“To do what?”
“To sail away from this place.”
“There is no ship.”
“Then we will make one. We can no longer stay here.”
* * *
ESCAPING THE FORT was not easy, and the Russian leader proved more brutal than Kaneko had suspected. They charged into the Aleut village and took women and children as prisoners. Shortly thereafter, the Russians executed four of the Aleut leaders and there was no more talk of attacking the Russians because the indigenous people fled by boat to neighboring islands.
Sails on the horizon drew the group to the beach. Kaneko’s heart leaped when he saw the Russian ship because it would, no matter where he ended up at first, take him away from this godforsaken island. He stood on the beach and gave thanks to the luck that had brought the ship to the island.
Then he noticed how low it sailed in the water, and how sluggishly it glided. Kaneko’s heart stilled when the ship suddenly listed over to its starboard side.
“What is wrong?” Nakagawa asked.
“The ship is stricken,” Churyo answered. “It is sinking.”
As Kaneko watched with failing spirits, the ship dipped lower into the water and finally fell over onto her side. Her sails flapped in the waves instead of catching the wind.
Sailors aboard the vessel threw themselves over the side. Those that could swim struck out for the shoreline, and those that couldn’t swim drowned or grabbed on to pieces of buoyant debris and kicked themselves forward.
Only twenty sailors made it ashore. The ship floated out in the water like a dead whale turned belly up to the sun.
* * *
DAYS PASSED AND the supplies rescued from the ship ran short. The threat of the Aleuts returning to continue their attacks remained. In time, Kodayu came to his men, gathering them in one of the cabins they had shared. When they had arrived on Amchitka, they had numbered fifteen. Six of them had perished of sickness over the winter and lay in lonely graves far from home.
At least their bones were at rest even if their spirits wandered, Kaneko sometimes thought.
“The Russian has a plan,” Kodayu said as he looked around at the ring of faces in the room. “He does not think another ship will come soon, and we grow short on supplies since we are no longer trading with the Aleuts. We are also lacking in powder and shot. If we lose the rifles, we have no defenses.”
Churyo growled a curse.
Kodayu ignored that and continued smoothly, as was his way. “The plan is to build a ship.”
“From what?” Churyo demanded. “We cannot raise the one that has sunk in the harbor, and there are no trees worthy of such an endeavor.”
“We make a ship from whatever we have available. It is better than dying here with a spear through our guts or of hunger.”
No one argued with the captain.
* * *
THE “VESSEL,” AND everyone grudgingly called it that, was constructed from driftwood and had otter skins hanging from makeshift halyards as sails. Practice voyages out in the harbor proved that the thing floated and steered easily enough, but everyone had doubts about it withstanding the sea during the journey to Russia.
Still, there was no other way. Zeminov spoke of a Russian land, a place he called Kamchatka, that was closest to their present location. They would make for that place, he said, and the Japanese sailors would be cared for there.
“We will join the Russians,” Captain Kodayu said.
“We will drown in the sea,” challenged Churyo.
“You may stay here if you wish,” the captain replied. “Any of you that do not wish to try his luck upon the sea may stay here.”
* * *
THE NEXT MORNING, they put all the supplies and water aboard the craft that they could manage and set sail for Kamchatka. No one stayed behind.
Now
Annja Creed walked toward the small apartment building on the other side of the police line. Yellow tape strung between police sawhorses held back the early morning neighborhood crowd that had gathered. Curious onlookers dressed in everyday clothes as well as pajamas and robes pushed through the crowd.
Two news anchors, neither of whom Annja recognized and both of whom looked young, stood in bright pools of camcorder lights and tried to be professional. One of the anchors spoke in English and the other spoke in Russian. Brighton Beach, south of Brooklyn, was nicknamed Little Odessa because so many Russian immigrants lived there.
Annja liked visiting the neighborhood to practice her Russian, and to see some of the artifacts many of the residents had brought from the “old country.” Several small restaurants served meals she enjoyed.
“Excuse me.” Annja made her way through the crowd, nudging gently and pushing only occasionally. She was five feet ten inches tall barefooted, and tonight she wore boots. Her chestnut hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She also wore a professional intensity that encouraged the gawkers to step aside. She’d also deliberately chosen a black duster that gave her a “cop” look. Attitude meant everything.
The crowd parted and she stopped in front of a grizzled uniformed cop who held up a hand. He was thick and broad, and seemed bored. His eyes constantly roved just like a cop’s always did when in a difficult situation.
“You’ll have to stop right there, miss.” His Brooklyn accent was thick enough to cut.
“Would you let Detective McGilley know that Annja Creed is here? He asked me to come. I’m a consultant.” Annja pulled her NYPD ID from her pocket. Bart McGilley, the police detective she was here to see, had arranged for the ID after she’d helped on a few cases involving stolen artifacts. She didn’t often use it.
The cop suddenly smiled as he looked at her. “Hey, I know you.” He pointed a thick forefinger at Annja. “You’re on that TV show. The monster thing.”
Annja smiled politely and nodded. Chasing History’s Monsters, the cable television show she cohosted, had a big fan base. A few of the gawkers gathered around her began to talk and whisper her name, and suddenly the focus shifted from the crime scene to Annja, which made her uncomfortable.
Bart wouldn’t be happy about it either. Now that Annja had been recognized, chances were good that whatever story was unfolding here would get more airplay. Of course, Doug Morrell, the show’s producer, would love the free advertising.
The cop lifted the tape. “You come right ahead, Ms. Creed. Detective McGilley is waiting for you upstairs.”
Annja ducked under the tape and stood waiting on the other side. An officer there took her name for the first-responder’s report. One of the camcorders swung in her direction and bathed her in light. She ignored it and stared at the building ahead of her.
Seven stories tall, the apartment building looked like most of the other buildings in the area. New York was known for its towering skyline along Manhattan, but most of the buildings were seven floors or less because no elevators had to be installed. Many of the windows on the fourth floor glowed with golden light now and Annja was willing to wager that was going to be her destination.
The cold wind raced around Annja and made her put her hands in the duster pockets.
The cop squeezed the handitalker clipped to his left shoulder. “This is Sergeant Vasari outside. I got Annja Creed here for Detective McGilley.” He listened for a moment, then turned his attention to Annja. “You can go on in, Ms. Creed. They’re waiting for you.”
Annja