Into the Black (18 page)

Severin ignored him and turned to the sailor.  "
Report
."

"
Nothing at all, sir.  Everyone is accounted for
."

On an impulse, Kismet feigned confusion at their conversation.  "What are you guys talking about?  I want some answers."

"As do I, Mr. Kismet," Severin barked.  "I want to know why a notorious American espionage agent is trying to sneak into my country."

"Is that what you think?"  Kismet affected offense.  "You're wrong on so many counts I don't even know where to start.  I'm not an espionage agent.  I was in Army Intelligence a lifetime ago, but even you must realize that's not the same thing.  And we're not going to 'your country,' we're going to Georgia.  Furthermore, we aren't sneaking, captain.  We are traveling openly and legally on United Nations' passports.  The documents are completely valid."

"I'm sure they are," Severin answered with a sneer.  "I will of course be looking at them in greater detail."  His eyes fell upon Irene.  "And this is your lady?"

The statement was guarded, and for the first time Kismet entertained a glimmer of hope that the Russian was in the dark.  Maybe Severin had not yet identified Irene; didn't know of her true heritage, or her exile from the
Rodina
—the Motherland.  Kismet squeezed her hand, hoping to impart to her the message 'volunteer nothing.'

As if to signal her comprehension, Irene gripped his hand tightly and took a step forward.  "I am not his lady," she snapped in clear, unaccented English.  "I am his fiancée.  And I would also like to know why you were shooting at us.  You could have killed us."

The captain chuckled mirthlessly.  "You are too lovely a woman to be taking up with a rogue like Nikolai Kismet.  I wonder what you see in him, Irina Chereneyeva."

Kismet's heart skipped a beat.  So Severin was playing with them; teasing them with what he might or might not already know.  Before he could stop her, Irene replied.  "So you know my name.  I'm not impressed.  You have no right to accost us like this.  We aren't even in Russian waters.  You are nothing better than a pirate."

Kismet pulled on her arm, dragging her back a step and cutting her tirade short, before she could hurl further insults.  They were in over their heads; there was no sense digging the grave any deeper.

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 wasn'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.