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now.”
    “The rest of us are coming back,” Day assured Slava. “We have two more months of fishing.”
    “Just fishing,” Slava promised. “No more questions. We should always keep in mind that we are shipmates and friends.”
    Arkady remembered that on the voyage out from Vladivostok the
Polar Star
had staged exercises in camouflage and radiation cleansing. Every Soviet seaman knew that in his captain’s safe was a sealed packet to be opened on receipt of a coded signal of war; inside were instructions on how to avoid enemy submarines, where to make friendly contact, what to do with prisoners.

6 Usually Arkady didn’t enjoy amusement rides, but he liked this one. Nothing fancy. The transport cage had a chain for a gate and a tire on the base to cushion its landings, but it lifted off the deck of the
Polar Star
with a satisfyingly taut jerk of the crane cable, swaying as it rose, and for a moment, in midflight, felt like an oversized birdcage that had taken wing. Then they cleared the side and began dropping toward the
Merry Jane
. Next to the looming hull of the factory ship any catcher boat looked diminutive, even though the
Merry Jane
was forty meters long. It sported the characteristic high bow of a Bering Sea trawler, a forward wheelhouse and stack, a mast hung with antennas and lamps, a wooden deck with a side crane of its own, and a stern ramp and gantry with three neatly reeled nets. The hull was blue trimmed white, the wheelhouse white trimmed blue, and the boat looked bright as a toy as it rubbed against the black sea fender of the
Polar Star
. Three fishermen in slickers steadied the cage as it descended to the deck. Slava unhooked the chain and stepped out first. Arkady followed; for the first time in almost a year hewas off the factory ship. Off the
Polar Star
and onto an American boat. The fishermen vied with one another to pump his hand and ask enthusiastically, “Fala Português?”
    There were two Diegos and one Marco, all short, dark men with the soulful eyes of castaways. None of them spoke any Russian or much English. Slava hurried Arkady up the wheelhouse stairs to meet Captain Thorwald, a pink-faced, bear-sized Norwegian.
    “Crazy, isn’t it,” Thorwald said. “It’s American-owned, that’s all. The Portuguese, they spend ten months of the year fishing here, but they have families in Portugal. They make a fortune here compared with what they could at home. Same with me. Well, I go home to shovel snow off the walk, they go home to fry sardines. But two months on land is enough for us.”
    The captain of the
Merry Jane
wore pajamas open to gold chains nesting on a chest of red hair. Russians supposedly traced their ancestry back to Viking raiders; “Russ” meant red, for the hair of the invaders. Thorwald looked as if nothing less than Viking pillage would wake him up.
    “They don’t seem to speak English,” Arkady said.
    “That way they don’t get into trouble. They know their jobs, so there’s not much need for conversation. They may be little fuckers, but next to Norwegians they’re the best.”
    “High praise,” Arkady said. “Beautiful boat.”
    The luxurious bridge alone was a revelation. The chart desk was teak lacquered to an agate gleam; the deck bore a carpet thick enough for a member of the Central Committee; and at each end of the wide, padded console was a wheel with its own high upholstered swivel chair. The chair on the starboard side was surrounded by the color monitors of fish-finders, radar screens and the digital readouts of radios.
    Thorwald reached inside his pajama pants to scratch.“Yah, this is built solid for the Bering. Wait till you see us in the ice sheet. To bring a boat like the
Eagle
up here, to me that’s really crazy. Or to bring women.”
    “You knew Zina Patiashvili?” Slava asked.
    “When I fish, I fish. When I fuck, I fuck. I don’t mix them up.”
    “Wise,” Arkady said.
    Impervious, Thorwald went on, “I didn’t know Zina and I