Stoney Compton - Russian Amerika

“Why did they hire a boat to bring you to New Arkhangel when flying would have been much more expedient? Why did Karpov hire me?” He felt angry.

“Why, at my age, is everything in my life suddenly out of control?”

“I cannot tell you more than I already have. If you do not wish to face the Okhana we have two options. We can turn ourselves in and tell the truth, which would mean the gallows for both of us—”

“For stopping him from raping you? For saving us all from drowning because he imperiled this craft?”

“They rarely believe survivors who do not bring back a corpse.”

“He fell over the side. We were in a storm, right?”

“Or we can go to California, ask for political asylum, and start our lives over.”

“Political asylum? Who are we to ask for that?”

“I’m an espionage agent for Imperial Russia, you are my lover. They would give us asylum.”

He allowed himself to think about it, to savor the idea like a bite of potato salad or a mouthful of good ale. His marriage was finished and he didn’t want to be in the same small town where Kazina would be showing off her new Russian husband. He would forfeit the house but if the authorities refused to believe them he would also forfeit his life.

He had to depend on Valari. Of course, she already said she owed him, but he couldn’t bring himself to trust her. A small part of his brain pointed out that this would be a new adventure, something he had sorely missed since leaving the Troika Guard.

He couldn’t go on smuggling forever.

“We’ll need money,” he said.

“Do you have any?”

“Yes. I’ve put away half my earnings for three years now. At first it was for my children…” He turned his head and stared toward the overhead, focused on an image infinitely far away. “Then it was for my escape.”

“How much?”

“Enough to live on for a year.”

“It’s on the boat?”

“No. It’s in my workshop behind my house at Akku.”

“Where your wife is,” Valari said.

“And her lover,” he agreed.

“Check the weather,” she said, smiling.

“I don’t understand it,” he said, staring at the high cloud cover where blue peeked through in spots. “Yesterday the radio said it would be worse by this morning.”

She laughed behind him. “How often are they correct?”

He grinned and snapped on the radio. The low-pressure system had inexplicably shifted far to the north and west where the storm now pounded from Kodiak Island to sprawling St. Nicholas, the huge military bastion of Russian Amerika on Cook’s Inlet.

Good, I hope the Russian Amerika Company offices all wash out to sea.

They ran north as fast as he dared push the boat. Grisha settled into an apprehensive anticipation. Something about his feelings struck a chord in his memory.

Suddenly he was again a frightened five-year-old, watching his drunken father beat his mother. His mother grunted with the blows, trying to cover her face and chest. Grisha’s fear for his mother finally overcame selfpreservation and he attacked his father.

He pounded on his father with small fists. The next thing he knew, his mother was bathing his face with cold water. Pitr Grigorievich had knocked him out, realized the monstrousness of his actions, and fled into the night.

They had waited together, fearful and expectant, for the man to return and for it all to begin again. Which it did.

Grisha shook his head at the vividness of the memory. He knew he still harbored old anger for his father, but he thought the fear long vanquished. And how was this like that?

They spent the night at transient moorage in a small settlement on Mitkof Island. Fuel cost more there, but Grisha didn’t want to run into anyone he knew. Not that Valari let him get that far from the double bunk in the bow and her insatiable needs.

By 0900 the next morning they were on the last leg of their trip. The fair weather held for the entire day and they made good time. Akku Channel lay quiet and empty in the late evening when they rounded the south end of Douglas Island.

The stamp mills sat silent, something that only happened on Christmas Day and the Czar’s birthday. The last glow of light reflected on the water. Suddenly fireworks shouted across the sky as they neared town.

“What are they celebrating, a local holiday?” Valari asked.

´Grisha thought hard. “No. There’s no holiday in early July. I don’t know what’s going on.”

He slowed as they passed under the bridge, but no patrol boats lurked in their usual spots. They idled up to the fuel dock, and he tied the boat while she stepped into the office.

“There’s nobody here.”

Laughter and music drifted down from the Harbor Hotel. Fireworks popped and whistled above them, the acrid stink of gunpowder drifted on the air. Grisha shrugged and filled the fuel tanks.

“This bothers me,” Valari said. “I want to know what’s happening.”

He moved Pravda over to her normal berth as full darkness settled over an unusually boisterous Akku.

“You wait here. I’ll get the money, and we’ll go look at California.”

“Be careful, Grigoriy,” she whispered, then kissed him ardently.

He hurried away, wondering where they would be a year from now. From half a block away he could see that every light in his house blazed. People milled about, laughing and drinking.

A party. She’s actually having a party .

He crept close enough to see Kazina radiant on the arm of Kommander Fedorov. She wore a dress new to him, and the kommander stood resplendent in full dress uniform. They made a handsome couple.

Surprisingly, the teeth didn’t bite at him. He tensed in the old way, but they were gone.

It’s over, and I don’t care anymore , he thought. A new adventure waits for me .

The sense of freedom left him giddy. He hurried around the house to his well-built shop. Quietly he slipped in through the door and stopped, pulse drumming in his head.

He wasn’t alone. Barely discernible noises exuded from the dark, sawdust-scented space. He peered at the workbench but could see nothing in the dim light other than a few tools out of place.

Three large electric saws dominated the center of the room. Sorted wood filled racks against the back wall, and his drafting table and books loomed on the left. The only thing against the right wall was his cot—

“Oh, Georg! Oh, my god!” exclaimed a young, feminine voice from the cot. Grisha grinned despite himself and moved quietly off to the left.

He had hidden the money in his file cabinet. Just a few more steps.

His foot hit a can of nails and knocked it over like a thunderclap in a hospital ward.

The woman gasped, and a male voice boomed out, “Who’s there? Identify yourself. I’m armed!”

“Sorry, friend,” Grisha said in a normal tone of voice. “I didn’t realize there was anyone in here until after I had shut the door. Then I just tried to get my property without bothering you.”

“I didn’t hear anyone come in!” the man said.

The woman giggled. “I wonder why!”

Now Grisha could smell sex overlaying the sawdust. He thought of Valari and felt urgency.

“Well, just stay there, and I’ll be out of your life in a moment.”

“Wait,” the man said. “Who are you? Our hostess said this was her husband’s shop.”

“I’m the husband,” he said.

“But then you have just returned from New Archangel, yes?”

“Yes,” Grisha echoed, surprised that Kazina had even remembered his destination, and more surprised she told anyone else. “Why do you ask?”

“What is the celebration like over there?”

“Celebration? What celebration?”