North of Boston (24 page)

“Yes.”

“Then tonight you'll be behind the bar in the small salon from nine to midnight at least, probably later. Wear something nice.”

“Not this, then.” I hold up the T-shirt.

“Something sexy, but not too. Don't look better than the female guests.”

Margot laughs at this, lightly amused.

“I didn't bring anything nice,” I say.

Zorina sighs, oppressed with the varieties of incompetence she is forced to contend with. “I'll drop something by your cabin later.”

“Where's Mr. Hall?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Shouldn't I check in with him?”

“You don't need to do that. Mr. Hall supplies the technical crew and oversees the boating operation. He has passed you off to me because you apparently have no skills he can use. God knows why I have to take you, or, frankly, what you're doing here at all.”

Margot emits another peal of tinkly laughter.

The pot-bellied cook puts a mug on a stainless-steel counter. Margot takes it and begins to sip, addresses him with affection. “I ate an entire loaf of French bread last night, didn't I, Katsui? With scads of butter. The urge for bread comes over me when I least expect it, and I simply must give in.” Katsui nods in solemn respect at the mystery of gustatory needs.

Zorina's eyes accost me, heavy with the burden of keeping order among such cretins. She takes a small black device, a beeper, out of a drawer and hands it to me. “You'll carry this with you at all times. When it goes off, call immediately on one of the house phones located in any of the main rooms. Press zero to reach me. Brunch is served at eleven on the upper deck. We have an afternoon smorgasbord in the library for those who want it from two-thirty to four. Dinner at eight in the grand dining room. You're on call for room service, housekeeping, laundry. When I call, you come. For all your duties, except bartending, you wear the striped shirt. You'll eat in the crew's dining room one hour before the regular meal is served. At all times you're to keep a professional demeanor. No loitering, snacking, sloppiness. You're not to be seen speaking to other staff members except on matters pertaining to your duties. Don't speak to a guest at all unless spoken to. And then reply concisely, calling the guest
sir
or
ma'am
. If by some unlikely chance you find yourself with time on your hands, don't be seen above the first level. Stay belowdecks.” Zorina pauses. “I think that's all.”

Margot, looking on in doe-eyed wonder, gives me a sympathetic shrug. “Pity you.” She yawns, placing two delicate fingers over her mouth, and puts the mug back on the counter. “I think I can sleep now. Unless he's still snoring, the pig.” She wanders off.

With an arched eyebrow, Zorina watches her go, waits until the redhead is out of earshot. “Margot will try to make a friend of you. But that, of course, is not allowed.” She unbuttons her jacket, which seems to let out some stuffy air in her torso, and tells me I can go.

Back in my cabin, I make a cell phone call. His voice sounds refreshingly normal:
Hi, this is Russell Parnell. Leave a message
.

I tell him what I know so far: I'm on a luxury yacht named the
Galaxy
that belongs to Bob Jaeger. John Oster is not on board, but Dustin Hall and some other crew members from the
Sea Wolf
are. We're leaving Boston Harbor headed north, possibly to the Arctic Ocean. I'll tell him our exact destination the minute I find out.

—

As we're setting up for breakfast, my fellow server (as we're called), spiky-haired Andrew, gives me the backstory of each male guest as he steps off the elevator onto the upper deck and takes his place at the table. There's a smugness in the way Andrew possesses the men's public stories, a malevolent glee in the way he passes on the outlandish rumors that swirl through the news clips and articles about them that he's obviously assiduously read. He seems to love hating the guests (as they're called).

Soon they're all seated—six men and three interchangeable bimbos. Margot is not among them. Presumably she's catching up on sleep sans Jaeger's snores. Andrew and I pour coffee, display the pastry tray, take orders. Omelets, French toast, or yogurt and fruit. There's something inescapably maternal about serving food. If I squeeze my eyes partway closed, it's possible to envision each man as a darling twelve-year-old.

Bob Jaeger's seated at the head of the table. According to Andrew, he has a fondness for helpless girl-women such as Margot, to whom he insists that his divorce is only a matter of time. Well over six feet, with a flat square face, narrow eyes, and chiseled chin, he looks more like a Ken doll than a global mover and shaker.

Next to him is Yevgeny Petrenko, aka the Diamond Man of Russia. He made his first fortune twenty years ago in plastic bags (a commodity so scarce in the former Soviet Union that people washed and reused them), his second fortune in Siberian diamonds, and his third in the Internet. As a young man he was jailed for eight years on charges of fraud and embezzlement, and now is fond of quoting gulag graduate Solzhenitsyn, who famously admitted he got his real education in the convict world. In a business suit and buttoned-up pink shirt, Petrenko holds his jaw up and forward like the shovel on a dump truck. His big belly, proof of good living, occupies half his lap.

In loose khakis, slippers, and wire-rim glasses, Hollywood producer Alan Stempel exudes low-key American chic. An art collector and music aficionado, he's known for a series of blockbuster movies pandering to popular tastes, but the bulk of his wealth comes from fertilizer, pesticides, and weapons. He has ties to several governments (U.S., Israeli, Libyan, Jordanian), and a stated desire to bring peace to the Middle East. Charges of espionage never stuck. Handsome, gleaming bald, with a sly, self-effacing manner, he has seven children and is on wife number four.

Richard Lawler, a ruddy Scotsman with a halo of frizzy blond hair, is an international commodities speculator. His famous manias lead him to yell incomprehensibly in public, go on wild purchasing sprees, and capriciously fire employees. At regular intervals he retreats to his estate in the highlands, where he abides with a spinster sister, herds of sheep, and a gaggle of border collies. He's boyishly single, sexually skittish. His erratic buying and selling binges always manage to escape the effects of market downturns. His every move is followed closely in the investment world, despite speculations that he is in fact mentally ill.

Next is a young Swede named Jorn Ekborg, whom Andrew knows less about. Ekborg meets my eye when requesting more coffee, dives to retrieve a dropped napkin in a show of helpfulness. Occasionally he gets up and wanders to the windows to drink in the glorious, unbroken spectacle of the Atlantic, and I note that his eyes slide in my direction to see if I'm watching. With his strong elegant body, delicate face, and imploring dark blue eyes, he could play the romantic hero of a Viking saga. Or a serial killer with an MFA in poetry. Andrew says he's into phones and social media.

Last is Dustin Hall. He's downright fidgety, and seems oddly tardy in all his movements, like a klutzy hanger-on who's mimicking what the cool kids do. This morning he's sporting a stiff Harvard baseball cap that sits too high on his forehead and a zipped-up navy blue jacket with the Brookside Country Club logo of crossed golf clubs. He doesn't rate much airtime from Andrew.

As I'm pouring coffee from a silver carafe, Hall notices me, nods anemically. I assume he remembers me from Mrs. Smith's retirement party and knows that I'm Johnny's new hire. I nod back just as anemically. Awkward, to say the least. I'm glad when Andrew takes Hall's order, leaving me to work the other end of the table.

The guests dine slowly and eventually begin to leave. Finally there are only two diners left, Jorn Ekborg and Yevgeny Petrenko, who sit among the drained coffee cups and dirty dishes still on the table. Their conversation is punctuated by hearty, deep-throated laughs.

As I'm clearing their plates, Ekborg stays my hand. “Come, come, put those down. Join us for coffee. Surely you're allowed to drink coffee? No? But you must! It's the national drink of Sweden, and if you refuse I shall take it as an insult to my country. Wait, I'll pour it for you!”

Charmingly, he jumps up to get a cup and saucer from the service cart, sets them at an empty place next to his. I sit down while he jogs back to find a spoon. He pours from the carafe still on the table while Andrew, stacking dirty dishes nearby, looks on with envy and disapproval.

“Yevgeny and I are good friends. Can't stop talking, can we? Isn't it odd? A Swede and Russian, three decades between us. But that's the nature of true friendship. The usual boundaries disappear.”

“Oaf!” Petrenko says. “When have I heard such nonsense? Be careful, young woman. He's impressing you with his poetic soul!” He smokes with wet lips and yellowed fingers.

“You see how he loves me? Like a brother,” Ekborg says. “We met in a survivalist camp in your state of Montana. You are American, aren't you? Of course. I can tell before you open your mouth. You American women have such a . . . bluntness about you.”

Petrenko roars. “Bluntness! You know how to talk to a pretty woman, Jorn. I should take lessons from you!”

Ekborg turns to the Russian. “Yes, why not? I'll give you a master class, which will be lost on you, Yevgeny, I'm afraid. You've already made an important mistake. Never call a woman
pretty
. It's too common, demeaning.
Beautiful
is the word to use.”

“But you're saying this right in front of her! Do you think she's deaf?”

“This woman is not seducible,” Ekborg declares, regarding me with a smug, affectionate smile. “She has a strong character. You can see it in her face. She takes a man on her terms only. You must wait until she comes to you.”

“Pah. I see no such thing. Only a pretty woman, and I'll call her that.” Petrenko exhales smoke through his nostrils.

Ekborg leans toward me. “Let her speak for herself, then. Which would you prefer to be called—pretty, beautiful, or strong?”

“Are you really such an idiot?” I ask. “Or are you only pretending to be?”

He smacks the table with his open palm. “See? What did I say! Now listen, Yevgeny, you must
never
call a woman like this beautiful. Unless you're prepared to have an ax sunk in your forehead while you sleep!”

Petrenko catches my eye and winks, his double chin doing a little jiggle. “You're right to insult him. Who does he think he is? He treats me like a backward man who can't compete with his suave charm. But if I call you pretty, it's no offense to you. I say no more than what is obviously true, and so I earn your trust. If I were a young man and not so fat, it is I who'd be walking off with you on my arm.”

“Tell me about your survivalist camp,” I say.

Ekborg smiles and leans forward eagerly. “We learned basic skills for surviving a nuclear holocaust, earthquakes, meteor strike, anything that might cause a mass extinction. A lot of us have camps in remote places, with runways for small planes, two generators, canned foods, a five-year supply of water stored in barrels. Books to teach our children, medical supplies. Guns, of course, and agricultural tools. With the right tools and the right knowledge, we can maintain a decent lifestyle for our families while the planet regenerates itself.”

“That's fine for you, but what about the rest of us? Wouldn't it be better to put your resources into preventing these kinds of disasters?”

“My, my. You
are
American,” Ekborg says teasingly. “You think such things can be prevented with—what's the word—ingenuity?”

“Ingenuity!” Petrenko says, as though he loves the word's sound. “But you Swedes are more American than the Americans.” Another wink at me. “I only say that to egg him on.”

“Yes, ingenuity,” I say. “Along with science, resolve, cooperation.”

Ekborg sits back and studies me, as if searching for just the right path of logic that will open my dim democratic mind. “I know what you're thinking. You're thinking that we survivalists are in it only for ourselves. That we don't care about humankind. But you're wrong. We care so much that we'll do anything to keep it going. Isn't the survivalist instinct what brought our species this far already?”

“Your logic is self-serving and dangerous,” I say. This is why I never did well in school. I get too emotional and simply pounce.

Petrenko hoots. “With this fine lady, you won't get an ax in the forehead while you sleep, my friend. You'll have your tongue cut out at the roots while you speak!”

“Dangerous? How is it dangerous?” Ekborg asks in a tone of hurt and challenge. I can see that he's pleased to have drawn me into an argument.

“First, tell me how hunting fits into your scheme.”

“Ah, yes. That's what we're here for, isn't it?” He pours himself more coffee. “You're not one of those bleeding heart liberals, are you, Miss—”

“My heart doesn't bleed for anything. Or else it bleeds all the time. And my name is Pirio Kasparov.”

“A Russian! I knew it!” Petrenko crows. “Russian women are strong as tanks.”

Ekborg smiles slowly and graciously, as if it's been decided that my rough edges will not preclude our being friends. “It's human nature to kill, just as it is to survive. One flows from the other. Does that offend you, Miss Kasparov? It shouldn't. We have only to look at history to see how bloodthirsty we are. During the twentieth century millions were slaughtered simply for the pleasure of it.”

“Pleasure? No, it was for power,” Petrenko says, still enjoying the conversation.

“What power was given to the Communist henchmen or Nazi soldiers who murdered their neighbors? Genghis Khan and his hordes wiped out ten percent of the entire human population at that time. They didn't care about power, only killing. They did it as sport.”