Russian Amerika

the information. He enjoyed watching the huge, sleek mammals, and those whaling bastards never paid the spotter’s fee anyway.

Twice he switched on the weather channel to ensure the high-pressure cell still held as expected. The air remained crisp and fresh, adding to his edginess.

For the rest of the six-hour run into T’angass the smooth wood of the steering wheel constituted his only connection with here-and-now reality. Despite himself, everything reminded him of Kazina’s body on their wedding night. The texture of her skin had seeped into the steering wheel. The heavy, rounded console jutted toward him like her generous, gravity-defying breasts.

The sparkling light on the sea brought to mind her eyes when she laughed. He pulled his gaze away from the water, tried to concentrate on something else, break the train of memory. Two mountains on the mainland curved gently together, forcefully reminding him of Kazina’s perfect ass.

He knew he would never enjoy her body again. With absolute conviction, he also knew if he didn’t have this charter he’d be dead drunk by nightfall. Not even losing his commission had been this painful.

Revillagigedo Island loomed large on the bow when Karpov returned to the bridge deck. The big Russian made a show of examining his wristwatch.

“You’ve made excellent time, Captain,” he said in heavy English.

“Perhaps it is good I make you angry so you can concentrate on the job at hand.”

Grisha’s eyes ached from squinting at bright water. His kidneys throbbed from the pounding of a boat on step. The draining exhaustion of long, boring hours in open air weighed on him like a two-bottle hangover.

“Believe what you will, Cossack.”

Karpov frowned. “This is something you must not call me. If I do not call you Creole, you must not address me as Cossack. Agreed?”

“You’re the customer,” Grisha said.

“Da. Very good. Pull into the fisherman’s dock, we pick up our passenger there.”

“Passenger? I thought you were getting off here.” The vision of four beers lined up on a bar wavered.

“Last evening in Fort Dionysus I was apprised of a change in plans. We will pick up a passenger here and go to New Arkhangel immediately.”

“That’s out of the question! I’ve been pushing this boat for five straight days. The weather’s been good for over five days and it’s bound to turn. Besides, how do you know I don’t have another charter?”

Whatever this was about, Grisha realized, it wasn’t smuggling.

“Perhaps if your fee was increased?” Karpov asked, raising his right eyebrow skeptically. The corners of his mouth twitched, as if playing an elaborate prank.

Grisha stared at T’angass. A neon sign gleamed in the late afternoon shadows. He knew the owner of that bar, and she would be very happy to see her old lover.

It had been a long time since a good-looking woman had felt that way about him. He desperately craved reaffirmation from the gentler sex. The vision of beer dimmed further. He squinted back at Karpov.

“By how much?”

Karpov held out a wad of rubles that more than doubled the original fee. Grisha made the money disappear along with thoughts of carousing with Natalia Fialikof.

“I’ll need to refuel and get some more supplies.”

“Be sure to get plenty of vodka this time.”

Fuel topped off, food and spirits stowed, Grisha had dropped onto one of the four passenger bunks and glanced around. Everything was shipshape. He peered at his watch.

He didn’t want time to brood.

Where the hell is that damned Cossack? I thought he was in a hurry.

He felt anxious they weren’t smuggling. What else could this trip be for? Boat travel was no more secure than taking one of the new four-engine airliners, and a damned sight more tedious.

The boat rocked to port and a female voice said, “Give me a hand, would you, Nikki?” The English sounded accent-free.

Grisha’s interest quickened. He had assumed the second passenger would be another Cossack. Was this an elaborate assignation?

“Karpov. You will address me as Karpov while on this craft.”

“Fine. Now give me a hand, would you?”

Grisha eased into the companionway and moved quietly up the steps to the bridge deck.

She wasn’t much to look at, certainly not enticing enough to fetch all the way from T’angass. But then someone as ugly as Karpov might have to go to extraordinary lengths to get laid. Perhaps she was something else. A relative?

Short blond hair capped a face composed of planes and angles rather than the soft, rounded features expected on a woman. The full lips of her mouth made its excessive width enticing. Dark eyes flashed about, assessing the small bridge deck.

She wasn’t nearly ugly enough to be Karpov’s sister, but perhaps a cousin. Grisha stepped into view. Her agreeable proportions and medium stature heightened his interest.

“Ah, here is Charter Captain Grigorievich. We can leave at once,” Karpov said.

The woman’s eyes traveled over him slowly. Nothing coy about this one, he thought. He smiled.

“Welcome aboard Pravda. I’m Grisha. May I stow your gear?”

Her face softened a measure, adding attractiveness, and she handed him the canvas bag. It weighed nothing. An unknown, but delectable, scent touched his nose during the exchange.

“Captain Grisha,” she said with the smallest of smiles. “I’m Valari Kominskiya.” Her English sounded first- language. He wondered if her Russian was as proficient.

Grisha put the bag on the forward bunk and returned to the bridge.

“We can leave now.” Karpov said again.

Fifteen minutes later, as Pravda motored north on T’angass Narrows, their conversation became cryptic.

“Did you have difficulty getting in or out?”

“No,” Valari said. “My documents worked as smoothly as gold in St. Petersburg.”

“Keep your subversive comments to yourself, or I’ll take official notice,” Karpov said with a growl. “What is the temper of Sam?”

What on earth were they talking about, more relatives? Grisha turned his head slightly to hear her answer over the engine noise. Karpov caught the movement.

“Wait,” he ordered. “We’ll go below to the cabin where there are fewer ears.”

Grisha stared studiously through the windscreen while the two clumped down the steps into the cabin. He smiled to himself and slid aside a piece of the console molding. Some cargoes could speak, and additional knowledge had a way of turning into more rubles. After mounting the tiny phone in his right ear, he flipped the switch concealed in the opening.

“…States are very nervous. One man told me they were ‘waiting for the other shoe to drop,’ whatever that means,” Valari said.

“Which do they fear the most, New France or the Confederacy?”

“It’s a toss-up,” she said in fluent Russian. “They are allies. Tension is high between the governments. Texas is very friendly to British Canada. The great fear in Texas is of New Spain and the First People’s Nation. Our historic ally, the Spanish, have been rattling sabers along the Rio Grande by placing additional troops at El Paso and Marronville. With New Spain as common enemy, California and Texas get along well. California is so friendly with British Canada that one may cross the Columbia River freely without showing a passport on either side.”

“The religious country in the wasteland, is it anything we must worry about?”

“Deseret? The Mormons hate the other nations so fiercely they would sell themselves to the French Catholics before they would help any of them. They are neutral, you know.”

“Neutral, in what way?”