Kasinski grabbed the prisoner’s swinging chin with one beefy hand. “Tell us Alexi, do you have much entertainment left in you? We are bored. We need to hear your screams and cries of protest! Where has your dissidence gone?”
The Russian amused himself demoniacally.
I could not stay in the cell any longer. I hated torture. I hated it in prison, out of prison, on men, women, or children. I hated it on television shows. I even hated it when used upon animals or insects. I was known in the Agency for that feature of my makeup. No one ever discussed it with me. Ever.
I had had an incident in Thailand once. Because of it, I was fired, for the first time, by the CIA. I had come upon a scene where we had imprisoned some brigands. They had been bad men. While I was away, two of my own people had taken it upon themselves to start a fire and begin roasting the men alive. They were enjoying their cruelty when I came out of the brush. Indeed, they had laughed just like Kasinski had laughed, their voices filled with power and perversity. In Thailand, I had not asked anything of either man. I had simply taken out my nine-millimeter and shot them on the spot. It was a reflex action. I was not fully aware of the shootings until the rounds were already delivered. They had not died, however. And there had been hell to pay. I would be fired twice more, but that was later on for different offenses.
“I believe I’m done here,” I said, then fled the cell into the giant sewer pipe and back toward the white room. I hoped that Benito was done with losing her dinner.
“Wait,” Kasinski yelled at my departing back.
I froze. I was in that man’s facility. I fought to control my facial expression before confronting him.
“I sense you do not approve,” he said.
I shrugged as if cruelty did not affect me one way or the other.
“You do not understand how destructive these kinds of people are to my country,” Kasinski yelled
I feigned agreement with his excuses.
“You know, my friend,” I replied smoothly, taking the Russian by the arm, “I have been down here too long. It is oppressive. I need a drink. I’m sure you understand.”
I forced a laugh after I finished dissembling. I then ushered the Commissar towards the invitingly open door of white light just ahead. With the stench out of my nostrils and with the gate to Hell shut, I looked around for something to clean my shoes with. There was nothing in the room, not even the Cruise Director. I guessed that she had found her way back upstairs or had been helped by one of the assistants.
“Do not worry about the dirt,” Kasinski said, “prisoners are brought up to clean at all times of the day or night here, as I require. Your shoes will need looking after.”
After that statement, however, he grew silent, as if contemplating something serious.
He spoke, at last. “We were going to talk tomorrow. But there is a delicate problem to consider first.”
I listened, my forehead creased with concern.
He went on. “I need another prisoner to replace the American. I mean, if we are able to come to an agreement tomorrow. It would be best of all if the replacement prisoner were an American, too. Our budget is heavily influenced by our keeping important foreign nationals here.”
I quaked under his words. The man was asking me to pull some other poor soul from among the passengers or crew and hand him over. Over to the barbarism I had just witnessed. My face reddened on its own until a novel idea came to mind. My righteous anger departed like a waft of warm air, replaced by a very cold thought. The Commissar’s needs might not be so far out of order.
“I’ll look into it,” came out of me blandly.
I had, it seemed, lost the ability to transmit much in the way of emotion. Kasinski caught on. We were co-conspirators again.
“Let us return to the brightness of the real world,” he said, opening the door that led to the stairs. “Maybe we should make the results of the chess game a part of the deal?”
Once on the stairs and on my way up to the study, I warmed to his suggestion. I didn’t think I could beat the Russian champion Karpov, but I could give him one hell of a game. It was unlikely that the Commissar could beat me at chess, but I would certainly not gamble the boy’s life on the possibility, however slim it might be. The mission had acquired a new urgency. The boy was not going to survive too much longer under the Commissar’s inhumane treatment.
Kasinski and I arrived back in the study, leaving chunks of the underworld spinning from the soles and sides of our shoes. The room had become a mess and the odor had followed us up as well. Kessler sat across the chessboard from Benito. She turned to appraise me. I saw naked fear cloaked in her eyes. I nodded firmly at her, but she wanted her isolation.
“Commissar, I recommend we conclude our game in the morning,” I said since it appeared that Benito needed to depart as quickly as possible.
I was in bad need of a long hot shower myself. My shoulders were square and my back straight, but I was suffering fatigue from a long stretch of acting and posturing. Emotionally, I had to true-up soon or my behavior could turn erratic. Kasinski was accommodating.
“Yes, yes, that will be fine. We will breakfast here, instead of lunch?”
I preferred to stick to the original timing as closely as possible. I wanted everything that was going to be concluded between us to be done and then the ship to sail. The coincidence of those events was vital to success.
“As planned,” I replied back to the man. “There are details…” and I let the sentence trail away.
The Commissar nodded his head vigorously, finally catching on to the last element he had added to our on-going negotiations.
“I like your style, Indy,” he said, jovially, which I took to be an insult. I fought to keep my real feelings about the man deeply buried.
Kessler accompanied us to the Tundra Cat. I was surprised when he climbed aboard. Kessler had probably ridden out earlier aboard the same vehicle. How many of the tracked things did the compound have laying about? I didn’t know, but I had a feeling that the place was operating on a shoestring.
Benito and I followed Kessler aboard. We all waved at Kasinski as if we were departing from a fond, old uncle. The diesel built to its normal wailing scream. Once more, we flew across the skin of the tundra.
The harsh cold air did not chill me. It actually freshened me. I inhaled and exhaled deeply, taking the clear cold air in then letting it slowly out. Benito sat in the row behind the driver. Kessler and I sat shoulder-to-shoulder in the back of the beast. He tilted his head towards mine.
“The cruise director appears to have a light stomach for such things,” he grinned, pointing at the back of Benito’s head.
I averted my face, with my head inches from his.
“You have never gone down there, Captain, have you?”
Kessler’s levity quickly subsided. I watched him decide whether he was going to lie about it or not.
“Nein,” he bit off, turning his face to stare straight ahead.
I scanned the flowing fields of tundra flowers, so subtle and beautiful. I speculated about the predictability of aggressively macho men. They had no clue that their macho behavior cloaked the weakness or lack of experience they so badly sought to conceal. And they had no insight into courage and strength. You gained no courage, nor exhibited any, from causing hurt or pain. You obtained it from taking hurt and pain. You gained strength from endurance, not action. None of those truths were really teachable. You could not make believe your way through life.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT:
A Fool’s Game
We rode the Tundra Cat right to the edge of town. I had made no further effort to engage Kessler in conversation during the trip. The Russian jeep was waiting on the concrete road when we arrived. Once more, the three of us crawled into a conveyance together. There was no talking as we headed to the dock. The racket of the jeep, its careen
ing, jostling run and the driver’s inebriated state, consumed all of our attention. We pulled up to the gangplank and then stopped with a good five-foot skid. I moved to the gangplank where Benito already held on to the rail.
“You all right?” I asked her, touching her shoulder with my hand, gently.
She didn’t respond, then flinched at a shout behind me.
“Ten,” I realized the Russian driver had spoken the word. He repeated himself, holding up both hands with fingers splayed.
“A bit early for lunch,” I murmured, then assisted a wobbly Benito up the gangplank.
I glanced down to see Kessler lighting a cigarette with the driver. They smoked together near a front fender of the military vehicle. I wondered if Kessler spoke Russian, but I doubted it. Although the Commissar was on friendly terms with the Captain, the dinner and what followed had pretty firmly established that they did not appear to be working together.
My thoughts bounced about madly on my way to my cabin. I didn’t even notice that Benito headed in the same direction. I wanted to clean my filthy shoes. I wanted to make sure the automatic was where I had left it. I wanted to get coordinated with Don and Dutch for the morning’s re-entry into the gulag. At the end of the corridor I realized, belatedly, that both of us were going to my cabin. I watched her try the handle.
“It’s locked,” she said, over her shoulder, holding out her right hand palm up.
I fished the key from my pocket. I gave it to her without comment. Once inside, she went straight into my little bathroom and stripped her clothes off. I sat on the bunk, then leaned to the small table and opened the top drawer. All my stuff was there, appearing undisturbed. I put the automatic back in my pocket and then shut the drawer.
Benito filled my shower stall. Heat and steam poured from the small room. I pulled off my shoes, took them to the mini sink and cleaned them. I left them to dry along the bulkhead by my front door.
I pondered what needed to be done on the following day. They were mostly impossibilities. Get the kid out of there. Get him back to the ship. Transfer the Russian kid from the port onto the ship. Get them papers from somewhere. Take care of Hathoot. Deal with the sick puke of a Russian Commissar without killing him. Guide myself and the people I had dragged along with me through it all in one piece.
“Impossible,” I judged, just after the water from the shower shut off.
Benito stepped from the stall, grabbed all of my bath towels from the racks, and then toweled herself dry.
“What’s impossible?” she inquired, and then, “What happened to your jacket. You left it out there?”
I inspected her body while she worked. She was really not fat. Just built like the professional wrestler, Andre the Giant. She had huge breasts, which I could not help but admire She looked over at me, so I looked toward the porthole, but I still saw her grimace with disgust. She poked around in the small bathroom, finding my folded robe. She struggled to put it on. It was too small for her, but she ignored that and stepped closer to me. She motioned me aside. I got out of the bunk. She got in, laying back.
“Well?” she asked, meaning the questions she had already asked, nothing more.
I could tell there was nothing more.
“Nada,” I said, offhandedly. “I’ll get my coat tomorrow when I go back.”
She turned her wet-haired head to look at me.
“I’m tired of the lying,” she declared, her voice quiet and flat, but for a slight tremor. She was holding herself together. She went on, “Tell me the truth, right now.”
She was adamant. I liked the woman. I didn’t know why. I decided to tell her a version of the truth.
“I’m going back there tomorrow to get a boy out of that ghastly pit we were in. He’s an American who’s been there for a while. I gave him my coat, so maybe he could sleep the night. You don’t have to go back.”
After my revelations, she bristled, with her eyes going right through me.
“I said that you came aboard this ship and brought life with you. A zest for life. But what are you really? There’s a boy back down there in that Gulag? And you knew it? And you left him there with that ogre of a Russian? You gave him your expensive coat? How generous!”
I said nothing.
She continued, “But that’s not the worst. No, the worst is you. Does the phrase ‘cold as the driven snow’ mean anything to you? You didn’t get ill down there. You didn’t even breathe hard. You befriended that man and then shook his hand before we left. What are you? Do you care about anything? Anyone? Is it all an act?”
I walked over to the dresser. I looked at the CD player, unsure if it was recording everything. Not that it mattered at this point in the game. Benito squirmed around, bringing the covers from under her. Once she got them free, she drew them up under her chin.
“And you cleaned my shoes. Why did you clean my shoes?” she asked, her voice little more than a loud whisper. She brushed a tear aside and then absorbed it with a corner of the sheet. “I don’t like you, Indy. I don’t like what you are. But I don’t feel safe anywhere but with you.”
I directed my words to the CD player in front of me.
“This is what I do. This is my mission. I have had many. I was not always like this. I do feel. I do understand. I do know. The boy has one single chance in this world of leaving that place alive — and I’m that chance. I can’t get involved. I can’t get mad. I can’t get even. After this mission, I’ll have another. Nobody will ever fill me in on what happened after I leave this one. Maybe I’ll see something about in a newspaper one day. Yes, I hurt people. I don’t mean to. But I do and I do it with a willing dedication and I do it very well. I don’t know if that boy over there trusts in God. I told him that God sent me to get him out. He believed me. I believed me. What do you believe?”
Benito’s eyes were closed. I stepped to the side of the bed and I leaned over. She was asleep. I put my face in my hands and rubbed long and hard. Gazing on her in peaceful repose, I talked to her sleeping form.
“You’re a regular person. A citizen. We, that’s people like me, call you that. I can be with you. I can help you. I can interact and enjoy you. But I can’t be what you are. Not ever again.”
I retraced my steps to the dresser. Song number seven was scheduled next, if there was a song.
“Why not?” I said aloud and then pushed the button.
“… It’s a heartache, nothing but a heartache, hits you when it’s too late, hits you when you’re down. Nothing but a fool’s game….”
I listened to the song play out. When it was done, I shut the magical fortune-telling machine off, fascinated by the brain behind its recordings. It was time to complete my preparations with Don and Dutch.
I checked my Breguet as I got to Don’s cabin door. It was well into the evening. I realized that that explained the completely empty corridors. I corrected myself. That, and the only open bar in town. I knocked, waited a few seconds, and then entered, bumping right into Kessler’s back.
“Oh, do come inside, Indy,” the German said, using an acid tone.
I stepped to the nearby wall, then put my back against it. I noticed both Dutch and Don sitting on bunks, but, oddly, the Basque was nowhere in sight. Then, I spotted the closed bathroom door, which I had never seen before.
“You thought you could turn my own First and Third Mates against me?” Kessler screamed, eying all of us, one after another.
He was in a towering rage. Was he reacting to our little confrontation in the Tundra Cat?
“Well, it didn’t work,” he went on. “I know the whole story. Günter has told me everything. You are up to no good with that dissident, that traitorous prisoner. Do you think you can waltz in here, tap dance around, and then leave with some sort of Pulitzer Prize-winning story?”
My eyes rolled around in bemusement while listening to him. I shot a quick glance at
Don and Dutch. Their eyes looked like mine. I got control of myself. I debated how to respond if the Captain required a response. But he just went on.
“This ship leaves at fourteen hundred hours tomorrow. If you’re not aboard at precisely that, I don’t — and — I won’t care.”
The glowering man then jammed his perfectly white barracks cap onto the top of his head, twisted about, and departed through the open door. I almost responded with an “Aye, aye, sir” to his disappearing back, but stopped myself in time. We began to laugh and then to howl. The Basque came out of the bathroom, looked at the three of us, and then reoccupied her usual place under the exterior bulkhead porthole.
“Günter and Borman,” I giggled. “Who would have thought?” I had to laugh again. “Pulitzer Prize?” I said. “When these guys lie, they’re good at it. But why? Why hold out against the Captain?”
I pondered the questions I’d raised.
Don spoke. “Easy. Marlys and the gold. With us, each of those guys has a shot at one or both. Without us, just how much of anything are they going to get siding with the Captain? They know him. They’ve worked with him for years.”
I concurred. It made sense. We had two allies back, but they were not motivated by our cause. They were in it for the girl and the gold — or both — and those were dangerous, volatile motivations to factor in — and even more dicey to work with.
I filled them in on the dinner. I reviewed, in encyclopedic detail, the underground gulag, the dimensions of everything, the guards, the weapons, and even Benito’s reactions during and after the tour. I left out nothing except the chess play, which I felt did not matter. I even discussed Alexi’s condition, his impending death, and our inability to impact his situation at all. The boy was a more hopeful matter.
Then, very carefully, I laid out my plan with respect to our white slaver, the purser. Don and Dutch both stared, their expressions dead serious. I knew that I would have Dutch’s support, but I was uncertain of Don’s. He had worked with Hathoot for several years. But he had nothing to say. He looked away, which told me that he was not completely comfortable with my decision or the plan, but that he would go along with both.
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