Christine was at the stove, tending to a pot of chicken soup, when she glanced over to find her patient awake.
“Well, hello,” she said cheerily. “Glad you’re back. I thought you might sleep all the way to Portugal.”
The man seemed bewildered. Christine sat next to him on the bunk, showing both a smile and an interest that were completely genuine. “How are you feeling?” she asked.
He propped himself on his elbows, grimacing at the slow, tentative effort.
“Easy.” She held out a hand and introduced herself, “Christine.”
He took her hand and responded in a raspy voice, “Nils.”
“Nils? Swedish?”
He nodded, “Ja, Svensk.”
Christine gestured toward herself and said, “American.” Christine was surprised that he apparently spoke no English. The few Scandinavians she’d met before had all had a working grasp on her own language. As he eased himself into a sitting position on the bunk, she went to the galley and drew a glass of water.
“You’ll need a lot of this,” she said, holding it out.
He took it and emptied the glass in a matter of seconds. Christine quickly offered a refill as she studied her patient. There were a lot of questions to ask, but she had no idea how to go about it.
“I’m a doctor,” she offered.
He showed no trace of understanding. She slowly pulled back the sheet that covered his chest. “Doctor,” she said again.
He seemed unbothered as she began her examination. First she checked the wound on his ribcage. It looked no worse, but a new dressing was in order. Christine found herself talking out loud in her best hospital voice. “Lie still.” He might not understand English, but all the world’s health professionals spoke with the same antiseptic, no-nonsense tone. That much he’d recognize.
“It doesn’t look infected, which is good because this hospital’s pharmacy is not very well stocked.”
Christine removed the old tape and gauze, and replaced it with new, wishing she had better supplies. She wondered how he’d gotten such a nasty cut. After changing the dressing, she looked at the blistered skin on his arms and face. She wanted to clean the worst areas, but without the right sterile conditions she might do more harm than good. Christine tried to imagine how painful it must have been — salt water constantly washing over wounds like that. His face was shadowed by a few day’s growth of beard, but shaving would be out of the question for some time. Aside from the exposure, he still presented pale and drawn.
As she studied him, Christine couldn’t help noticing his eyes. They were a stark blue-gray, and something about them broke her concentration. They held a strength, an intensity that was not at all consistent with his physical condition. Christine found herself locked to his gaze and was suddenly unnerved. She turned away abruptly, trying to think of something to say to this strange person with whom she shared no common language.
“All in all, I think you’ll be in good shape after a couple weeks of R and R.”
He handed her the empty glass and Christine decided to wait fifteen minutes before the next refill. She went to the galley, poured a short cup of chicken soup from the pot on the stove, and gave it to him. He took a cautious sip, smiled gratefully, then went at it with relish. The doctor was encouraged. Recuperation was under way. The only thing to temper her satisfaction was the nagging possibility that he might not have been alone. She decided to try again.
“Any others on Polaris Venture?”
He gave her a quizzical look and tried to mimic the words, “Polars Venure?”
She sighed. She had assumed that was the name of his ship — it was stenciled on the cooler he’d been hanging onto. But wouldn’t he recognize the name, in any language? Christine threw a frustrated glance at her communications panel. Right now it didn’t matter what the ship’s name was, since there was no way of reporting it. She needed a radio, but with one glass of water he’d shorted out half the rack. Incredible. The two-way was dead, so no talking on the ship-to-ship bands. The sat-com was out. The only radio that worked was the little battery-operated weather receiver. She wasn’t great with electronics, but tonight she’d make an effort to get one of the transceivers operational. It crossed her mind that his ship might have put out a distress signal itself before going down. Christine had seen no evidence of a search, though. No boats, no planes. They were out here by themselves.
He finished his soup and handed her the cup. She considered offering more, but before she knew it he’d fallen back and closed his eyes. Christine poured a bowl for herself and studied her patient. Within a few minutes he was motionless, his breathing rhythmic. Over the course of the day she had checked on him hourly. He’d been in serious shape when he first came aboard, and Christine was worried he might take a turn for the worse. Now she had him eating and taking in liquids. The blisters on his face and arms still looked raw and painful, but, all in all, he seemed to be doing remarkably well. Christine pulled the blanket up over his chest. He seemed peaceful now, but she remembered the look that had been in his eyes only minutes ago. What had been so strange about it?
You’re a curious one, she thought. The most curious man I’ve ever plucked out of the ocean.
The hastily convened session of Israel’s Cabinet brought twenty people into place around a big mahogany meeting table. They were a keen mix of the Prime Minister’s staunchest political allies and enemies. Most were members of the Knesset who had been elevated, by way of partisan jousting, to Ministerial status. The only person not to have a regular seat at the table was the Director of Mossad. Anton Bloch sat in the chair of the absent Minister of Communications, who was in Argentina and completely irretrievable. There was also a stranger seated against the back wall, flanked by two empty chairs, which served to emphasize his isolation.
When Benjamin Jacobs came into the room, they all remained seated. His predecessor would have expected everyone to rise, but this Prime Minister wasn’t one for formalities. He took a seat between Sonja Franks, the Foreign Minister, and Ehud Zak, the Minister of Finance.
“Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen,” Jacobs said, his tone implying otherwise. He spoke in English. Customarily such meetings were conducted in Hebrew, but English was understood all around the table, and most guessed, correctly, that it was chosen for the benefit of their guest. Jacobs decided with a quiet survey that about half of those present had not been here for the previous meeting on the day’s subject. The Prime Minister knew he’d have hell to pay for that, but he was ready.
“I’m sure you’ve all recognized one stranger to this Cabinet,” Jacobs said, gesturing toward the man against the far wall who wore an unfamiliar military uniform.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I present General Wilm Van Ruut of the South African National Defense Force.”
The South African stood to attention and nodded formally. He was a tall, gaunt man with bony features and a handlebar mustache. Van Ruut sat back down without speaking.
Jacobs pressed ahead, “I recognize the irregularity of having someone like General Van Ruut at a Cabinet meeting, but I think the reasons for his being here will soon be clear. One week ago, the Director of Mossad approached me for the approval of a mission, an irregular operation, to say the least, and one that had a brief window of opportunity. There was risk involved. However, in my opinion, inaction carried even greater risk. I called an immediate Cabinet meeting and, after some discussion, the mission was given a green light. Since a number of you were not here that day, I’ll let Anton fill you in.”
The burly Director of Mossad went to the opposite end of the table and everyone rotated their attention. Anton Bloch, having always been an operational type, bore a healthy dislike of politicians. He looked like a man headed to the dentist’s chair.