by Sean Ellis
Severin laughed toward the sky. "Pirate! Yes, I'm a buccaneer. Perhaps I should make you walk the plank." He guffawed again then fixed Kismet with his stare. "My question stands, Kismet. The Russian Navy is tasked with guarding our own shores and those of our confederates in Georgia. Why are you sneaking across the Black Sea on this decrepit vessel? The owner of this boat is a known smuggler, and you—a former spy who now 'protects' the art treasures of the world? A grave robber is what you are, I'll wager."
"Are you sure you don't have me confused with someone else?" Kismet replied in a casual tone, trying not to let the captain know just how rattled he was. "Anyway, you've got it all wrong. We're not here because of anything I want."
"Of course," Severin retorted sarcastically. "How foolish of me to think so."
"Look, if you know who Irene is, then you'll understand why we're here."
Severin's expression softened. He looked at Irene, searching her face for sincerity. "What is the real reason for your return to your homeland?"
Irene's forehead drew into a crease. "I'm sorry, it's been a while."
Severin repeated the question in his thick, but accurate English. Irene nodded, as if gradually remembering how to speak her language as he translated. Kismet felt like rewarding her performance with a kiss, but kept his emotional response in check.
"Why have I returned? I'm surprised that you have to ask. This is my homeland. I may be Russian, but I was raised on the Georgian coast. My mother is buried there. It's natural that I would want to revisit my heritage before Nick and I are married."
"Your argument is not convincing. Your father is an enemy of the state. I cannot believe you would be so brazen as to risk your own safety in returning to your homeland, placing yourself within our grasp. Surely you must fear that we will imprison you in order to extort your father's surrender."
"That would be difficult, since he's dead."
Severin raised an eyebrow and chewed on the revelation for a moment. "Then you have my sympathy. I understand now why you wish to make this pilgrimage to your old home." He turned to the assemblage of his sailors and barked for them to prepare for departure. As they hastened to obey, leaving an uncomprehending Achmet to tremble in the wheelhouse, Severin returned his attention to Kismet. "I apologize for having waylaid you. It was, I confess, a regrettable misunderstanding."
"No problem."
Severin shook his head. "You are too kind to dismiss this so easily. I must make amends." He snapped his fingers, as if suddenly inspired. "I know. There is no reason for you finish your journey in this unseaworthy craft. You must allow us to deliver you to your destination."
"Uh, that won't be necessary—"
"But it is. Admittedly, my ship is not a luxury cruise vessel, as you Americans are surely accustomed to, but it is far more accommodating than this Turk's boat." His hard edge resurfaced for a moment, just enough to let Kismet know that declining was not an option. "I insist."
Kismet looked over at Irene, then back at the Russian captain. "With an invitation like that, how can we refuse?"
* * *
Kismet gazed at the face framed in the worn mirror. The stubble on his chin was growing thick; it would be a full beard soon. He rubbed it thoughtfully and decided not to shave. The last thing he cared about was ingratiating himself to his host. He splashed a handful of tepid water onto his cheeks then toweled himself dry.
They had been on the destroyer for nearly three hours. Severin had shuffled Irene off to her quarters, and then insisted that Kismet accompany him on a tour of the ship. Kismet had affected disinterest as the captain led him through a circuit of the decks, but the intelligence officer he had once been couldn't resist taking mental notes. The Boyevoy, Russian for "militant" had been taken out of mothballs, retrofitted and added to the Black Sea fleet at the start of the South Ossetia conflict. Severin didn't go into great detail about the armaments, but seemed more interested in alternately boasting about his accomplishments and tossing out leading questions to probe the veracity of Kismet's claims. Finally, with the tour over, Kismet was directed to his berth and told to get ready for dinner.
The quarters were cramped, but according to Severin, the cabin Kismet would be using for the remainder of the voyage was the berth of the first officer, and was quite spacious by comparison to any others, save the captain's own. Irene had been installed elsewhere, and Kismet had not seen her since shortly after their coming aboard. He regretted that they had not been given the opportunity to further reconcile their cover stories. Doubtless, that was the very reason Severin had kept them apart.
A rapping at the door distracted him. He opened it to reveal a blonde, pale-skinned man wearing a star and two thin gold stripes on his sleeve, which identified him as a senior lieutenant; Kismet recognized him as Severin's executive officer, the man whose quarters he now occupied. The XO did not speak English, and Kismet wasn't about to reveal that he understood Russian. Instead he waved the officer away, indicating that he wasn't ready to be escorted to the captain's table.
As he began rummaging through his duffel, it was all too evident that the bag had been thoroughly searched in his absence. He kept his irritation in check, and with a nonchalant air began pulling out his clothes and laying them on the bed. His kukri lay sheathed in the deepest recesses of the duffel, but there was no sign of his pistol. He breathed a silent curse then repacked it, leaving out a fresh shirt and a rumpled sport coat, which he donned with exaggerated slowness. On the way out of the cabin he took a second look at himself in the mirror. What he saw nearly made him laugh aloud. He would be attending dinner at Severin's table looking like a skid row bum. The XO sniffed disdainfully, calling Kismet an uncivilized pig under his breath, then led the way to the officer's mess.
Irene was already seated at Severin's table, idly conversing with the captain. Severin rose to greet him then gestured for him to sit. The executive officer took a seat directly opposite Irene, leaving only one vacant setting, at the captain's left. As Kismet lowered himself into the heavy wooden chair, he was painfully conscious of the fact that the only person at the table he would be unable to see was Irene. This too, he knew, was no coincidence.
Two seamen dressed as waiters marched out of the galley. When they finished their ministrations, each guest at the table had before them a bowl of sour-milk okroshka and a crystal cordial snifter that was more than half-full of a clear liquid. Curious, Kismet lifted the glass and passed it under his nose. There was no smell, but a faint vapor stung his nostrils; the beverage was not water.
Severin took up his own glass and inclined it toward Kismet. "Are you familiar with the custom of the toast? Of course, you must be. I will begin. We drink to your impending marriage to the beautiful Irina Petrovna Chereneyeva." He quickly repeated the toast in Russian, for the benefit of his officers, then brought the snifter to his lips.
With one accord the officers raised their glasses and drained them. Kismet tilted his in the direction of the other guests then took a sip. The vodka burned cool on his tongue, leaving a frigid trail from the back of his throat all the way down his esophagus.
One of the officers pointed at Kismet and made a remark about his sincerity. Before he could pretend to have not understood, Severin began chiding him. "Ah, Nikolai. You barely tasted the vodka. Could it be that you are not looking forward to taking Irina as your bride?"
Kismet winced. "Forgive me. I guess I didn't understand the custom." He lifted the snifter a second time and poured its contents into his mouth. His stomach burned, as though he had swallowed a flaming snowball, and he immediately felt the warmth of the alcohol spreading to his extremities. The overall sensation was not entirely unpleasant. Before his glass was back on the table, the waiter was already decanting a second round.
"Tell me, Mr. Kismet. How did you meet your future bride?"
"I, ah—" Suddenly, Kismet drew a blank. It was as if the part of his brain where he stored their fictitious romance had been burned away by the liquor. He w
asn't a lightweight by any means, but it had been several hours since he'd last eaten and there was nothing in his stomach to buffer the alcohol. "At work," he finally blurted.
"I see. An office romance. She was your subordinate...what's the word? Your intern?"
"No," countered Kismet, his manner measured and deliberate. He could hear his own voice and knew that his speech was unimpaired, but his body felt detached, and he was virtually certain that his words would be slurred and unintelligible. "Irene was working with the museum staff on a program for her students. We met in the lunchroom one day when she was visiting."
When not on the run from a gang of kidnappers, Irene Kerns spent her days teaching English to Russian immigrant children in Brighton Beach. The fabrication they had agreed upon seemed to adequately fit the facts without being needlessly complicated, but now as Kismet tried to put it into words, he found himself cringing at its implausibility.
"Forgive my error. When was it that you became romantically involved with each other?"
Kismet suspected Irene had already undergone an extensive, if polite interrogation and knew Severin would be comparing his answers with hers, hungry for telltale inconsistencies. He forced himself to relax, drawing several deep breaths in an effort to counteract the numbing effects of the liquor, and after a few seconds launched into the tale of his whirlwind romance with Irene Kerns.
The soup bowls were cleared away, and the waiters began shuttling out the main course; two platters of zharkoye roasted meat, carved into thin slices. It was blood red at the center and dripping with juices. The platters were placed on the table and the officers did not hesitate to load their plates with heaping portions. Kismet waited for his turn with the fork then speared two slabs of the meat. He noted that no one had begun eating, and waited silently for the signal to begin.
"We do not usually eat so well," Severin explained with mock humility. "But for guests, we hold back nothing. Irina, let us have your toast."
Kismet leaned forward slightly, and caught a glimpse of Irene as she reached for her glass. "To good food."
Severin repeated the toast in Russian, and all of the snifters were raised and emptied. Kismet watched as Irene tipped her head back, and then with a frown drank his own portion.
As another measure of strong spirits flowed into his bloodstream, Kismet had little doubt that Severin was trying to use the vodka to loosen his tongue. He knew, or at least had a rough idea, what his own tolerances were with respect to alcohol. But could Irene hold her liquor? He decided not to take that chance.
As he lowered his glass to the table, his let his elbow fall squarely in the middle of his plate. "Oops," he drawled. He tried to extract his arm, but only succeeded in knocking the glass over, and smearing gravy all over the tablecloth. "Looks like I've had a little too much to drink." His words were slow and sloppy, and as he spoke, he waved his hands in a series of uncoordinated gestures.
"Nekulturny," remarked one of the officers. Uncultured.
Severin affected a distasteful expression. "I wasn't aware that you Americans were such poor drinkers."
Kismet grinned foolishly. "Guess I'm a little tipsy. Don't mind me. Go on with your dinner."
The officers regarded Kismet as though he were a leper, but followed the lead of their captain and began eating. Kismet toyed with his food, occasionally fumbling his utensils to perpetuate his drunken act. Severin, however, did not relent in his search for answers. With Kismet seemingly out of the conversation, he focused his inquiries exclusively toward Irene.
"How did your father die?"
"I'd rather not speak of it," she mumbled. The liquor was clearly affecting her, but she seemed to retain a shred of good judgment.
"I understand. But it is important that I know the facts. Petr Ilyich had many enemies. Some might even wish to avenge themselves upon his heir. What will I tell them when they learn that his daughter sat at my table?"
"It was an accident. There was a fire."
Severin nodded slowly. "How sad for you." He waited silently, as if expecting her to reveal more, but Irene said nothing. The quiet hung in the air above the table like a pall, dissipating only when the waiters cleared away the platters.
Kismet contemplated yet another portion of vodka waiting in his glass as dessert--bliny topped with sour cream and honey--was served. The liquor was indeed potent. His intoxication was now no longer an act, but rather a measured relaxing of his usual self-control. Following yet another toast, he was all too aware of the difficulty he was having in discerning the difference.
"Mr. Kismet. Irina has told me of your latest endeavor. You should have been more forthcoming. You see, I have information that will be of great value to you."
Severin's speech was as smooth as the vodka. Kismet had to will up the last vestiges of his cognitive abilities even to comprehend what the Russian had said. "My latest endeavor?" he echoed stupidly.
"Yes Nikolai. I know all about it."
Kismet sat in a daze, trying to fathom the implications of Severin's statement. Surely Irene had not revealed anything. The captain was still probing, trying to trick him into giving up something. "I'm not sure I do," he replied. Leaning forward, he craned his head around to look over at Irene. "What's he talking about, dear?"
Irene's blank expression confirmed his suspicion that Severin's statement was indeed a ploy designed to trick Kismet into a self-incriminating admission. Rather than continue to profess his innocence, he tried a new tack.
With finesse apropos of a drunken fool, Kismet wrapped an arm around Severin's shoulder, hugging him in a buddy embrace. "Greg you sly dog," he slurred. "I'm not a kid anymore. There's nothing you can tell me that I don't already know."
It was Severin's turn to be confused. With an expression that hovered between disgust and befuddlement, the captain shrugged free of Kismet's grasp. "I am not sure we're talking about the same thing—"
"I don't know what either one of you is talking about," Irene proclaimed, now thoroughly in the dark.
Kismet continued to play the idiot. Raising a finger to his lips, he began whispering in a conspiratorial tone. "Bedroom secrets, darling. Captain Greg doesn‘t think I know how to please a Russian girl." He flashed a lascivious wink in her direction, purely for Severin's benefit.
The Russian captain looked stunned, but quickly recovered his composure. "How foolish of me. Of course, you are a man of the world, Mr. Kismet."
Irene seemed to take up the thread of Kismet's improvisation. "You men are disgusting," she sneered. "I sometimes wonder what I ever saw in you, Nick Kismet."
Her contempt was so palpable that Kismet found himself wondering if she was in fact sincere. Before he or Severin could answer, she stood up. "I'm afraid I'm not feeling very social tonight. I'd like to return to my room, if you please."
Severin nodded. "I apologize for any offense, Irina Petrovna." He gestured for the second officer to escort her, and the two of them left the officers' mess.
Kismet decided to stay in character. He playfully slugged Severin's shoulder. "Now look what you've done."
Severin whirled to face him. "You are drunk," he spat. "If you were one of my men, I would have you publicly disciplined for your foolish behavior."
Kismet folded his hands meekly in his lap. "Oops. Maybe I should go to my room, too."
"I think that would be the best thing for you to do."
Kismet rose, affecting unsteadiness, and staggered toward the exit, bumping repeatedly into the bulkhead. When he crossed the threshold however, leaving Severin's lion's den behind, he paused to breathe a sigh of relief. “That could have gone better,” he muttered under his breath. “Then again, i suppose it could have gone a hell of a lot worse.”
* * *
Kismet awoke the next day with a fuzzy mouth and a mild headache; a pleasant surprise inasmuch he had been expecting a hangover of epic proportions. He had slept soundly. According to his watch it was nearly noon, though it was possible that their journey had taken th
em across enough degrees of longitude to the next time zone, making it an hour later. Either way, he had overslept by a considerable margin. He swung his legs off the bed and struggled to rise. The deck was chilly beneath his bare feet and he hastily got dressed.
A taciturn sailor was posted at his door. Kismet pantomimed his desire to eat, and the seaman nodded, indicating that he should follow. He was led to the galley where a portion of leftover breakfast had been set aside for him, along with an urn of unpalatable coffee. With a grimace he swallowed some of the vile brew. The sailor, apparently his personal watchdog, remained at attention just inside the galley doorway.
As Kismet struggled through a mug of the coffee, he heard Severin's voice behind him. The captain dismissed the sailor, and then stalked over to where Kismet was sitting. "You have slept through the journey, Mr. Kismet."
"Guess I forgot to ask for a wake-up call."
"Indeed. No matter though. We turned north after crossing the fortieth meridian early this morning. We should be in sight of Poti within the hour."
Kismet grunted but said nothing. Severin helped himself to a mug of coffee and sipped it thoughtfully. "You know that I had your luggage searched when you came aboard."
"I noticed. You refolded my underwear all wrong."
Severin was not amused. "Among your belongings, we found a firearm. The Russian Navy does not take the matter of weapons smuggling lightly, even when it is simply a personal weapon for self-protection. We are charged with protecting the borders of Russia and her neighbors on the Black Sea. You have committed a grave offense, I'm afraid."
Kismet set his mug down. Severin had avoided mention of the issue on the previous night, but now the matter of the pistol represented the captain's final hole card. Kismet was ready to call his bluff. "Listen Greg. I've put up with enough of your crap. I wasn't sneaking into your country, and I wasn't trying to smuggle my gun in. I was in a boat showing the Turkish flag, in Turkish waters, with legal authorization to carry a pistol. It was you that violated the law by firing on that boat and by coercing Irene and I aboard your ship."
