by Paul Moomaw
“Lay him across his master,” the woman says. Ekhinos lowers the guard gently to the floor, then grabs his legs and drags him across the stomach of Amphimedes, averting his eyes from the other’s sightless stare. The woman steps to Amphimedes’ belt and withdraws his bronze sword. She returns to the guard, grabs his elbow and lifts it to expose his chest. She shoves the blade into him. The bronze scrapes audibly against the ribs. Ekhinos gapes. The woman seems frail, but the weapon sinks in as easily as though the body were a piece of ripe cheese.
She jerks the sandal thong from around the guard’s neck, tosses it toward Ekhinos, and strides toward the entrance. Ekhinos lunges to catch the strip of leather, and glances at the body. The thong has left a purple trench around the neck.
“They’ll know,” he says, turning toward the entrance, but the woman has gone, and he feels a twinge of panic at being left alone with the death he has created. Every nerve in his body urges him to get away, to hide. But now, as the adrenalin drains from him, he feels a growing sense of hopelessness. Where does a man run or hide after he has killed his commander?
He slips outside, and sees a pale figure in the distance, moving in the direction of the cellar where he found the pendant. No one else is about, except for one soldier standing guard at the far end of the ruined village, and he faces the other way. Ekhinos sets out in pursuit of the woman.
She squats in a corner of the cellar, tugging at a slab of wood, and does not look up.
“We have to leave here,” he says. She continues to pull at the wood, which gives way with a soft scrape and falls to the stone floor, revealing a shadow-obscured niche in the wall. She rises and turns to him. The golden bee glimmers between her breasts.
“My Lady needs your strong arms,” she says. She points to the niche. “She waits for you to carry her to her place of rest.”
Ekhinos peers into the niche, where a statue sits, a female, with naked breasts, holding a sword.
“She looks rested enough to me,” he says.
“She does not belong here. There is a place, in a cave at Zakros. I will show you the way, but you must carry her. She has waited a long time.”
“Give me the bee,” Ekhinos says.
“When we are done. My lady waits.”
He shakes his head.” She can wait some more. Give me the golden bee.”
“She can protect you,” the woman says, and steps away from him. “Or she can hurt you.”
Ekhinos snorts. “I have spit in the eye of my own gods. I have become a murderer and a traitor, for the sake of that little piece of gold between your tits. I don’t worry about a goddess who failed to protect her own people.” He leaps at her, grabs her by the shoulders. “Give me the damned bee,” he says. Her skin feels like silk under his hands, and he pulls her against him. Her aroma hits him, musky, sweet and bitter at the same time, and he feels dizzy. His penis rises to her like a trout to a grub, the golden bee forgotten.
“Give me.” He rips her tunic down the front, so that she stands exposed, her skin so white it glows. She waits impassively, staring at him with huge eyes, no expression on her face.
“Give me this,” he says, and presses her toward the ground. He buries his face between her breasts.
Then he yelps in pain as something hard strikes him between the shoulder blades, and the cellar blazes with orange light.
“Look at the bastard.”
The voice comes from above. Ekhinos rolls over and stares, half blinded by a dozen pitch torches.
“Still has Amphimedes’ blood all over his fingers, and he wants a nap,” the voice says. “Bring him up.”
Shadowy figures drop into the cellar as Ekhinos struggles to his feet. Hands grab him, shove him against the wall, banging his head against the stone. Dazed, he feels himself being lifted toward the surface of the ground. He turns, knowing himself to be a fool, but desperate for one last look at the woman.
Except for himself and the soldiers who hold him, the cellar is empty.
Chapter 11
The taverna was called O Gatos Kokkinos, The Red Cat, the kind of place where the ability to speak to tourists took precedence over a knowledge of cooking. Adam Pray had settled at an outdoor table.
Agamemnon Londos arranged his bulky body against the building across the road, the better to observe Adam Pray, who had settled at one of the taverna’s outdoor tables. Pray, who had appeared to be absorbed in the menu, looked up and motioned with it to the chair next to his.
The man pays attention, Londos thought, and sauntered toward the taverna.
“Have a seat so you can get a better look,” Pray said.
Londos lowered himself into a chair across the table from Pray. “Don’t order the squid,” he said. “It makes everybody sick, even me. They do okay with the lamb, though.” He motioned to the waiter. “Ena ouzaki,” he said, and turned back to Pray, leaning on his elbows. “You know what I really miss?”
“You’re going to tell me.”
“Smoked whitefish. I was almost four years in Duluth. Did you know that? Duluth, Minnesota. They got the best smoked whitefish in the world there.”
“What were you doing in Duluth?”
“Being a batsos, a cop, just like here. Any good Greek always goes somewhere else for a while, just to make him appreciate coming home. Duluth makes Greece look good. It’s kind of a dump, you know? But that whitefish.” Londos made a kissing sound with his lips. The waiter returned with a glass of ouzo, and Londos tilted it toward Pray.
“Here’s to good food, wherever you find it,” he said. He drained the glass and waved it at the waiter. “Here’s to being off duty, too.”
“I thought cops were never off duty.”
Londos grinned, cocked his head to one side and spread his palms upward. “I sort of am, and sort of ain’t, Mr. Pray.” The waiter brought another ouzo, and Londos sipped at it, gazing silently at Pray as the American ordered moussaka and a beer. He looked too young for his years, Londos thought. It was his face. It had a wide-eyed innocence, even with the pirate’s scar that curled across his cheek.
Mileage, Londos decided. You got the years, but not the wear and tear. The image of the Fool, from the Tarot, popped into his head. That was Pray, waltzing through the world with a puppy-dog smile, because he hadn’t learned yet how bad life can hurt.
“Your new friend,” Londos said. “Dieter Fugger. He had another guest right after you left.”
The moussaka arrived, and Pray began to eat. “I wouldn’t have ordered the squid, anyway,” he said. “I don’t know how to say it in Greek.”
“You don’t sound real interested in my news, Mr. Pray.”
“I don’t want to get involved, as they say.”
“I thought you might know this guy. His name is Parker. Terrence Parker.” Londos squinted at Pray. “Does that name ring a bell?”
“Silence that dreadful bell. It frights the isle.”
“How’s that?”
“Shakespeare.” Pray took a bite of moussaka, washed it down with beer. “What makes you think the name would be familiar?”
“Parker is CIA. So I thought you might know him, because you were in the CIA.”
“You’ve been doing homework.”
“Look, Mr. Pray, start with a name you do know—Dieter Fugger—who is the reason I’m spending time in the islands, instead of breathing smog back in Athens. Fugger runs an outfit called Ekoteknik. It’s a kind of combination of ocean excursions and garbage disposal, all out of a big boat he calls the Rattensinger.”
“The Pied Piper,” Pray said.
“The what?”
“Do you know the story of the Pied Piper of Hamelin?”
“That’s the guy that stole all the children.”
“In German, the Pied Piper is called der Rattensinger, the rat singer.”
Londos pulled a notebook and pen from his pocket and wrote briefly in it.
“Anytime I learn something new, I write it down,” he said, putting the book away. He
signaled to the waiter for another ouzo, and told himself to take his time with this one. The American had been right, a good cop was never really off duty. “Anyway, Fugger gets regular supplies of waste—the toxic kind that nobody knows what to do with—from a company called Globus Systems. Globus gets it from U.S. military bases all over Europe. They’ve dumped tons of the crap over the years, and now they have to clean up their act.” Londos held up an index finger. “But first of all, as far as we can tell, Globus sends Fugger half again as much toxic waste as his sea-borne operation should be able to incinerate safely.” He extended another finger. “Second, it costs legitimate outfits maybe a thousand dollars a ton to dispose of the really bad crap—cadmium, lead, mercury, dioxins, that kind of stuff. Globus pays Fugger about six hundred.” Londos shook his head theatrically and took a swallow of ouzo. “I think his garbage business stinks.” He laughed loudly at his own joke.
Pray poured out the last of his beer, drank it, and signaled the waiter for the check. “I’m not sure what this has to do with me,” he said.
“You overlook my wordiness, and I’ll forgive you for not laughing at my jokes,” Londos said. He raised a tutorial index finger again. “Last point. A man in Munich name of Streter owns Globus Systems. And Streter has been a CIA asset since the seventies. So now we begin to see the picture, yes? The CIA , through Globus Enterprises, charges the U.S. military big bucks to dispose of its toxic waste. Globus subcontracts the job to Dieter Fugger for about sixty percent of what the military pays. A handy profit for the CIA. Worse, because those guys get a little greedy, they leverage the original profit. That money, in fact, goes to finance a drug ring that brings cocaine from the Western Hemisphere, where there’s a glut, to the Mediterranean, where there’s still a market. Double bucks for your American spooks to finance their less savory operations. Double trouble for us. Can you disagree?”
Pray shrugged and shook his head.
“Next,” Londos said, “a man named Pray, who owes money in every port in the Mediterranean, has a couple of meetings with Dieter Fugger, and suddenly he pays off his debts. In cash. Then another man named Pray, who is the brother of the first one, and who used to be an officer of the CIA, and for all I know maybe still is, shows up. He visits Dieter Fugger. After which another man, whose name is Terrence Parker, and who definitely still is a CIA officer, a very big one, I understand, pays a call on Mister Fugger.
Londos rocked back in his chair and slapped his thighs. “It’s a big can of worms, Mr. Pray. I have to try to figure out who’s in the can and who isn’t.”
“I will catch Christ with a greased worm,” Pray said, and grinned. “Robert Lowell,” he added. “A poet.”
“You do that a lot?”
“Childhood conditioning.”
The waiter came and began to add up Pray’s check. “Put his ouzo on it,” Pray said.
Londos shook his head. “Oxi,” he said. “No. I guess I’m on duty after all.” He leaned across the table. “Look, the arithmetic is simple. Dieter Fugger couldn’t possibly do a legitimate job of disposal for what he charges. And even if the money was right, his operation couldn’t deal with the amount of stuff he takes on board that big boat of his. The thought of what else he might be doing with it scares the shit out of me.”
“It’s nothing to do with me, Inspector.”
“But maybe with your brother, and you’re about to spend some time with him. Maybe you’ll find out something interesting.” Londos fished a worn business card from his wallet and held it toward Pray. “If you do, maybe you could remember me.”
“You want me to spy on Julian.”
Londos spread his hands and shrugged. “So? A spy is what you are.”
“Not any more. I quit.”
“You still know how. You don’t forget that stuff.”
“You’re talking about my brother. I thought family loyalty was a big thing with you Greeks.”
Londos shoved the card across to Pray. “Sure, but you’re an American.” He stood up, dropped money to cover his drinks on the table. “I’ve known a few CIA types, Mr. Pray. Some of them were in it because they believed in right and wrong. The others were creeps.”
And now I have to find out which you are, he thought. He walked away. As he started to cross the road, he looked back. Pray nodded. Londos returned the nod and breathed a little easier. The business card was no longer on the table.
Chapter 12
Olympic Airlines had packed its evening flight from Corfu to Athens in the usual cattle car style of domestic European jetliners, which meant, when you were late, you sat where you could—in this case, next to one Terrence Clayton Parker, who crouched in a window seat next to the only available space on the Boeing 727, his head buried in a copy of the Moscow Times.
But if the plane were half empty, Adam Pray thought, I wouldn’t miss a chance to sit next to you, pretty boy. He shook his head at the unwrinkled linen suit, starched French cuffs, and Panama hat. The common wisdom in the Firm had it that when Parker died he would wear a suit to Hell, just so he could show off his White House cuff links.
“How do you do it, Parker?” he asked, as the jet began to roll forward.
“Do what, Adam?” the other man said, still not looking up from his paper.
“Point for you. I didn’t know you saw me.”
Parker lowered the newspaper to his lap. “I’m a professional.” He met Pray’s eyes and smiled. “How’s the life of the idle rich?”
“Pretty great until this minute.”
“I’ll ignore that, for old times’ sake,” Parker said.
The jet accelerated, and Pray gave himself over to the sensation, letting the thrusting engines push him into the seat, a feeling the child in him had never stopped enjoying. His first flight, one with Julian and no parents, had been aboard a propeller-driven plane, a lumbering Lockheed Constellation that had seemed huge to a small boy. Julian, very much the big brother, had ordered him a drink called a Roy Rogers. It remained Pray’s favorite special drink for years, and he did not, through some odd lacuna in his development, have any awareness of the movie cowboy of the same name until years later, when he was grown and in uniform, sitting in a small, worn house on the outskirts of Bismark, North Dakota. He had brought a Saint Christopher medal to the parents of the dead Vietnam buddy who had worn it, and they were watching an old Roy Rogers movie on television when he arrived. He’s Larry’s favorite actor, the father had said. Used to be, the mother had corrected him gently, and then gone on to worry that Larry’s coffin was sealed, and how could they be sure it was really him. Pray had assured her that he had seen the body, had removed the medal himself. What he had not said was that only Larry from the waist up had gone into the body bag, because that had been all they could find.
The craft banked sharply and climbed into the twilight. As it leveled off, Parker turned to Pray.
“Crete is fine this time of year,” he said. “I get off at Athens myself, unfortunately. Say hello to your brother.”
“Jesus Christ,” Pray muttered. Everyone seemed to know his business. “Where do you fit into this, Parker?” he asked.
Parker offered him a wide-eyed gaze. “What could you possibly mean, old man?”
“You seem to know where I’m going, and why. You’ll excuse me if I conclude you’ve been poking around for some reason.”
“A good spook never jumps to conclusions,” Parker said. “But then you aren’t a spook any more, are you?”
“And you don’t know what I’m talking about, right?”
“You understand, of course, that I’m seldom at liberty to say what I do or don’t know.”
“You’ll make a wonderful administrator some day, Parker. You blow smoke better than anyone I ever met.” Pray shifted in the cramped seat, trying to make room for his legs.
Parker grinned. “Thanks. I hope you’re right.” He returned his attention to the newspaper.
Pray gazed at him silently for a moment, then said, “Dieter Fu
gger.”
Parker glanced up from the paper. “Did who what?”
“Come on, Parker. Dieter Fugger. Julian. You. What’s it about?”
Parker smiled and said nothing.
“Give me something,” Pray said. “Say that’s for old times’ sake, too.”
The other man shook his head. “Sorry.”
“You always used to say everybody has a price. What’s yours?”
“You don’t have anything I want.” Parker shifted away from Pray and stared out the window.
“I understand you’re becoming a big operator in the garbage business,” Pray said. “I hear you’re making real magic. In fact, I understand you know how to make huge amounts of toxic waste disappear.” He snapped his finger. “Just like that.”
Parker stared at Pray, and it was as if shutters had closed over his eyes. Pray realized he had stepped over a line.
“I think you should stop right there, Adam,” Parker said quietly.
“My friends call me Adam. You’re not my friend,” Pray said. Perhaps it was only his response to the threat he suddenly felt, but he experienced a need to push Parker, get a reaction out of him.
“I’ll call you what I please, you fucking dilettante,” Parker replied.
The cabin noise level dropped as Flight 605 began its approach to Athens. Pray stared at Parker. He wondered how it would feel to kill him, and he allowed himself a brief fantasy that involved kicking him up and down the aisle of the crowded jet liner. Then he reminded himself that despite his dandy’s appearance, the other man was no pushover, probably had as many skills as Pray in hand-to-hand combat, a hell of a lot more experience, and no ambivalence about using them. Pray sighed and shifted his gaze to the ceiling.
The plane touched down and began to taxi toward the terminal complex. Parker tucked the newspaper between his knees and shot his cuffs, so that the gold links glinted.
“I’ve always thought it was a shame you left the Firm,” he said. “With a little attitude adjustment, you could have made supergrade.”