Dark Days

I have no idea how we got through that checkpoint. My mind had shut down, so it was all a blur.

Lucia, a Froilist spy. That was impossible, for God’s sake! My girlfriend couldn’t have cared less about politics. Hell, she didn’t even know all the details of the problem. If she’d gotten involved, wouldn’t she have told me? All those ideas whirled through my mind.

“Hey! Wake up!” Prit snapped his fingers in front of my eyes. “I get it—you’re overwhelmed, but if you really want to help Lucia and Sister Cecilia, you’d better get it together. Those two need us to be at the top of our game. Agreed?”

I took a deep breath. “Of course, dammit! What’re we gonna do?”

“First, find Lucia. Then clear things up, if we can.”

“How do you suggest we find her in all this chaos?” I said, pointing to the riot troops that just drove up. “Half the island’s looking for her and the other half thinks the fucking Froilists are invading.”

“Let’s start at the most logical place—our home.”

We didn’t have much choice, so I agreed. At first the truck driver flatly refused to take us to our home in the hotel. After a brief talk with Prit away from prying eyes, he became more cooperative. I’d guess the nick on his neck from Prit’s knife had something to do with his sudden change of attitude.

I was not surprised to find a URO parked outside our building. A couple of soldiers lounged against the hood, while another soldier was sitting in the driver’s seat, reading a well-thumbed, girly magazine.

“They’re on the lookout for her,” I whispered to the Ukrainian. “Lucia wouldn’t come here with those guys hanging around.”

“Well, they’re sure not going to find her sitting on the couch reading Tolstoy, idiot,” Prit said, as he got out of the truck. “Maybe we can find something in there to clear things up.”

The soldiers barely glanced at us as we entered the building. They were looking for a seventeen-year-old brunette, not a tall, skinny guy with a pained look on his face or a short guy with a blond mustache.

As we walked through the doorway, the door flew open and someone stuck her head outside. Just in time, I grabbed Pritchenko’s shirt and dragged him behind a dusty flowerpot with a plant big enough to hide behind. The open door cast a rectangle of light along with the smell of cooked cabbage.

I recognized the block leader, an old gossip I’d always distrusted. The woman squinted as she scanned the dark lobby. Most of the light bulbs had burned out months ago and no one had replaced them.

“Who’s there?” she chirped.

Prit and I held our breath. If that snitch saw us, she’d raise the alarm and we’d have to explain ourselves to the guards stationed in front.

After a tense moment, that old biddy turned, muttered something under her breath, and went back into her lair.

We made it through the lobby and to the stairs without crossing paths with our neighbors. The soldiers at the front door must’ve scared everyone off, as we didn’t see a soul on the stairs that were usually crowded.

When we reached our floor, I wasn’t surprised to find the front door broken down. They’d given our home a thorough going-over. It looked like a tornado had hit it. Nothing was spared. They’d even ripped up the mattresses and cushions, searching for God-knows-what. My heart sank. If Lucia had left us a clue, they’d have found it.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something rush through the door. Instinctively, I drew my pistol, but then I heard a pitiful meow coming from an orange blur.

“Lucullus!” I shouted as my cat bounded over to me. When I picked him up, I could tell he’d put on some weight. I scratched his belly and he purred ecstatically.

Lucullus shot me an angry look when I stopped petting him. I looked closely at his collar. All his life, he’d worn a black flea collar. Now strapped around his neck was a strip of red leather I knew well. It wasn’t a collar; it was a bracelet I’d given Lucia.

My hands shook as I unfastened the bracelet and turned it over, with Pritchenko peering over my shoulder. Just one word was written on the back in Lucia’s handwriting, a word only Prit and I would understand: Corinth.

51

It took us nearly two hours to reach the port of Tenerife. We had to do some tricky maneuvers to get out of the building without anyone seeing us, and to give the checkpoints a wide berth.

“It’s just a matter of time till someone links us to Lucia and starts circulating our photos, too,” Prit said.

I agreed. Plus, the hour the officer at the airport had granted us had long since expired. Prit and I were now deserters and fugitives. It wasn’t the triumphant welcome I’d pictured, but at least we were alive—and free.

By the time we reached the docks, we’d come up with a plan. We guessed that Lucia had hidden out in one of the boats anchored there. Only we knew about the Corinth, the boat I’d sailed to Vigo where I met Prit. Lucia’s cryptic message had to mean she was hiding on a sailboat… but which one? Surely she’d left us another clue, one that wasn’t too obvious.

When we reached the docks, our spirits fell. There were hundreds of sailboats anchored among dozens of rusting freighters and warships. Thousands of refugees had trickled in on those boats. When fuel became scarce, the government organized a fishing fleet that went out every morning to feed the hungry masses packed on Tenerife.

For a boat lover like me, it was painful to see those thoroughbreds of the wind buried in nets, fishing gear, and traps. But people had to eat. No matter how hard I looked, I couldn’t spot a boat like the Corinth under all that gear.

“What now? Which one’s she in?” Prit nervously asked. From our hiding spot between containers stacked on the pier, we watched dock workers head to work.

“If I knew, we wouldn’t be standing around wasting time,” I snapped. I struggled to hold on to Lucullus, who kept trying to launch himself out of my arms. My mind raced as my eyes searched for a sign. None of those boats reminded me of the Corinth.

I was about to give up when I spotted a small sailboat anchored at the end of the pier. I blinked several times to make sure my eyes weren’t playing tricks on me. Then I smiled. Flying from the top of her mast like a flag was a faded, old wetsuit.

52

The Crocodile II was an old twenty-four-foot sailboat. Once upon a time, she must have been a real gem, but when Prit and I rowed up in a dinghy, it was clear that she was pretty run down. You could tell from her teak decking and elegant steel fittings that her original owner had really lavished her with love, but all those months used as a fishing boat in less careful hands had taken its toll.

The rigging was a mess and damp lines were strewn around the deck. The bow was almost buried under a thick layer of nets—all shapes and sizes—that smelled of rotting fish. If Lucia had taken refuge there, it was an excellent choice. No one would’ve boarded that floating trash heap.

We rowed alongside the Crocodile II and climbed aboard. The deck was in complete disrepair. The front half of the cabin had been transformed into a hold for their catch. Peering in the cabin door, all I could see were white plastic crates stacked every which way and a filthy mattress tossed on the deck.

“No one’s here,” Prit said despondently. “I don’t think…”

Before he could finish, Lucullus jumped aboard the Crocodile II and took off like a shot between the crates. There was a muffled yelp of surprise and suddenly, a hand I knew so well pushed aside a stack of crates.

Standing before us, petting a contented Lucullus, looking at us through tears of relief was Lucia.

I grabbed her hands. Not saying a word, she squeezed mine as tight as she could. We stood there,