Clothing under her arm, she waded into ankle-deep water before turning to watch. The boat ran seaward, and veered slightly to starboard as slack settled into the steering arm. She had already used the boat’s depth finder to confirm that the water just offshore was deep, even if the very concept seemed ignoble, rather like making a condemned man stand in his grave to verify the correct depth. She heard the rumbling motor sputter, hesitate, and then go silent. So far so good. Already showing a distinct list to starboard, the momentum the boat had gained was absorbed in an awkward pirouette. Fifty yards out, the drunken silhouette of Bricklayer fell still on an indifferent sea.

Christine slogged ashore, used the last dry towel, and put on her pants. She wondered how long it would take, knowing that big ships sometimes took hours to go down, even days. There were any number of variables: buoyant compartments, shifting loads, center of gravity. For a long time nothing seemed to happen. The little boat just sat there, its skewed mast clear in the cloud-drawn moonlight. Then it began to founder, moving lower and swaying further to starboard until the gunnel went under. Across the still bay she heard rushing water and spewing air, and minutes later the blue-belted Pearson was flat on her side. As the hull disappeared, she watched the mast go vertical as if grasping for the wind one last time. Then it slipped straight down like Excalibur into the lake.

Christine turned away before it was gone.

*   *   *

Erbek Gurhan handed over his delivery paperwork, and in return was given a set of keys by the frau in the shack outside the Sassnitz transfer lot.

“You are Turkish, no?” she asked.

He nodded. “Where is this one?”

“Spot two hundred and six.”

Gurhan grunted.

“My name is Helga.”

“Erbek.”

“You’re getting a late start,” she said.

“Tell me something I don’t know. I just got the call—the ferry was running late.”

“Is it time and a half?”

“You’re damned right.”

“So then you are rich. Maybe you can buy me a pint tomorrow. My shift ends at twelve every night.”

Gurhan stared at her. He had been in Germany for five years, but still was not accustomed to the forwardness of Western women. “I won’t be back tomorrow,” he said. “This one is going all the way to Munich.”

“Then maybe the next day.”

Gurhan grunted a second time and turned away. As he padded across the gravel siding, however, he kept thinking about the woman in the gatehouse. She was lively enough and not bad to look at, although too many after-work pints had dulled her shape. And she had to be at least fifteen years older than he was—it would be like going out with his mother. Gurhan sighed. A spirited woman with a slack body. Why can I never find the inverse?