“Yes, sir.” The sailor turned to Koniev and muttered, “He’s in his cabin. Come with me.”
He led the three of them to a set of steeply sloped stairs on the aft end of the ship’s superstructure and climbed up to the second deck.
The three decks of the superstructure were arranged like the layers of a wedding cake, each smaller than the one below it.
Glancing up to the third deck, Koniev could see a glassed-in space — almost certainly the bridge — topped by a small mast, radio aerials, and a radar antenna. A small funnel for the engines’ exhaust grew out of the aft end of the superstructure.
The entire superstructure was painted white, with the funnel in blue.
Close up, he could see the effects of the harsh Barents and Norwegian Seas on the vessel. Rust, dirt, and grease streaked the sides. More used to the signs of neglect than his American friends, he still wondered about that. Was this captain abnormally sloppy or careless?
If so, that could be a useful clue to the man’s character.
Their guide opened an exterior door in the center of the second deck and entered, with Koniev close behind.
Down a short corridor, they came to a passageway running fore and aft the length of the deck. Doors lined both sides. Stenciled signs showed that they were in the crew’s quarters. The smell of burnt grease and overcooked potatoes wafted out from under the door marked “Galley.”
The captain’s cabin was at the forward edge of the second deck, right under the bridge, Koniev realized. Logical.
The Georgian sailor rapped three times on the door, then waited until a gruff voice from inside called, “Come.” Then he opened the door and stepped aside — allowing Koniev and the two Americans in first. He followed them inside and shut the door.
The cabin was fairly large but sparsely furnished. A cot bolted to one wall showed where the ship’s captain slept. A desk and single chair in the middle of the compartment showed where he handled his paperwork when he wasn’t on the bridge.
One sailor, a thin and rough-looking sort with dirty blond hair, stood facing the desk holding his cloth cap in his hands. A second man got up from behind the desk when Koniev and the others came through the door. He offered his hand. “I am Captain Tumarev.”
Again, Koniev caught the faint trace of another accent underlying the Russian words. Was Tumarev from one of the Baltic States?
Certainly the captain of the Star of the White Sea contrasted sharply with his crewmen. Better dressed, he was also better groomed. He was short, even shorter than Koniev, and powerfully built. He was also younger than the MVD officer would have expected, in his late thirties at most.
Was this ship his first command?
Automatically, Koniev shook the other man’s hand, aware that Helen and Thorn were right at his back. Large by shipboard standards or not, six people crowded the cabin.
He showed his identity card again. “My name is Major Alexei Koniev, Captain.”
The man calling himself Tumarev smiled, showing a mouthful of perfect teeth. “And what can I do for you, Major?”
“You carried a shipment of jet engines from this port on May 28,” Koniev stated.
The other man nodded. “Yes, that’s true.” He shrugged. “What of it?”
Koniev frowned. Tumarev’s informal, indifferent attitude irked him.
He should show more respect to an officer of the law, especially one asking questions about a shipment that, at best, skirted the edge of legality. Perhaps it was time to show this seaman who was in charge here. He sharpened his tone. “Then I want to see your manifest for those engines, Captain. And I want the name and address of the firm you delivered them to in Bergen. Immediately. Understand?”
Tumarev seemed unfazed. Instead, he simply nodded. “Of course, Major.”
He moved back around his desk and pulled open a drawer. “I have those records in here.”
But the ship captain’s hand came out of the drawer holding a pistol aimed squarely at Koniev’s midsection.
The MVD officer heard Helen gasp and reflexively reached for his own weapon.
“Don’t move, Major!” Tumarev said sharply. He included the two Americans in his next order. “Put your hands up! All of you!
Now!”
Koniev obeyed slowly, mentally cursing himself for his carelessness — for focusing so much on the hunt that he forgot that one’s prey could sometimes turn and fight. He should have asked the local militia for backup. Out of the corner of his right eye, he could see another pistol in the darkhaired Georgian’s hand.
Tumarev nodded pleasantly. “That’s better.” He motioned toward the MVD officer with his empty hand. “This pig first.”
The thin, blondhaired sailor, moving quickly and efficiently, roughly frisked Koniev — first taking his identity card and then yanking the Makarov out of his shoulder holster.
Grim-faced now, Koniev stood motionless as the when vanished behind him. Rustling cloth and a muttered American swear word told him Helen and Thorn were getting the same treatment. He tried frantically to sort through the situation — looking for some way out. What the devil was happening here?
What was Tumarev’s game? What did he hope to gain by taking a law officer and two foreigners captive? The man was acting more like a bandit chieftain than a ship’s captain.
More like a bandit chieftain. The phrase echoed in his mind.
Koniev studied Tumarev more carefully, suddenly chilled to the bone.
The blondhaired sailor moved back into his line of sight, still holding Koniev’s gun. “That’s all. The others were clean.” He looked at Tumarev expectantly.
The captain shook his head. “No, not here.” He smiled coldly.
“Use the tape.”
The sailor slid the pistol into his pocket, produced a roll of duct tape, and took a step toward Thorn — the nearest of the three to him.
Colder than he’d ever been in his life, Koniev half turned to look at Helen and the American colonel. They looked surprised, angry, and somewhat baffled. But did they truly understand the peril they faced?
Tumarev’s brutal, dismissive “not here” could have only one meaning.
Koniev breathed out, his thoughts suddenly reaching toward his older brother. Their parents were dead. And now perhaps Pavel would be left all on his own. The possibility of that pierced him with regret, but there were no options left no other doors to open. He must act. Or none of them would make it out of here alive.
Flatfooted, Koniev launched himself across the desk — straight at Tumarev. He was counting on surprise, on doing something totally unexpected. He was also counting on the fact that a bullet would have to hit something vital to kill him quickly. With luck, he could give Helen and Peter Thorn a chance to react.
Thorn exploded into action — spinning to the left, poised for a round kick with his right leg. He glimpsed Helen moving at the same time, whirling toward the darkhaired sailor who’d brought them here from the gangplank.
Three deafening gunshots erupted — two in rapid succession, the third a split second later.
His foot missed its intended target — slamming into the blond sailor’s hip instead of his stomach — but the kick still had enough energy to knock the man down. The roll of tape skittered away across the steel deck.
Thorn threw himself across the sailor, pinning one arm. He chopped down hard twice — aiming for the man’s exposed throat.
Something crunched on the second blow, and he saw the sailor’s eyes widen in horror.
The man suddenly stopped fighting and gasped, struggling desperately for oxygen that couldn’t get through the larynx Thorn had smashed. His arms and legs quivered as he flopped on the deck like a dying fish tossed into the bottom of a boat.
Another pistol shot rang out.
Thorn crouched low as the round whined over his head, ricocheting off the metal bulkhead in a shower of sparks. Jesus! His hands tore through the dying sailor’s clothing. Where the hell was Koniev’s Makarov?
