The Kremlin File

Before we did anything, I had to check the power plant. This tug had a converted four-cylinder Dodge motor. I climbed into the pit to crank it, threw it past compression six times, then quit. A gasoline engine that won’t turn over in that time probably won’t if you crank all day. I could think of four reasons why it wouldn’t work. It was out of gas; it wasn’t getting a spark; it had bad connections; it was just plain cursed with the perversity of inanimate objects. This one had gas, the tanks were nearly full, and the connections were tight. But when I fished a wrench from the tool box and pulled the plugs, I wondered how the skipper had got it started the last time. They were filthy, crusted with carbon. I used the stiletto to ream them out. The points on one were burned, the spread too wide. There was no gauge in the box so I had to guess about their usability. I bent them in with a screwdriver and hoped for the best. I screwed the plug back, waved the men out of the way, and gave the crank another whirl. It fired but did not catch. The same on the second yank. If the third didn’t take hold, we were probably stranded.

The thought of losing Fleming burned me most. He was a selfless man with a life dedicated to bringing his people out of generations of exploitation. I could fault his bullheadedness, but not his vision. I talked to the engine in several languages. Funny superstition, that. Somebody answered. The next crank generated life. The beast took off in a rattle and clatter, coughed blue smoke, and settled into a steady roar. I let it bum out the gas that choked it, then shut it down.

It was time to consider protection for the hull. There was the jeep I’d left on the shore road. I swam for that, kicked around through the brush and vines, and came up with two flat chunks of hood I thought would fit. I took them back by way of the breakwater.

What I had in mind could get at least two of us killed. I didn’t like asking the men to risk it, but there wasn’t any choice. One of them spoke a few words of English. I explained then showed him what we had to do. I took him and one of the hoods under the boat with me to show that if the boat was rocked sideways on its keel, the metal piece could be laid over the ragged rock edge; the same could be done on the other side. But the hoods would have to be held there by hand until the weight of the boat slid over the metal. My man would have to hang in the water, under the wall, with one arm on top to be mangled if the hull tipped. He could be trapped there, his body crushed, if the prow dropped.

I gave it to him without frills when we surfaced. He thought it over, looked up at the fortress, swallowed, and volunteered.

We got ready. Noah’s man and I dropped off the breakwater with the plates. The men on top rocked the boat to one side, then the other; we set the metal pieces and surfaced to signal that all was ready. Then we dropped under again. With one hand on the plate to hold it from twisting off and the other on the hull, I felt the boat shudder as the crew climbed the logs. The vessel tilted, then quickly righted before it hit my arm. The men bounced up and down. The craft moved grudgingly, then in a swift glide it came down on us.

I got my hand away and dived to the side. The stubby prow raked my foot, then I was clear. The boat was floating on the water. I went under to see about the man on the far side. His brown legs were kicking upward at an angle. When I broke the water, he was perched on the wall with a grin, holding up two whole hands.

But the others weren’t laughing. They were scrambling for the breakwater and yelling. The man who’d been with me straightened suddenly, looked out at the cove, then yelled.

“Shark.”

I spun. The sharp dorsal fin was close, cutting toward me. I heard my man dive, shouting as he went under. The fin did a U-turn and swam in a wide circle, slowing. Then the man was up again, rushing toward the breakwater. Those already on it had the tug alongside, piling onto it. We scrambled aboard and I reached for the machine gun. The fin came back, cruised past and I gave it a burst. The dark shape rolled over, showing the white belly and the vicious mouth. Blood spread through the water.

I put the gun down to start the engine, but another shout stopped me. The water boiled with barracuda drawn by the dead shark’s blood. I remembered the floating bodies. They too must have bled, attracting the voracious fish from the open sea. There had been no sign of such killers when Mitzy and I had been in these waters. And the girl, who’d swum here dozens of times, had never mentioned them either.

We didn’t stay to watch the carcass being stripped, but chugged to the steps, moored the tug, and climbed. I kept the guns with me, not knowing what I’d find at the top. We hadn’t heard any shooting but, Jerome’s army could’ve forced an entrance anyway.

They had not. Tara was alone on the roof, watching us.

“Anything new up here?” I asked.