“On St. Peter’s Island,” she replied. “You didn’t think I was going to let you go without me, did you?”
“Actually,” he said, starting to feel played, “I did. This is a highly classified and possibly dangerous mission, and only authorized personnel—all of whom I have carefully handpicked—are going over there.”
Nika dabbed at her lips with her napkin, and said, “I had the tarts in a bun warmer. You should eat yours before it gets cold.”
“I’m afraid there can be no exceptions.”
“I agree,” she said. “Authorized personnel only. And as the mayor of Port Orlov, in addition to its duly appointed tribal elder, I have to point out to you that the island is encompassed by the Northwest Territories Native Americans Act of 1986, and as such it is within our rights and prerogatives to decide who and when and how any incursions are made there.”
Slater sat so far back in his chair it almost toppled over onto the gym floor.
“Now I’m not saying that official permission has been denied,” she said, taking another spoonful of her tart, “but I’m not saying it’s been granted yet, either.”
She looked up at Slater, her black eyes shining, an inquisitive smile on her lips. “If I do say so myself, this is one hell of a tart.”
And Slater, who had been up against some pretty formidable adversaries in his day, could only marvel at her aplomb. He’d never been snookered so smoothly, or so deliciously, in his life. Her veiled threat to delay the mission could be easily overruled by Dr. Levinson at the AFIP, but the paperwork and bureaucracy involved would tie him up on the ground for several days at least.
“Yep,” she said, nodding over her dessert, “a little vanilla ice cream and this would have been perfect.”
He had just acquired, like it or not, his own Sacajawea.
Chapter 20
“Goddammit,” Harley muttered, “watch where you’re throwing that rope.”
“I didn’t see you there,” Russell said.
“And keep your voice down!”
“You keep yours down!” Russell shot back.
This expedition, Harley thought, was not getting off to the best start. First, they’d had to jimmy the fuel pump at the dock in order to gas up the boat.
And then, of course, there’d been that little “incident” in McDaniel’s storage shed. When Harley had dared to poke his head back inside the next day, all he’d found by the wall was a pile of old rags and some wooden planks. He’d put the whole thing down to a hallucination, brought on by the stress from making that speech in the church, but he still hadn’t managed to completely persuade himself. For now, he just put it out of his mind and resolved to say nothing about it to Eddie or Russell. They’d simply chalk it up to his being stoned on something … and want their share of whatever he’d been stoned on.
“What are you two making all this racket about?” Eddie said, coming up from the hold. “I thought we were supposed to keep quiet.”
It was a freezing night on the docks of Port Orlov, and the chance of anyone else’s being out, much less dumb enough to be setting sail, was pretty slight, but Harley had made it clear from the start that they should go about their business in the utmost secrecy. He hadn’t even breathed a word of it to Angie, though that might have had more to do with the way she’d exchanged looks with that Coast Guardsman at the Yardarm than it did with his discretion. He was still ticked off and jealous.
“Let’s shove off already,” Harley said, “before the weather gets here.” The next few days—if days were what you could call the murky gray episodes that separated the long stretches of darkness—were supposed to be stormy. But if you waited around for good weather in Alaska, as any local could tell you, you’d be waiting around forever.
The boat, called the Kodiak, belonged to Eddie’s uncle, who was usually too lazy to take it out. It was nearly thirty years old and it wasn’t much to look at, but since it had originally been built as a Navy launch, it had a very stiff hull, and a heavy steel rudder shoe that could withstand any kinds of trouble—rocks, logs, grounding—that the Bering Strait could throw at it. As on most Alaskan fishing ships, the cabin windows were Lexan and mounted to the outside, so that even the worst waves couldn’t blow them out. In his cups one night, Eddie’s uncle had bragged that it could withstand a complete swamping for twelve hours without sinking. How he would know such a thing had puzzled Harley—had they swamped it to find out?—but he didn’t ask then, and he didn’t care to find out now.
In the cabin, he let Eddie hang on to the wheel—after all, it was his uncle’s boat—while Russell slouched in the corner with a beer.
“Keep it at half throttle till we’re well away,” Harley said, “then head northwest.”
“I know where St. Pete’s is,” Eddie sneered.
“And you,” Harley said to Russell, “get your ass out on deck and look for bergs.”