“Well, they might just be grateful — getting that conniving Aussie and the Russian madam out of their territory — but you do need their help.”
Tom had a voice that really carried. As he stopped speaking, we heard Erdem’s tentative knock. “Hello, Mr. Tom, that is you?”
“Yeah, I’m here, let’s get on with it.”
Kemal, a jolly, strapping man, was the first of the Turks to show up on Shadow. He didn’t speak a word of English but somehow found an easy rapport with Anna. She watched him work, passed him tools. Efficiently, he cut away Harvey’s failed experiment in stainless steel to make way for a radar arch — a fancy name for a sturdy bridge on which to mount antennas, solar panels, and yes indeed, even radar.
The gulet, encircled with yellow police tape, had been quiet since the arrests. “Too quiet.” I half joked. Despite the protection we were getting from members of a secretive Turkish organization of businessmen Omar belonged to, the Russian madam’s connections and her unsavory clientele could mean really serious trouble.
“Call someone. Like you did in Odessa.” Anna suggested.
“There’s no one left to call,” I sighed. “When you blew cover in Kiev, at least I knew with what and whom I was dealing. Now I’m groping in the dark. If she’s big-time, connected, we’re dead.”
“But Jess, even if she’s small-time, on her own, she is Russian. If she has a tooth on us, is really pissed off, I expect she will try to hurt or kill us. In Russia you can get knifed for your watch. Here she can do whatever she wants, and she doesn’t have to have a roof.”
“Roof?”
“Protection, criminal organization, ‘syndicate,’ as you call it.”
Tom kept his promise, helping with the retrofit by offering his tools, library and advice. Anna’s feelings about him had changed. She trusted him, followed him, learned from him as she embraced the new world of sailing terms and responsibilities she was taking on.
I did everything I could myself with what was available. My father had been fiercely independent, instilling in me the same ethic of self-reliance when he wasn’t drunk. During summers on the family hobby farm and working together on do-it-yourself projects, he had endowed me with the belief that no matter what, when you put your mind to it, nothing is impossible. That attitude had gotten me into trouble more than once, but it was serving me well readying the yacht. With the help of that small army of dedicated Turkish tradesmen, it was looking more and more like we’d be good-to-go before Anna’s visa ran out, or someone dangerous showed up gunning for us.
Shadow came together with astonishing speed, impressing even the technicians working on the complex installations. What felt like miles of wiring and hose was constantly being yanked and shoved through crevasses by the Turkish technicians. Somehow they remained remarkably cheerful despite the stifling heat and cramped spaces.
Sailing lessons took place whenever the yacht wasn’t too dismantled to take out. On the sixth of those sailing trips, Sinem handed Anna a winch handle and said, “You’re ready. I am convinced you and Jess can sail this yacht.”
“What do you mean, you and Jess?” I asked.
“Come on, Jess. I know I was teaching both of you.” Sinem said. “You can drop the charade.”
“I didn’t know that.” Anna looked at me.
“You’re not the first couple I’ve trained. You probably won’t be the last.”
Anna gaped at Sinem.
“Anna! It’s okay. Jess can sail. So can you!”
“You think we’re a couple?” Anna asked.
“Of course. You’re not hiding it. You work great together. The two of you make one good sailor. If you weren’t doing this together, I wouldn’t say you’re ready to go.”
I reached for Anna. She skooched as far away from me as the cockpit allowed.
Sinem noticed. “It’s okay Anna. You don’t have to hide. Especially from me! You love each other… Girls, I’m jealous.” With that, she cut us loose. Sailing school was out.
I spent hours with Tom going over charts. Initially, my ruler-straight lines through bodies of water included a route around Cape Horn — the wrong way — against the wind and current. Tom was not impressed, and as charts with greater detail arrived by courier, the long lines eventually threaded through the Panama Canal. A crap-shoot because of Anna’s passport. Nonetheless, Tom thought that, with some finessing, the Panama Canal might be a possibility. Denied entry, we’d turn around and head back out. We’d fight the trade wind back to the West Indies, hang a right into the South Atlantic, round the Horn, cross both the South and North Pacific in one leg then make a beeline for Vancouver. It was still less of a haul than the Vendee Globe, after all.
The one real problem in planning the route was getting charts for anything past the Mediterranean. Tom, antsy to see us on our way, promised to pull a few strings to get us into Gibraltar for the charts, provisions and fuel we’d need for the Atlantic crossing. “Anywhere on the road away from Russia and Turkey is better than sitting here! Besides,” he told us over and over, “Gibraltar is on the way and it’s a good place to stop and see how serious you really are about crossing the ocean. That is, of course, if you make it across the Mediterranean first.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
Shadow was nearly ready. Just one thing left: a piece of satellite communication equipment Harvey ordered. The thing had been held up by a customs official angling for a bribe. “A very modest and most necessary fee,” the kid on the scooter assured me. Until he’d shown up at just shy of 7:00 am, demanding some ungodly sum of cash, I’d pretty much forgotten about it. “Hey lady. You need this. You are leaving Turkey and better to pay to me than to my uncle.” Astride the scooter, engine idling, he gawked at me in my night robe. The kid’s timing was way too serendipitous. How’d he know we were about to leave? When things don’t add up in places like Turkey, better check to see if you still have your wallet.
Had someone been on board? I forgot the kid and dove below deck for our passports. Still there, but my blood ran cold when I saw that Anna’s Turkish visa had expired the day before. Maybe scooter kid’s crack of dawn visit wasn’t an accident. “Oh hell, Anna! This isn’t good. Your visa wasn’t for two months, it was for sixty days.”
“You mean it has expired?” Anna stuck a hand out from under the covers and snatched her passport.
“Yup, yesterday. Hold the fort. I hope Tom’s on his boat.”
“Fort? What it is, this fort?”
“The boat, this boat, our boat, our home. The very vessel in which you entrust your life and upon which we’re going to make our last stand. That fort!”
Anna crossed her eyes and drilled at her temple with an index finger.
I’d never told Tom our whole story. He hadn’t asked, but I suspected he knew more about our situation than he let on. “Aw shit, Jess. Sure thing, it’s a con-job, but they’ve got you over the barrel. You better pay that bribe, just as polite as can be, and get the hell out before they come for Anna.” He reached into his sink for a crusty mug. “It might not be as neat and tidy as putting the squeeze on you for that satellite transceiver, but I’d bet my bottom dollar, Anna’s a way bigger prize.”
I left Tom on his boat with his so-called coffee.
Turkey is one of those countries, usually autocratic and endemically corrupt, which require exit-visas, meaning permission to leave. The only way out with Anna’s expired visa was illegally. How crucial satellite communication, weather, and navigation were to our surviving ocean crossings was something I had to weigh against the risk of approaching the agent to pay the bribe. It was a moot decision, given I’d never been to sea. I had, on the other hand, dealt with crooked scheming bastards. At the first whiff of trouble I would ditch the satellite gear and we’d make a run for international waters.