Trusting Viktor (A Cleo Cooper Mystery) (2 page)

“We can see that!” Julia shouted. Viktor tossed them a wave, then turned back to me, at which point Julia flashed me a thumbs-up accompanied by an exaggerated wink.

I gave her a don’t-get-cute scowl.

“I’ll be right over,” I called back to them, then turned back to Viktor. “We’re going to dive a few of the South Timbalier rigs. That block is about twenty miles back toward the port. Want to come? You can tell me on the way why you’ve been trying to find me.”

“I would be honored,” Viktor said, offering his hand and pulling me to my feet. “We can take my boat, if you like.”

I motioned to Julia and hollered, “He wants to go along. I’ll ride with him and navigate.”

Julia waved agreement, but I could see Kathy’s frown.

Off we went.

Two

I leaned against the
stand-up bench seat in the small helm station of the boat and watched Viktor plug in the coordinates that would take us to the oil rig in the South Timbalier block of leases. For leasing purposes, the outer continental shelf of the United States is divided into blocks, approximately 9 square miles each, and all natural resources found there are managed by BOEMRE. Periodically the federal government opens these blocks for auction to oil companies who wish to lease them.

When he finished, he turned on the autopilot and leaned back too, his arm resting lightly against mine. “I was hoping to meet you,” he said, “because I read in the trade journals that you are partners with Global Oil to explore for natural gas off the coast of North Carolina.”

Trying to ignore how good his arm felt against mine (and my awareness of how long it had been since I’d had time for a man), I replied, “You’re sort of right. I am invested, in a
small
way, through a private equity group on that venture. Actually, my ex-husband got me involved.”

“I imagine such a discovery might prove very lucrative for you both then.”

He was right, even if his bluntness caught me a bit by surprise. “Sure. But that’s not the whole story. Finding an economically viable deposit of gas would be life-changing for the residents of eastern North Carolina. Thousands of new jobs with the potential for millions, even billions generated in revenue. A real Cinderella story: one of the state’s poorest areas could be transformed into one of the most prosperous.”

“Your goals are very noble, then.”

“No,” I laughed. “Helping my state is just part of it. A collateral goodie, if you will. The real reason I’m involved with this venture is the same reason I became an exploration geologist: I want to know what’s down there!”

“Ah, then we are of like minds.” Viktor switched off automatic pilot in order to steer around a fishing boat, then he reset it. “Now that your government is … more friendly to exploration and production of hydrocarbons, several new offshore exploration wells are being drilled here in the Gulf. I could find work on any of them. But there is already a wealth of information on the depositional history of the reef structures here. What I really want is to be in on the opening of the new frontier of hydrocarbons on the outer continental shelf of the mid-Atlantic region …”

Now that we were getting to the
real
reason he was looking for me, I wrinkled my brow. “Well, that might be difficult,” I said. “The only exploratory rig out there right now is owned by Global, the company I’m invested with, and I’m pretty sure they’re fully staffed. However, they hold only four of the twenty-one leases in the Manteo Unit. Several other companies have leased adjoining blocks, but they aren’t drilling yet. Then there’s Block 220, off Virginia’s coast, which is still bogged down in state permitting problems. But I heard those will soon be resolved, and the company that holds that lease is a matter of public record. You could look them up and try to get on there.”

“I will explore those possibilities. Thank you for your helpfulness. I should mention that I have other options too. For now, I’ll continue working with SeaTrek,” Viktor said.

“SeaTrek?”

“Yes. My summer job. It’s a geophysical survey company owned by a gentleman named Davy Duchamp. Oddly, he refers to himself as a ‘coon’s ass,’ a phrase I don’t understand, as he’s a very fine fellow and certainly a excellent boatman.”

“A coonass,” I explained with a grin, “is someone who can trace their Louisiana heritage back at least three generations. But what does a Russian geologist do for a Louisiana-based geophysical surveying company?”

“The same job I’ve performed for a succession of Russian geophysical surveying companies since I was sixteen: whatever one they’ll give me!” He smiled good-naturedly. “I need to earn money to pay for my education.”

“Very commendable,” I said with an admiration I truly felt, since I’d once been faced with the same obligation. “And it fits in nicely with your dissertation.”

“Yes. I am also a certified ROV pilot. You are familiar with this type of equipment?”

“Yes,” I smiled. “I have a little knowledge of remotely operated vehicles and you’re right, it’s always good to have more than one option.”

“I’ve sent my resume to several companies and perhaps will land a permanent job soon. I hope so. Being an ROV pilot pays well, the hours are good, and there’s not too much physical labor.”

As he shook his dark brown hair in the wind, I mentally chastised myself for wanting to finger-comb the soft curls and tuck them behind his ears. “It is interesting to note,” he continued, “that SeaTrek did the seismic survey for Global on your mid-Atlantic prospect.”

“That is interesting,” I said, still trying to drag my thoughts from his curls.

“I imagine they mapped the very structure you are drilling. That makes it even more remarkable that we literally bump into each other in the middle of the Gulf!”

“It was more than that,” I said. “You saved my life and you know it. I owe you big time.”

He grinned and moved closer, leaning lightly against me, “Let me buy you dinner tonight. Maybe we can come up with a way for you to repay your obligation.”

Normally, I’d be rolling my eyes at such a come-on, but delivered by Viktor, the effect was just plain charming. Still, since I’d already noted I was old enough to be his … older sister, I shook my finger, mock-scolding him. “Now, now, I think that should be the other way round. I buy
you
dinner”—as he started to protest, I continued—“but until then, tell me more about how your dissertation would be improved by finding work in the mid-Atlantic.”

“By helping me back up my hypothesis that the depositional processes that occurred to form the hydrocarbons present in the mid-Atlantic are the same ones that formed the hydrocarbons off the Niger Delta and in the northern Gulf of Mexico.
And
that they occurred at the same time. This information will be helpful in finding other deep gas and oil reservoirs all over the world. My degree will be helpful to me in getting a great job in the Russian oil fields someday.”

“Ah. So you want to return to Russia to start your career. That’s interesting. Most people want to stay in America once they experience life here.”

“Not me. In my estimation, Russia is the place to be, especially if you want to work in the oil patch. Russia today is how your West used to be. I don’t mean lawless and wild; I mean, open for exploration and innovation. My country is poised for greatness!”

I felt a little twinge of jealousy. I didn’t know very much about Russia, but he was right about America. It bore little resemblance now to the USA of 1901, when Spindletop—in Texas—first shot oil to the heavens, beginning the age of petroleum and laying the foundation for the modern world. Frankly, I was still amazed that we were actually being allowed to drill an exploratory well off North Carolina’s coast.

Since 1981, the world’s biggest oil companies had been trying to do the same thing we wanted to do in the area known as the Manteo Exploration Unit. Until now, all such attempts had failed. Most proposed plans were rejected either by the relevant state agencies or by the federal government—and those that were approved were subjected to endless suspensions of operations.

The beeper on our navigator interrupted my thoughts, informing us that we had reached our destination. I waved to my old friends following us and motioned to the rig straight ahead. To Viktor I said, “We need to come alongside so I can get my extra tank. I wish I hadn’t lost my speargun. I was looking forward to carrying some grouper home to my freezer.”

Viktor looked surprised. “Home? When are you leaving?”

“Tomorrow. I … have a friend with a private plane, so getting a cooler full of fresh fish home is no problem. Filling the cooler now that my gun is gone is a little more difficult. Neither of my friends like to spearfish, so they wouldn’t have one.”

“Tomorrow! That doesn’t leave us much time to get acquainted, Ms. Cleo Cooper.” He gave me another charming smile.

“Sad but true. Tomorrow’s Monday, after all, and I’ve already been here a week.”

“In that case, we must make the most of the time we have. If you’ll allow me, I’ll fill your cooler.” Viktor opened a deck locker and retrieved a Hatch custom-design blue water gun. Obviously a serious spear fisherman. “That way, we have more time to get to know one another. And you can use my spare tank. I have plenty of air left in mine.”

“Sounds like a plan,” I said, noticing the ripple of abs tighten under his smooth skin as he wriggled back into his wetsuit. Then he hefted his tank and a spare onto the deck of the cockpit from the small cabin below. Remembering that I did owe him for saving my life, I added, “One condition though: You let me cook dinner for you.”

“Yes. I agree to your condition. Now let’s go have some fun!”

Late that afternoon, just as the sun was sinking in the west, we headed back to the camp, skimming the glassy water of the canals that wound through Port Fourchon. At Viktor’s invitation, I rode back with him. True to his word, he’d filled his fish box and mine with beautiful grouper, snapper, amberjack, and trigger fish. We’d even filleted one of the trigger fish while at sea and cooked it on a portable gas grill. It’s hard to describe the taste of fish that fresh. I’d savored the flavors of the tender white meat coupled with the twang of fresh lime and cracked black pepper and shoved it way back in my memory banks to drag out on a chilly winter day.

Viktor throttled back to accommodate the no-wake zone inside the port proper. Giant supply boats of every size and color bustled about, both coming in and heading out, serving the limitless needs of oil rigs. They ran twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Momentarily, the sun was blocked as we eased beside a docked 300-footer to let another even larger ship steam past us. The four-story goliath, fully loaded with supplies, slipped by on the mirror-smooth water.

I turned my face to the setting sun to feel the warmth, closed my eyes, and indulged in a moment of exhausted bliss. Today had been one to remember. Between dives, the four of us had rested in the sun, recharged with snacks and juice, and talked about our shared passion of geology. By the end of the day, I’d learned that not only was Viktor great at coming to the rescue of imperiled divers, but he was brilliantly knowledgeable about geological subjects, funny as hell, and a consummate gentleman—this last quite rare for someone his age. As the day progressed, Kathy, the eternal grump, actually had begun to warm to him, even giggling several times at his humorous asides.

Now that we were almost home, I began mentally running through the list of ingredients I’d need to prepare our dinner. It had turned out the camp where Viktor was staying was just three lots down from ours. His boss let him use it and the Glacier Bay boat in return for keeping them both well looked after. That we were bunked so close by was simply owing to the fact that they were the only vacation homes available in this remote, undeveloped southern tip of Louisiana. The nearest hotel was in Grand Isle and the only other year-round housing was for port employees.

We were greeted at the dock by the next-door neighbors of Julia’s friend who’d lent us the house and boat. They’d had caught their limit of trout—twenty-five each—and wanted us to get together with them and several other neighbors for a fish fry. We happily agreed; as far as I’m concerned, the more cooks, the merrier. Several of the men in the group were hunters as well as fisherman, which meant we wound up with a Gulf version of surf and turf. We feasted on roasted wild Louisiana boar and venison from a game reserve in Idaho along with the trout and grouper.

To say the alcohol flowed would be putting it mildly. More and more people arrived every time I turned around. At some point during the party, Viktor’s boss and his twin sons dropped by. Pegging the sons to be around Viktor’s age, I couldn’t help but marvel at their identical features. Over the din of music and laughter, Mr. Duchamp, a bear of a man, told me in the heaviest Louisiana dialect I’d so far encountered what a smart and likable fellow Viktor was. Just like another son, he said.

Sometime after dinner, the party moved over to our camp. The more I drank, the more mature Viktor seemed—and the sexier. Several times I caught Kathy throwing me eye daggers.

When the sky grew darker, a big, round silvery moon rose above the rooftops across the channel and the no-see-ums that had kept the party on the screened porch disappeared. We all moved out onto the large deck jutting over the boat slip and dock, enthusiastically welcoming the pitchers of margaritas that now appeared. I was laughing at some incredibly witty remark Viktor made when I noticed Kathy and Julia had disappeared.

I didn’t have to go far to find them. They were passed out in two lounge chairs located in a corner of the deck. Viktor came up behind me and whispered something in my ear about taking a moonlight cruise. What a wonderful idea! I looked up and tried to focus on the moon as it whirled overhead, a great silver galleon churning across the sky.

What could go wrong on such a gorgeous night?

Three

Some time later I
realized two things: The bed I was sleeping in was rocking, and I had to pee really bad. Wait. The bed was rocking? The luminous hands on my dive watch barely glowed in the dim light. I looked around me. The light was coming from the open cabin door of a boat. Oh hell! It was almost six o’clock and someone, jammed against the bulkhead, was softly snoring beside me. Viktor.

Very carefully, I covered my aching eyes with my hand and pressed my splitting temples with thumb and forefinger. Good god, I’d had sex with someone at least twelve years my junior! What was I thinking? On the other hand, last night’s sex … holy cow. I’d forgotten what sex was like when youth was on your side. A vague memory of the kid actually lifting my entire body up and down with both arms and a foot like a set of bench weights came to mind. I mean, I’m five-nine, so his feat definitely deserved respect. Replaying it in my mind, I felt my face burn. I had to get out of here.

I stared into the dim light again. We were anchored at sea, weren’t we?

That I had awakened face down on the open side of the bed facilitated my stealth. Slowly, silently, I lowered my foot to the deck. Where the hell were my clothes? A quick scan of the cabin yielded nothing. The boat rocked slightly again. I slid the rest of the way out of bed and on fingers and toes, like the coyote sneaking up on the roadrunner, and moved to the open doorway.
Please, oh please, let us be anchored somewhere private. Somewhere offshore.
I looked out.

No such luck.

We were still tied snugly alongside the dock attached to the pilings supporting the same deck that had hosted last night’s party. I hung my head in shame at the sight of my clothes scattered about the cockpit. The swinging door to the swim platform was open, revealing my thong dangling dangerously close to the edge.

Nothing to do now but man up. I headed quickly across the cold dewy deck and retrieved the underwear. Great. It was soaking wet. I quickly gathered the rest of my clothes, pulling them on as I came to them, then slid the wet thong into my back pocket.

I felt somewhat better once clothed. Maybe I’d get out of this with no one the wiser. Nothing was stirring but a few herons and ibis winging their way to the marshes to begin a day of feeding. Although the moon had long since set, a few stars still dotted the sky—probably hurried along by competition from my full, white moon beaming up at it. I peeped over the gunwale and saw my Top-Siders on the dock. Silently, I crept out of the boat, careful not to rock it and disturb its sleeping occupant below. Snagging my shoes on the way, I trotted to the house, wondering if Kathy and Julia were still asleep on the deck above me.

They were. Unfortunately, they were both going to have stiff necks. But, it could be worse: their self-respect could be in tatters. There’d be time to worry about that later, however. Right now, putting time and space between me, my friends, and the young Russian lothario was what was called for. Anyway, I’d already told the girls I’d be pulling out early. In under thirty minutes, I had my stuff in my rental car, my sorry ass behind the wheel, and I was on the road to Louis Armstrong International Airport.

Sitting in one of the soft leather reclining chairs in the snooze room of Atlantic Aviation, one of the private aviation facilities at LBA, hardly counted as penance for my foolish behavior. During the two-hour drive from Port Fourchon, my self-assessment ran the gamut from out-of-control drunk to prowling cougar.

I’d been at the airport for two hours, alternately sitting and pacing, and still hadn’t changed from last night’s clothes. Worse, I’d already taken a BC powder—sure cure for Southern hangovers since 1910—but my head was still pounding. I sipped a little of AA’s complimentary coffee and tried to roust my bones enough to go avail myself of the showers in the luxury restroom and change my clothes, but my iPhone vibrated for the third time. Viktor. How had he gotten my number, anyway? The mystery was solved in seconds by a text from Julia.

Where r u? Gave boy toy y’re #. OK?

Oh, for the love of Pete … what next? I slumped farther down in the recliner. Damnit, I was over the age of consent. Divorced, even, with two grown children and I’d paid my own way since I left my wealthy husband almost seven years ago. Didn’t I deserve a weak moment or two or three or …

I thought back over the years since I’d left Bud, who, by the way, is wonderful, sweet, intelligent, handsome—I could go on and on. I just couldn’t live with the man anymore.

People asked why not. In a nutshell, because he loved me too much and held the reins too tight. I still loved him to death, but he was just too damn protective. I was stifled, suffocating in our marriage, and I wanted out before I started hating Bud for good. Now that we’re divorced, we get along much better. We actually
like
each other again—sometimes so much so that we slip up and engage in activities reserved for married folks, if you know what I mean. So why isn’t that enough for me? I don’t know, a flaw in my character maybe? My mother didn’t think so. She used to say I was just high-spirited and hot-blooded. Most of the time, my work is enough for me, but every now and then when an opportunity presents itself … well, I guess last night is the kind of thing that happens then.

Still, what was the harm? You only live once and as long as I was discreet, who could get hurt? Come to think of it, I was really only distraught over my conduct because of the age thing. I had
never
wanted to have sex with a guy younger than me, no matter how hot. And I would never do it again—mind-blowing experience though it was. My hope was that I’d gotten away from Port Fourchon with no one knowing about my indiscretion.

Maybe it was the BC, maybe it was cutting myself some slack, I don’t know, but I was beginning to feel human again. I pitched the empty foam cup in the trash basket and checked my watch. I still had an hour before Bud would arrive. He’d offered to fly me to New Orleans for the conference and back to the house I’d rented in Morehead City for the summer. He could easily work the flights into the comings and goings of his life as an entrepreneur and CEO of his family’s business interests.

In my estimation, Bud—born Franklin Donovan Cooper IV—was by far the smartest and most-visionary member of his family since they’d first arrived in Georgia back before the American Revolution. Those original Coopers had turned a small cotton farm into an immense plantation. Subsequent generations did likewise, spreading the plantations and cotton gins from Georgia to North Carolina. It was Bud, however, who’d moved the family into the twenty-first century with diversification into other industries—everything from computer chips to parts for spaceships. The man was amazing. Controlling, but amazing.

Fortunately, I’d had the presence of mind to jam a change of clothes in my Chloe tote when I unloaded my stuff from the rental car. My bag, empty tanks—sans regulator valves—and other scuba gear were already stacked in the baggage area, so now that I felt up to freshening up, I headed for the ladies room.

Fate, however, put Bud in my path. He was balancing a coffee in one hand and a soft-sided leather briefcase in the other. “Babe! What a surprise, you’re early! This is great!” He leaned forward and planted one right on my guilty, speechless lips before I could back out of the way. “Ah,” he said, setting his stuff on a nearby table. “I got away with that one. Let’s try another.”

Before I could answer, he’d wrapped his arms around me, lifted me off my feet, and given me cause to remember just how it was that I kept backsliding with him.

Acting unimpressed, I pushed away firmly, “Very nice,” I commented. “Now put me down.”

Gently complying, he gave my left bun an affectionate squeeze before pulling my damp thong from my back pocket. “What’s this?”

My heart stopped briefly. Blood raced from my brain. Undaunted, I plastered on my best poker face. “Really, Bud, what does it look like?”

Usually you couldn’t shut him up, but now he wasn’t cooperating, so I offered a sizable hint. “Pale yellow lacy thong. Probably Victoria’s Secret.”

“Honestly?” he said, stepping back to look at me, a vision in yesterday’s cutoff jean shorts, faded T-shirt, and salt-encrusted ponytail. “I’d have said it looks more like evidence of a fun night. Actually, from the looks of you—like a cat left out overnight in a downpour—a
really
fun night. Want to tell me about it?”

“Good grief. Talk about suspicious minds. You could teach an advanced course in conclusion-leaping.” I snatched the offending garment from his fingers. “Get a grip, why don’t you?” I told him before stomping off to the bathroom.

He had me at a definite disadvantage. Fortunately I’d thrown most everything I’d need into my tote, including dry shampoo. Forty-five minutes later, only minutes before boarding—on purpose, to cut down on chitchat time—I sauntered back into the passengers’ lounge in fresh J Brand jeans, a sleeveless white linen shirt, untucked, and killer Brian Atwood strappy snakeskin sandals. I might be a practical dresser when I’m working, but any other time, watch out. Fortunately, I had plenty of money these days to indulge my expensive tastes in clothes, the only place my taste are expensive. In fact, I still live in the same house and own the same car I’d had before I made a small fortune—regrettably not a huge one—when I found a granite deposit in eastern North Carolina and turned it into a tidy little income for life.

Bud was quiet as we waited for the attendant to load my bags and equipment into his King Air 350 Turboprop and for the pilot to make his final inspections. I knew he was angry—really angry—about the underwear in my pocket and that I wouldn’t confide in him, but I wasn’t worried. Never in our entire married career had he ever shouted, screamed, ranted, or raged. As a result, we could boast that as long as we’d been married, we’d never had a real knock-down, drag-out fight. We were divorced, but still, we’d never really fought. Great record, huh?

I climbed into one of the window passenger seats. Bud ducked into the flight deck, took the copilot’s seat, and adjusted his headset while the pilot went through his checklist. About ten minutes into our flight to Wilmington International Airport, I felt sure I’d dodged the bullet.

Then my ex-husband flopped down in the seat beside me.

I gave him a sweet smile and batted my eyelashes. During our twenty years of marriage, this was the signal that meant “case closed.” Bud grinned back, sucking his front teeth. The standard interpretation for this was “okay for now, but I’ll get to the bottom of it later.” It was a familiar Mexican standoff, lasting until he asked, “Want something to drink?”

“Maybe a Coke.”

Just as he rose from his seat, my iPhone vibrated. It was another text from Julia:

Give hottie y’r beach address?

I shut my eyes for a second as my headache returned to pound in my ears. I thumb-slammed a return message—
No way!
—and shoved it back in my pocket just as Bud returned with the Coke.
“You didn’t even ask how Manteo One is coming along,” he
pointed out reproachfully.

“Don’t be melodramatic. If you recall, I didn’t have a chance to say anything before you went all vice squad on me.” Then I softened my tone. “You’re still feeling positive about things out there, aren’t you?”

My text tune sounded. I discreetly slipped my phone out again.

2 late. lol.

Suppressing a grimace, I turned off the phone and tossed it in my tote.

“I don’t know about geologically, but as far as Global is concerned … well, they just laid off another thousand employees. I’ve had several emergency meetings with the company executives, who insist those cost-cutting measures will stabilize things.” He sipped his Coke and added optimistically, “And, honestly, they’re probably better off than they were back in ’84.”

“That was when Global was part of SunCo?” I asked knowing he’d recount the whole sorry affair of how SunCo—after losing a pantload when the State of North Carolina closed them down before they could drill their first exploratory well—ditched the upstream end of the company (the exploration and production part) in favor of the downstream end of refining and marketing. Reclining in my seat, I tilted my head in his direction, feigning attention while dimly recalling his indignation at SunCo. Some of the fired executives had been close friends of his, and I wondered at the time if he would charge in and save them. He didn’t. As it turned out, those executives formed a new company, Global.

Bud droned on, the cabin was cozy, and I fell into what I used to call in my graduate school days, my “key-word state.” While thus engaged, I looked wide awake, but my mind was a million miles away, maybe resting in some pleasant daydream. It wasn’t that I wasn’t interested in my first venture in the land of big-boy investments. I was. But I was also exhausted. Anyway, all it takes is a key word and I’m right back to reality.

The overhead air vents hissed pleasantly as I thought about getting home and back to work when I heard Bud say, “… leased those four blocks, remember, Cleo?”

“Right. Sure,” I replied nonchalantly, adjusting my position, “How could I forget? I was twenty-one, just finishing up my geology degree …”

“And marrying me, don’t forget that.”

“Yes, I remember,” I said, turning to look out at the fluffy clouds below us. “We were just babies.”

“I thought we were pretty grown up. After all, as a result of our merger we got two of the greatest dividends ever paid out.”

He was referring to our two children, Henri and Will. Sensing where this conversation was headed, I returned to safer ground. “Getting back to the Manteo Prospect, I especially remember how exciting the idea of discovering a vast deposit of gas right off the outer continental shelf of North Carolina seemed to me. I couldn’t
believe
it when the North Carolina Coastal Management Act found SunCo’s plan inadequate and stopped them in their tracks.”