To Charity’s relief, her aunt did just that. By some miracle, the clouds in Aunt Vera’s head parted and some meaning shone through. It was erratic. You never knew when she’d understand you and if she did understand, whether she’d respond.
But perhaps something in Nick’s tone penetrated what was dulling her mind because the deep breaths she was taking were audible under the towel.
“That’s right, ma’am,” Nick said reassuringly. “Just keep breathing.”
In all of this, Uncle Franklin sat, spent and passive, head bowed. Exhausted and frail.
“Why does she need this?” Charity asked.
“Core rewarming by inhalation. Sends heat directly to the head, neck, and chest area, which is the body’s critical core. It warms the lungs and the hypothalamus, which regulates the body’s temperature. She’ll need to do this for at least ten minutes.”
Nick sat back down next to her aunt and kept a finger on her pulse. Charity walked to her uncle and put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. The bones beneath her hand felt fragile, like bird bones. She leaned down to whisper to him. “She’ll be all right, Uncle Franklin.”
He looked up and forced a smile. It occurred to Charity that now she had Uncle Franklin to worry about, not just Aunt Vera. He’d been such a rock for her, all her life, especially after her parents’ death. He wasn’t a rock now. Now he was a tired, anxious old man who was barely keeping it together.
Okay. Time for her to step up to bat. She shifted mental furniture and included caring almost full-time for elderly relatives into the parameters of her life.
It was daunting. She was only twenty-eight and had hardly begun to live. She hadn’t traveled at all as much as she’d like to and now knew that she never would, as long as Aunt Vera and Uncle Franklin were alive.
If her love life had been difficult before, now it would be impossible, since her priorities would be wrapped up in care-giving. What man would put up with that? Once Nick left, she could kiss even a semblance of a love life good-bye.
She nearly sighed at the thought.
When she looked up, Nick caught her eye and winked.
Then again, for now she did have Nick. He’d leave, but he wasn’t leaving right this minute, and so there might be a little more of that spectacular sex in her immediate future. Oh yeah.
Twenty kilometers south of Budva
Coastline of Montenegro
5 a.m. November 21
She was a rusty freighter flying the flag of the Union of Comoros, stinking of rotting fish and cabbage. The North Star was just one of the hundreds of thousands of vessels making a marginal living by trawling in overfished waters, destined to be decommissioned by her owners as soon as she cost more to run than she earned by her catch.
No one paid any attention to her at all, in a world of huge, sleek container vessels making 20 knots an hour.
She lay quietly at anchor in a deserted cove, rocking gently on the calm Adriatic. It was the darkest moment of night, just before dawn began. American satellites had excellent tracking abilities but night maneuvers eluded them. So the transfer from the truck to the boat was made in the dark. The crew seemed to have a supernatural ability to see in the dark, for they didn’t need flashlights as they went their quiet, efficient way. There was a half moon and that seemed to be enough.
After twenty-four hours in the back of the truck over pitted back roads, Arkady was stiff and a little disoriented. He tripped twice, once emerging from the back of the truck and once on the gangway up onto the ship.
He felt a thousand years old, particularly in front of the crew, who were all young and strong. The four crewmen who preceded him made their way back onto the ship like agile monkeys.
Below, on the rocky shore, hired hands manipulated the canisters from the truck, ready for boarding on the rusty fishing boat.
No one would look twice at the North Star, which was a good thing. Because beneath the rotting boards of the deck lay a gleaming, stainless-steel heart driven by a Wärtsilä-Sulzer RTA96-C turbocharged two-stroke diesel engine and a new retrofitted hold designed for the transport of humans.
The human cargo wasn’t meant to be transported in comfort but in safety, to be delivered alive at the port of destination. They were goods, after all, and worth money at the end of the journey. So there were toilets and spigots to hose them down at the end, before delivery.
The hold was designed to carry 150 passengers. Its last cargo had been 200 Senegalese who’d boarded north of Kayar and been locked in for two weeks. The man responsible for stocking food had run off with the money and the men had been on starvation rations for the trip. Two had boarded with tuberculosis. Only eighty survived.
The Vor’s stipulations had been clear. The hold had been completely cleaned and disinfected. Arkady could smell disinfectant over the smells of the food on a small table.
A simple meal. Local sausage, goat’s cheese, bread with a bottle of Vranac wine and rakija, the Montenegrin brandy. The Vor had thought of everything.
A space built to hold 150 people was more than roomy enough for one lone nuclear scientist.
Two seamen silently brought in the canister and started fixing it to special brackets in the wall. They spoke quietly to each other as they worked. Arkady recognized a few words from the many operas he’d listened to.
They were speaking Italian, though not the Italian of Verdi. It was a rough dialect of Italian, probably Pugliese, the language of the Sacra Corona Unita, the local mafia of the area right across the straits, Apulia.
The Vor had been making strategic alliances all over the world. Indeed, right now, he probably had diplomatic relations with every criminal group on earth—like a potentate—which was what he was—with embassies spanning the globe. Vassily was the new Tamburlaine. On his way to becoming the most powerful man on earth. It was Arkady’s duty and pleasure to help the Vor to this position.
The two seamen departed and Arkady went back above deck. He walked to the railing and stood for a moment. The familiar scent of pine overrode the unfamiliar scent of the sea. He’d only seen the sea once before in his life, on a family trip to Crimea. That was before his father was taken away and destroyed in a Siberian camp. They never found out which one. Arkady had no idea where his father’s remains lay.
Arkady was second-generation zek. There were some families who had lost a member every generation since the Revolution.
He pulled in a deep breath, savoring the night air, before closing himself again down below. He knew the trip would take around a week and this would be his last chance to see the stars and smell the sweetness of fresh air for a while.
He pulled out the blue cell phone, punched a number in, and waited. There was a delay as he imagined the signal bouncing off a satellite and down to a small town in Vermont.
“Hello.” Arkady’s heart leaped at the sound of Vassily’s voice. It was as strong as ever, even though it was three o’clock in the morning, Vor time. His master was well, but not sleeping.
No zek ever slept easy. The memories came with sleep.
Though no one was listening, Arkady curled around the cell and lowered his voice. “It’s me. So far so good. Things are going well. The sea is calm.”
“Good. Very good.” And Vassily cut the connection.
Arkady smiled and leaned over the railing. The moon left a bright path to the horizon. Just a few short miles away was Italy. He’d never been to Italy but he loved art and music and had always dreamed of seeing Florence and Venice.
There were still 100 canisters of cesium 137 left back in Krasnoyarsk and Vassily had plans for every single one. For a total of a billion dollars. But after they were all gone, Arkady would ask the Vor’s permission to spend time in Italy. Perhaps be the Vor’s ambassador to the various mafias in the country.