Morgan Stone - The Russian Factor

“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.”

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.

The scooter kid’s appearance was the first sign we’d run out of time. Until then, I’d hidden from reality under an avalanche of incessant boat work, heat, pain, filth, panic, expense, and frustration. I deliberately ignored the ticking clock. Suddenly everything was at stake and we had to leave. I knew nothing about planning for the kind of time, distance or conditions we had to cover, or how to survive in an environment I knew nothing about. I was in trouble and Anna was too – only she didn’t know it yet.

I ran back to Shadow, grabbed Anna and we made our way to the sprawling bazaar. As usual, we were hounded by desperate salesman asking where we came from, how we were feeling, and how we could pass up their deals of a lifetime. I grabbed a potato from a bin. Tossing it from hand to hand asked, “So, food for the next three hundred days or so, you came up with a menu, what do we need?”

Anna snatched the potato from mid air and put it back. “Stuff that keeps a long time. Potatoes are good, but this just isn’t going to work. We need stuff in cans. A lot of stuff.” She looked around, distracted. “And how are we going to get it all back to the boat, Jess. There’s no way we can do all this today.”

Wandering by a farmer’s wagon piled high with root vegetables, Anna snapped her head around and froze. “Look,” she whispered. “It’s my cousins. What are they doing here?” She was right. A couple of muscle-bound dudes were hanging around a tacky T-shirt shop trying to look inconspicuous. They were clearly Russians; self-consciously insecure and clad in flip-flops, loud low-rider shorts, t-shirts, and mirrored wrap-around sunglasses. On their belts they had the obligatory man-purses.

“Shit! do you see your mother?” I moved behind the wagon and we sidled into the crowd.

“No mother, just the cousins. Could their being here be a coincidence?”

“Right! In town for a little T-shirt shopping in the bazaar, I suppose. Damn, they’ve bloody been watching us.”

“If they see us, why not try to catch me?”

“I’d say they don’t want to or they would have, besides, this isn’t Russia. Maybe they’re not ready to kidnap a woman in a crowded bazaar. Could be they’re waiting for a better setup. Maybe they’re keeping an eye on us until somebody else gets here.” Obsessed with the damn boat, I sure hadn’t seen that coming. What an idiot I’d been! Maybe that Russian madam, who had it in for Anna, found out just who was looking for her.

We slipped back into the bazaar. Narrow streets shaded by awnings, clogged with shoppers and reckless scooter drivers. I was sure the cousins were right behind, but controlled the urge to turn around and confirm it. We came to a street filled with schoolchildren in matching blue and white uniforms and ducked into a store opposite a partially completed building draped in a three-story portrait of Ataturk gazing heavenward.

Several women watched me scoping the store’s entrance. Anna faded into aisles overhung with piles of bottom end consumer goods. Seconds passed. Then minutes, and nothing happened. I was vaguely aware of Anna speaking English somewhere in the back. When she approached, she had the phone to her ear and a reasonably nice looking set of place-mats in her free hand.