Clearly untouched by their anxiety about Brian, Lin took time to blow his nose, fastidiously fold the handkerchief, and return it to a zippered pocket of his coat before answering the question. “You must have read some of the newspaper stories about him. Spain… Africa… all over, he’s been risking his life for a lark.”
“So?”
“Suicidal,” Lin said, as though it should have been obvious to them.
Harry was astonished and not a little angry. “You’re saying he stayed behind to die?”
Lin shrugged.
Harry didn’t even need to think about that. “Good God, George, not Brian. What’s the matter with you?”
“He might have been hurt,” Pete said. “A fall.”
Claude Jobert said, “Fell, hit his head, unable to cry out, and we were so eager to get out of there and back here, we didn’t notice.”
Harry was skeptical.
“It’s possible,” Pete insisted.
Dubious, Harry said, “Maybe. All right, we’ll go back and look. You and me, Pete. Two snowmobiles.”
Roger stepped forward. “I’m going with you.”
“Two can handle it,” Harry said, quickly fixing his goggles in place.
“I insist,” Breskin said. “Look, Brian handled himself damn well out there on the ice today. He didn’t hesitate when he had to go over that cliff to get a line around George. I’d have thought about it twice myself. But he didn’t. He just went. And if it was me in trouble now, he’d do whatever he could. I know it. So you can count me in on this whether or not you need me.”
As far as Harry could remember, that was the longest speech that Roger Breskin had made in months. He was impressed. “Okay, then. You’ll come along. You’re too damn big to argue with.”
The Ilya Pogodin’s cook was its greatest treasure. His father had been the head chef at the National Restaurant in Moscow, and from his papa he had learned to perform miracles with food that made the Bible story of loaves and fishes seem like an unremarkable exercise. The fare at his table was the best in the submarine service.
He had already begun to make fish selianka for the first course of the evening meal. White fish. Onions. Bay leaves. Egg whites. The aroma drifted from the galley past the communications center, then filled the control room.
When Gorov entered the room, Sergei Belyaev, the diving officer on duty, said, “Captain, will you help me talk sense to Leonid?” He gestured at a young seaman first class who was monitoring the alarm board.
Gorov was in a hurry, but he did not want Belyaev to sense his tension. “What’s the trouble?”
Belyaev grimaced. “Leonid’s on the first mess shift, and I’m on the fifth.”
“Ah.”
“I’ve promised if he’ll change shifts with me, I’ll fix him up with an absolutely gorgeous blonde in Kaliningrad. The woman is nothing short of spectacular, I swear to you. Breasts like melons. She could arouse a granite statue. But poor, dumb Leonid won’t deal with me.”
Smiling, Gorov said, “Of course he won’t. What woman could be more exciting than the dinner prepared for us? Besides, who would be simple-minded enough to believe that an absolutely gorgeous blonde with breasts like melons would have anything to do with you, Sergei Belyaev?”
Laughter echoed in the low-ceilinged chamber.
Grinning broadly, Belyaev said, “Perhaps I should offer him a few rubles instead.”
“Much more realistic,” Gorov said. “Better yet, U.S. dollars if you have any.” He walked to the chart table, sat on one of the stools, and put a folded printout in front of Emil Zhukov. It was the message that he had run through the coder and communications computer only a few minutes ago. “Something else for you to read,” he said quietly.
Zhukov pushed aside his novel and adjusted his wire-rimmed eyeglasses, which had slid down on his long nose. He unfolded the paper.
MESSAGE
NAVAL MINISTRY
TIME: 1900 MOSCOW
FROM: DUTY OFFICER
TO: CAPTAIN N. GOROV
SUBJECT: YOUR LAST TRANSMISSION #34-D
MESSAGE BEGINS:
YOUR REQUEST UNDER CONSIDERATION BY ADMIRALTY STOP CONDITIONAL PERMISSION GRANTED STOP MAKE NECESSARY COURSE CHANGES STOP CONFIRMATION OR CANCELLATION OF PERMISSION WILL BE TRANSMITTED TO YOU AT 1700 HOURS YOUR TIME STOP