Wake knew who one of them would be—Sean Rork. He had no doubt the bosun would volunteer, would in fact be angry if not allowed to go. But the other one surprised him. It was Fyock. The executive officer explained nonchalantly that his life would actually be easier if he went ashore with Wake, since he might be able to prevent a problem from happening due to his knowledge of the lingo and culture.
Fyock looked at Captain Bunt apologetically. “Sir, if I don’t go and one of ’em gets killed, can you imagine the paperwork we’ll have? It’s just simpler for me to go and get it over with.”
Bunt wasn’t impressed. “I’m not thrilled at the prospect of losing my number- one officer. This is a ridiculous political show anyway. Why waste good men for a bunch of Bible-thumpers who go to places they’re not wanted? Just stupidity.”
A moment later he relented. “Oh hell, go ahead and get it done. I’ll give you until sundown. I want you all three back aboard by sundown.” Bunt looked at his watch. “That gives you seven hours. Understood? Back by the time the sun is down.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” came back the chorus from the two lieutenants, Wake not confident at all at that point that he would ever see the Alaska again.
Two minutes later Wake was on the foredeck, explaining the mission ashore to Rork. The bosun didn’t wait for the details. “Very good, sir. Then I’ll be venturin’ ashore wi’ ya. I’m thinkin’ you’ll be needin’ a wee bit o’ Celtic luck, an’ maybe a few decent curses, wi’ that bad lot o’ scum I see o’er there.”
“Thank you, my friend. I knew I could count on you.”
***
Wake studied everyone around them for signs of sickness, but beyond the normal state of dishevelment he saw none. Fyock said, “S-salaama ’lekum” to every man they passed on the way, explaining to Wake and Rork that it meant peace upon you and was the standard greeting. Most of the locals muttered a reply, some ignored them, and a few replied vividly with smoldering eyes. No officials met them, though Wake was certain the local authorities knew of their arrival.
The three of them walked for five “blocks” through the huts toward the fortress before they saw their first European, dressed in a faded and torn suit, coming toward them in an agitated manner. The European approached hesitantly, glancing over his shoulder toward the fortress.
“You are Yankee, yes?” he asked with a French accent. His eyes, dark slits, darted around and made Wake nervous.
“Yes, we are,” said Wake. “U.S. Navy. Who are you, sir?”
“Me? I am the commercial facilitator for this area. Claude Coffre, at your service, monsieur. How can I help you?”
As he spoke the little man walked backwards toward an alley off the main street. Wake was curious about his profession. “Commercial facilitator?”
Fyock wasn’t amused. “Pimp, thief, and fence for stolen property.”
“Oh monsieur, you hurt my soul with that description,” protested Coffre. He turned his attention back to Wake. “I am a conveyor of all things, sir. Anything you need, I can procure. What is it you need, sir?”
Wake stood still. “I want to know where the American Christian Holy Mission is located. I need to talk to the leader there. An American man named Sharlton.”
Coffre’s eyes slid from one side to the other without moving his head. He shook his head sadly. “Ah, so regretfully, they are not here. They left months ago. Monsieur Sharlton left too. A fine man of faith. But now there are no Americans here. And I am the only European.”
Rork stepped around behind Coffre and watched the crowd that was beginning to form. Wake leaned forward. “What happened to them?”
Coffre’s voice went up an octave. “Who, monsieur?”
“The Americans!”
“Please, sir. As I said to you, they have all left this place. They had no more work to do. They all left. Monsieur Sharlton, his wife, and the four teacher ladies. They are gone for three months now.”
Wake put his hand on Coffre’s shoulder and felt him wince. “Where did they go?”
“I do not know, sir. They did not like me and would not converse with me. I was not of their . . . their station in life. I only know they all left this place. There are no Americans here. There was no reason to stay here for them.”
Wake’s blood chilled. The information he had received back in Genoa was that Sharlton had been at Chetaibi for years. And now he had suddenly left? Something overwhelming must have happened.
“Why did they leave?”
“The local people did not want to be converted to be followers of Jesus. They wanted to be followers of Mohammed and stay with Allah. It is also the law. The sheik enforced the law.”
Fyock nodded in understanding. “Irtidàd?”
The crowd heard that word and pressed in, their inquisitiveness hardening. Coffre looked terrified. “Oui, monsieur. Apostasy. The law prescribes punishment of those that reject the one true faith. It is the law of the hadith—the teachings of Mohammed. According to that, there is only one punishment for a man, and one for a woman. You know of it?”
Fyock sighed. “Yes. How many?”
“Eleven men and three women. The three women are in slavery now and gone into the desert.”
“What’s he talking about, Thomas?” asked Wake.
“The Christians came here thinking they were going to fish for souls. Saint Peter and all that. I’ve seen it before, in Palestine. The problem is that only a few people in these parts want to switch sides, and those that do take the chance of running afoul of the law and the local leadership. This sheik couldn’t care less about what religion claims the souls of the people around here, but if he thinks for one minute that the foreigners are getting into a position of power rivaling him, then he’ll
