“That’s enough for now,” he said.
“You said you’d drink until you forgot about all the lives you took,” Anatoly said.
“I’ve decided that such a goal is impossible. I give up. They’ll haunt me forever.”
He tried to forget the imagined visages of horror, but fictional faces gaped in frozen fear as his mind’s faked memory recreated an exploding torpedo under a tanker.
“In fact,” he said, “I think I’ll just drink water for the rest of the night.”
“But I bought you the best bottle of vodka I could find in this place. It’s nothing like we can get at home, but it was quite expensive.”
“Was it that expensive relative to your new salary?”
The sonar technician smiled and then giggled.
“No. I forgot how much you pay me now. But it wasn’t a fair wager. You goaded me into betting against the dolphins when you knew they’d take action before I heard the Iranian submarine.”
“I did goad you, because I knew I was right and that you were wrong. But what of it? Now, you’ve paid off your loss in the wager. Your debt is paid in full, whether I drink it all or not.”
A Pakistani steward in a starched white shirt brought spiced meats from varied animals and grilled vegetables on long, thin sticks arrayed over a bed of saffron rice.
“Excellent,” Volkov said.
“You like kebab?” the trainer asked.
“I like meat, and this platter smells delicious. I can’t wait to taste the local cuisine.”
“Maybe we should get some beer to replace the vodka and slow down our consumption of alcohol.”
“I’m already committed to water,” Volkov said. “But I agree that’s a good idea for the table.”
He looked around the room that his feasting crew filled, and then he looked to the steward.
“In fact, that’s a good idea for all the tables. I don’t want my men getting too drunk.”
After the Pakistani waiter nodded and departed, the trainer took a jab at Volkov.
“You appear irritated, Dmitry.”
“What makes you say that?”
“I have a sense about such things.”
“Whether you’re right or not, what business of it is yours?”
“I’m just trying to help.”
While picking at a lamb kebab, Volkov softened his attitude.
“You may have a point. If you think I look irritated, then there’s probably something irritating me.”
“Do you know what it is?”
Fearing how deep the sensitive dolphin master could pry into his feelings, Volkov attempted to slow the inquisition.
“I’m sure it’s nothing. Just a passing mood.”
“No, I don’t think so. I’ve noticed it for some time. There’s something bothering you.”
Volkov grunted and reached for a kebab.
“Talking it through always helps,” the trainer said.
“Maybe with your dolphins.”
“Nonsense. Well, yes, talking with my dolphins helps me and them, but I mean it’s nonsense to think that it doesn’t work with humans as well.”
Volkov rolled his eyes and then gulped half a glass of water to rehydrate himself and wash down some lamb.
“Fine, you’ve proven that your captain admits to being human. Can you spare me the dissecting of my mind?”
“I’m sorry, Dmitry. It’s just so obvious to me.”
“For God’s sake, man. You won’t let it rest, will you? Okay, I’ll blurt it out so you’ll leave me in peace. I don’t like that we were relegated to a secondary role in this mission. Jake and Terry get all the glory, and I’m just an afterthought.”
The trainer furrowed his brow while digesting the confession, and then he wagged a finger.
“You can be bitter about it,” he said. “Or you can be thankful that you’re working your way onto a great team.”
“What team? I was a distraction in the wrong ocean. We were a distraction. Renard can say all he wants about the psychological shock and awe benefit of a geographically-diverse attack on the Greeks, but I see it as a mere test he gave me that nearly got me killed. It nearly got us all killed.”
“But we’re here, and we survived. And we’re all now wealthy men thanks to it. None of us would be so well off if it weren’t for Pierre.”
“Easy for you to say, Vasily. You didn’t lose your commission.”
The trainer frowned.
“I took my favorite dolphins with me, but I left a dozen of them behind for this job. You’re not the only one who gave up something to work for Pierre. In fact, I could argue that you didn’t give up anything. You had lost everything by the time he approached you.”
Volkov pounded his fists into the table.
“That bastard took everything from me!”
The executive officer and the sonar technician cobbled together makeshift excuses of wanting to visit other crewmembers and escaped the table’s tense talk.
“I didn’t mean to offend them.”
“They’ll get over it,” the trainer said.
Like a bursting balloon, the anger that had risen under the dolphin master’s probing began to subside.
“I had everything I wanted before Renard took it from me.”
“Did you really? I understand that command is one of the loneliest lots a man can have. I don’t mean to be argumentative, but since we’re alone now, I feel free to mention that I don’t recall you having many friends.”
Volkov chuckled.
“Mother of God, Vasily. Have you no discretion?”
“I spend most of my time with dolphins. It doesn’t exactly exercise my diplomatic skills.”
“I guess not. But I’ll grant you that it exercises your intuition.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because you’re right. I have no accursed friends or human relationships worth mentioning.”
“I’m sorry to dig up wounds.”
Volkov waved a hand.
“Don’t worry about it. It takes a good deal of nagging to offend me.”
“If it’s any consolation, I don’t really have any friends either, other than the animals.”
“Is this the point where you ask me to be my friend or should I take the lead in this little dance?” Volkov asked.
The trainer blushed.
“I have no idea. But since I’m the lonely trainer and you’re the lonely commander, I think we have to be friends by virtue of us each having nobody else.
“Hah! So be it. To you and me, Vasily.”
Volkov lifted his glass, and the trainer clanked his against it. As the two departed men capitalized upon the calmness to return to the table, Volkov’s phone rang, and he glanced at it.
“It’s Pierre,” he said. “Excuse me.”
He stood and walked to a dark corner of the club. In solitude, he answered.
“This is Dmitry. What can I do for you, sir?”
“I know that your actions in this campaign are done,” Renard said. “But it’s come time where I would like your advice as a naval expert.”
Renard’s Russian was crude, and Volkov heard him getting help from a translator on the phone’s far end every ten words.
In a dark instant, his resentment for losing his place in the Russian Navy battled his gratitude for his job in Renard’s fleet. He disliked the Frenchman’s control over him, but he liked his boss’ salary structure and his promise of leadership and adventure.
Part of him wanted to tell Renard to go to hell while he returned the Wraith to Malaysia for an expected finder’s reward, but he doubted he could succeed. Though the expected spies eluded his awareness, he suspected the Frenchman of employing surveillance over him as insurance.
Then, considering that any act of defiance against Renard, if it succeeded despite safeguards, would send him on a path of lonely isolation, he chose loyalty.