Once they cleared the harbor wall, the fog stole away, revealing a clear night of preternatural calm. The water, a sheet of flat obsidian, reflected the stars overhead, along with the dim light of a jaundiced moon.
Leaving Erika in Nye’s care, Michael ventured to the Harpoonist’s Perch, a narrow plank jutting out from the prow, with a waist-high metal rail encircling its perimeter. Standing at the point, he looked down, watching the prow slice into the water, the incessant hiss of the foam a balm to his soul. The salt air tickled his nose with its complex bouquet, and he reveled in the sting of the spray and the caress of the wind against his face. Visibility was nearly unlimited and, if he squinted, he could see the lights of the French and Belgian coasts hugging the horizon. Tension leaked from him, and for the first time in uncounted hours, he felt relaxed—at peace.
“We’re almost there, Dad,” he whispered.
He cocked an ear, as if expecting an answer his conscious mind knew would never come; and yet he felt closer to his father than he’d ever felt in his life. It was a feeling that both comforted and left him bereft.
What happened out in that desert, Dad? And how the bloody hell did the Royal South Wessex regiment factor into all of it?
He knew the answer lay across the cold black waters. They had to reach Valdemarr, Jarmann, or Von Arnwolf before the killers did. If fate were on their side, one of these men would hold the key. Only then would the killing stop. Only then would they be safe.
He sensed Erika’s presence before he saw her.
She waited for him at the entrance to the perch, trembling from the chill in the air, her delicate brow furrowed with concern. He retraced his steps, went to her and took her into his arms, feeling her body fitting to his like two halves of a mold. Her heart hammered against her ribs, keeping cadence with his own. And then he kissed her. Soft at first, it quickly turned more urgent, her tongue warm and insistent. For Michael, it felt as if nothing else in the universe mattered.
She broke the kiss a moment later, leaning against him, sighing. “You looked so sad just now,” she said. “I was worried.”
“Just thinking about my father. As much as I want to know what happened, Erika, there’s a part of me that doesn’t.”
She shook her head. “You’re afraid he won’t live up to your image of him.”
“Am I that transparent?”
“Only in a way that is good.”
“What about you, Erika?”
“What do you mean?”
“Did your father live up to your image of him?”
Michael didn’t get the reaction he expected. Instead of confiding in him, she pulled away and walked to the railing, her head bowed while she stared into the water. He stayed where he was, sensing she didn’t want him near just then. After a long agonizing moment, she turned to face him.
“There’s something we need to talk about, Michael. It can’t wait any longer. I—” she halted, the tears welling anew. “Scheisse! It wasn’t supposed to be this way.”
An icy chill swept through Michael. “What is it?”
“You’ll hate me.”
“No, I won’t. I’m too bloody much in love with you.”
An emotional tug of war played across her face. She bit her lip.
“You’re married, aren’t you?” Michael said, giving voice to his worst fear.
She shook her head. “If only it were as simple as that.”
He went to her and grabbed her shoulders, forcing her to look at him.
“I don’t care what it is. Do you understand? I don’t care. I don’t care if you’ve had ten husbands, or had a fling with the bloody girl next door!”
“You will care,” she said, her voice a tiny whisper almost lost to the wind.
“Oi, you two!” Captain Nye called out. “It’s bloody cold as a witch’s bum. Get on back here, I’ve got some tea brewing!”
Michael saw the relief in Erika’s eyes and decided that whatever was bothering her could wait. He took her hand, feeling her frozen fingers dig into his, and led the way back to the wheelhouse.
True to the old sailor’s word, a battered enameled teapot sat boiling atop an ancient hotplate, the odor of Typhoo permeating the air. Nye pointed a long bony finger toward two steaming cups, while taking a sip from his own. Michael nodded, picked them up, and handed one to Erika who retreated to the stern, taking a seat on the transom. Michael sat on one of the two swivel chairs and sipped from his; it tasted sweeter than he liked, but the warmth coursing through him was more than welcome. He took another sip and looked up to find Nye regarding him with an expression of cautious amusement.
“I never could understand ‘em myself,” he said, placing his mug on the instrument panel and grabbing the wheel with both hands.
Michael’s puzzled look elicited a soft chuckle from the elderly sailor. “Women. Loved ‘em as much as any man. Had one in every port, you see. But they’d drive me bloody crackers with all their demands and their contrary ways. Couldn’t abide being with one for longer than a week. By then I’d feel the call o’ the sea and back I went.” He gave the wheel an affectionate pat. “Molly’s the only woman for me. Right old girl?”
Michael smiled in spite of his dark mood. It didn’t take a genius to see that the old salt was trying to make him feel better. Funny thing, it was working.
“No regrets?” Michael asked.
Nye shook his head. “Nary a one. Molly and I have an understandin’, you see. I don’t go foolin’ with human females, and she don’t never let me down. So far, it’s been a perfect match.”
Michael nodded, finding the old man’s anthropomorphic thoughts about his boat both sweet and sad. To have spent a lifetime—alone.
“In fact,” Nye continued, “the last time I made this crossin’ was in this very boat back in ‘40. Oh, Molly was a real looker then, let me tell you. Not that you aren’t a fine specimen now, my dear,” he said, as if to mollify the boat’s wounded feelings. “Molly’s been good to me, and she was good to the boys who needed a lift back from Dunkirk, she was.” He gave Michael an appraising glance. “I just want you to know I’m not doin’ this just for the money.”
“Why then?”
Nye’s faced turned pensive, his mouth pursing as he mulled the question over.
“Why, indeed.... The truth of the matter is I’m bored, mate—bored to bloomin’ tears. I’ve spent a lifetime on the sea.... Loved her as only and old salt can. And in return, she’s given me and Molly a right good livin’. But I have to admit—she’s been a trifle tedious, as of late. You and the lady looked as if you might be good for a bit of fun.”
“For your sake, Captain, I only hope it isn’t more than you bargained for.”
Karl stared out at the ferry’s wake. Twin tails churned up by the two screws pushed the boat at a moderate twelve knots. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the KGB man move to the railing, his expression one of distress. The dummkopf was actually seasick. The Channel was as flat as a schoolgirl’s chest and, with the exception of the thrumming of the ferry’s two engines, there was almost no sensation of movement. Unless one looked at the wake.
The KGB man leaned over the railing and expelled a stream of vomit.
Idiot. Even a state certified moron would know they sold Dramamine in the snack bar for two pounds, fifty. Still, it provided him with the perfect entré. Except for an old man asleep in a deck chair, they were alone.
The KGB man wiped his face, gasping for breath. To his credit he watched Karl’s approach, his muscles tensed.
“Chilly night for a boat ride, isn’t it old chap?”
Karl’s flawless accent has the desired effect on the KGB man, who relaxed. “Yes, very chilly.”
Gott in Himmel! Karl thought. This Slavic boob would never fool anyone.
Smiling again, Karl pulled a flask from out of his coat.
“Then why not have a nip with me to stave off the cold, eh what? A drink to the Queen.”
He took a swig and held it out to the KGB man, who eyed it with ill-concealed suspicion. Then, thinking better of it, he shrugged and took the flask.
“That’s a good lad,” Karl said, watching the Russian take several large swallows.
The man exhaled, grinned and said, “Cheers!”
Karl returned the smile and then spit something into his hand. He showed the plastic cap to the Russian and laughed. “You know, they finally had to drown Rasputin because the poison he drank wouldn’t kill him. I should imagine you won’t have that problem.”
The KGB man stared at him his eyes clouded by alcohol and incomprehension. Then, with a cry, he hurled the flask into the water and flung himself at Karl. But the poison had already begun its deadly work, robbing the KGB man’s muscles of the vital oxygen necessary for a fight. Instead, he began to gag and convulse, bloody foam appearing on his lips. He strained his hands upward, trying to claw Karl’s face, but the big German just laughed and batted the man’s hands away. Then he reached down and lifted the KGB man by his legs and tossed his limp body over the railing. One last look around, and Karl was satisfied the man on the deck chair was still asleep. He straightened his coat and began a stroll around the deck, the air filling with the sound of his jaunty whistle.
From his deck chair, Corwin Brady cracked open his eyes and watched the burly German disappear around the corner of the deckhouse, his weathered face creasing in a smile. With the way things were going, it looked as if both the Russians and the East Germans were racing to do his job for him. Either way, his assignment would soon be over. And then it would be back to his farm in Kerry and away from all this malarkey masquerading as politics. Smiling again, he tipped his rain hat back over his eyes and let sleep overtake him for the rest of the long ride across the Channel.