Working Title: “Slow Boat, Bitter End”

A Rony Boston mystery by RJ Stewart

(NOTE: It is necessary to state that this is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.)

I MULLED THE COMBINATION of this man and his unusual – at least unusual to an American – name. Vasil showed no interest in any of us. He seemed to be much more suitable for a solo voyage on a papyrus vessel sailing west from Cairo than for a soothing vacation adventure with strangers. His name and dour face reminded me of a James Bond movie, where a ruthless and formidable villain produces all variety of mayhem from which Bond only narrowly escapes. In hindsight, I can say none of that is too far afield albeit with important variations.

Ruthie, bless her heart, made a courageous attempt to involve him.

What a charming name!

Hers was an absolute exclamation, a little loud, and as natural to her as if she were addressing one of her children.

Is it a common name in your country? I had a friend once named Basil! Basil Honeycomb! Isn’t that an odd name? And then there was the actor… what was it Henry …

Rathbone, Henry said.

Yes! Basil Rathbone!

Vasil said, Vasil. It’s Vasil. Vasil Ivanov Karavelov. From Bulgaria.

Gungor seemed anxious to end the introduction, but Ruthie was on a roll.

Bulgaria! By Croatia, isn’t it? And Montenegro, and all these exotic places! I’d like to go to Split and Dubrovnik! Haven’t we always wanted to go there, Henry? It all sounds so interesting and historic.

She paused abruptly as we all stared at Vasil. For his part, he aimed his green eyes at Gungor while offering a tepid reply to Ruthie.

My country is not by those.

He said no more. Calm and silence, the promise of an unforgettable evening, and the slight intrigue at the introduction of our co-voyager settled over our table. Henry Maldonado spoke up.

Excuse me sir, but may I ask about the history between Bulgaria and Turkey? I seem to recall that in Ottoman days there was some unrest, but I can’t seem to piece it together. Tell me, please. What is the history between the two countries?

I suspect Henry was asking a question to which he already knew the answer. No one knew then the question and its answer eventually would explain much of what was in store for us.

Vasil looked at the professor and said,

As in life, there is the big and there is the little. There are those who have, and those who want. There are those who take, and there are those who give. We are creatures of conflict.

Henry said:

Yes, of course., and with the Ottoman Empire, a great deal was taken and kept. Not meaning to disparage you, sir…

He looked at Gungor, and our guide beamed his signature smile that had betrayed its insincerity.

Said Neil Kilgore:

Oh, Turkey is a wonderful country.

Barbara added,

We see it almost as a frontier, like Wyoming.

Our home will very much be a castle with architecture inspired by historic buildings in the region, especially Istanbul, said Neil.

You know we didn’t have anything much out of the ordinary in Wyoming. I mean, our ranch house was very nice. We built it next to the old homestead house, and then when the new one was finished, we tore the old one down. The new owners liked the house, but they really wanted the land and the water rights. The house was nice enough and we raised the family in those two houses but now with them all grown, we didn’t need it anymore. The price was good, really good. So, you know what? We decided to change the scenery.

It's an amazing village, Gungor said. There are many castle homes in a village of castles, where kings and queens of all description will live together. To encourage harmony, the castles are very similar in design, and all reflect famous buildings in my country. The designers were inspired by the Maiden’s Tower and the Galata Tower in Istanbul. You should see it!

Until this point in the evening, everyone seemed ordinary. Now, it seemed I was among lunatic psychotics talking of a utopian village where everyone lives in a castle. I sneaked a look at Vasil, whose muted introduction had suddenly been overshadowed by a couple of retired cow people from Wyoming and our multi-interested guide. His face was centered on Gungor, and he seemed to have become even more harsh. And then I noticed something quite odd: In the context of what was unfolding it was Vasil who seemed to provide comfort. He seemed almost safe, the kind of individual I might welcome when events got weird. I was feeling very uneasy.