Black Silver, page 4
Anybody who looked at his lined face, merry green eyes, and beaming smile could tell that he was glad to be at sea again. He had left school at sixteen to fulfill his dream of becoming a world-traveling merchant seaman. Now approaching sixty years old, he was just as excited about this departure as those that had already come and gone, including those that had occurred during the last ten years, which he had spent as master of the Kona Wave. Wearing a pair of sun-faded blue jeans and a worn but freshly laundered Dickies khaki work shirt, Morgan looked out the windows of the pilothouse, searching the channel with experienced eyes. His scrutiny landed once again on the group of students near the ship’s bow. This group was the reason for their westward journey.
On the high-profile bow of the Kona Wave, the HSU students leaned over the wood-capped bulwark. An occasional streak of running rust marred the white-painted bulwark. A good number of the students waved to relatives in the crowd. Other students watched the rushing water slide past the white bow as the ship carried them toward the islands of the western Pacific. All the students, though, eagerly chatted about the adventure that lay ahead. The publicized reason for their expedition was to conduct environmental impact studies in the wake of international mining conglomerates.
However, one rascally student, Stephan, had introduced himself to Morgan the day before and had immediately followed his introduction with asking if Morgan had any experience with the Pacific Vortex, the Pacific’s version of the Bermuda Triangle. The area in question covered a large portion of the South China Sea, with points stretching from the west coast of the Philippines to Vietnam and north to Taiwan. That imaginative student, holding a torn paperback, now stood at the end of the line, right beside his professor, Professor Pilar Bonne-Bouche.
“How’s Pilar doing, Cap’n?” asked Fetu.
“You know her,” Morgan answered without taking his eyes off the bow. “Right as rain anytime she’s in the field.”
“I know, but I think sumptin’s in her head,” Fetu offered as he adjusted the helm slightly.
“I agree. The itinerary for this expedition’s a bit busy,” Morgan responded, “but she knows what she’s doing.”
After graduating with a PhD from HSU, Pilar had become part of the university’s faculty, working in her father’s department. Morgan and Fetu had watched the father-daughter pair for years, shuttling them around the islands of the Pacific and Indian Oceans as they conducted research for the university and other schools, institutions, and government agencies. Morgan envied their relationship. It was a type of family relationship not often seen these days.
Unfortunately, that relationship had ended two years before, when Jacques Bonne-Bouche was killed in an accident while on a research trip to the American mainland. Since then, Pilar had become distant and introverted, cold and empty like the Arctic landscape. At one time, her black almond-shaped eyes had glowed with wonderment and curiosity. Now they seemed to be looking at something beyond the distant horizon. Pilar knew that she had changed, and she knew people noticed it. She told everybody that her only reason for staying on at the university was to carry on her father’s work. However, Morgan and others guessed she had her own reasons for remaining―a secret agenda that only she could fathom. While she kept herself remote from most people, she occasionally sought fatherly support, along with a comforting hug now and then, from Morgan.
On the bow, Stephan turned to Pilar, who still stood about four feet away. “Are you looking forward to the field school, Dr. Pilar?” he asked.
Pilar turned left and looked up at the gangly, redheaded student who towered over her five-foot, two-inch frame.
“Yes, Stephan, I am. However, I believe it would be wise to replace that drivel”―Pilar paused to point out the paperback in Stephan’s hand―“with my report on soil degradation in eastern Russia. I spent half of last year there waist deep in swamp water, and I would hate to think my time was wasted. That book is alien fantasy. Soil denitrification rates are scientific facts.”
Stephan, who was trying to grow a beard but had more pimples than hairs, looked down at the book in his hands. It was about how aliens were responsible for the large statues of Easter Island and the perfectly engineered roads and temples in Peru and Mesoamerica.
“OK, Miss Pilar,” Stephan conceded. “I can take a hint, but you ought to look into some of this stuff. You never know where there might be a connection. Life is full of surprises.”
“I’ll think about it,” Pilar replied, turning away from the student. She looked up at the bridge and saw Morgan’s head and torso framed by the wood of one of the large bridge windows. She waved to him and walked aft to the port breezeway and down three steps. Turning right, she grasped a brass doorknob, pushed open the wooden door, and entered the dimly lit passageway that led to her stateroom.
Later that night, with the ship safely out to sea, all aboard were sound asleep except for a few souls. Fetu, along with one of the students, stood near the console that ran along the front of the darkened bridge interior. His eyes alternated from the dimly illuminated instruments on the console to the sea outside, watching for other craft that might cross their path. Behind him, the helm moved ever so slightly, as if an invisible helmsman were handling the wheel, though the movement was actually the result of the automatic pilot and computer keeping the vessel on course. Outside the bridge, Morgan reclined fitfully in a swivel-mounted chair on the port bridge wing. He was holding a steaming mug of black coffee laced with a shot of whiskey. The Pacific blackness rushed at his face. He relished the smell of fresh, clean salt air. Behind him, he could hear the muffled roar of the ship’s diesel engines as their rhythmic noise escaped from the smokestack. Deep inside the hull, Cheng, the ship’s engineer, made his rounds. Wiping up a drop of oil there, checking a gauge here, he was making sure all was in working order before he went to his stateroom and bed. The alarm panel in his room would summon him if necessary.
In her small two-person stateroom, Professor Bonne-Bouche reclined in her lower bunk. She was showering after a brisk workout in the ship’s gym: two miles on the treadmill, a set of sit-ups, and several reps on the bench, where she confidently pressed 135 pounds of iron. Though weighing twenty pounds less than the weight she lifted, she had no problems bench-pressing it. Now, wearing white panties and a dark blue men’s V-neck T-shirt, Pilar rested on top of freshly laundered sheets that smelled of fabric softener, and leaned against two pillows, which were damp from droplets that had escaped her hair. The inclined position flattered her visible cleavage. Under the light of a bunk lamp mounted to the bulkhead beside her, she read the topic of the lecture she would be giving the next day: “Sedimentary Denitrification Rates across the South China Sea’s Oxygen-Minimum Zone.” While she held the pages, the muscles in her arms spasmed, causing her reading material to quiver slightly.
After finishing the last page, Pilar twisted her torso to place the reading on a small metal desk. Re-centering herself on the bunk, she thought for a moment before twisting again to grab something from under the pillows. She didn’t immediately find what she was looking for, and she paused again, listening for the quiet snoring of her roommate. The graduate research assistant who slept in the bunk above her sounded fast asleep, so Pilar continued her search. Her hand found what she was looking for, something that was hard and about twelve inches long.
Pilar retrieved a black cloth-covered rectangular case and placed it on her lap. She pulled at the zipper and opened the small flat satchel, about the size of a book. Four 9 mm magazines were nestled inside, each in its own little pocket and each fully loaded. Facing the magazines was a 9 mm semiautomatic pistol. Pilar pulled the Sig Sauer P226, a favorite among elite military special operatives, from its cloth holster. The cool, subdued metal felt good in her hands, but she knew, deep down, that her ability to use the weapon for one intended target was simply an unattainable dream. She noticed that the muscles in her arms had stopped their spasms. With the deftness of trained hands, she quickly and quietly pulled the pistol’s slide back, giving her weapon its own workout. She brought it up at the ready, aligning both front and rear sights on some unseen target in front of her. Stephan, her student, was right: life was full of surprises.
3
THE HAGUE, EARLY MAY
While the Kona Wave steamed out of Honolulu Harbor, a small balding man, taking a midmorning break from managing his cellphone store, rounded the corner of an ancient-looking building and walked down a narrow street. He saw a taxi, its engine running and meter clicking up quite a fare, parked along the curb in front of the doorway of his destination. The taxi driver was playing a card game on his cell phone. The balding man pushed the door of the building open and entered. There were only two customers: one bland-looking man wearing a wrinkled black suit and another man who wore a dark blue tailor-made suit. Both customers sat in straight-backed wooden chairs at one of the tables in the center of the room. The bland-looking man slumped dejectedly, while the other sat poised and erect. The seated men sipped liquor from glass tumblers. The man sitting straight up was reading a newspaper. Above them, the thick wooden ceiling beams were stained almost black from hundreds of years of swirling tobacco smoke. The sable stains helped darken the room.
The balding cellphone-store owner walked past the men to his regular stool against the back wall. He moved the stool away from the pockmarked plaster wall and then wiped away plaster chips from the seat before sitting down. The young man behind the bar was already drafting a blonde lager. After accepting the beer and taking a sip, the balding man spoke in Flemish: “Who’s His Royal Highness?”
“I don’t know, Stojan,” the young man answered. “They ordered in English, but I think they’re Russian. They’ve never been in here before.”
Stojan glanced at the man reading the newspaper and then thought about the taxi. Taxis rarely drive down this street much less wait outside. He guessed that the man in the expensive blue suit had the taxi on standby, which meant its meter was still running. Stojan then looked at his own reflection in the mirror behind the bar. Sweat glued thinning hair to his rounded skull. His suit was worn.
“Hope he never comes back,” Stojan said. “Wouldn’t want Bartel to raise prices. Once that bastard sees money, he always wants more of it.”
From there, Stojan and the bartender began to discuss the previous night’s football match.
The two men at the center table remained silent for a few more minutes, until the rich man’s companion finally spoke.
“Nicholai, why do you go on these tirades? Now look at us. We are hiding from the shit press and drinking shit vodka in a shit bar.” He looked into the liquor in the glass as if it could tell the future. “All we have to look forward to is a recall back to Moscow, and I’m not looking forward to meeting the boss.”
Nicholai remained intent on the newspaper throughout his companion’s opining. He wore a strikingly dark blue suit with a contrasting brilliant-white silk shirt and soft-blue silk tie. The fit of his attire accentuated his solid 190-pound frame. Its color accentuated his looks. His neatly combed wavy black hair, strong nose, and prominent chin revealed his confidence. His physical and aristocratic appearance spoke of a person who could be sitting at the head of a corporate board meeting, directing workers in the gardens of a European estate, or leading men into battle.
Nicholai held a tumbler while his sapphire-blue eyes moved to read the text of a newspaper article.
MAY 29—The steps outside the Peace Palace became a scene of violence this morning after a group of human rights activists gathered to protest the presence of Deputy Commissar Nicholai Anisimova as part of a visiting Russian delegation. The delegation is in The Hague to discuss an aid package with the leaders of the European Union, which they say will finance an environmental recovery program in Siberia.
Waiting protesters jeered and taunted specifically Mr. Anisimova, an ultranationalist and dedicated white supremacist, as he and other delegates emerged from their limousines. One protester jumped from the crowd to throw a bucket of pig’s blood at Mr. Anisimova. Mr. Anisimova managed to dodge the blood and punched the protester once before the security detail rescued the delegation and ushered them into the palace.
Mr. Anisimova is a cofounder and member of the Yedinaya Rossiya Party, or United Russia, which advocates for the restoration of Russia’s old imperial borders, the reannexation of Alaska, and the rebuilding of Russia’s military capabilities. Mr. Anisimova is a former Soviet military intelligence officer with a specialty in Asian languages and an Olympic medalist in the martial arts, and is at the end of a long lineage of the Anisimova family, which dates back to at least the sixteenth century.
Security personnel removed Anisimova from today’s scene, while the remainder of the delegation met with European Union officials throughout the afternoon.
“Idiots,” Anisimova muttered as his eyes moved up to the headline article and to photos of the American president and Putin. The article compared the two leaders and their international policies.
“Look at that self-centered, arrogant fool,” Anisimova stated, speaking to the photo of the president. “I could play that buffoon like a puppy.”
Anisimova’s eyes crooked to the photo on the right. Putin, on the other hand, was used to dealing with the unforgiving facts of life and making life-and-death decisions. As Anisimova studied the photos of the two leaders, his fingers tapped a slow Morse code on the table. It was as if the fingers were telegraphing his thoughts. While the American would be an easy target, Putin, the boss, would be much more of an adversary.
Anisimova knew he would have to be careful with his plans. He put aside his thoughts about the two world leaders to read a side article about another Russian, Dr. Alik Dubrinsky, an award-winning chemist who had been at the Peace Palace conference to discuss chemicals leaching into groundwater systems.
That doddering old fool has no idea what he’s mixed up in, Anisimova thought, even though it was he who had asked Dubrinksy to become part of his future plans. He should be home playing koldunchiki with his grandchildren.
Anisimova brought his glass to his lips and downed the liquor in one swallow. He thumped the glass on the table.
Grabbing a liquor bottle, the young bartender approached the Russians to refill their glasses before returning to his post behind the bar. Anisimova downed the fresh drink and then reached into his pocket to pull out folded money from which he peeled a one-hundred-euro note. After slapping the currency down, Anisimova stood and straightened the front of his suit and pulled at his cuffs. He stepped through the door to his waiting taxi as his companion finished his drink and followed behind him. Upon exiting, a devious smile of anticipation finally broke Anisimova’s stoic face.
After the pair opened their respective doors and sat on the taxi’s back seat, the driver spoke without turning: “Where to?”
Anisimova quickly replied, “Airport.”
As the driver put the transmission into first gear, Anisimova thought about his next move. He smiled.
4
SUBIC BAY, PHILIPPINES
EARLY JULY
Havok opened the screen door and entered through the rear door of his bar. He looked into the large room and out through the front windows. A number of customers were quietly talking and enjoying themselves either inside the bar or out on the veranda. An original 1963 jukebox sat in the corner. A Johnny Cash song, “I Walk the Line,” intermingled with the patrons’ voices. Catalina was behind the bar, loading up a tray of drinks for Apple to deliver. Havok peered through the open kitchen door. Stone, wearing a pair of faded jeans, flip-flops, and a yellow T-shirt, stood at the kitchen counter about five feet away from Havok. He was making a sandwich.
“How was the dive?” Stone asked, keeping his attention on the food in front of him.
“It went OK,” Havok answered flatly. He looked at a brass nautical chronometer mounted above the veranda door. The black hands pointed to just after ten p.m.
Stone accepted Havok’s answer as he remained focused on his sandwich. On the steel countertop was a tray with a round loaf of pumpernickel bread, a plate heaped with thick slices of ham and Carr Valley Wisconsin cheddar cheese, a jar of spicy brown mustard, and a jar of German gherkins.
“Not much of a Dagwood,” Havok commented. “It almost looks like a normal ham-and-cheese sandwich.”
“Ran out of olive loaf and limburger cheese last night.”
“Thank God,” Havok remarked. “Hey, do not concern yourself with my gastronomic issues.”
Havok smiled slightly as he stepped into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and removed two San Miguels. He grabbed the bottle opener, which hung from the refrigerator door handle by a piece of kite string, and opened the beers, placing one on the steel counter in front of Stone. Havok turned his back to Stone and leaned his shoulder against the doorframe, looking out into the bar. “How did it go here?”
“Quiet,” Stone answered. “The couple you met this afternoon is out front, and apparently Mr. Johnson saved your life during the war.”
“Cool. I’ll have to go and find out how he saved my ass.”
Leaving Stone to his sandwich, Havok walked into the barroom, nodding his head, first to Catalina and Apple and then to some regulars sitting at the bar. He made his way out to the veranda, where there were ten customers sitting in small groups. The concrete deck of the veranda was painted blood red and reflected a dull, gloomy light. Diesel exhaust from worn jeepney engines mingled with the muggy night air, but the pulsating breeze from the slowly rotating ceiling fans helped to evaporate some of the sweat that was forming along his hairline. Vendors shouted, trying to overcome their competition and the music from several nearby bars, as they hawked hand-carried wares. The throaty roar of truck engines and the piercing screech of jeepney horns tried their best to drown out the sounds of large insects frying on the electric bug zappers that fringed Havok’s bar.
