The Romanov Cross: A Novel (21 page)

“I wanted to preserve and record a way of life—the native traditions and customs,” she said, “before they disappeared altogether.”

“It can’t be easy to keep them going in the age of the Internet and the cell phone and the video game.”

“No, it’s not,” she conceded. “But there’s a lot to be said for that ancient culture. It sustained my people through centuries in the harshest climate on earth.”

As they talked, Slater discovered that she had an extensive knowledge of, and even deeper reverence for, the spiritual beliefs and legends of the native Alaskans. It was like receiving a free and fascinating tutorial … and from a teacher, he had to admit, who was a lot better-looking than anyone he remembered from his own school days. She was dressed in just a pair of jeans and a white cable-knit sweater, with her long black hair swept back on both sides of her head and held by an amber barrette, but she might as well have been dressed to the nines. If it weren’t for the scoreboard above the table, which revealed that Port Orlov had lost its last basketball game to a Visiting Team by twelve points, he could have sworn they were in some intimate little bistro in the Lower 48.

He wasn’t even aware of when, or how, she had deftly turned the conversation back to him, but he found himself explaining how he’d been drawn into epidemiology, then about what had happened in Afghanistan to derail his Army career.

“And yet they’ve entrusted you with this very sensitive assignment,” she said, refilling his glass. “They must still have a very high opinion of you.”

“I work cheap,” he said, to deflect the compliment.

But Nika, in her own subtle way, wouldn’t let it go, asking question after question about how the mission was going to proceed, in what steps and over what period of time. Normally, Slater would have been much more circumspect about sharing any of this information, but after she had been so open with him, and considering the fact that she had been so cooperative so far, in everything from sharing her office
to letting the chopper remain parked in the middle of the town’s hockey rink, he would have felt churlish for holding back. It was only when she asked what time they would be leaving for the island that he heard a distant alarm bell. What did she mean by “they”?

“The team,” he said, “will be lifting off late Thursday morning.”

“Do I need to bring anything in particular along?” she asked innocently, as she produced two cherry tarts from a hamper beneath the table. “Sorry, I should have brought ice cream to top them off.”

“No, the
team
has everything it needs,” he emphasized.

“Okay, no problem,” she said, sticking an upright spoon into his tart for him. “I’ve got the best sleeping bag in the world and I’m used to bunking down anywhere.”

“Where are you talking about?” Slater said, ignoring the spoon and tart.

“On St. Peter’s Island,” she replied. “You didn’t think I was going to let you go without me, did you?”

“Actually,” he said, starting to feel played, “I did. This is a highly classified and possibly dangerous mission, and only authorized personnel—all of whom I have carefully handpicked—are going over there.”

Nika dabbed at her lips with her napkin, and said, “I had the tarts in a bun warmer. You should eat yours before it gets cold.”

“I’m afraid there can be no exceptions.”

“I agree,” she said. “Authorized personnel only. And as the mayor of Port Orlov, in addition to its duly appointed tribal elder, I have to point out to you that the island is encompassed by the Northwest Territories Native Americans Act of 1986, and as such it is within our rights and prerogatives to decide who and when and how any incursions are made there.”

Slater sat so far back in his chair it almost toppled over onto the gym floor.

“Now I’m not saying that official permission has been denied,” she said, taking another spoonful of her tart, “but I’m not saying it’s been granted yet, either.”

She looked up at Slater, her black eyes shining, an inquisitive smile on her lips. “If I do say so myself, this is one hell of a tart.”

And Slater, who had been up against some pretty formidable adversaries in his day, could only marvel at her aplomb. He’d never been snookered so smoothly, or so deliciously, in his life. Her veiled threat to delay the mission could be easily overruled by Dr. Levinson at the AFIP, but the paperwork and bureaucracy involved would tie him up on the ground for several days at least.

“Yep,” she said, nodding over her dessert, “a little vanilla ice cream and this would have been perfect.”

He had just acquired, like it or not, his own Sacajawea.

“Goddammit,” Harley muttered, “watch where you’re throwing that rope.”

“I didn’t see you there,” Russell said.

“And keep your voice down!”

“You keep yours down!” Russell shot back.

This expedition, Harley thought, was not getting off to the best start. First, they’d had to jimmy the fuel pump at the dock in order to gas up the boat.

And then, of course, there’d been that little “incident” in McDaniel’s storage shed. When Harley had dared to poke his head back inside the next day, all he’d found by the wall was a pile of old rags and some wooden planks. He’d put the whole thing down to a hallucination, brought on by the stress from making that speech in the church, but he still hadn’t managed to completely persuade himself. For now, he just put it out of his mind and resolved to say nothing about it to Eddie or Russell. They’d simply chalk it up to his being stoned on something … and want their share of whatever he’d been stoned on.

“What are you two making all this racket about?” Eddie said, coming up from the hold. “I thought we were supposed to keep quiet.”

It was a freezing night on the docks of Port Orlov, and the chance of anyone else’s being out, much less dumb enough to be setting sail, was pretty slight, but Harley had made it clear from the start that they should go about their business in the utmost secrecy. He hadn’t even breathed a word of it to Angie, though that might have had more to do with the way she’d exchanged looks with that Coast Guardsman at the Yardarm than it did with his discretion. He was still ticked off and jealous.

“Let’s shove off already,” Harley said, “before the weather gets here.” The next few days—if days were what you could call the murky gray episodes that separated the long stretches of darkness—were supposed to be stormy. But if you waited around for good weather in Alaska, as any local could tell you, you’d be waiting around forever.

The boat, called the
Kodiak
, belonged to Eddie’s uncle, who was usually too lazy to take it out. It was nearly thirty years old and it wasn’t much to look at, but since it had originally been built as a Navy launch, it had a very stiff hull, and a heavy steel rudder shoe that could withstand any kinds of trouble—rocks, logs, grounding—that the Bering Strait could throw at it. As on most Alaskan fishing ships, the cabin windows were Lexan and mounted to the outside, so that even the worst waves couldn’t blow them out. In his cups one night, Eddie’s uncle had bragged that it could withstand a complete swamping for twelve hours without sinking. How he would know such a thing had puzzled Harley—had they swamped it to find out?—but he didn’t ask then, and he didn’t care to find out now.

In the cabin, he let Eddie hang on to the wheel—after all, it was his uncle’s boat—while Russell slouched in the corner with a beer.

“Keep it at half throttle till we’re well away,” Harley said, “then head northwest.”

“I know where St. Pete’s is,” Eddie sneered.

“And you,” Harley said to Russell, “get your ass out on deck and look for bergs.”

“Why don’t you get out there and freeze your own ass off?”

Harley could have removed the gun that was strapped under his anorak and made his point that way, but he didn’t want to make things
any worse than they were, and he didn’t want to resort to any extreme measures until he had to. Russell defiantly took another long slug from the beer can, and it occurred to Harley that having him out on deck as lookout was a bad idea, anyway. He’d probably fall off the boat.

“Fuck it,” he said, “I’ll do it myself.” Addressing Eddie, he said, “Take us around the west cliffs, then to the leeward side for a berth.”

“Aye, aye, Captain Bligh.”

Harley slipped a pair of binoculars around his neck, put up the hood on his coat, and tightened the Velcro clasps at the sleeves, then stepped out on the slippery, ice-rimed deck. He hadn’t been out at sea since the wreck of the
Neptune
, and he found there was a new sense of anxiety in him. It shouldn’t have come as a shock. But now, when he looked around him at the rolling black waters, all he could think of was the night he’d been sure he would be swallowed up in them and lost forever. He thought about how close he’d come to winding up as just another one of those names inscribed on the plaque in the Lutheran church. His hands clenched the railings now, the same way they had clenched the top of that coffin. At first, he had kept the lid propped up in his trailer, next to the snake tank, like a trophy. But then it had spooked him, and he had stashed it under the bed.

Which only made things worse.

Finally, in desperation, he’d stuck it in the crawl space under the trailer where there was a bunch of other old timbers. He’d have just heaved the damn thing back into the sea if it weren’t for the fact that he was convinced it would be worth something, to someone, someday. When that Dr. Slater had told him he should return it to the island, he’d actually given it some serious thought; the main reason he couldn’t do it now was because it might give that asshole some satisfaction if he did.

The moon was out, which was a lucky thing, since the strait was choppy that night and huge chunks of ice were grinding and rolling through the channel. Off in the distance, the two black slabs of Big and Little Diomede lay like watchdogs at the gateway to Siberia. There wasn’t another boat in sight, but the sky was speckled with
stars as sharp and bright as needles. Looking up, Harley’s eyes filled with tears, not because he was overwhelmed with emotion but because the wind was so cold and so relentless. He wiped them away with the back of one glove, but they sprang right back. He made his way to the bow and took hold of the search lamp there. The boat rose and fell on the swells, spray flying up and freezing on his lips and cheeks. He spread his legs on the deck to keep his balance and peered into the blackness, following the beam of the light.

Were there other coffins out there, carrying their awful cargo up and down the waves, bumping up against the ice floes? If there were, he prayed he wouldn’t see them. He’d had enough trouble since finding the first one.

“Coming up on the starboard side,” Eddie announced over the bullhorn, as if he was some tour guide. “Welcome to St. Peter’s Island.”

Shit
. Harley wanted to brain him for making so much noise. The whole idea had been to stay under the radar. What if the Coast Guard was already lying low in some cove?

He waved up at the wheelhouse, gesturing for Eddie to keep it down, and after a quick scan of the waters ahead, turned off the bow light. They were just beyond the breakers, and if Eddie didn’t do something stupid—which was always a possibility—they’d be okay.

The
Kodiak
plowed ahead, while Harley removed the lens cap from the binoculars, and swept them over the island. The beach, as usual, was shrouded in spray and mist, but in the moonlight, he could just make out a ladder of steps, carved into the side of the rugged cliffs and leading all the way up to a jagged promontory. He’d sailed past this island many times in the
Neptune I
and the
Neptune II
, always giving it a wide berth, but tonight their course was taking them closer to the shore than ever before. As the
Kodiak
rounded the island, with no sign of the Coast Guard, the Navy, or one of those damn choppers anywhere in sight, Harley put the bow light on again and caught the great glistening back of a killer whale, just rising from the waves, its blowhole spouting like a geyser. It took several seconds before the whale submerged again—time enough for Harley to reflect on the
guts those old Inuit hunters must have had to take on a creature of that size and power in nothing but flimsy kayaks, with a handful of harpoons. He’d have been afraid to take it on with an Uzi. It was hard to believe that the natives he knew now—those guys like fat Geordie Ayakuk who hugged a desk in the community center, or the old rummies that hung around the Yardarm cadging drinks—could possibly be their descendants. Man, what the fuck had happened to them?

A cloud passed before the moon, a sign of the storms that were undoubtedly on their way, and Harley turned the searchlight toward the island, looking for some safe—and secluded—harbor. But even on this side, rocks jutted up from the sea, and white water foamed over the hidden reefs. People who didn’t know anything about sailing always thought that the closer you were to shore, the safer you were. But Harley knew that they were dead wrong. The open sea gave you room to maneuver, time to think, and if you’d read your charts right, the chances that there was something deadly lurking right under your hull were pretty slim.

No, the worst disasters happened as you approached the shore, especially if that shore was as dangerous a destination as St. Peter’s Island. In addition to the boat Harley had already lost to these waters, he knew of at least a dozen others that had been driven too close to this coastline by snowstorms and rogue waves and overpowering winds; he had seen sudden riptides grip a boat and completely take control of it, dragging it helplessly in whatever direction it wished, before dashing it against a picket of jagged rocks. You could run the engine all you wanted, you could put on every sail you had, but if the Bering Sea wanted a piece of your ass, it was going to get it.

Up in the wheelhouse, he could see Eddie and Russell hunched over the wheel. Each of them was holding a beer can now and laughing uproariously at something. Christ, if only he had anybody he could actually rely on. He’d needed some help on this gig, and in some ways these two were the obvious candidates. Since getting out of the Spring Creek penitentiary, Russell had been working part-time for the refinery—and was always short of beer money—and Eddie lived
off the dough every resident got each year from the Permanent Fund, courtesy of the big oil companies that operated in Alaska. When needed, he supplemented his income with plumbing or selling pot.