by Jon F. Merz
She glanced up approvingly as Thatcher walked over and sipped her wine. Thatcher smiled at her. “You look exceptionally lovely this evening.”
Cyra put her glass down and her eyes twinkled. “Oh, this old thing? Just something I had leftover from a shopping excursion in Paris last year. It’s frightfully out of style.”
“If you say so,” said Thatcher as he took his seat. “I think it looks splendid on you.” He leaned forward noting the jewels that sparkled in her ears and around her neck. “Those are sapphires if I’m not mistaken.”
“Indeed they are.” Cyra smiled again. “You have an eye for detail.”
“It helps,” said Thatcher. A waiter appeared and filled his wine glass. Thatcher lifted it and clinked his against Cyra’s glass. “Cheers.”
“Cheers,” said Cyra taking another sip. “The wine selection for a ship like this is rather limited, but this is a passable vintage.”
“I’m a gin man, myself,” said Thatcher. “But wine takes a close second.”
“Not whiskey?”
Thatcher shook his head. “I’m afraid I do better on clear spirits than I do on the darker ones. They’ve just never really settled with me for some reason.”
“Perhaps you’ve never been exposed to the proper brand?”
Thatcher took another sip of his wine. “I wouldn’t say that. I’ve sampled some of the best. Hundred year lagunins from small distilleries in Scotland and Ireland and damned if I can find one that I like.”
“But gin has such a broad palette of flavors to it. How do you choose?”
“It’s true,” said Thatcher. “I prefer a more citrus and floral bouquet than some of the others. Preferably with a lime wedge or two.”
“And tonic water or soda?”
“Tonic water,” said Thatcher. “Light on it, over the rocks. Makes for a delectable drink, let me tell you.”
“I should like to try one some time,” said Cyra. “Perhaps when we reach Lisbon?”
“That sounds marvelous,” said Thatcher. And it would have been, too if Raider X probably wasn’t going to make short work of them before they ever reached the coast of Portugal. “I’m sure we can find a hotel bar that offers the proper brand I have in mind.”
The waiter came by and took their order. Cyra asked for her filet cooked rare and to be served with fingerling potatoes and carrots. Thatcher ordered a filet as well, cooked rare, and served with potatoes and no vegetables, which provoked a raised eyebrow from Cyra when the waiter had departed again.
“No vegetables?”
Thatcher shook his head. “I’ll tell you the truth: I’m still traumatized from when I was a young child and my mother used to insist we eat the most horrendous vegetables imaginable. Beets, of all things. Lima beans. Awful. Simply awful. To this day, I eat very few vegetables.”
“And yet you appear to be the picture of good health.”
Thatcher smiled. “A bit of exercise does wonders for the body, isn’t that right?”
“So I’ve been told. I studied dance at school. Sometimes I still enjoy it when I’m by myself.” She looked out across the deck. The ocean to their starboard side was calm as the Archimedes steamed ahead and the sun dipped toward the horizon. “But it has been a while, unfortunately.” She turned back to Thatcher. “What about you? Do you dance?”
“Probably not nearly as good as you, but I’ve been known to take a turn or two on the floor before. Nothing solo, mind you. But if I had the right partner, I’m fairly certain I’d make a respectable showing.”
“Something else we’ll have to try to find in Lisbon then,” said Cyra. “I could do with a spot of dancing. It would help take my mind off the current affairs plaguing the world.”
“Where do you call home now?” asked Thatcher.
“Soon enough, Lisbon,” said Cyra. “I was considering settling in London for a bit, but the Blitz put a damper on that. Plus, if I’m being honest, the weather was a bit too dreary for my liking. The warmer climes of Lisbon are much more in line with my preferences.”
“And its neutrality? Does it bother you?”
Cyra shrugged and sipped her wine. “Harrison, I have been to so many countries and through so many cultures that I am a woman without a nation to call her own. The tide of war flows as it ever does and I do my best to stay above the fray. Or at least beside it or else unconsumed by it as much as I am able.”
“Some people would call that selfish,” said Thatcher. “Not that I would, mind you.”
Cyra shrugged. “I gave up caring what people think about me a long time ago. You reach a whole new level of freedom when you do so. I highly recommend it.”
Thatcher took a sip of his wine again. “I quite agree. It’s why I set out on my own to do whatever I wished.”
“And how has that worked out for you so far?”
Thatcher glanced out at the ocean. He was laughing inside at her question. He’d been convicted of killing a man, sent to prison to face a firing squad, snatched away from that at the last moment, and drafted to become a secret agent for the Crown, only to then be shot out of the sky, nearly drowned, and finally plucked out of the ocean, only to be presumably torpedoed at some point in the near future.
“Rather well, actually,” he managed to say then.
Cyra teased him with a smile. “You are quite a specimen, Harrison Thatcher.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” said Cyra leaning forward and plucking the wine bottle from the cooler, “that I believe we need another bottle of this rather delicious wine for dinner.” She turned and motioned for the waiter to come over whereupon she ordered a fresh bottle.
“I never have a problem with another bottle,” said Thatcher. “But we should endeavor to keep our wits about us to some extent.”
“Where is the fun in that?”
Thatcher gestured to the ocean. “There are predators out here on the waves. And beneath them.”
Cyra reached over and touched him on his arm. “If anything happens, promise me you’ll help me, would you? I’m afraid swimming is not my strong suit.”
“Nor is it mine,” said Thatcher. “But don’t worry. I think we’ll have plenty of room in the life boats. I don’t think it will be a problem.”
“We’ll reach Lisbon I’m told by about two o’clock tomorrow afternoon,” said Cyra. “That doesn’t leave much time for the sea wolves to get to us, does it?”
“I suppose it rather depends on where they are at the moment,” said Thatcher. He turned his head to once again take in the spectacular sunset. It would be dark soon. He just hoped that Raider X wasn’t close; he did not want to be in the ocean at night.
“We have miles to go before we sleep,” said Cyra. “At least we can console ourselves with a sumptuous dinner and more wine.”
Thatcher nodded. “And once we reach Lisbon, we’ll be free to do whatever we wish.”
“We’re free right now if you think about it,” said Cyra. “But Lisbon is perhaps better suited to our quests.”
“Quests?”
Cyra smiled at him again. “For a proper gin and a proper dance.”
“Ah. Yes,” said Thatcher. “Those quests.”
“Were there any others that we should undertake?” Cyra ran her hand through her hair. “After all, I don’t really have many pressing engagements when we reach land.”
Thatcher leaned forward. “In that case, I feel confident in saying that we will probably be able to find any number of excursions that will be very enjoyable.”
“I hope so,” said Cyra. “I get bored easily and adventure is sometimes the only thing that satisfies me…completely.”
“Noted,” said Thatcher as the waiter arrived with their food. “Let’s eat.”
Chapter 14
They walked the upper deck after dinner, stopping near the stern and looking out at the wake of the churning propellers that pushed them ever closer to Lisbon. Or Raider X, thought Thatcher as he watched the whit
e frothy ocean diminish behind them.
“Do you ever think about your past and how much you’ve come through to reach the present moment?”
Thatcher looked at Cyra. “Doesn’t everyone?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know, really. It seems to me that most people try to completely forget about any of the lessons they may have learned in favor of simply doing whatever they want to do in the present. Almost as if they’re so grateful that they persevered that they forsake the very things that enabled them to reach this moment in time.”
Thatcher leaned on the railing. “Maybe the past is too painful for a lot of people.”
Cyra leaned with him, her shoulder touching Thatcher’s. “I understand that. I don’t necessarily agree with it, however. Don’t we all have pain and frustrations in our past that we may be trying to forget?”
“Certainly.”
“But not all of us act like the majority. Some of us hold onto our pain and use it. Some of us know how to be…motivated, let’s say, by those skeletons in order to create a better future. Don’t you think?”
“I really don’t know,” said Thatcher. He took a deep breath and sighed. “My own past is one of a lot of pain. Confusion, too.”
“Why confusion?”
“I never felt like I fit in anywhere. I was born into money and I enjoyed the trappings of it immensely. But I never felt like I fit in with the sort of society my family wanted me to fit into. I was supposed to take a certain path, live up to their own expectations about what their son would become. When I decided I didn’t want to do that anymore, that I wanted to live for myself, it was seen as the ultimate betrayal. They couldn’t wrap their heads around why I would choose to do something else, something that would potentially hurt the family. But that was never my goal; I simply wanted to be happy. Happy with myself and happy with my life.”
Cyra was quiet for a moment. “In a lot of Asian cultures, the parents are seen as the ultimate authority figures. The children are raised to believe that their elders can do no wrong, that even after the kids are adults, their parents are still the head of the family.” She frowned and shook her head. “That’s always struck me as terribly damaging. Not just to each successive generation, but to the nation as a whole. How can children be allowed to express themselves under those conditions?”
“I don’t think they can,” said Thatcher.
“Exactly.” Cyra took a breath. “Each generation grows up resentful. And when the previous generation’s parents pass on, the new ones assume their place, finally relieved of that awful burden that they now project onto their own kids. It’s a sort of, ‘I had to endure this for years so now it’s my turn to make you all miserable.’”
“I don’t know much about Asian culture,” admitted Thatcher. “Although I do have dreams of visiting the Far East.”
“It’s a marvelous place,” said Cyra. “But it’s also extraordinarily dangerous.”
Thatcher smiled. “I don’t mind danger from time-to-time.” He could smell Cyra’s hair along with the brine of the sea. Combined with the two bottles of wine they’d demolished at dinner, Thatcher was feeling exceptionally relaxed.
And when she turned to him to say something, he leaned in and kissed her lightly on the lips. Cyra returned his kiss and then broke apart from him, turning back to the sea with a sigh. “I didn’t think I would find anyone interesting on this cruise, I must admit.”
“Neither did I,” said Thatcher. “Isn’t it funny how we can sometimes be so utterly and completely wrong?”
“It’s nice to be wrong sometimes,” said Cyra. “I just hope when we reach Lisbon we don’t lose the thrill.”
“Why would that ever happen?”
Cyra stood back up. “We’re trapped on this ship. Thrown together as it were. Maybe once we land in Lisbon, we’ll both feel a sense of urgency about exploring and meeting new people.”
“It’s possible, but who says we couldn’t do all of those things together?”
“You’ll have to start making your new life, won’t you? Isn’t that why you’re going there?”
Thatcher shrugged. “No one told me I had to wait until I reached Portugal to start creating a new life for myself. I’m perfectly happy starting now.”
Cyra smiled. “Has anyone ever told you that you have the most charming smile?”
Thatcher grinned. “I may have heard that once or twice in the past.”
“Only once or twice?”
Thatcher waved his hand. “To tell you the truth, I don’t usually even think about it.”
Cyra eyed him. “I don’t know that I believe that. Men like you know exactly where their strengths lie. I feel fairly confident you know you have a certain look that takes a woman’s breath away.”
“Men like me?”
Cyra nodded. “Handsome, self-assured. Funny without being a clown. All of the things that most women would die to obtain in their future husbands.”
“Most women. Not you?”
Cyra kissed him again and then stared out over the stern. “My future is hard to predict, frankly. I get bored so easily I don’t know that I would ever inflict myself upon a man as his wife. I wouldn’t blame him for wanting to run as soon as he got to know me better.”
“That’s not a very high opinion of yourself,” said Thatcher. “Perhaps you are incorrect.”
But Cyra shook her head. “No, I’m not. As I said, we all have pain and skeletons in our closets. Mine are a tad more grievous than most I would think. There’s rather too much there that I think most men would shy away from if they knew about them all.”
“Most men again,” said Thatcher. “Not all of us.”
“Don’t say such things, Harrison. You don’t know what you’d be getting into.”
Thatcher paused. “I’d like to find out. If I may.”
Cyra laughed now. “I can guarantee you would not like it. Trust me on this, all right? Don’t press anymore to discover my secrets. They’re nothing to be proud of. But they are a part of who I am so I suppose in some way I have to find a means to make peace with them. Somehow.”
Thatcher stood and felt the wine affecting him some more. He took Cyra in his arms and she didn’t pull away. “I’m not asking you to be my wife, Cyra. I’m only asking for a kiss.”
She obliged him and then pulled back and away, but still stayed within his embrace. “Is that all you want from me, Harrison Thatcher? Just a simple kiss?”
Thatcher smiled and she pointed at him. “You see? There it is.”
“There what is?”
Cyra nuzzled him again. “That look. It’s lethal against a woman’s reputation.”
“You don’t strike me as the type of woman who cares what other people think about her reputation. You said as much at dinner.”
“I said I didn’t care what other people think about me. I didn’t say I didn’t care what I think about myself.”
“Fair point,” said Thatcher. He kissed her again. Cyra moved deeper into his embrace and pressed her body against his.
“Do you have a large cabin on board the ship?”
Thatcher shrugged. “It’s modest. I don’t think they have any suites here. Too much cargo being transported to the continent for them to make any real money transporting passengers.”
“That’s why there are so few of us,” said Cyra. “The captain must be charging a fortune to make this dangerous run.”
“Maybe so,” said Thatcher. “I don’t know that much about him.”
“He’s irrelevant to our conversation anyway,” said Cyra.
Thatcher felt her lips on his neck and closed his eyes. “I couldn’t agree more.”
“How far away is your cabin?”
“Two decks,” said Thatcher. “Perhaps a grand total of five minutes walking time.”
“I’m a bit tipsy,” said Cyra. “The wine we had at dinner is catching up with me, I think.”
“Me as well,” said Thatcher.
“I’m afraid the
journey back to my cabin may be too far for me to make it on my own. Perhaps you could escort me there?”
“It would be my honor,” said Thatcher. “And as chance would have it, my cabin is along the way.”
“Is it?”
“Indeed.”
“Then perhaps we could stop there for a brief nightcap? Just a way of closing out what has been a wonderful enjoyable evening.”
“I think that sounds like an excellent idea,” said Thatcher. He turned and held out his arm to Cyra. She looped her arm in his and they headed off together.
Chapter 15
Thatcher awoke to daylight peeking in through the curtains that barely obscured his porthole. He stretched out with his arms overhead touching the wall of his cabin. Cyra was correct: it was far too small to allow for a proper level of acrobatic shenanigans. He smirked. Somehow they’d made do and for Thatcher, it had been the first time he’d been with anyone since he’d been arrested for the killing. It was wonderful being back in the warm embrace of a spectacular woman. He turned his head at the thought.
But Cyra was already gone.
Thatcher hadn’t heard her leave, but then again, between the wine and the sexual escapades, he had dropped immediately off into a deep sleep after they had finished. The last thing he could remember was Cyra’s head on his chest, telling him all about how she’d grown up in northern Italy on the Austrian border before going off to school in Switzerland. Her voice had been low and rather singsong and had a hypnotic effect on Thatcher who had closed his eyes and drifted off soon thereafter.
The mission, he thought, did have a few perks.
He grinned, rose from his bed, and bathed quickly in the small bathroom attached to his cabin. Thatcher dressed in comfortable clothes: a pair of light slacks, a button-down shirt, and a light sweater. Glancing at his watch, he saw that it was just after eight o’clock in the morning. A frown creased his face. If they were going reach Lisbon by this afternoon, he expected that Raider X would hit them at some point within the next few hours.
He left his cabin and walked toward the mess deck to get some breakfast when he heard a commotion coming towards him. Several of the crew members ran toward him and rushed past. He grabbed one of them.
