“Some. I’m a naval architect, mostly small-craft design.”
“That sounds fortunate for me.” Krylov nodded toward the bartender. “A drink, perhaps?”
Brook traded him boyish grins. “After we win the race, positively.”
“I like a prudent man. Good, come along.” He glanced at his watch. “We have some time. Let us spend it getting acquainted.”
“Sounds like the thing to do,” said Brook. “I want another coffee.” He squirmed up to the bar.
Krylov was surveying him with a smile. “You’re American, of course.”
“Sure thing.”
“Do you know who I am?”
“Not really. I know your name from the blackboard.”
“I am cultural attaché at the Soviet Embassy in Tokyo.”
“Oh? Glad to meet you, Mr. Krylov.”
“You do not disapprove?”
“Disapprove? What the hell for?”
Krylov shrugged a Slavic shrug. “Some Americans become emotional at the discovery.”
Brook laughed. “Not me. Anyway, there’s no politics in sailing, I always say.”
“I am happy to hear it.” Krylov glanced at the man in the wicker chair. He wanted me to see that, Brook thought, and wondered why.
Brook promptly said, “Your friend?”
“My chauffeur,” Krylov said with another shrug. “You know the diplomatic services. Or perhaps you do not. My embassy prefers that we do not drive ourselves. This seems to be especially important in the Orient, with its preoccupation with face. And Volodya takes his duties seriously, sometimes too seriously for my taste. He does not allow me out of his sight.” He chuckled at bureaucracy everywhere. Was it a warning? A feeler? Brook could not decide. Krylov said suddenly, “But you, Mr. Brook. Is this your first visit to Japan?”
“I’m on a business trip this time,” Brook said. He recited his legend about manufacturing sailboats. It seemed to satisfy Krylov. He’s a good one, Brook thought. He reacts to subtleties like an honest man. Not that, if Brook were an agent, Krylov would expect to fool him. These were the traditional gambits, tried and proved in ten thousand deadly games.
“We do not sail much for sport in my country,” the Russian said, shrugging again. “I was bitten by the bug, as you Americans say, when I was sent abroad. Now I am completely infected. It is difficult to explain the mania to others, is it not? I have a theory about this. Sailing is partly art, partly science. It appeals to a man with an interest in both.”
“You may be right at that,” Brook said. “In designing a boat you can construct a line — the sheer line along the deck, for instance — according to a mathematical equation, but it somehow never comes out as well as the line you draw by eye.”
The conversation took this pleasant tack for some time. Krylov was well-informed; he knew how to listen, and he made sensible responses. Like most sexless male conversations, this one wandered. The Russian skimmed a number of subjects, from vintage wines to the proper ammo for big-game hunting. Brook noticed only a trace of what General Levashev had mentioned in his briefing — that Krylov was just a little eager to show off his knowledge of the leisurely life. He embraced the role of dilettante as though to prove that a Soviet Russian could become a cultivated man as well as anyone if he set his mind to it.
If it was Krylov’s weakness, it had its advantages. In a remarkably short time they had established a rapport. On guard as he always was, Brook found himself liking the fellow nevertheless; he sensed, suspiciously at first, and then with conviction, that Krylov liked him. They quite naturally began calling each other “Alex” and “Peter.” I’ll really have to watch my step with this operator, Brook thought. Observing and weighing Krylov’s charm at close range, he saw that the Russian’s value to his service must be considerable. All he had to do was mix with the foreign community; sooner or later his charm, his ease of manner, his man-of-the-world air, his cultural and scientific catholicity, would loosen tongues. He must pick up a great deal of information.
They drifted with the others down to the breakwater, where an attendant in a launch ferried them out to the boat to which they had been assigned.
“Number Thirteen.” Krylov grinned. “Are you superstitious, Peter?”
“I’m a realist,” Brook said solemnly. “That ought to meet with approval in your country.”
“Officially, of course. But at heart we Russians are creatures of sentiment. That makes us unpredictable. It is an advantage.”
An opening? It would not be hard to turn the subject of national traits into a discussion of national ideologies, and then to drop a hint about Krylov’s reputed desire to defect. But Brook resisted the temptation. It was too early for that. If he pushed too hard, Krylov might smell a trap and shy off. It was a matter of timing, of sensing the moment when Krylov would be most vulnerable.
As they rigged the boat, Krylov watched him frankly. Brook raised the jib and reminded him to put the battens into the main. Without being told, he pushed the boom down at the tack to tighten the mainsail, then fastened the downhaul smartly on the cleat.
Krylov beamed. “It is good to have a sailor aboard. I was furious when I heard Jan could not come.”
“Jan?”
“Jan Quackernack, my regular crewman. It was very strange, what happened to him. As I mentioned, he was attacked by a Japanese — at least he was in Japanese clothing — near his house. Jan was knocked unconscious, but not robbed.”
“You mean it’s strange because he wasn’t robbed?” That’s going to cost you, Benny, Brook told himself grimly. It was an unforgivable oversight.
“No, no, the man might have been frightened off by some passerby.” Brook felt relieved. “No, Jan told me on the telephone that the ruffian rendered him unconscious with a karate blow. I ask you, Peter, what ordinary hooligan is familiar with karate?”
“In Japan?” Brook said innocently. “I thought every Japanese knew karate?”
“That is not so, although it is widely believed in the West. And then there was the matter of Jan’s arm. It was broken.”
“Oh, your friend probably broke it when he fell down.”
“Perhaps.” Krylov did not sound convinced. Damn, Benny should have taken the guy’s wallet. “Jan does not remember how that happened.”
“Does it matter, Alex?”
Krylov laughed. “To a Russian everything matters. Especially strange things in a foreign country. It is like catching a misstep in the ballet. Or a false note.”
“But what could be wrong?”
“If I knew, my friend, I would not be wondering about it.” Krylov glanced at the sails, then shrugged, sat down, and took the tiller. “We can move now,” he said abruptly. Brook threw off the bowline and backwinded the jib to bring the boat around on its course.
They sailed in silence out of the small basin to sea, where other boats were already coasting up and down, their skippers trying them out before the first warning signals. Brook sat on a thwart and manipulated the backstays and jib sheets, trimming the small forward sail constantly so that it drew just the right amount of wind.
He was thinking: Maybe we goofed in taking Quackernack out. Benny for using karate, and not robbing the guy, myself for not cautioning Benny beforehand. Krylov was sharp, and they should have allowed for it. He might have mentioned the incident to let me know he knows who I am and just what’s going on. To throw me off balance? If that was his purpose, damn him, he’s succeeded.
To the eye Brook and Krylov were in close communion. Brook saw immediately that Krylov was a superb sailor, ruthlessly competitive. Although they were merely making their way to the starting line, the Russian insisted on the finest possible trim with each changing puff. He was dedicated to the main point of pleasure sailing, which was to move the boat economically and beautifully.