Kismet matched Severin's smoldering stare without blinking until at last, the Russian took a backward step through the doorway and closed it between them.
"Same to you pal," Kismet muttered to the empty air.
EIGHT
Kismet gazed out across the water at the silhouette of the Boyevoy. The launch that had shuttled Irene and himself to the modestly industrialized harbor at Poti was a barely discernible speck racing back across the dark water to rejoin its mother ship.
Their arrival hadn't drawn much attention. During the South Ossetia conflict, Russia had destroyed the Georgian naval base in Poti and established a permanent and arguably illegal military facility of their own. The appearance of Russian warships offshore no longer struck anyone as out of the ordinary. A handful of swarthy, rugged locals paused briefly from their work to gaze at the tired couple that stood on the dock, but after a few exchanges amongst themselves they turned back to their errands, untroubled and unfazed by the presence of strangers.
Kismet looked over at Irene. She had been cool toward him all day, speaking only occasionally, and only then in reference to what a fool he'd made of himself the previous evening. Her statements were troubling, since it was beginning to look as though she had taken his coarse behavior seriously. Under Severin's watchful eye there had been no opportunity to rectify the situation.
Despite his earlier assurance, Severin reneged on his promise to return Kismet's Glock, claiming that the quartermaster had misplaced the firearm and would of course be disciplined. The captain had then bidden them farewell, assigning his executive officer the duty of shuttling them ashore. Kismet had made a pretense of thanking Severin for speedy passage, and then climbed down into the launch. Irene had accepted his offer of assistance, but did not relent in her silence. Now that they were safely at their destination, away from Severin and his tricks, it was time to set matters straight.
"Listen Irene. About what happened last night—" He moved his head, trying to make eye contact with her. She dodged his stare at first, and then faced him squarely, cocking her jaw to one side, her dark eyes blazing with fury. The look pained him. "It was all an act. I was trying to—"
She looked away suddenly, unable to hold her expression. Uncontrollable laughter bubbled from her lips and she fell against him.
He caught her in a cautious embrace. "What the hell?"
Irene continued to laugh. Her rage had slipped away like a paper mask revealing a look of pure delight. "Sorry Nick, but as an actor, you make a hell of a good — well, whatever it is that you do."
Kismet rolled his eyes. "Christ, Irene. Don't ever do that to me again. I thought you were really mad at me."
"So did Captain Severin."
Kismet shook his head in disbelief. He hefted their luggage, one bag in either hand. "Next time give me some kind of signal so I'll know it's just an act."
"You were really concerned, weren't you?"
"Well, yes. What I said was pretty crude. I was afraid you'd taken me seriously. I don't want you thinking I'm that sort of guy."
Her humor subsided, and gave way to perplexity. "I don't understand you Nick. You treat me like a child, yet you claim to care about my feelings. Which is it?"
Kismet suddenly felt very foolish. He had intended only to apologize for the previous night’s drunken act, but had instead opened an entirely different can of worms. "Can we discuss this later?"
"Why not?" She stalked off ahead of him, leaving him more troubled than at the start.
"Wait." He ran to catch her. "Where are you going?"
"My father's closest friend was a fisherman here. He kept his boat at this pier. I'm looking to see if it's… there it is."
"Irene, we need to keep a low profile. How do we know we can trust this guy?"
She dismissed his concern with a wave. "Anatoly's like an uncle. He would never betray us."
"Maybe not intentionally. But Severin let me know in no uncertain terms that we will be watched. I doubt he would have let us go so easily if he didn't have an informant keeping tabs on us. Maybe it isn't your friend, but you can bet they'll be watching him as well."
"Anatoly can keep a secret, Nick. I trust him, and you should trust me."
Kismet frowned. "Let's just tread carefully. Don't tell him everything all at once."
"I'm sure you'll see that he's trustworthy once you meet him." While they were talking, Irene had continued to lead the way toward a large wooden fishing boat. The craft looked to be about forty-five feet in length, considerably smaller than Achmet's vessel, and whereas the Turk's boat was for hauling cargo across open water, Anatoly's boat was clearly designed and equipped to harvest the sea's bounty closer to port. Heavy nets dangled from overhead booms and were spread out across the deck. A shaggy form was hunched down in their midst, performing some intricate operation on a section of netting.
"Anatoly Sergeievich!"
The wooly head swung in their direction, whereupon Anatoly rose to his full height and darted toward them. He moved so swiftly that Kismet was startled into dropping their luggage. He was reaching for his bag, intent upon brandishing his only remaining weapon, the kukri, when the bear of a man swooped Irene up in his arms.
"Irina!" he roared. "My little Petrovna. You've come home to us."
It took Kismet only a moment to comprehend that he was witnessing a joyful reunion and not an attack, but his instinctive reaction was understandable. Built like an ox, the fisherman was half a head taller than Kismet and positively towered over the shorter Irene. A bushy black beard and an unruly mop of coarse hair shot through with some gray mostly hid his weathered, craggy face. He reminded Kismet of the pictures he had seen of Karl Marx, the German philosopher that had invented Communism, an image that triggered an admittedly irrational wariness toward the big fisherman.
Anatoly lowered Irene to the dock. "You've grown up, little one. You are the very image of your beautiful mother."
"And you seem to have grown even larger," she retorted. "Anatoly, this is—" She hesitated for an instant—"My fiancé, Nikolai Kristanovich Kismet. Nick, meet Anatoly Sergeievich Grishakov."
"Greetings to you," the fisherman boomed in Russian.
Kismet frowned and scratched his head. "I'm sorry, but Irene's only taught me a few phrases of your language. Do you speak English?"
"Nick." Irene was frowning at him for the deception, but he remained unwilling to invest his trust in the big Russian.
Anatoly simply laughed. "I speak your tongue, like you speak mine, I think." His accent was heavier than Severin's and true to his claim, his pronunciation was very poor. "But, if it makes you happy, I try. I am pleased to know you, Nikolai Kristanovich."
Kismet offered a half-hearted smile, and stuck out his hand. Anatoly guffawed yet again, causing the pier to tremble, and then scooped Kismet up in his embrace. Before he could react, the fisherman had kissed him squarely on the mouth and set him back down.
Kismet resisted an impulse to wipe his lips. The fisherman had already turned back to Irene and launched a barrage of questions in their shared tongue. Before she could answer any of them, Kismet cleared his throat to get her attention. "Dearest, before we get carried away, shouldn't we find a place to settle down for the night?"
"You will stay with us of course," declared Anatoly.
"Great," Kismet replied, disingenuously.
Irene glared at him, but it was Anatoly that answered. "Da. Very good. It is very good to see you again, Irina. We have much catching up."