A numerical keypad on the wall next to the hatch — ostensibly requiring an access code — prevented him from entering the clean room. And he decided to leave before the guard returned.
Arnsbarger was with the Russian in his cabin. The seaman pulled the bottle of slivovitz from a hiding place beneath his bunk, held it aloft triumphantly, and headed out the door.
“Hey, where you going?” Arnsbarger asked.
“What about your friend?”
“Sound asleep,” Arnsbarger said, hiding the surge of adrenalin that hit him. “All that jogging knocked the shit out of him. Come on, let’s drink that here.”
“Maybe he woke up,” the Russian insisted, heading down the passageway. Arnsbarger was right behind him.
In the bow, Lowell had eluded the guard, scurried up the companion-way, and started the long walk back on the main deck.
Arnsbarger and the Russian had come from crew quarters in the stern, crossed the deck, and climbed the companionway to the guest compartments.
The Russian opened the door and entered, then looked back at Arnsbarger.
“He’s not here,” he said suspiciously. “I thought you said he was asleep?”
“Guess he must’ve gone to the head,” Arnsbarger bluffed. The bedding was appropriately mussed, but he could see the Russian wondering what, if anything, was going on. “You going to crack that open or hug it?” he asked, trying to keep him from going to look for Lowell. He flipped up the foldaway table and set two cups on it. “There we go,” he said, taking the bottle. He pulled the cork, filled the cups with the clear, thin brandy, and offered one to the Russian who shook no warily. He was about to leave the compartment to search for Lowell when the lanky Californian entered from the companionway.
“Here he is,” Arnsbarger said, concealing his relief and, using his eyes to warn Lowell, added, “My friend, here, brought us a little nightcap.”
“Great,” Lowell said as he took off his slicker and dropped it on a hook.
“Does he always wear his slicker to the head?” the Russian asked facetiously.
Arnsbarger forced a chuckle.
“I went for a walk on deck,” Lowell replied nonchalantly. He fell on a bunk flicking a nervous look to Arnsbarger, who returned it confirming the Russian was suspicious.
“You have to try some of this,” Arnsbarger said, fetching a cup for Lowell.
“Yeah, maybe it’ll help me crash.”
“Crash?” the Russian wondered.
“Sleep, I haven’t been able to get to sleep.”
The Russian’s eyes widened in alarm. He shifted his look to Arnsbarger. Lowell didn’t understand the reaction, but Arnsbarger did. Not fifteen minutes earlier he’d said Lowell was sound asleep. Now, he knew the Russian was thinking about that — thinking that Arnsbarger had lied.
“What do you call this stuff, again?” Arnsbarger asked, trying to bluff past it. “Kivowitz?”
The Russian didn’t answer. He had stepped to Lowell’s slicker and was running a fingertip through the drops of seawater which told him Lowell had been to the bow — which confirmed his suspicion Arnsbarger’s lie was a cover — which meant the Americans were up to no good. He looked at them accusingly, and for a brief instant, all three froze in anticipation. Then the Russian bolted from the cabin and ran down the passageway.
“Shit!” Arnsbarger said. A look of terror flicked between him and Lowell — neither would leave the Kira alive if the Russian revealed what he knew.
Arnsbarger grabbed the bottle of slivovitz and shoved it at Lowell. “Hang on to this!” he said as he ran past him into the passageway after the Russian, and, calling back, added, “And go barf on the deck!”
He was thinking, he’d catch the Russian and throw him into the sea. They’d empty the slivovitz, plant the bottle in the lookout station, and return to the cabin. At watch change, the Russian would be reported missing and the bottle and the vomit would be found, leading the captain to assume that he’d been drinking on duty, stumbled to the side to vomit, and fell overboard.
The Russian ran down the companionway onto the main deck. Arnsbarger came out the hatch onto the landing and jumped over the railing onto his back. They both went sprawling across the deck. Arnsbarger got to his feet. The Russian charged into his midsection, driving him backwards into the railing — and over it.
Arnsbarger caught one of the pipe rail posts in the crook of an elbow as he went over. He was dangling high above the sea, clawing at the deck with his other hand to get back up. The Russian slammed a foot into his wrist. Arnsbarger lunged, wrapped an arm around his legs, and tried to yank him into the sea.
The Russian went sliding feet first beneath the steel cable that ran between the pipe rail posts. Both hands grasped it as he went under. He came to an abrupt stop hanging over the side, his arms fully extended, his back against the hull.
The abrupt action had torn Arnsbarger’s arm loose from the post. His fingers hooked the edge of the deck, stopping his fall. For an instant, the two hung there side by side, their faces inches apart, glaring at each other. The Russian was just starting to pull himself up when Arnsbarger lost his grip and clawed at him frantically, trying to get a handhold as he fell. His fingers shredded the Russian’s shirt and hooked behind his belt. The shock of the sudden stop and the added weight caused the cable to begin cutting into the Russian’s hands. He started kicking at Arnsbarger to knock him loose.
Lowell was coming down the companionway with the bottle of liquor when the two went over the side. He ran to the railing, flattened himself on the deck, and reached down past the Russian, groping for Arnsbarger.
Arnsbarger tightened his grasp on the Russian’s belt and pulled himself upward. Then, holding his position with one hand, he released the other and reached for Lowell’s. Their fingertips inched closer and closer together, finally touching, their hands now tantalizingly close to grasping.
Lowell was about to make a lunge for Arnsbarger’s wrist when a few crewmen who had heard the noise arrived next to him.
Arnsbarger’s eyes widened when he saw them. There was only one way to prevent the Russian from being rescued or shouting out what he had heard.
Lowell saw Arnsbarger’s reaction, and was thinking, No! Dammit, no! when Arnsbarger withdrew his hand and making a fist smashed it into the Russian’s groin. The seaman bellowed, and let go of the cable.
Lowell watched helplessly as the two men dropped out of sight into the darkness, and into the sea.
Chapter Forty-two
The morning after Melanie mailed the letter to Deschin, she took a map from the Intourist desk in the Berlin’s lobby and told herself she was going sight-seeing. Most tourists head directly for Red Square. Melanie made a beeline for Number 10 Kuybysheva Street, but the numeral was nowhere to be found. The street was lined with mundane government buildings. Each had a sign, and indeed, one read Ministry of Culture. But which one? Like all signs in Moscow, they were written in Cyrillic, which bears little resemblance to the Roman alphabet. The few characters that do are unrelated in sound: B is pronounced as “V,” E as “Y,” H as “N,” P as “R,” X as “K,” which made communicating next to impossible.
Melanie passed the building a half dozen times before a passerby finally identified it for her. She stared at the severe monolith thinking Deschin was in there somewhere and wondering if her letter had been delivered yet. Chauffeured black Chaikas and Volgas arrived and departed through gates patrolled by Red Army guards, giving rise to hopes that she might glimpse him. But to Melanie’s dismay the passengers were always tucked in the corner of the backseat, shrunken into turned-up collars, faces obscured by borsalinos and newspapers, as if hiding from someone, or something, she thought. Her hopes swiftly faded.