The Major Redemption
Chapter 7 Author's note. This chapter (or any other) is not intended to be the author's views on any race, religion (or size hair colour!). This is purely a work of fiction and I apologise to any one in advance of the content causes offence. I also apologise if the spelling of any words other than English is incorrect – it's been a while!
He'd smelt that smell before. Not the sickly sweet smell that had sent him to oblivion, but this new one; a crisp dry smell like something from his childhood. The comforting thought clashed jarringly with the situation he found himself in, but the smell filled his senses, if he could only remember what it was.
Other more pressing demands were making themselves felt on the blonde's body. The first was the increasing ache in his hands and arms. As Hutch's senses sharpened he realised he was held up by his wrists, roped together as they were and pulled above his head. He strained his eyes upwards and saw a tube or pipe of some sort between his bound hands holding him up. His back was rebelling too, the old wound not taking kindly to the enforced position. The hands themselves had taken on a bluish tinge, and he realised he had probably been in here for some time. His fingers were numb and his wrists were an angry red and swollen.
His head ached viciously from the after-effects of the chloroform and it was only in the last minute or so that he'd been able to move his eyes without the room taking a severe dip to one side or another. Looking down towards his feet, he realised he'd already lost his dinner. He shivered, although the room he was in was quite warm and as he looked around further he could make out banks and banks of bed linen neatly laundered and folded on the racking against the far wall. He was still clad in his dark blue pyjama pants, his feet were bare and his heals painful from being dragged along the carpet from his cabin.
Hutch closed his eyes trying to calm his breathing and heart, which was beating way too fast just at the moment. What the hell is going down here? He cast his mind back to the cabin a while ago. Was Starsky OK? Oh crap, he's till cuffed to the bed. God, I hope he's OK. Hope whoever took me left him alone.
The door to the laundry room opened a crack, releasing Hutch from his thoughts. A small figure entered the room and walked over to the bound detective. Once close enough, Hutch recognised him as their cabin steward, Ivan.
'Ivan, am I glad to see you' Hutch started. He was about to continue as the small Russian smiled, pulled back his fist and punched Hutch directly in the stomach, sending his breath whistling through his teeth. If he hadn't already lost his dinner, it would definitely have seen the light of day, as the bile rose in the blonde's throat. 'What the fuck………' another blow to the same place and Hutch's world disappeared in a blaze of red agony as he fought once again to recover.
Ivan looked up into the face of the man he had come to despise. This tall blond Viking of a man epitomised everything that Ivan had come to loath about the German Reich. He had been orphaned as the Nazis had taken his father away and tortured him to death because of his hair colour; because of his skin colour; because of his size and because of his religion. The regime in Auschwitz had been none too kind on little Ivan either. His head shaved, he was starved and without the comforting touch of his mother, he had been left to fend for himself as all around him the tall, blond Aryan race proclaimed their superiority over the Russian Jews in their charge.
Ivan had taken it as his life's work to rid the world of as many of the Germans as was possible, his father always there, helping him to select his targets carefully. He had worked his way through Germany after liberation and into France, where he was schooled. It was in France that his father had first told him to seek out the Aryans in whatever disguise they took, and to avenge his death in any way he was told. It was from France also, that Ivan had had to flee from the police after the first fifteen or so deaths had been related to each other.
From there he went to England where another reign of terror ensued. The British police had been quicker to spot the pattern and within six or seven years, Ivan had had to move on again, this time to the USA. Having found work in Ithaca, NY State, he had kept up the same pattern of kills followed by onward transit, covering Denver, Houston and finally a little backwater, Oviedo in Florida. Time eventually ran out there too, the town too small and parochial to afford him enough cover, and so he had taken himself out to the East Coast and to the cruise ships. This was his first voyage, and the sight of all these bourgeois Nazis, throwing their money about and subjecting Ivan once more to a life of servitude had tipped the little Russian over the edge.
He listened now to his father standing at his side. This is another of them son. They killed me. They caused me pain. They caused you pain. Its time to avenge my death mojj dorogojj (my precious)
He looked now at the tall blond, swinging at the end of his rope, his head falling forward on his chest as he fought to get breath back into his body; the sweat running down the tall mans face and chest. He was satisfied as he saw the beginnings of the purple bruises that would form across the abdomen from the blows he had so far delivered. He licked his lips as he thought about all the rest of the delights he would mete out on this Germanskijj,
Hutch forced open his eyes, groaning at the knifing pain he felt in his stomach. Where was he? Oh yeah, laundry, with a psychotic midget. He tried to concentrate on what the man was saying.
'Sprichst du Deutsches?' (Do you speak German?) No reply from the blond
'Mich beantworten' (Answer me). Hutch stared back at him a blank look on his face.
Finally Hutch cottoned on and, searching his high school languages, finally managed to answer. 'Eine Spitze. Nicht brunnen' (A bit. Not well)
Swapping languages Ivan tried again 'Vous parlez français?' (Do you speak French?)
Hutch lifted his head 'Un peu, mais lentement' (A bit, but slowly) he stammered, wondering where this journey around Europe was going.
'êtes-vous américain?' (Are you American?)
Oui, je suis American'
'OK' Ivan switched thankfully to heavily accented English. 'My Father' he motioned to the empty space at his side, 'says that you are a Nazi and that you should die. I think I agree' the little man said thoughtfully.
Hutch looked around him. Seeing only Ivan in the room, he realized that his first thought 'psychotic' was probably right. His brain was fuddled by the mixture of chloroform and pain, and he was having problems concentrating on anything too much at the moment, the fire in his abdomen threatening to consume his consciousness, every movement sending fire coursing through his tortured muscles.
Screwing his eyes tight to help him clear his mind, he looked at the small man again. 'Ivan' he said, slowly and carefully, 'listen to me. I'm a police man from America. I've never been to Germany or Russia or France. I don't even know anyone there.
'You lie! You answered me in German and French. You know plenty'. He cocked his head on one side as if listening to another person next to him. 'My Father says you are Nazi. He saw you in Auschwitz. He saw you enjoying the killing'.
Oh fuck, thought Hutch, so this is what it's all about? It was almost laughable. On occasions when he and Starsky had had to go to a tourist spot either in LA or elsewhere, Germans almost always came up to ask him the time, or directions, and always in German. His looks were too typical of that race. It had happened again, but this time with painful consequences.
He tried to reason. 'Ivan, I only learned a few phrases at school. I'm American, from Duluth, Minnesota. I work as a police man in……..' his words were cut off as another blow came from nowhere and hit his midsection like a train. This time, he passed out almost straight away, as the pain sent rainbow explosions into his body and brain. His last thought as blackness consumed him was OK, Starsk, this hurts and I don't want to be a hero. I've had enough vacation. I wanna go home now.
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
Two decks up, the darker of the two detectives was flinging on a tee shirt and shorts, as Alex Moore stood calmly by the door. Starsky pushed his feet into his brown leather sandals and reached towards the safety deposit box.
'Can you get me the Captain on the telephone?' he asked.
Alex looked confused. 'Yes, but why?'
'Coz I'm outa my jurisdiction an' I need to carry my gun. Your Captain should be able to give me permission' he explained as Alex headed for the telephone, dialing the number.
Five minutes later a disgruntled Captain Black had listened to his Bosun's report and spoken with Starsky, then reluctantly given his permission, urging that no-one was to go blowing his ship to smithereens. Starsky had tried to assure him that that wouldn't happen, but honestly, he wasn't sure. At the back of his mind he didn't really care, all he wanted was to get his partner back, wherever he was and whatever it took. God, he can't be too far away. We're on a ship for heavans sake. It aint that big!
He and Alex decided that whilst half the security team would start a search of every cabin and public area, Alex and Starsky would start to interview everyone, starting with the crew, as they were the easiest to corral and order.
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
Hutch was having a hard time breathing. He felt as though his belly had swollen to twice size, invading his chest space. Ivan had taken another three swings at the blond, even though he had lost consciousness after the first one. It didn't seem to bother the little Russian, fixated as he was by the zeal of killing yet another Nazi. His father was telling him what a good boy he was and how proud he was making him, so why stop?
Finally, out of breath and sweating he rested, watching the tall form as it hung limp from hands that had now turned navy blue. He stayed there for perhaps 30 minutes, watching as slowly Hutch's breathing calmed and finally the pain filled eyes opened once more.
'I am so glad you can be with me for the next part' he said conversationally. 'When we were in the camps, you Nazis always liked to mark us as Jews, permanently, so that everyone would know who and what we were'. From the rack of linen at the side of him, he produced a wicked looking pointed blade, mounted on a handle perhaps six inches long. In the dim light it glinted dully and Hutch could see specks of dark on the blade. Shit, its dried blood from the other victims. Ivan advanced towards Hutch and brought the knife up to eye level.