He set the phone on the bedcovers and looked out a narrow rectangular window, high up the stucco wall. Through it, beams of moonlight streamed, the blue-gray the only light in the room.
9
The following morning, Jenkins awoke to bright sunshine, and the light revealed the window to be covered with grime. He checked his watch and calculated that he’d slept nearly twelve hours, another reminder that he was no longer young. He dressed and walked upstairs into a quiet house. Demir sat at the table, speaking with his two sons. It looked almost as if they’d never left their places from the prior evening.
“We thought maybe you were going to sleep all day,” Yusuf said.
“I feel like I did,” Jenkins said. “I’m a little groggy.”
“Sit down. Have some breakfast,” Demir said. “The tea will help to wake you.”
Along with tea, Esma again served a mountain of food—plates of rye bread, several cheeses, honey, and jam. On another plate she placed tomatoes, cucumbers, and hard-boiled eggs. Demir poured the red tea into Jenkins’s glass, and Yusuf handed him the cubes of sugar. This time Jenkins added two and stirred to break up the rocks.
“We have discussed your proposal,” Demir said.
Jenkins set down his spoon. His eyes searched the three men but found no indication of an answer.
“I was glad to hear that your return has good intentions. For this, God will bless you.” Demir looked to his sons, then to Jenkins. “We have decided to take you back to Russia. But it will be expensive.”
“As you said, money is not an issue in these circumstances,” Jenkins said, relieved.
“The extra money is not for me, but for another vessel. I will need help keeping the Russian Coast Guard occupied. We cannot be confronted.”
“A diversion,” Jenkins said.
Demir nodded. “Today I am making phone calls to see if anyone is willing.”
“Assuming someone is, when would we leave?”
“Tonight. There is a storm brewing. The waters will be rough, but hopefully that means fewer Russian patrol boats.”
“How big a storm?” Jenkins asked.
“Big enough to deter them, but we have fished in worse weather. If I am successful finding a . . . diversion, we leave at dusk. Dress warmly. It will be very cold.”
At dusk, having found another boat to serve as a diversion, Demir took no chances of Jenkins being seen leaving the house. Jenkins sat low in the back of the family’s windowless van, and when they reached the marina dock, Yusuf wheeled over a basket. Jenkins tumbled inside and Yusuf covered him with blankets and fishing supplies. As Emir and Yusuf wheeled the basket down the dock to the Esma, they bantered with other fishermen.
When alerted, Jenkins climbed from the basket into the pilothouse. With deft precision that defied the haphazard mooring of the other ships, Demir and his sons guided the trawler through the marina maze into the Bosphorus strait. Jenkins stood inside the pilothouse, warmed by the air from a space heater and struggling to get his sea legs while watching the lights on the moored tankers drift past. He didn’t know Demir’s plan for getting him back into Russia; he’d left the details to the old fisherman and smuggler.
“The fishermen say the possibility of bad weather remains,” Demir said, replacing the microphone in the clip of the radio mounted over his head. “We will have to be careful. If the storm strengthens, we will have to turn back.”
They passed beneath the enormous white suspension bridge spanning the two landmasses. The last time Jenkins had done so, the bridge had represented the entrance to the Bosphorus strait and, symbolically at least, Jenkins’s escape from Russia. Not this night.
Jenkins held out his hand and was pleased it remained steady. The last time he’d been in Russia he’d developed a tremor, what he thought could be the start of Parkinson’s, but which a doctor said had been caused by situational anxiety and stress.
When he looked up, he noted Demir watching him from his position at the wheel. “The weather is good for now,” Demir said. “You can lie down if you like.”
“I’ll keep you company, if that is okay.”
Demir nodded. “It is okay.”
Yusuf and Emir spelled their father at the wheel. In between, they drank tea and played cribbage. Waves soon began to crash over the bow, and the boat shook and shuddered from the impact.
“The weather will get worse,” Demir said from behind the wheel. “It is coming from the northeast.”
“That is Mother Russia trying to blow you back to America,” Emir said, looking up from the cribbage table at Jenkins with a mischievous smile.
“Can we make it?” Jenkins said.
“We have fished in worse weather,” Emir said, trying again to summon a fisherman’s bravado.
“It may present a challenge getting you to shore, however,” Demir said. He barked at his sons. “We are entering Russian waters. No more games.”
His sons stored the cribbage board in a cabinet and locked the doors shut, then went about ensuring everything was lashed down or stowed.
“We must be diligent,” Demir said. “Unlike before, there is no fog in which to hide.”
A short time later, the radar screen emitted a persistent beeping. Demir studied it.
“Is it the Russian Coast Guard?” Jenkins asked, walking to the machine.
“I do not yet know. At present the boat does not appear to be marking us.” Demir picked up the radio speaker and adjusted the dial, presumably to a frequency not monitored by the Russians. He spoke Turkish, then lowered the microphone. It clicked, followed by a male voice. Demir spoke again, then clipped the mic overhead.
“I think we have company,” Demir said.
Jenkins watched the green blip on the screen. After a moment, he noticed a second blip, this one running parallel with the Esma, shadowing it.
“Ahmet,” Demir said. Their diversion.
The second boat maintained a parallel course, then veered off, forming a Y as it moved toward, rather than away from, the larger blip, which Demir speculated to be a Russian Coast Guard vessel.
“We will know soon enough if it is Russian,” Demir said.
“Can the Russians catch him?” Jenkins asked.
“Unlikely. Ahmet is skilled, and his boat is fast and designed for this type of weather. The question is not if they will catch Ahmet’s boat. It is whether they will follow it. We will need time to get you to shore.”
Jenkins watched the radar. The Y became more pronounced, now a V as Ahmet’s boat widened the distance from the Esma but shortened the distance to the larger blip. The radio clicked. Demir answered it.
“Evet?”
This time the male voice sounded more animated. Demir listened, then swung his boat to the left, in the opposite direction. “It is Russian Coast Guard,” he said to Jenkins. “A Rubin-class vessel. Maybe your friend Captain Popov has come back again. Let us hope not.”
“Can Ahmet outrun it?”
“Not forever, but enough to get back into Turkish waters, if it follows. With the recent accord between our two presidents, Russia will avoid an international incident and be satisfied it has chased Ahmet away. Yusuf,” Demir called out. “Şişme hazirlayin.” Prepare the inflatable.