It was a gray day, extremely windy and not good for sailing. They would stay put for now. The Udachny crew were scrambling all over the structure for routine maintenance, swarming like an army of ants. They wore black polo shirts with a gold crest on the breast pocket and khaki shorts.
The yacht would head out to sea tonight, after Evgeny’s dinner with the bankers in Florence. About 11:00 p.m. they would push farther down the west coast of Italy, passing through the Canale di Piombino, a strait separating the island of Elba from mainland Italy by about five nautical miles. Evgeny liked cruising at night and staying docked by day. There were fewer eyes to track his movements.
Evgeny went back into the main salon to look over his financial statements. The documents were spread out all over the bar, with his usual twin paperweights, a bottle of SKYY vodka, and a Baccarat glass filled with ice.
He dreaded this evening’s meeting with his bankers. The Raiffeisen Bank in Austria had refinanced a €500 million Deutsche Bank loan to save him from a margin call on his mining operation. That was last fall. Evgeny was hoping for another two-month reprieve to restructure his debt. Right now he wanted a moratorium on payments until he could get the Russian government to provide state support for his operations. He needed about $2.6 billion to repay a syndicated loan from major international banks. Sure, when he gave the interview to Fortune magazine he had appeared confident, saying, “We do not need any financial aid from the Russian state.” But he needed it badly. The Russian government would bail him out for a steep price. He had to come up with the deed—a deed to a defunct coal mine in the Arctic. To think his company was being held hostage for that!
Evgeny pounded the bar in frustration. A steward came in with cautious eyes.
“You needed something, sir?”
“Get out.”
Evgeny gathered his financial documents together and put them in an envelope. There was not much choice. He was going to have to team up with that fat bastard, Oleg, and go begging the Kremlin for the money. Either that or find the deed to the mine in Svalbard. If he could find the deed, he didn’t need Oleg. He would get the money on his own.
Why not snatch that American bitch and get it out of her? She would know where the deed was. Why have Vlad, Anna, Bob, and Marlene shadow her? It was taking too much time.
The cat walked in, swishing its tail, and stopped, crouching down, sensing the dangerous mood in the salon.
“Get out!!” Evgeny screamed. The cat hissed at him, then took off into the galley at top speed.
The Britannia Restaurant was emptying out after the eight-thirty dinner seating. Joyce Chin, nursing her cognac, told Vlad, “There is just no liquidity, it’s nearly impossible to get credit.”
Vlad was concentrating on his chocolate soufflé, listening to her with half an ear.
“So how did your hedge fund do, Joyce?” he asked.
“No worse than some others—actually a lot better, because I avoided the mortgage securitizations. But it’s no picnic out there.”
Joyce was dressed in black satin for the Black-and-White Ball, a traditional event on every cruise, and one of the most spectacular nights of every voyage. Guests were asked to dress in a combination of black and white for the formal evening. Joyce looked absolutely opulent in her black satin, with the requisite touch of white—a silk camellia pinned in her décolletage and a platinum necklace encrusted with diamonds and pearls.
Anna was also dressed sumptuously, in a black beaded dress. She leaned across Vlad to put her spoon into his soufflé.
“Dahling, let me have a bite, it looks divine.” Anna’s dress was precariously low-cut, and the maneuver with the spoon tested the laws of physics.
Bob looked on with a pleased smile. Marlene, engaged in conversation with Gjertrud, missed the show.
“What about your business, Bob?” asked Vlad. “Are you having any problems because of the economy?”
“Not a worry,” said Bob, picking up the plate of petits fours and crystallized ginger.
“God is recession-proof.” He bit into a small pink-iced square of cake and palmed a second petit four before passing the plate to Marlene.
“What do you mean by that?” asked Cordelia.
“Oh, he doesn’t mean to be so flip about it,” Marlene said, looking over the cakes, “but the Church of the Enlightened Gospel is doing really well. Everyone is turning to God.”
“And away from their brokers,” Joyce interjected with a laugh.
Marlene took three petits fours, one at a time, and put them on her plate.
“Our viewership is up twenty-nine percent since last year. We broadcast right into people’s living rooms, so they don’t have to go anywhere, or spend money on gas, to hear Bob preach.”
“Praise the Lord,” added Bob.
“Do you charge for that?” asked Vlad.
Bob darted a sharp look at him.
“No sirree. The broadcast is free. But we’re on cable, so viewers have to subscribe to get the channel. We’re being listed in more and more markets, so there’s ad revenue. And then people can donate to the church if they want.”
“And then they can also order the DVD Bible for twenty-nine dollars and ninety-five cents. We’ve sold half a million in the last six months and there’s no sign of that slowing down,” said Marlene.
“You’re selling the Bible?” asked Gjertrud.
“Yes, Old and New Testament. Plus a tour of the Holy Land, on two DVDs. They’re going like hotcakes. Ninety percent profit,” said Bob.
“God bless America,” observed Vlad.
“You own the channel?” asked Sinclair.
“People just send you money in the mail. Incredible,” mused Vlad.
“The Church of the Enlightened Gospel owns the channel. I am the founder and CEO of that corporation.”
“I worry, being on a fixed income,” chimed in Gjertrud. “My late husband put it all in very safe investments, but everything is down.”
Cordelia noticed she was wearing a rather tired-looking black velvet skirt, not quite right for the Mediterranean.
“If you want me to take a look at your portfolio, give me a call,” said Joyce, sliding her business card across the table. “This is my New York office number, and you can get me at the Westport, Connecticut, number on weekends.”
“What business are you in, Mr. Sinclair?” asked Gjertrud.
“I am an archaeologist. Our dig has been underwritten by an Austrian foundation for the next five years, so we’re in good shape.”
“Enough about these boring things, why are we talking about business?” said Anna, looking at Cordelia and Sinclair. “Let’s talk about love.”
Everyone else at the table collectively raised their eyebrows.
Hundreds of black and white balloons were floating on the ceiling of the Queens Room, with their silver streamers dangling down to make a shining forest for the Black-and-White Ball. The streamers wafted gently with the movement of the ship. Cordelia had chosen a white gown—a dress slightly Grecian in design. A silver cord bound the waist, and the folds of the beautiful silk chiffon fell straight to the floor. Her tan, deepened from the last expedition in the Guaymas Basin, was her only accessory.
“Would you like to dance?” Sinclair asked.
She slipped easily into his arms. As they danced, she had a little trouble at first finding her footing on the moving dance floor of the ocean liner, but after a few moments she found her balance. Dancing with Sinclair was easy. He moved with incredible lightness and grace.
She relaxed and thought how nice it was to be dressed up and dancing. How glamorous. Dancing so closely together, she was again reminded of how tall he was. Her hand looked very small against the black wool of the tuxedo jacket. A memory came to her and she was transported back to another lifetime. At a father-daughter dance in seventh grade, she had danced with her father just like this. He had worn a satin-lapelled tuxedo. The image of her small hand against the black satin came back to her. The memo
ry hit her hard.
She closed her eyes and savored the image. It was the spring before the accident. She was all dressed up in a white organdy party dress and her first pair of high heels. She remembered the slightly citrus smell of his aftershave and the way his strong fingers had closed over her entire hand. She remembered the way he had to lean forward slightly to dance with her, even though she was tall for her age, a gangly girl on the edge of becoming a teenager. She felt tears prick her eyes.
Suddenly it was too much, to be thinking about this while she was dancing with Sinclair. She felt the tears spilling out from under her closed eyelids. She kept her head down so he wouldn’t see. He didn’t seem to notice at first. But then he stopped dancing, and felt in his pocket for a handkerchief and handed it to her. He didn’t say a word. Neither did she. The dancers around them glided to the Cole Porter song. She and Sinclair stood still in the forest of silver streamers. She finished blotting her eyes, smiled, and handed the handkerchief back. He put it in his pocket and pulled her tight into his chest. They continued to dance.
Her suite was on the port side; his stateroom was on the same deck, starboard. They were quiet on the walk back. At her stateroom, he took her card key from her, opened her door, and handed it back to her. She murmured good night and started to go inside.
“Cordelia.” His voice was low.
“Yes?”
She met his eyes. He looked very kind. She thought he might kiss her.
“Good night. Sleep well.”
He leaned forward and kissed her on the forehead.
Sinclair had brought his KWV 20 Year Old brandy out with him onto the promenade deck, and its fumes were strong in the open air. As he stood at the railing and looked at the dark sea, he rolled the brandy over his tongue. The deep amber liquid had a spicy aroma, rich with the essence of dried fruit. It brought back pleasant memories of Cape Town.
His mind drifted back to Cordelia. There was no doubt that she was magnificent. He was slowly and irrevocably falling for her. But what in hell was he doing? He drank his brandy and searched his mind for some kind of rational answer.
Suddenly he laughed into the wind. What an ass he was. A supermodel was bad enough, but Cordelia spent her days on a submarine. Talk about a pathological need to seek out unattainable women.
It was clear she was in a lot of pain. That crying on the dance floor nearly tore his heart out. Poor kid. He sighed again.
Hell, when it comes to pain, we’re all in that boat, baby.
Some nights he could barely get through. Three a.m. was the time he usually awoke, and from then on it was hell until dawn. He hated the dark almost as much as he hated the claustrophobia.
He had a theory that if he went back in his mind, over and over, to that horrible day of the accident, it would lose its power over him. He didn’t believe in shrinks. He knew he could heal himself. A few times a week, sometimes every day, for years now, he made himself go through the events one by one, allowing for the full impact of the emotion to come up. He hoped to diminish the power of the memory by pure repetition. It was a rough exercise, but he could take it.
First, he would picture loading the skis on the roof of the Volvo. He would snap the locks in place, stiff in the frigid Vermont afternoon. Their car had been the last to leave the parking lot at Killington. Beth was sitting in the front passenger seat and had opened the picnic basket and started to unpack their sandwiches.
“Do you want me to drive?” she had asked.
“Would you? I’m starving. I’ll take over after I eat,” he had said. How he regretted those words.
“OK, I need to warm up before I eat, anyway,” Beth had said.
He could see her sliding over to the driver’s seat, lifting her legs over the gearshift. She had been wearing a red Fair Isle sweater and black ski pants, and she had looked like the essence of Christmas. Her strawberry-blond hair was pushed back by her red knitted earmuffs. She had been beautiful.
In his mind, he made himself taste the ham sandwich and the coffee from the thermos. He made himself watch the snowflakes in hypnotic swirls dancing across the interstate in the headlights. He made himself see the grille of the tractor trailer as it came toward their windshield, suddenly appearing out of the darkness. His muscles still remembered bracing for the blow. The truck had smashed full force into Beth’s side of the car. They had tumbled into the ditch, rolling over and over. He knew she wasn’t going to make it out; she could never survive the impact. He had let himself go limp, giving up, wishing to die. Then something had hit him and he had lost consciousness.
Sinclair took a taste of his brandy, but it turned sour in his mouth. He poured it over the rail into the ocean. Only a few more steps now and he would be finished with his self-imposed therapy.
That night, he had come to with a flashlight beam in his face. He was upside down and trapped. He couldn’t feel any part of his body, but he was conscious and could hear the squawking of radios as emergency workers moved around outside the car. Beth was moaning.
This was the hardest part to remember, and Sinclair decided he needed to walk around the deck—physically move, to be able to deal with the intense emotion.
“John,” she had been moaning. “John, it hurts. John, where are you? John, help me.”
He had shouted her name over and over. She was so hurt, she didn’t seem to hear him. He couldn’t help her. He couldn’t do a damn thing. Even his rudimentary training as a medical student for one year was useless. He couldn’t touch her. He couldn’t even see her. He was encased in the twisted steel. He lay there, trapped, in the dark, listening to her bleed to death, and he lost his soul.
Cordelia sat in her beautiful white gown, curled up on the sofa in her stateroom reading the journal. She needed family now, especially after tonight. She found several entries that were written from the ship the Mauretania in 1908.
THE MAURETANIA, NOVEMBER 2, 1908
I AM BESIDE MYSELF WITH JOY AT THE DISCOVERY THAT ISABELLE V. IS ON BOARD THE MAURETANIA AS WE DEPART NEW YORK. IT MUST BE PROVIDENCE THAT CASTS SUCH TEMPTATION INTO MY PATH. WAS THIS MEETING ACCOMPLISHED BY ANGELS INTENT ON MY HAPPINESS, OR DEVILS ENGINEERING MY DESTRUCTION?
A few pages later she found
THE MAURETANIA, NOVEMBER 3, 1908
MISS ISABELLE V. HAS RAPIDLY INVADED MY THOUGHTS AND CAUSES ME GREAT ANGUISH. MY MARRIAGE HAS LONG BEEN OVER, YET I REMAIN BOUND BY LAW TO MY LOVELESS SITUATION. IS IT WRONG I SPEND SO MANY HOURS WITH ISABELLE? SHE EMBODIES ALL THAT IS VIRTUOUS. SHE HAS KINDNESS, INTELLIGENCE, AND SPIRIT. I AM AFRAID, ONCE HAVING VIEWED THIS PARAGON OF WOMANHOOD, I SHALL BE FOREVER DISCONTENTED WITH MY DOMESTIC LIFE.
Fascinated, Cordelia kept going.
THE MAURETANIA, NOVEMBER 4, 1908
MISS ISABELLE AND I WALKED ON THE DECK AFTER BREAKFAST. SHE HAS TOLD ME ABOUT HER WORK FOR THE IMMIGRANTS IN THE TENEMENTS OF NEW YORK, AND HER VIEWS ON THE EMANCIPATION OF WOMEN. I CANNOT HELP ADMITTING THAT MY ADMIRATION FOR HER GROWS EVERY DAY, AND I REGRET THE PASSING OF EACH HOUR, FOR SOON I WILL BE DEPRIVED OF HER COMPANY.
Although Cordelia knew the end result of this courtship, she was hungry for the details. She skimmed ahead.
THE MAURETANIA, NOVEMBER 5, 1908
MISS ISABELLE V. CAUSED A SENSATION UPON HER ENTRANCE INTO THE FIRST-CLASS DINING SALON THIS EVENING. A FALL OF SILENCE DREW MY EYES TO HER STANDING ON THE STAIRS COSTUMED IN THE LATEST DARING FROCK FROM FORTUNY. VENUS HERSELF COULD NOT HAVE LOOKED SO ALLURING IN HER RISE FROM THE SEA. I IMMEDIATELY TOOK TO MY FEET TO ESCORT HER TO HER SEAT, MUCH TO THE DISAPPROVAL OF MANY OF THE LADIES PRESENT.
The romance turned serious.
THE MAURETANIA, NOVEMBER 6, 1908
I AM STRICKEN WITH DEEP REMORSE OVER WHAT HAS HAPPENED THIS EVENING. MISS ISABELLE V. APPEARED AT THE TEA DANCE THIS AFTERNOON. I AM AFRAID I LOST MY GOOD JUDGMENT. I URGED HER TO JOIN ME ON THE DECK AFTER TEA AND, THERE IN THE LEE OF A LIFEBOAT, I EMBRACED HER PASSIONATELY.
Cordelia couldn’t help but turn to the next page.
THE MAURETANIA, NOVEMBER 7, 1908
MISS ISABELLE V. APPEARED AT BREAKFAST, WAN AND SUBDUED. I BEGGED HER FOR A FEW MOMENTS IN THE WINTER GARDEN, WHERE AT THAT EARLY HOUR WE COULD CONVERSE IN PRIVATE. WE SPENT A GOOD PORTION OF THE MORNING SITTING AMONG THE POTTED PALMS, WHERE I KNELT ON THE SPOT TO DECLARE MY LOVE TO HER.
When Cordelia turned to the next page, she read what she had known all along.
THE MAURETANIA, NOVEMBER 8, 1908
MY DEAREST ISABELLE AND I ARE LEAVING THIS SHIP AS NEAR TO THE STATE OF MAN AND WIFE AS NATURE PERMITS. WE PLAN TO MARRY ONCE I OBTAIN MY DIVORCE, AND WILL SPEND THE REST OF OUR LIVES IN THE COMFORT OF EACH OTHER’S COMPANY, NOT CARING FOR SOCIAL CONVENTIONS IN THE LEAST.
Cordelia closed the journal and looked out at the dark water, and thought about Sinclair.
London
Paul Oakley woke at 3:00 a.m. in a panic. What if his package had been misplaced? It could break open and spread pandemic flu. What was happening to the patient in the Royal London Hospital? How did he get so sick?
The 1918 flu was arguably one of the most contagious diseases the world had ever known—as many as fifty million people died during the pandemic, as it made its deadly circuit around the globe. Some scientists argued that by the end, the disease had taken a hundred million lives. There was no way to know. Record keeping in 1918 was not what it is today.
But unlike any disease before it, the 1918 influenza targeted the young and healthy. One bizarre aspect of the disease was that once it struck, a person’s immune system was triggered to attack its own body. The younger and stronger you were, the harder it hit you.
That was also happening to the patient right now. If this was the 1918 virus, and it got loose again, the population of London would be decimated by millions. Oakley couldn’t bear to think about it.
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