by Laura Acton
“We require a sheltered place to weather the storm. Waves are predicted to reach twenty feet, and although I’m a decent helmsman, we can’t chance being in the middle of nowhere.” Anastasia unrolled the laminated chart.
Blaze nodded. “Where do you suggest? Keep in mind, we must maintain a low profile. We can’t be seen in ports in Azerbaijan, Turkmenistan, or Iran.”
Scanning the charts for an anchorage they could use to survive the tempest and still be safe from prying eyes, Anastasia said, “We’re in for a rough ride no matter where we go. We won’t be able to make as much headway once the squall hits. I’m searching for a location close enough to a commercial harbor in case we need fuel. The gauges on the tank show we contain enough to travel approximately one hundred nautical miles from our current position.”
Mason stared at the map, glad Anastasia was onboard. He suggested, “We should head south. The seaplane can meet us along the way anywhere between here and Iran. With less weight, Mike can travel farther, and we can still make Herat airfield. And if we go in for fuel, we can procure provisions too.”
Shaking his head, Blaze said, “Not safe to go into a port. We can do without food for a few days. We give the broth to Blondie and Patch and ration water for us. If Mike doesn’t contact us by midafternoon tomorrow, we’ll discuss options. Our first order of business is moving to someplace we won’t sink.”
Anastasia pointed to the shoreline. “Here. Near Nardaran. This appears to be a public dockage. The surrounding land is sparsely populated, and since it has two docks, we can siphon fuel from any moored boats if needed.”
Considering the option, Blaze nodded. “With the stormy weather, it will be unlikely many will be on the beach surrounding the dock. That suits all our purposes. Under cover of night, we can search for provisions too.”
Plotting the course, Anastasia chewed on her lower lip. “We’ll get about thirty minutes before we run into the storm. This is not going to be a pleasure tour. Hope you both possess sea legs or we may need to rig safety lines.”
After Anastasia provided him the bearing, Blaze stood and went to the inside helm. He pushed the throttle all the way over. Chopping through the waves, the boat shuddered as it struck each breaker and dipped when it found a trough. As he gripped the wheel, Blaze realized the constant motion would be rough on Patch and Blondie when he woke. “Mason, go check on our guys. Update Brody on the situation and make sure they are secure.”
Minnow – Lower Deck – Midship Cabin – 2015 Hours
The sudden acceleration of the engines amplified Danny’s fears. Stark white, terror lighting his sapphire eyes, Dan clung to the berth railing with one hand, and Brody’s with the other, as images from his drowning invaded his mind driving him close to all-out panic. Between them, secured by their grasped hands, lay Patch.
Sickly green, misery filling his brown eyes, Patch latched onto both Brody’s and Blondie’s arms as his stomach matched the pitch and yaw of the yacht as he attempted not to hurl … again.
Flushed red with effort to keep all three on the platform bed, worry pervading his jade eyes, Brody held Danny’s hand, and the basin for Patch as the ship plowed through the rough sea and threw them around like a rag doll in the hands of a three-year-old on a sugar high.
Brody kept up a litany of inane commentary and jokes, anything he could think of to help distract Danny from his phobia. He realized his efforts had little effect, but he continued anyway.
Mason made his way to the cabin, bracing his body with his arms, so he didn’t slam from one wall to the other. Upon entering he called out to Brody, “Anastasia found us a snug cove where we can wait out the storm, Blaze is headed for it now. Once there we can anchor and sway with the breeze, but until then it’s going to be a rollercoaster ride from hell.”
Noticing the difficulty of Brody and Blondie to maintain their positions, Mason moved forward, but the dip of the yacht threw him out the door, off his feet, and slammed into the wall. Staying down, he crawled into the room and made a suggestion, “Let’s put this mattress on the floor between the hull and berth. That way none of you will be thrown off, and you will still have a padded area to lay.”
“Okay. Yeah, that would work.” Brody released the basin and endeavored to release Danny’s hand. The death grip belied Dan’s weakened state. All his power must be going into hanging on … like his life depends on it. “Danny, release my hand. I gotta help Mason shift things around.”
Noting the problem, Mason suggested, “How about you crawl over Patch and maintain a hold on Blondie. I’ll move Patch and rearrange the bedding.”
As Brody coaxed Blondie to move to the edge of the platform, Mason secured Patch in a corner. Then Mason pulled the queen-sized mattress off foundation and tightly crammed it in the narrower space on the ground.
When Patch began to heave again, nothing left to come up, his body still went through the painful motions. Mason held him until he finished, and then laid Patch on the now cushioned floor. Making his way to Blondie and Brody, Mason said, “Okay, now the kid.”
Rising and still holding Dan’s hand, Brody said, “Let go of the railing. We need to move.”
As Dan tightened his grip on the rail, his knuckles turned white. His panic reached the point where his entire body shook, and he no longer thought rationally. In his head, letting go would mean certain death. His breathing became ragged. When someone tried to pry his fingers from the metal lifeline, Dan screamed, “No!”
“Not going to work. Mason, don’t manhandle Danny.” Brody struggled to coax Danny to release his hold.
His little brother’s panic scared the crap out of Mason. “If Blondie won’t go to the mountain, I’ll bring it to him.” Going back to Patch, lifting and securing him in the corner again, he dragged the mattress to the other side. While Brody sat with Blondie on the bare platform, Mason jammed it in place and threw the pillows at the head.
Brody managed to persuade Dan to grip his other hand and then switch his right hand for left on the railing. When Mason finished, Brody moved Blondie to the comfy floor, and Mason brought Patch over. Three men assumed their original, albeit flipped positions, with Brody and Dan on the outsides, securing Patch between them. The tighter space kept them from moving as much and being on the floor would prevent falls.
“Excellent idea. Thanks,” Brody breathed out in relief as he smiled at Mason.
Sitting with his feet wedging him in place, so he didn’t shift with each wave, Mason gave Brody a wan smile. He would never remark on it, but Blondie’s fear was evident. He wondered what caused the terror. Although, he was a tad frightened at the moment too. The force of nature and the twenty-foot swells Anastasia indicated would scare the pants off most landlubbers, of which he was one.
Endeavoring to inject humor into the tenseness, Mason began loudly singing, “Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream. Merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream.”
Brody chuckled and started to sing too. Patch groaned but added his voice to the chorus. The sound of his brothers penetrated Dan’s panic, and with a little cajoling from them, he joined the round robin, willing to do anything to distract himself.
Blast from the Past
60
June 1
Politsia Station – Interrogation Room – 2115 Hours
The door swung open and bounced against the wall, startling Mike. To conserve energy, he had lightly dozed. Keeping silent, he eyed the man who stormed into the room. Something familiar about him, but not the lieutenant from the newscast.
With a scowl on his face, Officer Vasil Vladislavovich attempted to present an intimidating presence by angrily slapping the table with both hands and leaning in exactly like his favorite TV cop. “Where is she?” he demanded.
Unsure who she was, Mike stayed quiet, trying to place the man.
“What did you do to her? Tell me now, or I will beat it out of you.”
As two of the officers who arrested him entered wearing grins, brass knu
ckles, and now civilian clothes, the face of the officer before him clicked. He peered at the front desk officer. Mike’s mind raced, and before he could stop it, an unintentional smile displayed as he realized he had not fucked up … this was a case of mistaken identity. The punch to his gut wiped the smile off.
“You are going to tell me what you did to Yulinka, or I swear I will be your worst nightmare. She hasn’t answered her phone in three days.” Vasil nodded to his friends not allowing the bastard a chance to answer before they laid into him with vigor. When his comrade who worked the airport called to tell him a man fitting the description of Yulinka’s boyfriend went through security, he decided to take action.
After several blows, Vasil indicated to them to stop. “Did you kill her this time? Assholes like you don’t deserve women like Yulinka. Tell me where she is and this will be easier on you.”
Name, rank, serial number … I can’t say any of those. “I don’t know who you are talking about.”
“Liar!”
Mike grunted as they landed strike after strike to his torso and face, never giving him an opportunity to speak as the officer did a poor imitation of an interrogator. I’m gonna have a few words for Anastasia. She is no rookie, but she made a mistake using me as a model for her abusive boyfriend. Though at the time she had no idea I would be bald upon exfil.
Politsia Station – Hallway Near Interrogation Room – 2145 Hours
Semyon Kirillovich stopped in the unused portion of the station, near the old interrogation rooms. He pulled a paper from his pocket and fidgeted with it as he rechecked both ways. Deciding to confide in his brother took him several days, but he could no longer keep this to himself.
Gaspar arched his brows. “What is with all the cloak and dagger? Why couldn’t we talk in your office?”
Handing over the sheet, Semyon said, “The lieutenant reamed me about the evidence fiasco. If he was aware of this … well, I would be … just read.”
Unfolding the note, Gaspar recognized his brother’s handwriting as he listed out questions surrounding the case. As he read an answer, definitely not in Semyon’s hand, he let out a low whistle.
“Yeah. Could have knocked me down with a feather when I spotted the answer. Something is fishy. I found this when I woke the night things got screwed up in the forensics lab. I think whoever tampered with evidence wrote that, but I’m not sure why. I am also unsure who to trust here. Kesar—”
“Is as crooked as they come. I did additional investigating after the lab fire occurred. His bank account is one of those associated with Savelievich. Bank records indicate he received significant funds over many years.”
Semyon’s jaw dropped and he was about to respond when a noise in the interview room drew his attention. He motioned to Gaspar to follow him as he yanked open the door to discover what was going on.
Politsia Station – Interrogation Room – 2150 Hours
Vasil jerked then froze as Investigator Kirillovich and Colonel Kirillovich entered the room. His two buddies stopped beating the man chained to the chair. He stumbled out, “I can explain.”
Appalled by the scene before him, Gaspar immediately strode over to the bloodied, semi-conscious man, demanding as he moved, “Release the restraints now!” As one of the officers scrambled to comply, Gaspar knelt and stared at a well-known face … one he would never forget … ever.
Pinning Vasil with a hot glare, Semyon said, “I damn well hope you can make clear why you are assaulting a restrained man.”
A lump of fear formed in Vasil’s throat and he swallowed hard as he waved towards the beaten man. “That is Timur Romanovich. He threatened to kill Yulinka Antonovna. She came in three days ago to report an assault and has not answered her phone since. I think he killed her and planned to run.”
Mike’s eyes opened a slit and focused on the face close to his. Another familiar face … one from my past … one who will recognize me. Shit! This is going from bad to worse. He can’t report I am or ever was here. Holding on by a thread of consciousness, through parched, swollen lips he gave his alias, “I’m Urvan Yanovich.”
Gaspar arched a brow. What the hell is Mike Galloway doing here and using a fake name? He never had a chance to ask as Mike’s head dropped and he slumped in the chair as he passed out. Gaspar stood and glared at the other officers then shifted his gaze to Semyon and lied, “I know this man. His name is Urvan Yanovich. We need medical now.”
A flurry of activity occurred as Semyon made calls bringing more officers and medical personnel. Semyon wondered how his brother knew the man but didn’t question his straight-laced, by-the-book, older brother.
City Hospital No. 2 – Emergency Room – 2345 Hours
Gaspar hung up the phone with his trusted aide in the Moscow Interpol office. He hated waking her in the middle of the night, but he required information. However, so far Katerina uncovered little about Mike which Gaspar didn’t already know given his history essentially stopped when he was twenty-one years old … after he went missing.
The only new bits Katerina told him were the old missing person’s alert had been canceled but not the reason for termination, and that no criminal activity showed for either Mike or for Urvan Yanovich, which relieved him a bit. Katerina assured him she would continue researching in the morning after she arrived at the office and accessed the secure servers. She also indicated she would contact their counterparts in Canada.
Gaspar was aware of Mike’s family and their wealth. They played host to him when he was a foreign exchange student in high school. He became fast friends with Mike, being the same age and temperament … at least back then. They continued their friendship into university, and Mike often visited Moscow on school breaks, flying over in his family’s jet. Gaspar grinned recalling all the fun times they enjoyed together.
His eyes shifted to the unconscious man and his grin faded. “What the hell happened to you, Mike? Why did you disappear for sixteen years? When you failed to return from your trip to Makhachkala, I contacted your dad, but I never heard from anyone since.”
Not expecting a response, Gaspar blew out a breath. The investigator in him possessed theories and sought answers. His thoughts stopped as the doctor returned. “How is he?”
“I will be admitting Comrade Yanovich for observation. He sustained heavy contusions to his face and torso. Fortunately, none of his ribs are fractured, but he will be quite sore. What I’m worried about is the continued unconsciousness, leading me to suspect a concussion, and we will be watching for any signs of internal bleeding.”
Gaspar inquired, “Head trauma can cause amnesia, right?”
“Yes.”
“When you did a scan, did you find any indications of recent or old trauma?”
“No fractures if that is what you are asking. Why do you ask?”
“Just checking. I need to question him about the events and wanted to understand if there might be a possibility of gaps in his recollection,” Gaspar said to cover for his query. One theory playing in the back of his mind is that Mike may have been injured when he went missing and perhaps lost his memory. That might explain the lost years and name change, but not the cessation of the missing person’s alert.
Gazing at his old friend, Gaspar asked, “How long do you expect him to remain unconscious?”
“Hard to tell. Any additional questions?”
“No. I’ll stay with him.” Catching the opposition before the doctor spoke, Gaspar added, “As security. He was beaten by local police officers. I will not allow anyone to harm this man further.”
The doctor nodded and left. Gaspar pulled out his phone again, and this time called his brother to inform him he would not be coming home tonight, and to request he bring him a change of clothing and his laptop tomorrow. After he relayed the details of Mike’s … Urvan’s condition, Semyon agreed to come by around nine in the morning with the requested items.
He ended the call and sat back to wait until they moved Mike to a room. Occupying himself,
he replayed happy times spent with his friend many moons ago. Although, questions with no answers kept intruding.
June 2
Afghanistan – General Broderick’s Quarters – 0040 Hours
Loud, incessant knocking woke William from the fitful sleep he attempted to grab. He rose, pulled on his pants, buttoning them on the way. Yanking open the door he found Bransworth. Composing himself, he ordered, “Report.”
At attention, a bleary-eyed private said, “Sir, Colonel Sutton requests your presence in the secure room.”
“Did he say why?”
“Innocence,” Bransworth stated the mission code name.
“I’ll be there in five.” William returned to his bedroom to pull on his shirts and shove his feet into socks and boots.
Ops Command – Secure Mission Room – 0045 Hours
William entered and grinned as Tom shoved a steaming cup of coffee in his hands. “Sitrep?”
Tom took a seat and said, “At twenty-two forty-five Moscow time, zero fifteen hours here, an inquiry was made by Interpol on Galloway and his cover name Urvan Yanovich. The alerts were flagged within one minute of each other. We determined an aide of Colonel Kirillovich is seeking particulars on both identities. How do you want to play this?”
Still amazed at how on top of things Tom stayed, he considered his options for a moment. “Do we know why? Was Mike arrested?”
“Uncertain. I’ve got Bransworth working on that now. The kid is excellent at ferreting out intelligence.”
Sipping the hot brew William’s mind woke more as the caffeine hit his system. “What can you tell me about this Kirillovich?”
Tom grinned. “You won’t believe this … he is the investigator sent in response to the information on Savelievich the unit sent to Interpol. Damned glad I pulled Winds in for a preliminary debrief. Otherwise, we would be blind to the fact our guys are the source of that intel. Bransworth is also digging for more details on the man.”
