The Major Redemption
Chapter 12
Slowly bringing his right hand up to his face, he wiped the tears away with the back of his hand, clearing his vision. His eyes never leaving the little Russian's face, Starsky gently laid his gun down on the deck and brought both hands into the small man's clear view.
Heaving a calming sigh, he attempted to re-establish the connection he thought he had before and said 'Ivan, Hutch isn't German, he's American. He comes from a place called Duluth in Minnesota. He's never been to Germany. You've made a mistake. All those men you hurt. They were American'.
The Russian's answer was to place the gun at Starsky's temple, pushing the cold metal into the tender skin. 'My Father is not wrong. This man is tall, he is athletic, he has blue eyes. He answered me in German. He is Aryan. He hates Jews', the voice getting louder and more agitated.
Starsky winced at the pressure ground into the side of his head and tried again, 'No Ivan. How could he hate Jews? He's my friend and I'm Jewish. He's my best friend and at the moment he's hurt. He's in the sick bay Ivan, but he'll be OK. Just put the gun down and we can talk. I know you're hurtin' too, but we can fix it, OK? We can fix this Ivan'.
'No, he's brainwashed you into thinking he's your friend but he isn't' he shouted, the gun wobbling unnervingly.
Starsky tried again. 'Believe me, I'm not brain washed' (well, not any more). 'The war is over Ivan. It ended a long time ago. I know they hurt you. I've seen pictures. I've been to Yad Vashem and read all the accounts. But the war is over and we're all friends now. You don't want to do this. Let me have the gun, then we can talk like friends'.
The gun lowered a little, now at ear level. The brunette continued gently 'That's right, Ivan, you can do this. You can put the gun down and we can talk. I know you're hurtin and I know what they did to you in the camps, but its over now. Believe me, I know what its like to live with the pain and the suffering, but Hutch is my friend and I have to help him……I have to help you'.
The gun lowered further and Starsky started to breathe a little easier as the little Russian seemed to be listening to him. He continued 'Good Ivan, good. Now, give me the gun, so that we can sit down and talk. It's heavy and its going to make your arm tired. You don't want it to go off by accident do you? Bet ya like Vodka? My Grandpa was Russian, he loved Vodka. When you put the gun down we could have a drink and just talk'.
Suddenly the small man cocked his head on one side.
'No Father, he's a good man. He's Jewish too. He says we made a mistake, but its OK now'.
'He'll put us in prison, son. He'll punish us like they did in the camps. He'll get the Nazi to hurt us'.
'But he says the blond man is American. He says he's his friend'.
'Don't listen Ivan. He's trying to turn you against me. He's trying to take my place. I will look after you, like I have done all these years. You must rid yourself of him. He's dangerous. Kill him now'.
Starsky had been trying to follow the conversation the little man was having with himself, unhappier by the minute at what he heard. Although the gun had fallen down so that it was held limply in the Russian's right hand, he saw the beginnings of a muscle twitch, the fingers tightening almost imperceptibly against the trigger of the revolver.
With reflexes honed from years working the down town district, Starsky lurched for the gun hand, trying to get a moments advantage before anything bad could happen, but was fractionally too slow. The Russian brought the gun up quickly towards the detective's body a look of apology now showing on his face. But he was unable to aim properly, the brunettes body diving at him a he tried to fire. As Starsky dived towards him, the finger twitched prematurely and the bullet, instead of blowing Starsky's head away, instead hit his right shoulder, spinning him round and slamming him into the linen racking.
The noise of the discharge in the small room was deadened by the yards of material lining the walls, but was still loud enough to leave a ringing in both men's ears and the smell of the cordite was almost overwhelming, its sharp persistent smell irritating and noxious.
In the silence that followed the explosion, a moment of sanity returned to the cabin steward and he stared in disbelief at the bleeding body of the detective, now slumped on the floor, then back at the hot gun in his hand. Ivan let out an agonised yelp and headed for the door.
Starsky was fighting to stay conscious. The breath had been driven from his body, and he sucked in lungfulls of air now to try to bring colour back to his world, which was rapidly turning grey. The impact of the bullet felt like he had been hit in the shoulder with a pile driver, accompanied by a white hot burning pain which extended from his finger tips along his arm and down his right side. He couldn't move his right arm, it was numb all the way to his fingertips and his back felt like it was broken in two. His head hurt from the impact with the metal racking and he could taste the coppery blood in his mouth, realising he had bitten his lip on the way down. His ears rang with the noise of the discharge and he was having a real problem focussing his eyes, as blackness threatened to claim him.
Giving himself a brief moment to try to get himself together, he slowly levered himself into a sitting position, his back against the racking, and let his head lean back against the linen as he closed his eyes and fought for breath, sweat coursing down his face and making the curls around his forehead cling to the damp skin there. Looking around him he realised he was alone. Where the hell is Ivan? Where he gone now?
Carefully, trying not to jar his shoulder, he rose to his unsteady feet leaving a trail of red sticky blood on the material at his back and paused a moment as the deck took a dip to the side and threatened to take him with it. He swallowed hard to retain his last meal. Fighting for control, he pushed off from the support of the metal and staggered towards the door, stooping to retrieve his Beretta on the way. He pushed open the door with his good left hand and was rewarded with a glimpse of the Russian's retreating back at the far end of the corridor.
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
Groaning aloud, he realised he had to go after the Russian, and lurched out into the corridor at a run. Unsteady as he was, he ricocheted from one wall of the corridor to the other, the impacts with his right arm and shoulder sending bright white pain through his body and making the breath whistle between his teeth, but he forced himself forward, determined to catch up with Ivan. He needs help as much as he needs to be taken down.
Exiting the corridor, he turned and made his painful way up the steps hoping he was going in the right direction. Making a cursory search of the corridor on deck six and not seeing the little man, he forced himself up the steps to deck seven, and struggled to push open the heavy door open out onto the Promenade deck.
The breeze along the open deck was cool at this time of night. Night? It was early morning now and the distant lights of Bridgetown Barbados could be seen on the horizon twinkling seductively.
Starsky looked left and right, scanning for movement. He saw the Russian at the far end of the deck and wearily pushed himself on, trying to keep to the shadows as much as possible. He saw the Russian look back over his shoulder as he got to the bows of the ship, and pause. Starsky pushed himself on, realising he was leaving drops of blood behind him on the wooden decking as it dripped from his now useless fingertips.
Cautiously he approached the little man as he stood by the ships rail, still pointing the gun at the detective, but in a distracted, half hearted manner now. The brunette came slowly forward, starting his conversation all over again.
'Ivan, you don't wanna do this, we can fix it. We can work on this an' make it better. Just come with me' he stopped gasping for breath as the Russian watched him.
Starsky was now less than ten yards from the little man and creeping forward ever more slowly. The pain in his arm was threatening to tip him into oblivion, but he forced himself forward. Ivan was watching him, like a cornered mouse watches a cat, his eyes never leaving the detective as he approached.
Finally, Starsky was almost close enough to touch the Russian, and he very carefully put his own gun into the front waistband of his shorts and reached out with his left hand.
'Give me the gun Ivan. That's it, just give me the gun and everything will be fine'.
The Russian stared at his one last time seeming to pause before turning, vaulting over the ships rail and diving into the sea.
With a cry of desperation, the brunette lunged forward, vaulted the rail himself, and plunged seven stories down towards the inky depths beneath.