyone else in the room. It was just accepted by all that I was going to lead an immediate expedition for the gold, except I felt like Fidel Castro, or maybe Che Guevara, somewhere in Cuba’s Oriente Province in the late 1950s. I felt like a revolutionary leader intent upon overthrowing some government — for the good of the people, of course.

  “C’mon. Give me a hand,” Hathoot requested. “Kessler has demanded my presence on the bridge. I’m, no doubt, to be cursed, quite possibly demoted, for my association with you. Benito’s sailing on and we’re going to share a cabin!”

  Hathoot’s positive attitude and ebullience were impossible to ignore or not be drawn into. Felipe and I assisted the purser back up to the lido deck.

  I noted, as soon as we entered the area, that Maxwell had set up some card tables near what would soon be the top of the gangplank. I helped a rickety Hathoot onto one of the bar stools. Marlys put a drink in front of him immediately. I watched Maxwell ignore all of us, sorting through papers he had organized in front of himself. Both boys, Ken and Ivan, were present. I went straight to the Senator’s nephew.

  “Ken, your Dad is going to be expecting you when we dock. Maybe he’ll even be there. I reported this whole thing, you must know,” I commented conversationally.

  Somehow, the Filipinos had found clothing for him, and my cashmere coat was clean. Trashed forever, but clean. I felt a brief pang of regret, but got over it quickly.

  It took a long time for the boy to reply. “I’m going with you. My dad’s an alcoholic. He beats me and my mom. She can stay with him forever if she wants to. I’m going with you.”

  “Well,” I began, intending to be as honest as I could, “I don’t know where I’m going and I don’t have much use for a kid.” I looked over at Ivan. “Two kids,” I amended. “And your uncle, the powerful Senator uncle, that is, can make it very difficult for me, and you.”

  “They call you Indy. Is that because you’ve got courage? Or is it because you came to get me? And I’m not a kid. I’m a college graduate. I speak German and French. Are you afraid of young adults? Or is it only educated young adults? Do you have children?”

  He rattled off his comments and questions almost too quickly to be followed. And, I realized, I lacked good answers for the questions.

  “No, I don’t have any children,” I said, the only question I could answer directly and honestly. “I’ll take you as far as I can,” I declared.

  I knew it was a lame response. But I was not about to tell the youngster that he was on his own, not after what he’d been through, and not wearing my cashmere coat. For a reason I could not pin down, my coat on his back seemed to confer responsibility upon me. And, although I did not say it, yes, I had two adopted children, and they were both on the lido deck with me. Both calling themselves young adults.

  Ivan had listened intently to the entire exchange. He was not college educated, I knew, but he had street smarts. His trick with disarming the tank had been a masterstroke. It alone had saved the mission and quite possibly a few lives, including mine. Our eyes met. He grinned and nodded, for he knew, too, that he was in.

  I turned away, asking myself what the boys were in for. What was I in for? I drank some more of the scalding hot coffee, my mind going back to Marlys.

  The ship stopped moving at the same time that Kessler arrived on the deck. In the seconds it took him to proceed over to Maxwell’s table, the gangplank crew could be heard maneuvering the ungainly walkway to ship’s port side.

  “Professor Indy,” Kessler growled at me with a great smirk expanding across his face.

  He stood at attention in full uniform, his hat perfect atop his perfect steel gray hair. I walked over to the table, assuming my proper position in front of Agent Maxwell. His expression was of pure enjoyment as the captain spoke.

  “You are fired,” Kessler stated. “You’re to get off this ship immediately taking your delinquent alien children with you. Hathoot is also fired, so you may as well help him down the gangway, since none of my men are going to do it. You are a roué, a con artist and a cavalier adventurer. On top of that, I reviewed the alcohol you have used. You are an alcoholic of the worst kind. Your pay is forfeit, and even that will probably not cover your bar tab.”

  Kessler paused only briefly before redirecting his pointed finger toward the bar.

  “You, former Commander Hathoot, are a traitor to the crew and to this ship. Your pay is forfeit, as well. Now get off, this instant, all of you.”

  He pointed, finally, at the gangplank, which was not secure yet. Hathoot had gone white, nearly alabaster. I watched him swallow, time after time. Finally, he was able to breathe and then he tried to defend himself.

  “I’m fired? How can I be fired? I did nothing? I got shot? I was kidnapped. I was drugged. I’m the purser. You can’t fire me. I have a career with the company. A job. And what about my money. Indy has stolen all my savings and now you are keeping my pay?”

  He stretched out his hands in supplication towards Kessler. Kessler merely pointed at the gangplank a second time. His voice, when he spoke, was controlled, and an octave lower in tone.

  “All of your things have been packed and are on the dock. There’s a cab waiting. May it take you all to hell where you belong. You have destroyed this cruise, smeared the traditions of this ship, and damaged my reputation beyond repair.”

  I almost applauded his speech. It was of near Shakespearean quality in content, and Kessler’s performance was terrific. The whole thing deserved a standing ovation, but nobody spoke.

  I looked at Maxwell.

  “What about all the necessary forms?” I asked him.

  I had Hathoot’s passport, as well as my own, in my back pocket, but the boys had nothing. I had not seen the Basque, but I presumed she had nothing, as well. I had not been able to communicate with my superiors, regarding visas or green cards or any of it over the helicopter radio.

  “As the captain so eloquently put it. Get off the ship. What you do in Alaska is of no concern to me. If I see you again, it will be. You are a nasty little man with some powerful contacts. You won’t always have those contacts. If I were you, I’d get out of these waters just as quickly as I could. You’ve made mortal enemies and I and Captain Kessler are two of them.”

  The boys had taken Hathoot by the upper arms. All stood at the top of the waiting gangplank. Hathoot looked back at me. I shook my head. There was no appeal. Kessler was within his rights, with respect to the company and his ship. They filed down the gangplank.

  Kessler walked over to me. I thought he was going to say some final words filled with bile, but I tarried to let him get it out of his system. But I was surprised. Instead of yelling, however, he leaned toward me and confided.

  “I am not a friend of the cruiser captain. I was not a friend of that creature named Kasinski. Borman was a friend to both Russians. Remember the Chinese warlord Sun Tzu’s adage: ‘The friend of my enemy is my enemy.’ Borman jumped ship as soon as we docked. I don’t think he’s coming back. Look after our interests up there, but be careful. Cherno is not to be underestimated either. Don’t let him near our gold.”

  He turned on his heel and walked off without waiting for any reaction or response.

  From the top of the gangplank I spotted the boys, Hathoot, and the Basque next to a van. I reflected on how improbable it was that the purser had come to be a part of our discharged lot. I looked into the cloud scudded sky for any enlightenment,
but found none.

  “You’re right, you know,” I said very quietly into the cold air, “I complained that I was running about poking at windmills and had not been given a Sancho Penza.”

  The driver loaded all the luggage into the back of the van. I walked slowly down to join them. A box of the Don David Malbec and a box from Diamond Bakeries were transferred into the vehicle.

  The outcasts looked back up at the ship, where the passengers and the crew lined the decks. Don and Benito were smiling grandly up on the lido and standing next to them were Marlys and Günter. Filipe and Gloria waved madly from the lower deck in the middle of a pack of Filipino workers. Dutch stood near the stern waving the Mouseketeer flag at the end of a long pole. And then they all started to sing.

  “M – I – C … See you real soon … K – E – Y … Why? Because we love you … M – O – U – S – E … Who’s the leader of the club that’s made for you and me …”

  The whole ship sang. The sound from the assembled mass of voices carried right into downtown Sitka. We stood below them on the dock with idiotic grins spread across our faces. All of us.

  They sang the song through and then started again. We loaded into the van, closed the doors, but left the windows down. We drove away listening to the fading strains of that special and meaningful song.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN:

  Cochon

  Our van made it four blocks before getting pulled over. Over the top of the stacked luggage I saw that we were not being stopped by a marked vehicle. It was a sedan with one of those portable “Kojak” red lights stuck to its roof.

  “You got somebody named Arch Patton in that thing?” the driver was asked.

  I spied the questioner from my spot in the back seat on the passenger side. A knowing sigh escaped from me. The man was obviously an FBI agent. Their kind wore the same uniform: A suit of mediocre color and quality, coupled with a short cheap haircut. Sunglasses had been added over the years following an FBI director’s enchantment with the cheesy movie Smokey and the Bandit. I opened the door and got out.

  “You Patton?” one of them said as I strode around the rear quarter of the van.

  I nodded, curious to see where the other man or woman might be. The bureau only traveled in twos. Someone occupied the passenger seat of the car. My curiosity was slaked.

  “Where’s the kid?” the agent pressed me.

  I played dumb.

  “He in the van?” he added.

  I shrugged a different way. I didn’t care for the FBI as an organization, or most of the people they employed.

  “You got some I.D.?” he then asked, his tone changing.

  He had read the undisguised nuance conveyed by my unresponsiveness. I didn’t answer. I just stood there.

  “Alright, let’s start again.” He produced his flip-out badge and I.D. “We’re FBI, which you know, and you’re Patton, CIA, which we know. We came to pick up the kid, which you also know. We can wait.”

  He put away his badge case, which I had ignored, then went back to stand by his vehicle. I knew that they would wait until hell froze over. The FBI was not real swift, but they were patient as the devil. I walked over to where he stood, next to the passenger window. I addressed both agents.

  “He’s not going with you. It’s his decision. He’s an adult. He can do what he wants. You don’t need to know why. I’m headed into Nome, which you’d know soon enough anyway. I’ve got a small entourage with me,” I motioned with my head and shoulder toward the van. “Immigration Agent Maxwell’s going to depart that ship and try to make all sorts of trouble. I’d appreciate it if you took care of that, like only you guys can. In return, there’s a German national named Borman running around town. He’s an eco-terrorist, or something close. It might do a great deal for your career if you brought him in for questioning. Ask him about his relationship with the Captain of a Russian Naval Cruiser that was caught violating U.S. waters earlier.”

  The agents looked at each other, then at me. The talking agent spoke again.

  “So, you’re not turning the kid over to our custody?” he said.

  I shook my head. “There is no custody. He’s twenty-three and a little screwed-up right now. He just needs to take a break. Let him run free for a while. He was locked up over there for some time.”

  I didn’t expect any sympathy from the FBI. They all believed, en masse, that anyone locked up in the first place needed to be kept imprisoned for life, no matter what State or Country such event might take place in. It was part of their training. This particular agent shocked me.

  “We understand. We’ll hang around for a bit. Can we use this guy’s name as a reason for deeper inquiry?”

  Then the light came on. They’d taken the Borman bait I’d so casually thrown out. This meant that they had backgrounded everyone on the Lindy and that Borman had come up a little short. We, all of us in the business, called it corroboration.

  “Anything else we can do for you?”

  I looked at both of them seriously for the first time. They seemed genuine, but I had been fooled before.

  “What the hell,” I whispered to myself and then spoke out loud. “How about a Smith & Wesson Five Hundred Magnum with a four inch barrel?”

  They looked at me with mild awe in their widened eyes.

  “God, what do you want a hand cannon like that for? We thought your mission was over? What’s going on?”

  I debated with myself about what to share with them. I didn’t really need the gun, but it would provide a lot of security, at least psychological, if I did find a way to get back to the damned island and go after the gold. I also knew that the Agency would not provide weaponry for personal expeditions of any sort. And I didn’t have the time to wait out a background clearance approval for the purchase of a handgun. The Agency wasn’t going to like me vanishing from their radar one little bit, either. If I did disappear from their radar, I needed to be armed, if I could somehow arrange it.

  “Get it to the Nugget Inn, up in Nome, if you find one. I’ll owe you, and I pay those debts, as you know. Maybe when you are done down here you can just head up north. I think there’s going to be some work for you up there. That’s all I can tell you right now.”

  I knew I was breaking an unspoken rule, in that the CIA gave as little to the FBI as it could, even if it meant it was hurting itself or the success of a mission might be compromised. True, I also knew I was about to go off on my own. In the event of real trouble, there would be no magic numbers to call. There would no F-15 dust-offs. No re-directing the ire of Maxwell or his evil-seeming minions.

  “We’ll see what we can do,” the agent said.

  For some reason, I believed him.

  “What’s your name?” I asked, as I prepared to re-enter the van.

  “Special Agents Kolchak and Berle.”

  The standing agent, who’d done all the talking, pointed first at his own chest, then the head of the silent sitting agent.

  I forced myself not to smile. I was still in Wonderland. Leaving the ship had not changed anything at all. The Night Stalker and Milton Berle. God’s sense of humor was beyond arcane. Or the FBI’s sense of humor had improved dramatically.

  I got back in the vehicle, slammed the door, and then instructed the driver.

  “Take us to that long finger of a pier at the north end of the docks.”

  My fellow travelers, all of whom showed surprise, except the blasé Basque, seemed not to notice what had occurred at all.

  “We’re going to see the Lindy off,” I said, as if that explained anything.

  I slipped the driver an extra twenty to drive us right onto and down the dock. Several people scurried to get out of the way, but they didn’t seem to mind.

  When we reached the terminus, everyone piled out. With the luggage, we stacked a chair for Hathoot to sit on. Then I dragged out boxes o
f Don David Malbec and Diamond Bakery crackers. The Lindy was already underway by the time I had uncorked a bottle. I passed it around. The Basque sat on the edge of the dock, her bare feet dangling into the ice-cold water. The boys leaned on the luggage. We all took several pulls from the bottle of Malbec. The mission was officially concluded. My prohibition, mostly kept, from drinking was over. I opened the box of crackers to add the appropriate touch to our toasting effort.

  But I did not discover a package of crackers inside. Instead, I slowly pulled a blue Lindy sweater from the box.

  “What the hell?” Hathoot said, staring.

  I unfolded the sweater. There was a note pinned to it. I removed it, unfolded a small piece of white paper, and then read the inscription to myself.

  “This is my cruise sweater. I wore it to bed every night since the time we first met. Keep it close, until we meet again.”

  It was signed with the single letter “M.”

  “Well, what did the damn note say?” a nosy Hathoot asked.

  I crumpled the paper, before throwing it out into the bay. I did not respond to his question. I clutched the wool to my chest, almost giving in to a powerful desire to hold the garment to my face and breathe in deeply.

  The M/S World Discoverer sailed past us. It was fully a mile out into the middle of the harbor, so we could not make out individuals with our naked eyes. She moved on toward the Western Bay in silence. Nobody said anything as we passed the Don David among us.

  After the ship and the wine were gone, Ken floated a comment.

  “It’s kinda neat, but why’d we come down to see the Lindy off?”

  Minutes went by, before I answered.

  “Mission. Our family just sailed out that harbor. We had a mission. It’s vital that we keep in mind what’s important as we conclude one adventure and move on to another. We’re going to get the gold from that island. We’re going to do it for all of us, or none of us.”

  I concluded my short speech. My new team was the most ragged, damaged one I had ever worked with. It would have to do.