Arch Patton: The Bering Sea

Table of Contents

Copyright

Prologue

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About Author

Down in the Valley

James

Strauss

The

Bering

Sea

An Arch Patton Adventure

The Bering Sea. Copyright © 2017 by James Strauss. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in review.

ISBN-13 978-19781410-1-8

Also by James Strauss

The Boy: The Mastodons

The Warrior

Arch Patton: Down in the Valley

Thirty Days Has September: The First Ten Days

Thirty Days Has September: The Second Ten Days

Visit www.JamesStraussAuthor.com for more!

The

Bering

Sea

An Arch Patton Adventure

Prologue:

Bering Sea

Joshua Boatwright sat patiently, sipping from his small espresso cup, unsure of how he had come to be where he was — tucked into the back corner of the lobby of the Sheraton hotel in Crystal City. He was looking out a floor-to-ceiling window onto a well-kept courtyard. No, it was not his place to be here. Analysis was what he did, not personal liaisons. His calling in life was to assemble the smallest shards of data and form sweeping mosaics of truth in a world filled with lies. Joshua was proud of his nickname, Tevie, a shortened version of the motto he lived by: Triple Verification. Three sources to establish the veracity of each shard of data before he added it to his mosaics. He used his art as a vehicle to produce pictures of sanity in an insane world. He worked with a team of analysts at CIA’s Langley complex, located four miles away. His team had not conferred the nickname because of his work, however. Unknown to Joshua, they had given him the name because they knew when he was not at the intelligence facility, his only recreation was watching television non-stop.

Diminutive and fidgety, he sipped and repetively scanned the room, peering over the tops of his prescription glasses. They had classic jet-black nerd frames. He did not need them to read or drive. But they gave him a distinguished look, or so his ex-wife had told him, and they did help when examining the tiniest details of photo intelligence. The Agency’s electronic surveillance, although not legally allowable for personal use (such as tracking one’s spouse), had proven ruthlessly effective when he’d employed it on her after she’d commented on his spectacles.

A big man entered the lobby near its grand entrance. He wore an expensive blue suit. Its Italian cut did nothing, however, to disguise his morbid obesity. Joshua flicked his eyes towards the man and then grimaced. The man’s florid complexion, bulbous nose, and polished smile gave his identity away. The Senior Senator from Iowa paused in the center of the large foyer, and took the place in. No assistants, or attendants of any sort, accompanied him, which did not surprise Joshua at all. The Senator noticed him sitting alone in the corner. Joshua glanced at him before looking down at a folder he had placed very exactly on his table. Noticing a slight tremor pass through his left wrist, he quickly tucked it down between his thigh and the arm of the chair. Never had he encountered an Agency representative, and certainly never a sitting senator, much less one who chaired the Senate Appropriations Committee.

There’s no shame to having a little bit of fear here, he whispered to himself, breathing deeply inward as he heard the powerful senator’s approaching footsteps. Joshua squared his shoulders imperceptibly, his back ramrod straight. He had the weight and reputation of the entire Central Intelligence Agency behind him. He would neither genuflect, nor grovel, before anyone.

You’d be their man? the senator inquired very calmly, stopping astride Joshua’s chair.

Joshua started to rise and raise his right hand. He quickly caught himself, however, putting it down, and reseating himself. He was not there, at a clandestine meeting, to be social, or to appear social.

Stay seated, the senator said, paternalistically, his voice soft and silky. He lowered himself with visible difficulty into the narrow chair Joshua had purposely placed at right angles to his own, before a low coffee table.

Got something for me? the senator asked into the silence between them, his tone now flavored with affability that the analyst instantly hated.

Before any reply could be made, the senator picked up the unmarked, but highly classified, file Joshua had placed on the table. Neither man said anything while he read its contents. Joshua noted that the lobby was completely empty, save for two clerks working the registration desk near the entrance. The waiter, who had brought his espresso to him, however, had never returned. Joshua actually hoped he wouldn’t, for fear of having to touch the cup and allow the senator to see him shaking.

Minutes passed. A bead of perspiration ran down his hairline behind his right ear. Fortunately, it was the ear opposite the Senator.

Says here that you boys are gonna go ahead and help me out, the big man intoned, before plopping the file back on the table. The usual Agency drivel, the senator commented. You gonna tell me what the plan is? he inquired.

Joshua cleared his throat to steady himself, and then followed his instructions. Your nephew is being justifiably imprisoned by a foreign government. His violations, meriting that imprisonment, are in keeping with what we normally associate with serious criminal behavior in our own country. The Agency does not normally involve itself in such matters, particularly where such deviant and anti-social behavior is involved. Joshua halted, having delivered his own righteous version of the background information he had been given during his briefing.

After a few seconds of silence, he realized that something was amiss. Without looking over, he felt the heat of tremendous anger flowing toward him from the direction of the senator’s chair. Instinctively, he started to drop his left shoulder a millimeter or two in defense, before he caught himself.

Just cut to the chase, son. Don’t make me come after your career.

The senator’s threat was issued in a low tone, more akin to that of an oversized cat purring than of a human voice. Joshua’s throat froze, a tendril of fear coursing through him at the mention of his career. He finally cleared it by swallowing several times.

We’re sending our best man, Joshua gasped. He’s experienced, resourceful, trained in multiple martial arts and weaponry. No expense will be spared in this operation, but we’re sending him in alone. We can’t afford, no matter what measures you may or may not take, to have this operation rise to the level of an international incident. Not now, anyway.

Joshua averted his gaze from the man from Capitol Hill as the Senator finished his memorized message. He waited for an explanation; again, trying to fathom why he had been selected for the role he was playing. Joshua was in the dark, but he sensed the reason. It was about the fact that his analysis group had provided the data, which sanctioned the mess-of-a-mission, in which the so-called best man, Arch Patton, had succeeded and then returned home, against all odds.

Joshua heard the senator rise from his chair. He looked up, but the man was already walking away, his manufactured smile once more plastered to his politician’s face. He had made no comment at all, not even in dismissal.

Joshua’s shoulders pressed inward and his head sank to the point that his jaw nearly touched his chest. His trembling fingers grasped the espresso cup handle. He took a shaky sip. He thought of the best man the Agency was dispatching and then smiled weakly for the first time that day.

Arch Patton had just come out of West Africa. Under the bloodiest of circumstances, he amazingly accomplished his mission. The skewed manner in which his mission had been conducted would no doubt have the Agency looking like a stone cold, heartless bureaucracy. No one in analysis was taking that lightly.

His grip steadied as he pondered over what he’d just done. He’d sent a low-life field agent off to save the drug-dealing nephew of a corrupt scumbag of a senator. This time the mission had not even the remotest possibility of success.

Joshua Boatwright stood up straight, tucked the classified folder under his arm, and strode across the lobby. His mind was already lost in the formulation of the final mosaic, as it would ultimately appear, when the details of an illegal and doomed mission crossed his desk, located in his office, on a cold, rain-swept, dreary portion of the Seward Peninsula.

CHAPTER ONE:

Cochon

The airport at Nome isn’t an airport at all. It’s a hangar at the end of a long concrete pad. In summer the sun shines all the time. Twenty-four hours a day. There is no luggage claim. They put everything in one big pile and then open the doors and let everyone at it. Like Bermuda was in the old days. You fly into Nome when the weather clears. Summer is a lot of fog and mixed rainy coldness. I flew in at three a.m. in the morning. Yet it seemed like noon. The constant light has a really strange effect on the human body, and I was not ready for it. You don’t get tired. Or, at least not at the right times and not with the right symptoms. So, once I got my single bag, I was ready to go. I hadn’t slept since crossing the border and landing in Anchorage the day before. Still, I didn’t feel in the least tired.

I took a taxi into Nome itself, which only has about a thousand homes and maybe four times as many people. When I got out of the taxi, on Main Street, I was shocked. The town is like something out of Alice in Wonderland. For years, people built homes atop the permafrost layer (that’s about four to five feet of earth, which freezes in the winter and thaws in the summer, while underneath it is always soft), so that many of the homes constructed back then have come to have a distinct lean. They tilt in every direction. Americans, like me, are used to seeing homes flat and level, at all times, so it is truly disconcerting to see homes leaning at weird angles, particularly since none of those angles are congruent with one another.

Wonderland. I had arrived in a misty, cold, and jumbled Wonderland.

I walked around the place, hauling my duffel, for a couple of hours, just taking in the town. The raining had stopped, but the streets were still wet. They bore the eerie appearance of never having dried since they were poured. I was supposed to check in at the Nugget Inn, but by the time I was done walking around, it was still only five a.m. I went into the place anyway. There was no one at the front desk, or in the lobby. Nobody anywhere. I checked the place out. A closed and locked restaurant was located at one end of the building. Running right down the center of the place was an impressive bar. It stretched out toward the water and was glassed in on both sides. I peered through the windows of the double doors to see what I could of the place. The Gold Dust Saloon was etched across the door glass. As I turned, I accidentally leaned against the door and it gave way. So I looked back and then stepped inside. Nobody was inside. I dropped my bag behind a table and walked through the bar. Behind the long counter, booze bottles were set row upon row, while dirty glasses littered the polished flat surface of the bar itself. I noted that there were un-bussed tables. There was also debris between them, littering the ancient hard wood floor.

I shrugged to myself. I realized I had happened onto a weird place in the universe…and at a weird time. Instead of departing, I went behind the bar and searched around until I found the ground coffee container. Next, I brewed an urn of coffee, after I cleaned the filthy thing out. Then I started cleaning the bar itself. I worked for an hour, making good headway, until an older man appeared behind me. He made a comment, which caused me to jerk my head around when he spoke.

The fryers need to be emptied and cleaned. No drinking until noon. You get the usual breakfast later, when we get some customers. If you work to lunch then you get lunch, and two beers, no more.

I examined the man, as he delivered his short speech. His face was large and florid and adorned with a well-manicured handlebar mustache, the kind I had always wanted to grow, but had never gotten around to. The man was also wearing a big yellow apron, which had the single word Cochon printed at an angle across its front. French, I knew, but I didn’t know the word. When he was done talking, he handed me a plain, white apron. I took the apron and put it on. It seemed like the natural thing to do, in the strange universe I had chanced upon. I said nothing. I just got busy with the work.

I emptied the fryers, found large vegetable oil cans in the back, and refilled the fryers. I used a hand brush to work on the floors (Cochon had handed me the brush and pointed down) and then applied stainless steel polish to restore all the industrial tables. The man finally stopped me when customers arrived. He handed me a small note tablet. I looked at him, holding the thing in one hand, but he just walked off towards the stoves, located down at the end of the bar. I watched him light all three. He opened some egg cartons he had brought from the back. I wondered whether I should ask him something, or maybe say something, but then I knew what had to be done.

I started taking orders, trotting out my own Mont Blanc pen to write with. I passed out menus, scribbled orders, and cribbed the notes as best I could. I fastened the notes onto the clips on a small, overhead turntable above the stoves. Cochon labored ceaselessly, never asking a question of me, and somehow able to figure out my written instructions. The breakfast crowd abated by nine, so I stopped working, and then leaned my back against the bar. I checked the big front pocket of my apron. I counted out twenty-four dollars in tips, mostly change. Cochon slid a plate piled awkwardly with sausage, scrambled eggs, and white toast across the bar behind me. There were no coffee cups in the place.

No drinkin’, like I said, till afternoon, he murmured again.

I nodded, then got another bowl of coffee, and ate the breakfast, afraid of more customers walking in before I was done. But the run was over.

Bus all the rest of the tables, and then get the dishes washed, barked Cochon, throwing me a towel. He cleared my empty plate.

I did the dishes. By eleven the place was clean and all the work done. A few coffee only customers slouched at the bar. They had the look of people waiting for the noon bell, when they could switch to booze. Before I had come, I had been told that people drink a lot in Alaska. Cochon came around the end of the bar. He motioned to me to sit with him.

You work good. Do the lunch crowd and you can then have a couple of beers, maybe a hard drink.

I smiled, but said nothing, in keeping with the twilight world I had entered. We both drank coffee slowly from big ceramic bowls.

The bowls are from the Navy, Cochon stated, admiring his own. On destroyers you don’t drink from a cup. You drink coffee and hot chocolate from a bowl. He looked out the window, toward the sea, his expression wistful. I still keep my hand in. Got an old LCT from the war. Landing Craft. A hundred feet long, with a beam of thirty. Only draws three feet though. Should sell it, or rent it out. But I hold onto it because it’s a great rough water boat for running supplies between islands.

I gestured knowingly, when in truth I was not able to distinguish an LCT from a Chris Craft. I proceeded to check out my Navy bowl carefully, and drank from it again.

You want a full time job? he said.

My eyebrows went up. The question surprised me. I wasn’t sure what to say. I delayed for a few more sips.

Well? Cochon pressed me, rather forcefully, staring at the side of my face.

Well, I already have a job, I replied, slowly, while taking another sip.

Cochon examined me closely, taking his time to answer.

Hell you say? Job? I know every job in this town, and every person who has a job. You’re not one of ’em.

His bushy brows knitted together when I did not immediately respond. Instead of saying something, I eventually pointed out the window to the harbor beyond. I turned to look at him. A question mark appeared on his reddened forehead. I waited a few seconds, before adding words to my explanation.

"I have a job aboard that expedition ship, M/S World Discoverer, parked out there in the harbor. I don’t report aboard until three," I said.

Cochon looked at me in obvious disbelief.

You? Cochon intoned. He then eyed me up and down. You don’t look like any seaman I ever saw, he concluded, after a few seconds.

I grinned. I was wearing Polo trousers, a Paul and Shark shirt, and my Dunhill jacket lay atop the bag that still sat near the front door. I didn’t look like any seaman anyone had ever seen in any port of the world. I looked much more like I belonged in the Channel Islands boardroom I had been in only one day earlier.

I’m the anthropology lecturer for the coming cruise. I stuck out my right hand. Doctor Patton, former professor and Department Head at the University of the Pacific. Late of Oahu, Hawaii.

Cochon didn’t take my offered hand. He didn’t smile. He made believe my hand wasn’t extended, so I slowly took it back.

Shit, he said, instead. I thought you were one of those goddamned alcoholics who roll in here all the time. They work and move on. I give ’em booze for the work.

He stared at me intently.

If you’re some hotshot professor, then why’d you do all that work for me? he finally asked, one big meaty hand coming up to rub his right temple.

I grinned, not looking at him. I finished the dregs of my coffee. I’m not sure. To have some coffee, I guess, then later because you told me to. I extended my hand a second time. It’s Jack, to you, I said, and then waited.

This time, gingerly, he accepted my hand and pumped it.

Besides, the breakfast was great, I added. I got up and headed for the door to get my bag and my coat. I turned to wave, as I exited. Cochon was standing, motionless, with his Navy coffee bowl in his left hand. He made no move to answer my gesture.

No, c’mon…. Who are you really? There’s no way… I heard him ask, but I was already out the door.

I stepped out of the building into the cool air. My journey towards the jetty where my ship awaited had begun.

CHAPTER TWO:

Yemaya

I stepped aboard the expedition ship, leaving the city well behind me and wondering whether I had made a wise decision in taking this assignment. I looked back at the town once, not in any kind of wistful way, as the place (for all its Alice in Wonderland charm), was really just another broken down fishing village set along a hardscrabble shore and filled with some tough human beings.

A beautiful young woman, wearing a distinctive necklace, encountered me at the top of the gangplank. Her necklace immediately caught my attention. I counted seven blue and seven white marble-like stones, set in a long single strand hanging just below her throat. My eyes caught a small reflection from near the deck. I glanced down to her ankle. A silver string of dolphins, set nose on nose, was encircled there. The hair on the back of my neck went up as I stopped in front of her, like I’d been ordered to by some unseen and unheard drill instructor.

Welcome aboard, the stunning woman said. I noted that she was Dutch from her accent. Even though I had never met a Dutchman I hadn’t liked, I took her hand guardedly, and then released it as quickly as I could. I didn’t want to make her aware that I wanted as little physical contact with her as possible.

Thanks, I replied, stepping back and thinking furiously. Three months earlier I had met a strange man at a coffee shop in Wisconsin. He’d taken a seat, uninvited, at my small table. He had been an intelligent man of Cuban heritage. Juan Teigo, Priest of Santeria, he’d termed himself. After discoursing lightly on a number of subjects, Juan Teigo had suddenly changed. His voice lowered, and his words came out dark and mysterious.

Yemaya, he announced. You are going to meet Yemaya.

I looked at him blankly across the table.

Yemaya? I inquired.

He laughed. I know certain things, he went on, and I know this. You will meet Yemaya soon, the Goddess of the Sea, and you will know her by a necklace of seven blue and seven white stones. Upon her ankle will rest a silver ring. Then the man had risen and walked out of the coffee shop. Once outside, he’d turned, and then walked back and re-opened the front door a crack. I had barely heard him say, She’s an impish one, that Yemaya, be very, very wary. The strange hypnotic way he had spoken those words affected me deeply. They were burned deep into my memory.

The cruise director wants to see you in her cabin, Yemaya stated (her name tag said Marlys), then pivoted and headed through a doorway behind her. I followed, shaken to my core. I did not believe in superstition. I was not religious, in spite of my Catholic upbringing. But if there were a religion I might follow, it certainly would not be the Afro-Caribbean cult of Santeria, which drew from voodoo, animal sacrifice, and other mumbo-jumbo that Juan Teigo represented. But here I was, I reflected, following Yemaya, as pre-ordained by Priest Teigo, down the long internal corridor on a ship as foreign and bizarre as the Gold Dust Saloon I had just left behind in Nome.

Marlys and I reached the end of the corridor. We stood together at a wooden door. She knocked twice, smiled my way, and then departed. With some relief, I watched her shapely body disappear. I sighed deeply.

I stood outside the door until a loud voice from within shouted: You going to stand out there all day?

I shook myself, squared my shoulders, and opened the door. I stepped in, closing the cabin door behind me. Once inside, I set my duffel down. I looked directly across the cabin to the far bulkhead. I had noticed a rather substantial woman, standing with her back to me, when I had entered.

Hello, I offered, tentatively. Her large head turned. I almost did a double take. She was the spitting image of a female version of Benito Mussolini. I smiled crookedly at her visage, trying to take it all in, but not react.

You’re Patton, the anthro guy, she stated flatly. I wanted to respond that I was indeed Patton, and that I enjoyed a special proclivity for the consumption of human flesh, but I did not.

I nodded, Yes, I’m Doctor Patton— but I got no farther.

Not here, she interrupted.

Not here? I queried, caught at a loss.

We don’t use titles aboard the ship, she lectured me, not among crew staff, anyway.

I thought for a moment.

Ah, then what’s the captain’s first name? The cruise director’s aggressive attitude, coupled with her appearance, irritated me on some level I could not pin down.

Don’t be a smart ass, or you won’t last the day aboard this vessel. The Captain is the captain, of course, or at least he’s the captain for now. Our normal captain is on leave, so this one is really our first mate. But I’m not talking about the crew. I mean the rest of us who work with the passengers.

Oh, I shot back, wondering just what hard-earned title she herself had given up in this odd bargain.

And another thing, she went on, We all have a variety of tasks, based on our backgrounds, which we have to perform while aboard, other than those which we signed on for.

My eyebrows went up, but I bit my tongue. I just stood, with my eyes wide and round.

You’re also to be the Physician’s Assistant and Deep Sea Diver if we need either.

Again I said nothing. In two minutes time, I had lost my academic title and been assigned to tasks which I had played at, but never in my life had considered doing for a living. I thought dizzily to myself about what had happened so far that day. I had just come from spending a good portion of the day working as a waiter and scullery maid, plus I had met a prophesied Goddess of the Sea and reincarnated female version of a dead Italian dictator. I was and continued to be in shock ever since landing at the airport, now seeming so far away, in Nome.

Do I call the doctor, Doctor? I asked, my face expressionless. But my straight-man humor was met with a stonewall.

You’re going to be one of the difficult ones aren’t you? She shifted to look out her single porthole, instead of at me.

I knew the interview was over. I grabbed my duffel roughly, threw it over my shoulder, and went out into the corridor. I walked toward the light I could see at the hallway’s end. See the purser for your berth, her voice followed me down the hall.

Like I know what, or who a purser is, or where he might be, I whispered to myself when I was sure I was out of earshot. I trudged back to the gangplank. There, Marlys presided, as before.

She directed me to another corridor, which led to another numbered cabin door. The purser was not there, but some assistant was. He gave me a cabin number and directions. I found the cabin without help, after exploring a bit, as I was uncomfortable having the Goddess anywhere near me. I entered the door to cabin 36 and was immediately reminded of Edmond Dante’s’ cell on the Island of the Chateau d’If in The Count of Monte Cristo. A man was sitting on one of the two bunks. He was smiling as I approached.

Donald Cook, he said, with his right hand held out. I shook it, dropped my duffel, and then sat across from him on the remaining bunk. I had had access to information on some of the people serving aboard, but the significance of meeting them in person was much deeper. The man in front of me more closely fit the role of Dumas’s Abbe Faria than a crew-mate.

Are you a doctor? A real doctor? Or are you a fake doctor I have to call a doctor or a real doctor I have to call Donald?

I didn’t give him time to answer, as I rapidly continued, There’s a Goddess of the Sea welcoming people aboard this vessel, a Captain skippering the ship who is not a captain but must be called Captain, and a woman who looks like Mussolini running the whole damn show. I’m the real doctor’s assistant, a deep-sea diver, in addition to being the anthropology lecturer, just maybe! Is this a ship, or some weird stage scene for a nautical Catch 22?

I finally ran down and stopped. He started to laugh. Pretty soon I was laughing too. Extra-hard.

Where the hell have I landed? I squeezed out. And is any of this real?

Everything you’ve said is accurate, he finally remarked, his laugh reduced to a great, bright smile. Everything you’ve seen and been told is also true. But none of it is believable. This is going to be an interesting cruise.

The ship’s great horn began a series of deep, long groans, and I could feel the deck under my feet shifting and moving.

CHAPTER THREE:

The Lindy

I learned from Don, my bunkie and fellow de-frocked Ph.D., that the ship was never referred to as the M/S World Discoverer , which was the name painted in black across her white prow and in white across her black stern. Unlike most ships, because of the seafaring lore of potential ill fortune, the ship had been named different things under different owners. The ship was built for Lindblad Cruises in 1978 and was the second purpose built expedition cruise ship ever in the world. Hence, the name Lindy , which was announced, for unknown reasons, to everyone who came aboard.

Don gave me the tour. Six decks in all, with a workout room, sauna, and steam bath on the bilge deck, which was the very bottom of the vessel. The workout area was closed up and never used, but since our empty bags were stowed there, we checked the room out anyway. The rest of the bilge deck was used by the Filipino crew who did all the cleaning, cooking, and other scut work required to run an adventure cruise ship. They even did dry cleaning. The last place we went was up to a small blue door. It was the only metal hatch-type door I had seen aboard, the rest were all stained wood. A red cross was painted on the outside.

Here’s one of your other career locations, Don advised, with eyes brightened, as he opened the hatch and ushered me inside. An old man sat on a stool, checking a list.

This is Doctor Murphy, the ship’s doctor, Don stated, waving his hand toward him, by way of introduction. The elderly gentleman looked around feebly. I realized that he was at least eighty years of age, maybe more. I could not help acting openly surprised.

You’re the doctor? I asked him, incredulously.

The old man blinked, then shrugged. He answered in a deep healthy voice, seeming to either ignore or not care about my surprised reaction to his advanced years. Not much of a doctor anymore, not since I lost most of my eyesight. I hope you’re my assistant, and that you can see well. I got the cat gut, anesthetic, and everything else, but can’t see to do the stitching anymore

I shrugged my shoulders. My surreal adventure just kept getting stranger and stranger. A funny feeling made itself present in the bottom of my stomach. I wondered why the doctor seemed to think that we’d be doing any stitching while on the voyage. But, I said nothing, instead shook the old man’s hand. I looked about his small quarters and then left with Don, promising to return later in the day.

The four decks up from the bilge were all identical. A long corridor ran from bow to stern on each side of the Lindy with cabins dotted all along their lengths. Those were all berths for the passengers. We and the other non-crew staff, also berthed there. The top two decks were dedicated to meeting spaces, a dining room, bars, and open spaces. On top of all those decks was another, smaller deck. That was where the German crew, who actually ran the ship, had their quarters. Don told me that they only rarely associated with the rest of the crew or passengers and that that was a good thing. Most of them only spoke German. I did not mention that I could get along in Tagalog, the language of most Filipinos. I also did not mention that I spoke fluent German, with an accent from the southern part of that country.

As the passengers came aboard, Don and I returned to our cabin. He showed me the small hot shower in one corner of our tiny room and told me that it would be a lifesaver, as our expedition was going to be sunny but cold, with even colder water. I almost confided in him that I had not brought my swimming trunks, but after the last few hours, I decided not to attempt such humor. If, of course, it was humor.

We sat on our bunks across from one another. Don had a plug-in hot plate that ran off DC. We talked. He explained that this run was his sixth in as many years. That he was a Professor of Botany at the University of Montreal. That he was fifty and married, but the marriage did not count aboard the vessel. My eyebrows arched up, as I listened. When it was my turn, I blurted out my whole story. I particularly emphasized the Santeria connection with Juan Trigo and Yemaya, and how much that was bothering me. Don drank his instant coffee, looking over the lip of his cup at me. Big, bushy eyebrows, on a big, bushy Canadian. His very appearance brought reassurance whenever I looked at him.

You’re an anthropologist. A scientist, he said, his face serious. Don’t give superstition and coincidence a foothold. Just reason on through it.

Perplexed, I looked at him, wondering if the man had believed one word I had uttered to him.

That’s a pretty damned solid obstacle of circumstantial evidence to blow right by, I finally countered, sipping from my own hot coffee. The Canadian chortled, and then set his own cup down.

Ever heard of Fatima? he asked. I nodded, with reservation in the nod.

You’re Catholic right? I assented again, wondering where he was going with that rubbery fact, and how he had made the assumption in the first place.

The story of Fatima. The appearance of the Blessed Virgin to three small children in Portugal. The close approach of the earth to the sun in 1917 and the letter the Blessed Virgin gave to the girls who then gave it to the Pope, following her instructions.

He then looked at me expectantly. I knew the lore of the infamous story or mystery, but I gave away nothing.

You believe any of it? he asked, as he took his coffee back up to his lips. I did not know how to reply to his question. So I shook my head slowly after I considered it for a bit.

Well, I never believed it either, and still don’t, Don declared, But then I went to this town in Bosnia called Medjugorje. Have you ever heard of that place? I shook my head, not revealing that I had been to the space between the mountains only a year before.

Don went on, While I was there a small girl gave me a note. She just handed it to me at that square there in front of the huge white church steeples and then ran off. She didn’t tell me to give it to the Pope, so I’ve still got it here in my journals.

He pointed toward a small, heavy-looking kit at the end of his bunk. I looked at the kit, still not understanding anything, but kind of growing used to that in this strange universe into which I had deposited myself.

The note, from three years ago, says that I’ll sail the seas until I meet the strangest and best friend I’ll ever know. That man will lead me into more trouble than I would ever experience on my own. In spite of that, I should do whatever the man tells me, for the good of all, including myself.

Don stopped, abruptly, put down his coffee and reached into his kit.

You want to see the note? he said, his face serious. I shook my head again, not knowing what to say. He retrieved his hand and then sighed slowly. He frowned deeply, and examined me closely, with a questioning expression writ large across his face.

So, are you that guy in the note, or not?

I shook my head once more. We sat for a good minute, looking at one another but not speaking.

Well then, do you get my point? I just stared at him until he laughed, and his body lost its tension. He spoke again, after calming down after his laughter.

Either you buy into the occult, in which case everything becomes explicated by it, or a part of it, or you don’t. If you don’t, then you’re free to evaluate from the physics you see happening around you and make the necessary rational decisions. I believe in the former. He stopped, appearing proud of himself.

I shot a glance at his kit, wondering if he had been bluffing me to make a point. But I didn’t call him. I was more afraid that the note was really in there than that he might not be pulling my leg, and I was about full up of hopelessly strange metaphysical circumstances.

Where we headed? I said, changing the subject, as the ship had really begun to move around underneath us, which meant that we were out of the protected waters of the harbor.

Diomede, Don stated, approvingly, then went on.

Little Diomede, to be exact, which is an American island two miles away from Big Diomede, which is part of Russia. We’ll stop there and visit an Inuit Village, then head toward the Mainland of Mother Russia herself.

I pulled my earlobe, then asked; We’re still going to Provideniya, though? I blurted the words out before I could catch myself. Don read something in the tone of my voice.

You have a particular interest in Provideniya? He frowned as he spoke the words.

I shook my head, and then quickly turned to unpack my own duffel. Don let it go.

I’m going up top to check out our load of passengers. See if there are any likely big tippers. I’ll also examine the silver ankle bracelet you mentioned Marlys is wearing…I’ll look like, real close! he said with a chortle. He closed the door as he departed, harrumphing as he did so. I was tempted to check his kit, just to make sure about the note, but shoved the thought aside. I emptied my own duffel atop the bunk instead.

I pulled out the false section built into the bottom of the bag. A sheaf of precise satellite photo maps lay folded under where the panel had been. I checked the cabin door. I turned the dead bolt before unpacking the sheaf. I took out of a set of three leather-encased belts filled with Krugerrands, then placed them under my pillow. I then opened a sheaf of photos. The fourth shot was of Provideniya and the surrounding region. I poured over the shot, memorizing every detail, before loading both the photos and the gold pieces back into the duffel. I then unlocked the door, grabbed the bag, and headed for the bilge area to stow it. Secrecy was the best form of security, I knew. I had heard that theft aboard ships was an uncommon crime, there being nowhere to go with stolen goods. Yet I did not want to take a chance on anyone even seeing what I possessed, much less taking it. Gold was gold. People reacted to gold in unpredictable ways, I knew that too.

I took the switchback stairs two and three at a time, as I made my way up to the Lido deck, which was the second highest