The Petrov Ledger

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY THREE

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  The Petrov Ledger is dedicated to the memory of Kevin. H.

  I wish you were here to run the dialog with me.

  It is also dedicated to my parents, Jim and Joann, whose unqualified support made this book and me possible.

  CHAPTER ONE

  I am a firm believer in the power of the first clear thought of the day to determine how the day will go. I think if your first waking thought of the day is a positive one, you stand a better than average chance of having a good day. So, on this day, with my head and body aching, my first thought gave me pause. I said it aloud to the world, just in case anyone was listening.

  “How in the hell did I get here?”

  My second thought of the day was not much better.

  “Where the hell is here?”

  Yep, not a great start. I just knew this would be a challenging day.

  My first thought would require plowing through the fog that covered the previous night. I needed at least a cup of coffee and some deep thought to tackle that puzzle.

  My second thought was a question that was more readily, if incompletely answered. I was on a boat. I was on a thirty-foot cabin cruiser.

  I was face down on the deck looking away from the cabin. It was not much of a cabin, as I reflected. Two steps down to a closet that contained a bed and some bedroom furniture. It was a bright, sunny day. In fact, the sun was beating down in a rather merciless fashion considering the current condition of my head and body. We were drifting on the light current of wherever the hell we were. I suppose I should say wherever I was. There was nobody else on deck and a quick check of the cabin revealed no one else present. I was on a boat, alone and adrift.

  At this point, my danger sense kicked in big time. See, I don’t own a boat. I don’t know anyone who owns a boat. I advanced to the podium on the left side of the front of the deck that hosted the wheel and the controls of the boat. There was no radio. Clearly, this vessel was never intended for long distance travel. So, why the hell were we where we were? There was no land in site. I figured it was at least five to ten miles to shore. Wherever shore might be. The lack of a radio was offset by a GPS system.

  A quick check revealed that I was ten miles north by northwest of the Old Seaport of Key West. Had I not been actively involved in the situation, I would no doubt make the ironic directional comparison to a Hitchcock movie.

  It was time to get my brain out of neutral and make a decision. I have never piloted a boat in my life. Could I make it ten miles? Well, it was that or sit here and wait. Perhaps a plane would fly over. Perhaps another vessel would sail within hailing range. Sure. And perhaps a whale would swallow me up, boat and all, swim the ten miles, and spit me out in Key West. Come on, Timmy. It’s not that tough a choice.

  Jeez, where are my manners? My name is Tim. Timothy Allen Gregory. I’m 35 years old. I’m of average height, slightly overweight. If you were to ask my friends about me, they’d tell you I’m a nice enough guy, but nothing really special. However, if you were to ask the ladies about me, they’d tell you that… I’m a nice enough guy, but nothing really special.

  I’m just an average guy with an average life. I work at an average job for an average wage. The only really cool thing about me are my initials. My friends call me Tag. Well, I think that it’s kind of cool. I’m not married and never have been. I have no children I know about or I don’t know about. Trust me. I know. The women who I have been with would be anything but shy in asking for child support. I was born in Indiana, but live in Columbus, Ohio now. So, why am I ten miles north by northwest of Key West, Florida in the Gulf of Mexico? I’m asking the same question. I’ll let you know when I figure it out. God, I need coffee.

  I checked my watch. At least, I tried to check my watch. I found my left arm to be numb. The new situation spawned yet another question for the day. Perhaps the answer to the new question would help me answer my first question of the day.

  “Why do I have a death grip on a Russian nesting doll?”

  Alas, I had no earthly idea why this rather beautiful representative of Russian culture was resting in the crook of my left arm. It was a gorgeous piece of work. The main color scheme was of a deep, navy blue. Highlights of gold ran through the blue. Simply lovely. Looking deeply into the peaceful face painted on the doll did absolutely nothing to answer my questions or to modify my mood to match the artist’s rendering of the face of the doll. I had been holding the doll so tightly to my body that I literally had to peel my arm away from it. I had no idea how long I had been gripping it or how long it would take for my arm to fall asleep from holding it. I took the doll in my right hand and shook the feeling back into my left arm. I turned the doll over and saw letters burned into the wood on the bottom. А М П. It only made sense if it was Cyrillic.

  I learned a little Russian for a trip to St. Petersburg a few years back. These days, I read it better than I speak it. А М П would be A M P. It could only mean… I had no idea what it could mean. It couldn’t mean “amp”. There is no word “amp” in Russian. It could be initials. I do so love initials. Initials sounded likely but whose initials were they? Great. Yet another goddamned question to start the day.

  I finished the job that led to my latest unanswerable question and discovered it was 8:13. Finally, an answer. As the sun beat down on me, I could reasonably assume that it was 8:13 A.M. I also had another answer.

  I could, by God, pilot this boat to Key West. Even if I could not do it well, I could do it for the ten miles required. I could pilot this boat for the required ten miles south by southeast to get to the Old Seaport. I could, but only if I could start the engines. I found the throttle. Not helpful in my quest to start the engines. I saw a keyhole on the podium near the throttle. There was only the hole, no key. I decided that with the nature of my luck to this point on the day, the key could only be hidden inside the mattress in the cabin.

  I brought the doll into the cabin with me and sat it on the small table beside the bed. As, I set her down, I heard a metallic rattling from inside the doll. Russian nesting dolls are actually at least five dolls “nesting” inside each other. This one had five dolls total. I opened up the dolls, setting the pieces on the bed until I got to the smallest one. Inside, was a key. A key! A key that looked absolutely nothing like a boat key that would fit in the igni
tion. But, I don’t own a boat, remember? What do I know about their keys? The only thing I knew for sure was the quality of my luck. That could not possibly allow for an easy solution on this day. I went back up to the bridge. If you’re going to captain a boat, you should at least use nautical terms.

  I was right. The key from the doll didn’t fit in the ignition. I resumed my search for the key. Something caught my eye on the podium hosting the controls for the boat. Midway to the deck was a cabinet in the podium. Above the cabinet was a piece of masking tape. Written on the masking tape were the words, “spare key”. Could my luck be changing? Could anything be simple on a day like this? I opened the cabinet and saw a key hanging on a nail inside. The key slid into the ignition as if it were made for it. Possibly, because it was. A smile lit my soul as the engines roared to life at a turn of the key. I figured out how to go fore and aft, more nautical terms, and began my cruise back to land.

  What followed was the longest ten mile trip of my entire life. Somehow, someway, I managed to follow the course suggested by the GPS, didn’t swamp the boat, and managed to make it to Key West in a snappy ninety minutes. Thank God the weather was calm. Thank God I didn’t see needing any more divine help anytime soon. My prayers for the foreseeable future had been exhausted over the last ninety minutes. I saw someone securing the mooring lines on the big brother of my boat, piloted within shouting distance, and shut the engines down.

  “Can you help me?” I shouted.

  With a smile, the obviously experienced sailor called back.

  “Ahoy there, Captain. You’ve found the A & B Marina in Key West. Welcome to Paradise. What’s the trouble?”

  “How in the hell do I land this beast?”

  A mixture of amusement and sheer panic lit the old salt’s face.

  “You’re joking, right?”

  “I am way the hell too tense to find humor anywhere at the moment. I have never piloted a boat before in my life, and, God as my witness, I never will again. I’ve been fighting with this bitch across ten miles of open Gulf just to get to this point. Can you help me dock this thing or not?”

  All amusement faded from the man’s face.

  “I’ll get help.”

  He headed to what I assumed to be the harbormaster’s office. He returned with the harbormaster and a few friends from U. S. Customs. A few well-armed friends from U. S. Customs. They apparently were not amused that a novice on a boat that was not his was attempting to dock at the smuggler’s haven of a port they patrolled. I can only assume I had provided their first excitement for the day, the week, and the month. I personally thought it was an over-reaction on their part.

  The officers and the harbormaster boarded a small launch and made their way toward my boat. I was no more than 100 yards from the dock. I would have jumped over the side and swum for it had they offered that as an option. They did not.

  They felt it necessary to give me instructions through a bullhorn with their weapons drawn. Actually, they weren’t instructions. I was ordered to remove the key from the ignition, to step away from the wheel, and to lie face down on the deck with my fingers laced behind my head. They promised to shoot me if I did not comply.

  The way this day was going made it a more difficult decision than you might think. After a brief moment of hesitation, I pulled the key from the ignition, stepped away from the wheel, and was face down on the deck with my fingers laced behind my head by the time they boarded.

  The officers boarded and checked the cabin. They handcuffed me and brought me to my feet. When they were confident that Public Enemy Number One was secured, they called the harbormaster aboard to get us to the dock. I was nearly giddy with excitement at the prospect of getting off of this death ship. Their questioning began on board.

  “Who are you and what are you doing on this boat?”

  I pride myself on my wit and wisdom. I consider myself to have a rather sharp wit and a quickness of mind. Those close to me generally consider me to be a wiseass. It’s an odd thing to discover that having a Glock pointed at your head can rob you of all wit and wisdom.

  “My name is Tim Gregory and I have no earthly idea. Please don’t shoot me.”

  “What’s your cargo?”

  “I’m my cargo.” I rediscovered a bit of my wit and wisdom. “Oh, and I woke up with a Russian doll.”

  “Where is she?”

  “In the cabin.”

  “There’s no one in the cabin.”

  I gave my explanation with a smile.

  “A Russian nesting doll. She’s in pieces on the bed. You know, the Russians call them matryoshkas.’

  Olga taught me that. Olga! Who the hell was Olga? It came back to me. Olga was Olga Andreiovna from St. Petersburg. She was blonde and beautiful with ice blue eyes. She was 5’ 5”, 110 pounds. All aficionados of Russian women will know what I mean when I say that she had decidedly Russian features. It can’t really be described and it is not merely one set of features, but there is a look to Russian women that is unmistakable.

  I met her online in a Russian language chat room. I was trying to keep my Russian up earlier in the year. You know how these things go. We met. We got closer. We got more personal. We exchanged photos. We started web cam chats with each other to prove the photos weren’t fakes. Olga was the reason I was in Key West. She was coming for vacation. I was due for one myself and we arranged to meet for a few days at The End of the Road. I was with her last night. We were sharing a drink at The Whistle Bar on Duval and… and that’s all I could remember. I felt a jolt and assumed we had docked. Actually, it was a none-too-gentle stick to the ribs from one of the officers who was feeling ignored at the moment.

  “I asked you a question, dirtbag.”

  He obviously watched far too many cop dramas on TV.

  “I’m sorry, sir. Could you repeat the question?”

  “I asked you where you went on your little joy ride.”

  “There was very little joy and I don’t remember. I assume the course information could be in the GPS. I honestly can’t remember.”

  Now, we docked. The harbormaster secured the mooring lines while I fought the urge to drop and kiss the ground. The gentlemen in whose custody I found myself would probably consider that an escape attempt.

  The officers escorted me to their office and asked me for my statement. I recounted what I could. I didn’t remember much of anything from last night. I woke up this morning on the boat with the doll and a headache that covered ninety percent of my body. They shook their heads at the Mainlander who could not hold his liquor. They were not going to arrest me yet. They told me they wanted to contact Mr. Peters first. The answer to my question was that David Peters owned the boat and had reported it missing in the early hours of the day. He reported it missing, not stolen. I assured them that I was no thief. If I hadn’t stolen the boat they wouldn’t have anything to arrest me for, right?

  With an almost evil smirk, they answered that they could always charge me with creating a public nuisance. They put me in their holding cell to await my final disposition. A few minutes that felt like hours later, a phone call from the wronged boat owner got me off the hook. He was happy to have his boat in one piece and didn’t think I had stolen it.

  I awaited my imminent release only to be informed that I would be released only if I told them where I was staying in town. My memory on that point was not very clear. I did have a key to a room at a bed and breakfast in my pocket. Unfortunately, there were no identifying marks on the key and literally dozens of likely candidates in Key West. I was then informed that I would be released only in the custody of someone who could be located in Key West. I could call Olga. The idea would have been a better one if I actually had her phone number. We had only communicated via e-mail, chat, and web cam. Did I know anyone else in Key West? I probably knew someone at the bed and breakfast. That idea had the drawback of my inability to remember anything about my arrival in Key West yesterday.

  Surely, I had made reservations in adv
ance. Surely, I would remember where I would be staying in Key West. I had hoped for this to be the beginning of a beautiful, in person relationship with Olga. I would surely burn all of the details in my mind to play back to our children and our families in the future. I was surely mistaken. For a few more minutes that felt like hours, I cooled my heels in the holding cell.

  A 5’ 5” blonde and beautiful dynamo with ice blue eyes and decidedly Russian features swept into the office like a December gale off of the Gulf of Finland and rescued me. In a bizarre mixture of Russian and English, she berated the officers for their cheek in arresting her hero. I was a hero? She recounted to the officers how a man named Dmitri Petrov had attempted to steal her gift to my mother from her last night. I took that to mean the matryoshka that I had been clutching this morning. She told them how I had chased him with no regard to my own safety. She told them how we had struggled on the dock and how the struggle had continued on the boat. She evidently enjoyed the sound of the word struggle.

  She had a faraway look befitting the heroic effort she described as she told them that she heard the engines start and watched helplessly as the boat went out into the sea. She killed them with a glance when they attempted to correct her that the Gulf of Mexico was not a sea. She heard a splash and ran for her life when Dmitri Petrov turned out to be the one who swam to the dock.

  She had notified the police, the Coast Guard, and anyone else she could think of and had spent the night and part of the day waiting for news. When the wait became intolerable, she had checked the hospital. I was misty eyed at her level of concern for me. What a wonderful woman. When she had checked with the police and Coast Guard again, they had directed her here.

  She had come to claim her hero. My chest would’ve swelled with pride at my heroic exploits to save my Russian damsel in distress had I been able to remember any single part of it. Would I forget something like that? I didn’t think so, but I also didn’t think I could wake up in the middle of the Gulf with a matryoshka in my arms with no recollection of how I got there. I didn’t think I would be able to pilot a boat for ten feet let alone ten miles. Maybe I was a hero. The way Olga looked at me sure made me hope I was. I had not gotten around to telling her where I was staying, but she was staying at the Mermaid and Alligator Bed and Breakfast on Truman Avenue and she would take custody of her hero now, please. They had neither the ability nor the desire to deny Hurricane Olga’s request.