Tovrov was ruffled at being ordered about on his own ship, but then thought of the money locked safe in his cabin smoothed his feathers. He was also wise enough not to argue with a man who towered above him. He took up a post on the bow as instructed.

The group huddled on the quay filed onto the ship.

Tovrov heard the sleepy voice of a young girl or boy being shushed by an adult as the passengers made their way to their quarters. Others followed, lugging boxes or steamer trunks. From the grunts and curses, he guessed that the baggage was heavy. The last person onto the ship was Federoff, who huffed with unaccustomed exertion from the short climb.

“Well, my good fellow,” he said cheerily, clapping his gloves together for warmth. “That's the last of it. Is everything ready?”

“We sail when you give the order.”

“Consider it given. Here is the rest of your money.” He handed Tovrov an envelope that crackled with new bills. Then, unexpectedly, he embraced the captain in a bear hug and kissed him on both cheeks. “Mother Russia can never pay you enough,” he whispered. “Tonight you make history.” He released the astounded captain and descended the gangway. After a moment, the truck drove off and disappeared into the gloom.

The captain brought the envelope to his nose, inhaling the smell of rubles as if they were roses, then he tucked the money in a coat pocket and climbed to the wheelhouse. He went into the chart room behind the wheelhouse, then through a door into his cabin to roust Sergei, his first mate. The captain fold the young Georgian to wake the crew and cast off. Muttering incomprehensibly to himself, the mate went below to follow orders.

A handful of human flotsam staggered out onto the deck in various states of sobriety. Tovrov watched from the wheelhouse as the mooring lines were cast off and the gangway pulled up. There were a dozen crewmen in all, including two men hired at the last minute as stokers down in the “junkyard,” as the engine room was called. The chief engineer was a competent seaman who had stayed with the captain out of loyalty. He wielded his oilcan like a magic wand and breathed life into the piles of scrap metal that powered the Star. The boilers had been warming up and were building up steam as well as could be expected.

Tovrov took the helm, the telegraph jangled and the ship moved away from the dock. As the Odessa Star inched her way out of the fog-bound harbor, those who saw her crossed themselves and invoked ancient prayers to ward off demons. She seemed to float above the water like a phantom ship doomed to wander the world in search of drowned sailors for her crew. Her running lights were veiled in a gauzy glow, as if Saint Elmo's fire danced in the rigging.