doctor,” Marchuk said, trying to take the suggestion seriously. “The doctor was even wrong about the time of death, as I remember. A good doctor for the healthy, not so good with the ailing or dead.”
“The report may have some flaws,” Volovoi conceded.
Full of regret, Marchuk addressed himself to Slava. “Excuse me, the report is shit.” To Volovoi he added, “I’m sure he did his best.”
The last Russian ship the
Polar Star
had seen was an off-loader that had taken three thousand tons of sole, five thousand tons of pollack, eight thousand tons of fish meal and fifty tons of liver oil in exchange for flour, hams, cabbage, cans of film, personal mail and magazines. Arkady had been part of the crowd on deck that day. He hadn’t noticed any tiny fleet electrical engineer riding the block and tackle.
Under his muff of hair Anton Hess’s face was half forehead, the other features squeezed into a southern hemisphere of rounded brows, sharp nose, broad upper lip and dimpled chin, all lit by two amiable blue eyes. He looked like a German choirmaster, someone who had collaborated with Brahms.
Still using the measured tones of Soviet authority, of facts reluctantly stated, the first mate decided to take the offensive.
“Seaman Renko, for our information, is it true you were dismissed from the Moscow prosecutor’s office?”
“Yes.”
“Is it also true that you were expelled from the Party?”
“Yes.”
There was a somber pause suitable for a man who had confessed to two incurable diseases.
“May I be blunt?” Volovoi begged Marchuk.
“Please.”
“From the start I was against the involvement of this worker in any inquiry, especially one involving our American colleagues. I already had a dossier of negative information on Seaman Renko. Today I radioed the KGB in Vladivostok for more information, not wanting to judge this seaman unfairly. Comrades, we have a man with a shady past. Exactly what happened in Moscow no one will say, except that he was involved in the death of the prosecutor and in the defection of a former citizen. Murder and treason, that is the history of the man before you. That’s why he runs from job to job across Siberia. Take a look: he has not thrived.”
True, Arkady admitted. His boots, crusted with scales and laced with dried slime, were not the footwear of a thriving man.
“In fact,” Volovoi went on, as if only the greatest pressure could bring the words to his lips, “they were looking for him in Sakhalin when he signed on the
Polar Star
. For what, they don’t say. With his kind, it could be any of a million things. May I be candid?”
“Absolutely,” said Marchuk.
“Comrades, Vladivostok will examine not what happened to a silly girl named Zina Patiashvili but whether we as a ship have maintained political discipline. Vladivostok will not understand why we involve in such a sensitive inquiry anyone like Renko, a man politically so unreliable that we don’t let him ashore in an American port.”
“An excellent point,” Marchuk agreed.
“In fact,” Volovoi said, “it might be wise not to let any of the crew ashore. We reach Dutch Harbor in two days. It might be best not to give them port call.”
At this suggestion, Marchuk’s face darkened. He poured more water for himself, studying the silvery string of liquid. “After four months’ sailing?” he asked. “That’swhat they’ve been sailing for, that one day in port. Besides, our crew is not the problem; we can’t stop the Americans from going ashore.”
Volovoi shrugged. “The representatives will report to the company, yes, but the company is half Soviet-owned. The company will do nothing.”
Marchuk screwed out his cigarette and produced a smile that had more irony than humor. Etiquette seemed to be wearing thin. “The observers will report to the government, which is American, and the fishermen will spread tales to everyone. The tale will be that I hid a murder on my ship.”
“A death
“The report may have some flaws,” Volovoi conceded.
Full of regret, Marchuk addressed himself to Slava. “Excuse me, the report is shit.” To Volovoi he added, “I’m sure he did his best.”
The last Russian ship the
Polar Star
had seen was an off-loader that had taken three thousand tons of sole, five thousand tons of pollack, eight thousand tons of fish meal and fifty tons of liver oil in exchange for flour, hams, cabbage, cans of film, personal mail and magazines. Arkady had been part of the crowd on deck that day. He hadn’t noticed any tiny fleet electrical engineer riding the block and tackle.
Under his muff of hair Anton Hess’s face was half forehead, the other features squeezed into a southern hemisphere of rounded brows, sharp nose, broad upper lip and dimpled chin, all lit by two amiable blue eyes. He looked like a German choirmaster, someone who had collaborated with Brahms.
Still using the measured tones of Soviet authority, of facts reluctantly stated, the first mate decided to take the offensive.
“Seaman Renko, for our information, is it true you were dismissed from the Moscow prosecutor’s office?”
“Yes.”
“Is it also true that you were expelled from the Party?”
“Yes.”
There was a somber pause suitable for a man who had confessed to two incurable diseases.
“May I be blunt?” Volovoi begged Marchuk.
“Please.”
“From the start I was against the involvement of this worker in any inquiry, especially one involving our American colleagues. I already had a dossier of negative information on Seaman Renko. Today I radioed the KGB in Vladivostok for more information, not wanting to judge this seaman unfairly. Comrades, we have a man with a shady past. Exactly what happened in Moscow no one will say, except that he was involved in the death of the prosecutor and in the defection of a former citizen. Murder and treason, that is the history of the man before you. That’s why he runs from job to job across Siberia. Take a look: he has not thrived.”
True, Arkady admitted. His boots, crusted with scales and laced with dried slime, were not the footwear of a thriving man.
“In fact,” Volovoi went on, as if only the greatest pressure could bring the words to his lips, “they were looking for him in Sakhalin when he signed on the
Polar Star
. For what, they don’t say. With his kind, it could be any of a million things. May I be candid?”
“Absolutely,” said Marchuk.
“Comrades, Vladivostok will examine not what happened to a silly girl named Zina Patiashvili but whether we as a ship have maintained political discipline. Vladivostok will not understand why we involve in such a sensitive inquiry anyone like Renko, a man politically so unreliable that we don’t let him ashore in an American port.”
“An excellent point,” Marchuk agreed.
“In fact,” Volovoi said, “it might be wise not to let any of the crew ashore. We reach Dutch Harbor in two days. It might be best not to give them port call.”
At this suggestion, Marchuk’s face darkened. He poured more water for himself, studying the silvery string of liquid. “After four months’ sailing?” he asked. “That’swhat they’ve been sailing for, that one day in port. Besides, our crew is not the problem; we can’t stop the Americans from going ashore.”
Volovoi shrugged. “The representatives will report to the company, yes, but the company is half Soviet-owned. The company will do nothing.”
Marchuk screwed out his cigarette and produced a smile that had more irony than humor. Etiquette seemed to be wearing thin. “The observers will report to the government, which is American, and the fishermen will spread tales to everyone. The tale will be that I hid a murder on my ship.”
“A death
Similar Books
