knows, but he’s not going to say a word.”
The commandos also seemed to be affected by the sweltering heat and the dreary days. Dmitri had heard a few more sharp words than normal, and he’d seen one of the elites push one of the Siberians down the stairs. And then, this morning, as he was going to the galley, he’d seen three of the Siberians talking together. The kitchen commando had dispersed them with a short: “Back to stations!”
Lying in bed, sopping with sweat, he wondered if it would ever end. Already, Kaliningrad seemed like a past life. It was strange how tedious the routine had become. However, he was unprepared for the havoc the morning would bring.
It was mid-morning, and Dmitri and Ilya were making bread, kneading the dough in two huge, separate batches. Dmitri slowly became aware that the murmur of voices from the deck was growing louder. The kitchen commando ran off, and Ilya crept up to the top of the steps, with Dmitri telling him to be careful. But the shouting rapidly crescendoed, and Ilya motioned him to come up. Dmitri crawled up the stairs and cautiously poked his head out above Ilya’s. Four commandos were in the glassed control room: two elites and two Siberians. The Siberians were shouting at the elites, and one of them brandished his machine gun over his head. Dmitri caught the word ‘drugs’ and something about time. But as they watched, three more elites dashed onto the deck and up the stairs. One kicked his way through the door and, with the butt of his gun, bashed the shouting Siberian on the back of the neck. The commando crumpled immediately, dropping below the edge of the window, and there was a moment of complete silence. Dmitri immediately slithered back down the stairs, but Ilya kept watching. Dmitri heard a series of bumps, as though someone was beating on the metal deck with a mallet. After an interval of a minute, there was a splash. Immediately, Ilya slid down into the galley, and started kneading the dough violently.
“What was it?” Dmitri whispered. “What happened?”
But Ilya jerked his elbow into his ribs, and he realized that the kitchen commando was at his post again.
Not until the next morning did he find out what had happened: the shouting commando had been dragged down the stairs by his heels. His clothes were stripped off him and he was dumped overboard. But by that time, Dmitri had already figured out that dynamics had shifted on board. The gray brothers, who up until now had eaten with the rest of the crew, though they had their own room together, had suddenly joined the commandos. At breakfast, Alexei, the tall brother, was watching over them, with one of the elites. Two of the Siberians seemed to have been relegated to crewmember status, because they were sitting with them at the table. One bore an enormous, messy bruise on his cheekbone. The skin had split and was curled back from the wound. The other’s hand was bandaged. They ate sullenly, not looking up from their plates.
April 29
Rygg slept from seven-thirty in the evening to six-thirty the next morning, and woke feeling as though he’d been fused to the cot. He pried himself loose and stumbled out to the main room. It was empty, but there was the ever-present coffee pot on the table. Through the window, he saw Marin sitting on the top rung of the fence like a schoolboy, looking up at the mountains. Steam rose from one fist, smoke from the other.
Rygg joined him. He leaned his elbows on the splintery wood and sipped his coffee. “You’re up early,” he said and Marin laughed shortly. Rygg looked at him. Marin’s face was grayer than usual, and his eyes were sunk in pockets of purple shadow. “You haven’t been to sleep, have you?” Rygg accused.
Marin dropped his butt on the ground. He took a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket and tapped one up and lit it. There were five butts on the scuffed earth beneath the fence.
“Sasha and I were doing some investigations in the night,”
The commandos also seemed to be affected by the sweltering heat and the dreary days. Dmitri had heard a few more sharp words than normal, and he’d seen one of the elites push one of the Siberians down the stairs. And then, this morning, as he was going to the galley, he’d seen three of the Siberians talking together. The kitchen commando had dispersed them with a short: “Back to stations!”
Lying in bed, sopping with sweat, he wondered if it would ever end. Already, Kaliningrad seemed like a past life. It was strange how tedious the routine had become. However, he was unprepared for the havoc the morning would bring.
It was mid-morning, and Dmitri and Ilya were making bread, kneading the dough in two huge, separate batches. Dmitri slowly became aware that the murmur of voices from the deck was growing louder. The kitchen commando ran off, and Ilya crept up to the top of the steps, with Dmitri telling him to be careful. But the shouting rapidly crescendoed, and Ilya motioned him to come up. Dmitri crawled up the stairs and cautiously poked his head out above Ilya’s. Four commandos were in the glassed control room: two elites and two Siberians. The Siberians were shouting at the elites, and one of them brandished his machine gun over his head. Dmitri caught the word ‘drugs’ and something about time. But as they watched, three more elites dashed onto the deck and up the stairs. One kicked his way through the door and, with the butt of his gun, bashed the shouting Siberian on the back of the neck. The commando crumpled immediately, dropping below the edge of the window, and there was a moment of complete silence. Dmitri immediately slithered back down the stairs, but Ilya kept watching. Dmitri heard a series of bumps, as though someone was beating on the metal deck with a mallet. After an interval of a minute, there was a splash. Immediately, Ilya slid down into the galley, and started kneading the dough violently.
“What was it?” Dmitri whispered. “What happened?”
But Ilya jerked his elbow into his ribs, and he realized that the kitchen commando was at his post again.
Not until the next morning did he find out what had happened: the shouting commando had been dragged down the stairs by his heels. His clothes were stripped off him and he was dumped overboard. But by that time, Dmitri had already figured out that dynamics had shifted on board. The gray brothers, who up until now had eaten with the rest of the crew, though they had their own room together, had suddenly joined the commandos. At breakfast, Alexei, the tall brother, was watching over them, with one of the elites. Two of the Siberians seemed to have been relegated to crewmember status, because they were sitting with them at the table. One bore an enormous, messy bruise on his cheekbone. The skin had split and was curled back from the wound. The other’s hand was bandaged. They ate sullenly, not looking up from their plates.
April 29
Rygg slept from seven-thirty in the evening to six-thirty the next morning, and woke feeling as though he’d been fused to the cot. He pried himself loose and stumbled out to the main room. It was empty, but there was the ever-present coffee pot on the table. Through the window, he saw Marin sitting on the top rung of the fence like a schoolboy, looking up at the mountains. Steam rose from one fist, smoke from the other.
Rygg joined him. He leaned his elbows on the splintery wood and sipped his coffee. “You’re up early,” he said and Marin laughed shortly. Rygg looked at him. Marin’s face was grayer than usual, and his eyes were sunk in pockets of purple shadow. “You haven’t been to sleep, have you?” Rygg accused.
Marin dropped his butt on the ground. He took a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket and tapped one up and lit it. There were five butts on the scuffed earth beneath the fence.
“Sasha and I were doing some investigations in the night,”
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