The Goddess Under Zakros

by Paul Moomaw

  He closes his eyes and strikes. The heavy blade scrapes against ribs and sticks. The man screams and tries to stand as Hummel, suddenly panicked, jerks the blade free and drops the knife. He stoops to pick it up, and when he rises again, the man stands over him, a terrible light in his eyes.

  Hummel gasps and lunges. He stabs the man in the abdomen, then in the chest. Finally he strikes the man in the forehead with the steel handle, and the other crashes back into the table, knocking the oil lamp onto the floor. The oil spreads and bursts suddenly into flame as the man falls into it.

  Hummel stares, panting and whimpering, then turns to flee.

  My gun, he thinks, and stops. He looks around the room, but finds no weapon. He runs into the other room, and bumps into a low table that barks his shin painfully. He places his hands on the table to catch his balance, and his fingers touch something hard and metallic. He grabs and comes up with a handgun. He returns to the other room and stops for a moment to examine his prize in the light of the spreading flames. It is an old Mauser of World War One vintage, nine millimeter, with a wooden handle of the type known as a broomstick, that was designed to fit to a shoulder stock. Clutching it, he runs from the cottage, and immediately throws himself to the ground as the sound of voices penetrate his senses. He lies flat on his stomach, holding the pistol in both hands, trying to find the source of the sounds. Then he recognizes the woman’s voice, and sags in relief. There, across the yard, she emerges from the shadows, accompanied by a man he has not seen before. Shaking, and trying not to show it, Hummel rises to his feet. He shoves the pistol ostentatiously into his waistband.

  “You are somewhat late,” he says, his voice squeaking only a little.

  “What happened?” she asks.

  “Three of them came to the car. I thought you had sent them.”

  “It didn’t occur to you that they came from the wrong direction?”

  Hummel feels a momentary deflation of his ego, but patting the pistol revives his spirits. He has nearly gotten himself killed trusting a woman. No more.

  They spend the night huddled in the car, their escort sitting under a tree with a shotgun across his knees. Through the night, the cottage burns until only embers remain.

  Hummel tells the woman of his capture and escape, embellishing things in the right places.

  “From now on, I am in charge,” he finishes.

  “Of course, if you say so.”

  Hummel reaches across the seat in the darkness. He pushed his fingers under her jacket and rubbed her breasts. The contact wakes his loins. He unbuttons his fly and pulls her face toward his lap.

  “Prove to me that I am in charge,” he says, and guides her mouth over his penis. She makes no effort to resist, but refuses to open her mouth to take him in. He pulls the pistol out and presses the muzzle against her head. “Prove it to me,” he repeats.

  She opens her mouth, but as his penis moves past her lips, it brushes against her teeth, and then for all that he tries to focus on lust, Hummel cannot keep himself stiff. He forces her down, rubbing her face into his crotch, trying to create enough sensation to revive his shrinking cock, but nothing works, and finally he lets go of her. He tucks the pistol away and wraps himself in his coat to wait for dawn.

  Chapter 39

  The white ship lay in the water like a crocodile grown fat from successful predation.

  “It is very big.” Demetria’s voice was close, practically in Pray’s ear, and he flinched in spite of himself. He had not felt her approach, and he was aware, not for the first time, that she spooked him a little. He stepped to one side, and she pressed against the ketch’s railing next to him.

  “You haven’t seen it before?” he said.

  She shook her head. “Julian has tried to describe it to me, but he did not make me understand its size. The man who owns it must be very powerful.”

  A long gangway angled down from the deck of der Rattensinger, ending in a brass-railinged platform that hung suspended about a meter above the waves. As the Broken Wing, sails furled and auxiliary engine burbling, danced closer, a man in jeans and a yellow-and-blue rugby jersey descended.

  “Oh, my,” Pray said.

  “Pretty fancy, all right,” Julian said. “Down escalator on this side, up on the other, just like a big city department store.”

  Pray shook his head. It was not the equipment, but the man riding it, that drew his attention. It was the Frenchman, Gotard.

  Julian tossed a line to Gotard and skipped from the Broken Wing to the platform as the other man made the line fast. Demetria jumped across behind him, and Pray brought up the rear. As he stepped onto the decking Gotard straightened and lurched against him, his elbow shooting into Pray’s solar plexus, one massive leg sweeping the back of Pray’s knee. He stood back with a grin as Pray fell down in a doubled-over heap, his breath gone and a pain like a knife edge in his rib cage.

  “I am so clumsy,” Gotard said, and reached a meaty hand down toward Pray, who pulled away, one leg cocked and pointed at the Frenchman’s crotch. Gotard laughed and stepped back. He turned to Demetria, who stood staring at him in obvious admiration, and bowed, then waved her grandly toward the moving stairway. Demetria offered him a mock curtsy, and held out her hand. Gotard took it and the two ascended side by side, the Frenchman towering over his companion.

  Pray pulled himself painfully to his feet, still fighting to breathe normally. Julian stepped onto the moving stairway, and Pray followed him, not taking his eyes off the Frenchman.

  “What was that about?” Julian asked as they ascended.

  “We’ve met before. This was round two. I did a nasty to his elbow the first time.” He pressed his side cautiously. Nothing moved that shouldn’t, but the piercing pain returned. He guessed a rib had pulled loose from the muscle, but hadn’t broken.

  “Let me know when you schedule the tie breaker,” Julian said. “I want to watch.”

  Fugger waited at the top of the gangway. He stood hands locked behind his back like a sailor at parade rest, his body wrapped in white slacks and a navy blazer over a knit shirt of daffodil yellow. A dark blue, Greek fisherman’s hat clung to his head. Gotard and Demetria stood behind him, their hands still entwined. She gazed up at the Frenchman, but Gotard’s eyes were fixed on Pray.

  “Die Herren Pray,” Fugger said. “Welcome aboard.” He clapped Julian on the shoulder, then offered his hand to Pray. “A pleasure to see you again. And you know my man Gotard.” He motioned with his head toward the Frenchman who stood behind him. “He says he is going to kill you, but I have told him he may not do it on der Rattensinger. A strict order.”

  “Does he take orders well?”

  Fugger laughed delightedly. “Oh, absolutely.”

  Behind him, Gotard sneered and drew his free hand in a quick chop across his throat.

  Chapter 40

  Terry Parker put his hand on the doorknob and took a slow breath. He wondered if he would ever be able to pass through this door calmly, even if the office became his own. When, he corrected himself silently, not if. Doubt kills. He tugged his shoulders a little straighter, opened the door, and walked into the room beyond.

  The Old Man ignored him at first. He sat in his beat-up swivel chair, facing sideways, looking at a set of photographs that he held in one chubby hand. A dead cigar protruded from between lips that seemed almost rubicund next to the pallor of the rest of his face. Parker stood at quasi attention and stared down at his boss. The Old Man looked sicker than usual, and Parker wondered how much longer it could be until eating and smoking took him down.

  Parker had no idea what his boss wanted. The message had come less than twenty-four hours before, and when the Old Man called, you didn’t ask what it was about. Parker had hitched a ride on an Air Force transport, changed his shirt on the run, and hopped a taxi to Langley, shaving on the way without benefit of mirror. He ran his fingers across his jaw. He had missed a sizable patch of beard near his left ear.

  The Old Man held out on
e of the photographs, still not looking at Parker.

  “This is your Frenchman, the one that was supposed to be taken care of.”

  Parker took the picture and looked at it reluctantly.

  Emile Gotard scowled up at him. He stood in bright sunlight, with a boat, possibly a fisherman, slightly out of focus over his shoulder.

  “One of our assets took that,” the Old Man said. “In Marseilles, day before yesterday.” He gazed at Parker for the first time. “I thought you were handling things.”

  The air in the office was cool, but Parker felt sweat trickling between his shoulder blades. He worried suddenly, irrationally, that the Old Man could smell his fear, the way dogs were supposed to do.

  “I gave Gotard to Rashid al Hamani, per your orders,” he said. “I assumed that would be the end of the business.”

  The Old Man stared up at Parker and shook his head slightly from side to side. His eyes were rheumy behind the rimless spectacles whose magnification made the blood vessels stand out. He handed Parker another photograph. “Our asset took that shot, too. Same place, same day.” He extended a third and final photo. “This one as well.”

  The second picture was of Rashid, and the third of him and Gotard together, apparently deep in conversation.

  “They seem to have come in together,” the Old Man said. “On one of the motor launches from Dieter Fugger’s garbage scow. They definitely went back out together. We assume they’re doing some kind of business. I don’t like assumptions, Parker. Assuming isn’t the same as knowing. I assumed, for instance, that you would do your job correctly.”

  Parker straightened uneasily. The anger that simmered constantly just under the surface whenever he stood in the Old Man’s presence began to boil harder. He opened his mouth to protest, to remind his boss that he had only been following orders, then closed it again with resignation. The rules didn’t change. If one of the Old Man’s ideas succeeded, he got the credit. If it failed, Parker got the blame.

  “Yes sir,” he said finally.

  “Now they’re up to something, and I don’t know what it is, do I?”

  “No sir.”

  “I don’t like not knowing, Parker. In fact, I absolutely hate it. Fugger’s ship is part of a very sensitive operation. Our military bases in Europe have an unfortunate oversupply of very nasty stuff, lying around in underground dumps and rusty barrels. It has no place to go, and the Green weenie types are beginning to ask embarrassing questions. It’s even worse now that the Eastern Bloc has broken up. They used to take the stuff for us. They needed the hard currency too much to turn it down. The West Germans and the French sent their waste east, too. So now, we’re in a position to do them a favor, by letting them make use of Fugger. That makes Washington look good in Bonn and Paris, and makes us look good in Washington.”

  The Old Man pulled out a lighter. It sported the White House seal, and Parker felt a twinge of covetousness.

  “I like looking good, Parker,” he said, and applied flame to the end of the cigar, puffed until the tip glowed, then blew a cloud of foul-smelling smoke in Parker’s direction. “Now you’ve saddled me with a couple of loose cannon balls. Maybe it won’t mean anything. Or maybe they’ll fuck up the entire operation with some crazy scheme.” He puffed on the cigar again, then pulled it from his mouth and looked at it, eyebrows raised. He made a face, as if even he had realized how bad it stank, and stubbed it out in the large brass ashtray that, with a telephone, was the desk’s only occupant. “That would make me look bad, very bad. And I hate looking bad. I hate it even worse than not knowing.” He stared silently at Parker, who forced himself to meet his gaze.

  “I understand, sir,” Parker said, cursing himself silently for the crack in his voice.

  The Old Man stared at him a little longer. “You want to be sitting here, don’t you? You want it the worst way.”

  I want it any way I can get it, Parker thought. “I want to serve the Company in whatever capacity it needs me, sir,” he said.

  The Old Man slapped his hands on the desk top. “You talk shit, Parker. Save it for the press. You want my job so bad you can taste it. And if everything goes right, you might get it some day. But if I look bad, you look bad. You understand that, yes?

  “Yes sir.”

  The Old Man braced his hands on the chair arms and pushed himself up with an audible grunt. “Have a seat,” he said. He walked to the door, and Parker saw that he limped, which was something new. I hope it’s fatal, he thought.

  “Go ahead,” the Old Man said. “Maybe it will help you think clearly about what to do next.

  Chapter 41

  We should be underwater, Adam Pray thought. Fugger could be Captain Nemo. They sat in the salon of Fugger’s private quarters aboard der Rattensinger, a many windowed stateroom filled with brass and exotic woods, and a deep, pile carpet that matched the German’s pale, blue eyes. Fugger sat framed by a tall window, backlighting from the sea making a halo around him. Portrait of the master of the house, Pray thought. He and Julian sat next to each other across from Fugger. Gotard stood to one side of his employer, Demetria cross-legged on the carpet at his feet, her hand occasionally brushing the top of his shoe. On one bulkhead—no, Pray thought, a wall; this room did not belong on a ship, not the carpet, nor the ornate chandelier, nor the deep, overstuffed chair that wrapped itself around him—hung replicas of the pictures he had seen in Fugger’s home. Between them stood a grandfather clock, with a pendulum that moved in a stately arc, and chains for winding. As Pray looked, the clock chimed, and Fugger turned to it.

  “A small foolishness on my part,” he said with a smile. “Some days, when the weather is not so good, I have to restart it two or three times. But from the time I am a child, I have wanted a grandfather clock, and now I have two, one here, and one on Corfu. They are real antiques, both of them, first class pieces. I don’t own anything that isn’t first class. Even these glasses.” He extended his brandy snifter toward the others. “I had them made for me in Prague, hand blown and etched with my initials.” He swirled the brandy and took a swallow. Pray imitated the move, hardly aware that he had until the taste of very old cognac crossed his tongue.

  “The brandy is first class, too,” he said.

  “Thank you,” Fugger said. He beamed awkwardly at Pray, then looked quickly at his shoes. Pray felt as if he had praised an over-eager hound.

  “Let me show you my ship,” Fugger said, rising suddenly. “I am so proud of her. She is quite unique, you will see.” He strode toward a passageway that led forward. Pray and his brother followed. Gotard and Demetria stayed behind.

  “Think you might have to find a new bed partner for winter?” Pray asked, as he and Julian fell in behind Fugger. Julian glanced back into the salon and grinned.

  “Easy come, easy go, don’t they say?”

  Fugger led them onto the flying bridge of der Rattensinger, which was enclosed at the ends, but open to the elements along its center third, with only a waist-high railing of brass-and- wood to provide a barrier between the bridge and the foredeck below. To the rear, a narrow catwalk extended to the dome that dominated the aft portion of the ship.

  Fugger pounded on the railing. “Brass and mahogany,” he said. “And the decking is of teak. Only the best, you see? Even where almost no one but me and my crew ever sees it.”

  It occurred to Pray that, except for Gotard, he had not seen anyone who looked like crew.

  “You don’t seem to maintain a very large staff,” he said.

  “There are not many, especially now that the summer season has ended,” Fugger said. “The waste disposal operation is almost entirely automated. One or two men can handle everything. You would find it very impressive.”

  “First class, I’m sure,” Pray said.

  Fugger cocked an eyebrow. “Your brother is prone to sarcasm,” he said to Julian.

  “He’s young,” Julian replied.

  “Actually, I’d like very much to be able to see that part of the ship,
” Pray said.

  Fugger shook his head. “Oh no, Herr Pray. Not allowed at all, I am afraid. It would be far too dangerous for someone who did not know his way around. I don’t even like to go back there myself.” He pointed toward his feet. “Below me, accommodations for our paying summer guests. I will show them to you shortly. Not so grand as my own, but still first class. You will use one of those staterooms tonight. And that..” he motioned over the rail, “is probably the most up to date helicopter landing pad in the Mediterranean. It has a computerized radar unit that analyzes an approaching craft’s position from moment to moment and gives constant instruction to the pilot, from the point that it makes contact at three miles, every inch of the way, right to the moment of touchdown. The fog can be so thick you can’t see your hand in front of your face, and a helicopter can land safely. And the computer voice is that of a warm, caring woman, so perfectly synthesized you can’t tell she is only an electrical circuit.” He grinned and shook a finger at Pray. “First class, isn’t it so?” He moved toward a gangway that descended from the starboard end of the bridge. “Guest quarters are just below.”

  They followed him down and into a small, luxuriously appointed stateroom, dominated by a wetbar of mahogany that took up most of one wall. Two large windows, round like portholes, and with brass frames and hinges, offered a view of the sea.

  “These don’t really open,” Fugger said. “But you must admit, they look very nautical. I don’t want our guests to forget they are at sea, no matter how deep the carpet.” He ran a toe through the deep shag under their feet. “There are six of these, all the same size, each with its own shower and bath.” He led them out, and pushed open a door farther down the passageway. “The dining salon.” More round windows, carpeting, and a single, long table of oak, over which an ornate chandelier hung.