The Eighth Sister (Charles Jenkins #1)(57)

“Papers,” he said in Russian, trying to sound authoritarian. Kaplan stared at him, shaking his head as if not understanding.

“Kà?itlar,” the officer said in Turkish.

Kaplan nodded his understanding and said his papers were in the pilothouse.

“Get them, please.”

Kaplan moved to retrieve them. The officer and his guard followed. Inside the pilothouse, Kaplan pulled open a cabinet and retrieved his and his sons’ papers. As he did, he heard twelve short beeps coming from the radar, but he resisted the urge to look.

The transponder.

His pickup had arrived.

“What is taking so long?” The officer sounded agitated.

Kaplan tossed the papers onto the radar screen to conceal the blip, though he could do nothing about the beeping. He fished through the papers as if searching for something, then handed them over. The officer showed no emotion. Such a sullen people unless inebriated, Kaplan thought. He took the moment to consider the brass name tag on the man’s right breast pocket. Popov.

“Why are you fishing in Russian waters?” Popov asked as he flipped through the pages.

Kaplan shrugged. “I must have drifted in this damned fog. We are having problems bringing in our nets. They have tangled and I am concerned they will get caught in the prop. To cut them would be prohibitively expensive.”

Popov walked from the pilothouse back outside and crossed to the netting hanging over the side of the boat. He could not have helped but notice the knotted tangles. Kaplan looked past them, to the water, but did not see a blinking light in the fog.

“So you see,” Kaplan said, smiling. “We are far from fishing anywhere.”

“Do you have your fishing papers?” the officer asked.

“Yes, for me and for both my sons. Would you like for me to get them for you as well?”

“No. We wish to search your vessel.”

“For what purpose?” Kaplan asked.

“Because you are in Russian waters and we have the right to do so,” Popov said.

Kaplan shrugged. He was well past arguing with a snot-nosed shit. “Please,” he said, gesturing for them to proceed. “May I inquire as to what you seek?”

“No. You may not,” Popov said.

Popov nodded for the man with the rifle to follow him. They proceeded to the pilothouse. Kaplan looked to his sons but he did not speak or make any gestures, knowing that others on the patrol boat likely watched.

“You, Captain,” the second man shouted from the pilothouse door. “Come here.”

Kaplan nodded to his sons and walked to the pilothouse.

Popov stood near the radar. “What is this?” he asked.

“That is my radar,” Kaplan said. “The Turkish government provided it to improve fishing.”

“I know it is your radar. Why is it beeping?”

Kaplan stepped forward and pointed out the window. “Your ship,” he said. “I turned on the radar because of this damned fog. I don’t want to inadvertently drift into something that might cause damage. You see? The beep is stationary. It is your ship.”

The officer looked again to the radar. The blip on the screen was not his ship. It was far too small, but Kaplan hoped the ruse would work.

Popov departed the pilothouse back onto the deck, and Kaplan exhaled a sigh of relief. The officer and mate descended a ladder into the ship’s hold. On these missions, Kaplan kept a pile of rotted anchovies in the hold, in case anyone decided to search. The smell would persuade them to be quick. Popov came back on deck with a foul look.

“Your fish are rotting,” Popov said.

“Bait,” Kaplan said. “Anchovies. The stronger the smell the better the attraction.”

Popov walked to the back of the boat. “What is this?”

“It is an inflatable, in case the ship was to sustain damage.”

“You are to leave Russian territorial waters at once.”

“I am sorry,” Kaplan said. “We are doing our best to get untangled and to move on.”

Popov displayed no sympathy. “Yank the netting out of the water and proceed back to Turkish waters. You can untangle your nets there. If not, I will cut them.”

“As you wish,” Kaplan said.

The officer nodded to his mate, and the two climbed over the side of the boat and back down to the skiff, which transported them to their patrol boat.

“Bring in the netting,” Kaplan said in a loud voice. He checked his watch: 6:57 p.m. He softened his voice. “We have lost this one.”





33



Jenkins kept watch from beneath the hulls of the two ships. He had one hand extended, having yanked down the transponder so it rested just below the water’s surface. He did not know for certain, but he assumed the larger vessel to be a Russian ship, navy or coast guard, most likely. He hoped the smaller vessel was his rescue ship, lured to his location by the transponder, though at the moment it was of little use to him.

Minutes before, a rubber raft had cut between the two ships and was now tied to the fishing boat.

He checked his SPG. The psi had dropped below 15, seemingly decreasing more slowly as he hovered, barely moving. Still, in minutes, he would be sucking on an empty tank and he would have no choice but to surface or suffocate. He tried to remain calm, tried to expend as little energy as possible. Despite the dry suit, now that he was no longer moving, his limbs had begun to ache in the frigid water. His fingers and toes had gone numb.