Mirage

“Did you question him about where Karl had gone?”

“Of course,” Kamsin said. “But like many of the old-timers, his directions were vague. He talked about certain islands and winds and how the earth felt. He could give us nothing concrete.”

“And you didn’t want to go out and look for yourselves?” Juan asked, already suspecting the answer.

“If what Karl found got him killed…” Kamsin replied, his voice trailing off.

“I understand,” Juan said to both of them. Kamsin had a job, a life he would not want to jeopardize, and had probably been living in fear that his ignorance might still not keep him safe. Mina’s motivation for not investigating further was nibbling chocolate in the next room. “What about Yusuf? Would he be willing to go back?”

Kamsin had to think for a moment. “It is possible. He didn’t volunteer when Mina and I first questioned him, but we didn’t exactly ask to be shown either.”

“Of course,” Juan said, knowing both were embarrassed by not following through on what had gotten Karl Petrovski murdered.

The Uzbek people had only been independent from Russia for twenty years. These two were old enough to remember what life was like under a Stalinist regime. People didn’t ask questions, didn’t make eye contact with strangers, and never made themselves noticeable to anyone else. It was the only way to stay safe. As much as Karl’s death hurt both Mina and Kamsin, they wouldn’t — couldn’t — do anything but accept the official ruling from Moscow and move on.

“Does the term ‘eerie boat’ mean anything to either of you?” Cabrillo asked in the uncomfortable silence.

The pair exchanged perplexed looks. “There are many boats out on the lake bed,” Kamsin replied. “I know none called Eerie.”

“Karl never mentioned it to me either,” Mina added. “Is this what Karl died for?”

“I don’t know, and it is perhaps best if you forget I asked.”

They nodded knowingly.

“Why don’t I take you to meet Yusuf?” Kamsin offered. “I am sorry, but he speaks only Uzbek. I would be more than happy to translate for you.”

“You are most kind,” Juan said, getting to his feet. He pulled two more Hershey bars from his satchel and handed them to Mina Petrovski. “For your daughters. For later.”

Wherever his investigation took him was a place she could not visit. Karl was dead. Knowing why would not bring him back. Ideology was for the others, her look said to him. I must be pragmatic.

As soon as they were outside, Arkin grabbed Cabrillo’s arm and stared into his eyes. “Will there be justice?”

Juan glanced back at the house, an already-empty shell, only its occupants hadn’t moved on. “For Mina?” he threw the question back at the academician.

“For any of us?”

“No.”

“Then why are you here?”

Juan took a second, which surprised him. “Because a friend died in my arms and I thought that I could at least give him justice. Is that enough?”

“For us? Here? I guess it has to be.”

The two remained mostly silent on the drive to find Yusuf, the only words exchanged were directions as Cabrillo steered through the empty city. The buildings seemed little more than facades and lifeless husks.

Yusuf lived down by the harbor in the rusted carapace that had once been a fishing boat. Arkin didn’t think the old man had owned this particular one, but he’d moved into the hulk nevertheless. The boat, like all the others in the harbor, sat on the ground, sand piled up to the gunwales in some places. Juan scanned a couple of the nearby craft and guessed the old fisherman had chosen this particular one because it sat a little more level than the others, many of which were canted over onto their sides.

Cabrillo stopped in the dust next to the boat. The two men stepped out.

Kamsin shouted a greeting to the derelict boat, and Cabrillo spotted movement through a porthole in the cabin below the pilothouse. Methuselah was a teenager compared to the man who trod out onto the craft’s broad rear deck. He wore robes and a head scarf and leaned on a cane made of gnarled wood. Wisps of pure white hair coiled from under the scarf while the lower part of his face was covered in a beard befitting a fairy-tale wizard. His cheeks and eyes were sunken. One eye was a dark brown, almost black, while the other was covered with the milky film of cataracts. He had an ancient AK-47 slung over one buzzard-like shoulder.

It wasn’t until Yusuf reached the railing and was peering through the four feet of space separating him from his two visitors that he finally recognized Arkin Kamsin. He gave a toothless smile, and the two men began speaking in Uzbek. Cabrillo knew how things worked in this part of the world and waited patiently while they went through the longish greeting custom, asking about family, presuming either man had any, commenting on the weather, recent town gossip, and the like.

Ten desultory minutes passed before Juan detected a change in the conversation’s tone. Now they were discussing Cabrillo and his reasons for being here. Occasionally, Yusuf would glance his way, his withered face as blank as a cipher’s.

At last Arkin turned to Cabrillo. “Yusuf says he is willing to help but he himself isn’t certain what had so interested Karl.”

“Did you mention the eerie boat?”

“I did.”

“Please ask him again.”

So Kamsin interrogated the old man further. Yusuf kept shaking his head and holding out his empty palms. He knew nothing, and Juan began to see that this trip had been a complete waste of time. He wondered if somehow his meaning was being lost in the translation. He was well versed in interrogation techniques and knew how to draw details out of the dimmest memories, but without being able to speak Uzbek, he was powerless. And then it hit him, and for a moment he was back aboard the Oregon, cradling Yuri Borodin as he uttered his last words.

He’d spoken in English.

“Eerie boat,” Juan said in the same language. Yusuf shot him a blank look. “Eerie lodka,” he said, this time using the Russian word for “boat.”

All of a sudden that toothless grin was back, and his one good eye glittered piratically. “Da. Da. Eerie lodka.” He turned back to Kamsin and unleashed a long monologue in Uzbek. This time, his skinny arms waved around as though he were being swarmed by wasps, the tip of his walking stick arcing dangerously close to his two guests.

Arkin finally was able to translate the verbal onslaught. “The eerie boat is out on the Aral Sea, a hulk like all the rest, but Karl told Yusuf that there was something special about it, something ‘magical,’ is how he described it. It was a couple of days after they explored the wreck that Karl made his request to go to Moscow.”

Cabrillo asked, “Can Yusuf show it to me?”

“Yes. He said if you two left at first light, you can reach it by the afternoon.”

Juan wasn’t keen on roughing it out in the desert, but he realized that there was no help for it. He had a counterproposal and asked through Kamsin if they could leave now and camp on the way. The old man seemed reluctant until Juan pulled a wad of cash out of his pocket. Yusuf’s one good eye lit up again, and he nodded until Juan thought his head might roll off his scrawny neck.

Twenty minutes later, with Arkin’s help getting provisions, which included a fifth of what passed for premium vodka in these parts and which set Cabrillo back the equivalent of eighty cents, the two of them drove out across a wasteland that had once been the bottom of a lake, a wake of dust, not water, boiling into the air behind them.

CHAPTER SEVEN

As the name implies, the Aral Sea, the “Sea of Islands,” once had thousands that dotted its windswept