Polar Star by Martin Cruz Smith

Patiashvili came up in the net. We seamen know that the net is drawn by worn cables. We know that as the net is drawn through the water the cables vibrate, making any frayed threads into virtual saws. That’s what cut Zina Patiashvili. End of mystery. A girl went to a dance, became overheated, went out on deck alone for air, fell overboard and, I am sorry to say, died. But that is
all
that happened.”
    Slava displayed the section of cable to Volovoi, who affected great interest in it, and to the stranger, whowaved it aside, and to Marchuk, who was busy reading a new document. The captain had a feline manner of stroking his trim black beard as he concentrated on the page.
    “According to your report, you recommend no further inquiry on board, and that any outstanding questions be left to the proper authorities in Vladivostok.”
    “Yes,” Slava said. “Of course the decision is yours.”
    “There were some other recommendations, as I remember,” Volovoi suggested. “I saw the report only for a moment.”
    “That is correct,” Slava answered dutifully. It was really wonderful, Arkady thought, almost as good as table tennis. “If there is one lesson to be learned from this tragic incident it is that safety can never be taken for granted. I propose two firm recommendations. First, that during evening social events volunteers be placed on watch at either side of the stern deck. Second, that social events be held as much as possible during the daytime.”
    “Those are useful recommendations that I’m sure will be discussed with great interest at the next all-ship meeting,” Volovoi said. “The entire ship owes you their thanks for your labor, for the completeness and speed of your inquiry, and for the factual, clear-sighted nature of your conclusion.”
    Tolstoy’s aristocrats spoke effervescent French. The grandsons of the Revolution spoke plodding, measured Russian, as if each word were so many centimeters that when carefully laid end to end would inevitably lead to consensus, and spoken politely and soberly because it was the genius of Soviet democracy that all meetings should reach comradely unanimity. Say a worker came before a factory committee and pointed out that they were turning out cars with three wheels, or told a farm committee they were turning out calves with two heads. Such news never stopped a calm, experienced committee from marching in single formation.
    Marchuk sipped from a glass, lit another cigarette, a Player’s with rich, foreign smoke, and studied the report, his head down. The angle accentuated the Asiatic cast to his cheeks. The captain looked like a man made for subduing the taiga, not for nosing through bureaucratic jargon. The stranger in the oatmeal sweater smiled patiently, as if he’d wandered by chance into this meeting, but was in no great hurry to leave.
    Marchuk looked up. “You conducted this inquiry with Seaman Renko?”
    “Yes,” Slava said.
    “I see only your signature at the bottom.”
    “Because we did not have an opportunity to speak before this meeting.”
    Marchuk motioned Arkady closer. “Renko, do you have anything to add?”
    Arkady thought for a moment and said, “No.”
    “Then do you want to sign it?” Marchuk offered a thick fountain pen, a Monte Cristo, right for a captain.
    “No.”
    Marchuk screwed the cap back on the pen. This was going to be more complicated.
    The Invalid poured himself more water and said, “As Seaman Renko did not do the bulk of the work, and as the recommendations are purely those of the third mate, there’s no need for Renko’s signature.”
    “Let’s see.” Marchuk turned back to Arkady. “You disagree with the conclusion that we leave the loose ends for the boys in Vladivostok?”
    “No.”
    “Then with what?”
    “Only …”—Arkady searched for precision—“the facts.”
    “Ah.” For the first time the man in the oatmeal sweater sat up, as if he had finally heard a word in a language he