The Goddess Under Zakros

by Paul Moomaw

  Pray watched passively, wondering what was going on. Then he remembered where he was, and that the ramp was still moving down. Painfully, he rose to hands and knees and scrambled up the ramp. When he reached the deck he experimented with walking, and found that he could, although his ankle protested every step. Not wanting to expose himself on the catwalk, he stayed on the deck, scuttling between barrels. As he reached the base of the bridge he glanced up. The sound had become a sharp whack, whack, whack, and something dark swooped toward the ship. Then a streak of blue-and-yellow angled up from the bridge toward the approaching object, merged with it, and blossomed into a cloud of orange-white fire, out of which the black silhouette of a helicopter emerged. As Pray watched, objects that gradually registered on him as burning bodies fell from the flames, and then the helicopter itself passed directly over his head. The aircraft flopped crazily for another hundred feet, then fell into the sea, exploding with a force that knocked Pray to the deck. He lay there for a moment, then got up and hobbled forward as fast as he could. He reached the bridge, found an entryway, scrabbled it open, and then dropped panting to a rubber-carpeted floor. He was in the part of the ship that held the crew’s quarters, with gleaming white bulkheads, and electric lights that burned peacefully. He sat there and let his breathing and heart calm down. He knew it was foolish, but suddenly he felt safe. The wailing of the alarm, muted where he sat, continued for a while longer, then stopped. Pray sat where he was a moment more, then groaned, got to his feet, and made his way back to his stateroom.

  Julian still lay across the bed, snorting and snuffling in his sleep, looking as if all the alarms in the world would never rouse him. Pray gave him a nudge with his good foot, and Julian moaned and curled his arms, then started snoring again.

  “I should have gotten drunk, too,” Pray said. He sat down, removed his shoes, and stretched out on his bed. A lump pressed against his buttock, and he felt for it with his hand. It was the camera, still in his pocket.

  “Not a total loss, then,” he muttered, and fell asleep.

  Chapter 44

  Terry Parker gazed at Moishe Levy’s jaw in fascination. The Mossad agent stood over Parker’s chair, his mouth clamped shut. A vagrant twitch sent a rope of muscle writhing like a puzzled snake, back and forth, from just above the chin to the edge of his left eye.

  “You knew Fugger’s goddamn boat carried ship-to-air missiles,” the Israeli said finally. Parker tried to look disdainful, which was difficult, looking up. He felt his body tense slightly, ready to fight or run.

  “You told me nothing,” Levy said.

  “What difference would it have made? Your hot shots were already on their way.”

  “That’s not the point,” Levy said. His jaw clamped shut again, and his fingers, curved like talons, snapped ineffectually at each other.

  “What is the point?”

  “To cooperate.”

  “That works both ways.”

  “I could have your job for this,” Levy said. He did not sound convinced. Parker knew Levy had been on the telephone with the Old Man within an hour of the Mossad helicopter’s destruction, because the Old Man had roused him from a sound sleep shortly after.

  “Our Jewish friend is very angry,” he had said. “Apparently their mission to take over Herr Fugger’s garbage boat ran into a little resistance, and now the Mediterranean is full of dead Israelis.” He had not sounded upset.

  “Levy said the ship was armed with rockets,” the Old Man continued.

  “True enough.”

  “You didn’t warn him.”

  “No.”

  “But, then, he didn’t ask, did he? I expect you will be hearing from Mr. Levy shortly. My impression is that he will be planning some typically hare-brained Israeli smash and grab job. I’ll leave it up to you to dissuade him. Tell him whatever you have to. I’ll back you.”

  “Yes sir,” Parker said, relieved. Bigotry had won out over perfectionism.

  “Then you take care of that damned ship somehow yourself,” the Old Man said. “This is our operation, but I can only hold Mossad off for a limited time. I expect you to get the job done before then.”

  “How much time do I have?”

  “I don’t know. I suggest you operate on the basis of no time at all.”

  “Yes sir,” Parker had said. That kind of suggestion, coming from the Old Man, was the functional equivalent of a knife at the throat.

  Levy glared at Parker like an angry bird of prey. He wheeled and strode across the room to the desk, where he sat, one leg dangling over the edge.

  “I have spoken to your superiors,” he said.

  “I know.”

  “They told me you are in charge, to deal with you. So I am dealing with you. I have also been in contact with my people, and we have decided to put an end to this problem once and for all. In three days a submarine will leave Israel, with orders to sink Fugger’s ship.”

  Parker’s jaw dropped. “You can’t do that,” he said.

  “You will see that we can.”

  “That ship is filled with enough toxic sludge to kill half the fish the Mediterranean.” Not to mention enough radioactive military waste to fry them for supper, Parker added silently.

  “This is a matter of survival to us,” the Mossad agent said. “If the choice is between destroying the Mediterranean and turning Israel into a nuclear wasteland, our answer is clear.” He rose from his perch on the desk and approached Parker again. “Jewish blood has been shed over this. You have nothing to say.” He thrust an index finger into the space directly beyond Parker’s eyes.

  Parker slapped the other man’s hand away and lunged to his feet. “Fuck you and fuck your honor,” he said. “If you shake your goddamn finger at me again, I’ll bite it off and spit it in your face.” He shot his fist into Levy’s solar plexus. The Mossad agent bent over and backed away with a satisfying gasp. Parker followed him, hands ready in case Levy wanted to make a fight of it, but the other man merely sat down on the desk again.

  “I know you’ve talked to Washington,” Parker said, “because I have, too. And I am authorized to tell you that if you and your people try such a crazy stunt, we will go public. In fact, we are prepared..” Parker paused. Make it good, he thought. “We are prepared to carry it to the United Nations, right to the Security Council. Between them and your own government, that’s the point you’d better start worrying about your personal survival.”

  Levy stared briefly at his shoes and punched his chin with his knuckles. “What do you offer as an alternative?”

  “Fugger is on our payroll. That ship is all he has, and we make it work for him. I’ll tell him what to do, and he’ll do it.”

  The Israeli stood up again.

  “Wait here,” he said, and walked out of the room.

  Parker sat down. His calves had started to cramp. He straightened his legs out, stretching the muscles, and put all his awareness into relaxing them. It was like pulling taffy. He was still at it when the other man returned.

  “You have six days,” Levy said. “If you haven’t done the job by then, we will do it. Our way.”

  Parker grinned. “No problem,” he said, and wondered what he would do next.

  Chapter 45

  The Broken Wing, sails furled and kicker engine puttering quietly, slid through dead calm water toward the pier at Sitia, her hull glimmering darkly against the evening sea. Adam Pray stood at the bow, line in hand, ready to hop ashore and make the ketch fast. The job had a familiar feel. It was one that he, as younger brother, had done often, standing in the bow as Julian guided from the stern, although the craft had been smaller, a center-board cat boat handed down from an uncle, and he, a brave nine or ten years old, would have been leaping to a sandy Carolina beach instead of a pier of cratered rock and cement on Crete.

  The other big difference, he reminded himself with a sour smile, was that he and Julian had not exchanged more than a dozen words on the journey from der Rattensinger.

  Th
e distance narrowed. Pray chose his moment, teetered briefly on the rail with one foot, and leaped to the pier. He extended a foot again to hold the Broken Wing off the concrete, then guided the hull to a point where a curtain of hemp rope covered the stone, and made the line fast. He stepped to the stern, where Julian silently tossed him the other line. He was cleating it down when something thudded at his feet. It was his suitcase. He straightened and looked at his brother, who had turned his back and was lacing canvas covers on the aft sail.

  “It this a message?” Pray asked. Julian did not respond.

  “You’re being an asshole,” Pray said. He heaved the suitcase back aboard the Broken Wing and followed it himself. “You want to tell me why?”

  Julian jerked the lacing tight and turned to face his brother.

  “Because I’ve gotten in the habit of regular meals, and your super spy act may have cost me that.”

  “Did Fugger can you?”

  “He didn’t say I was. He didn’t say I wasn’t, either.” Julian stepped forward to the main sail and began tugging canvas over it. “He made a point of letting me know he isn’t happy, and that we’re going to have to have a talk when I get back to the ship.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I bet you are.” Julian finished lashing the sail and strode past Pray, bumping him, on his way below deck.

  “I really am,” Pray said, and followed his brother down.

  Julian ducked into the salon, sloshed bourbon into a mug, and slammed himself into a chair. “You don’t have the slightest idea what it is you need to be sorry about,” he said, his voice edged with disdain. “You’ve never had to worry about a meal in your life.”

  The words stung briefly, touching the kid brother who still lived within Pray. Then the adult came to his rescue with a flash of anger.

  “We all make choices. Nobody forced you to be a bum.”

  Julian’s body wilted. He looked toward Pray, but his eyes were focused somewhere in the space between them. “Cheap shot,” he said. He took a gulp of bourbon, then nodded. “But true.” He caressed the side of the mug, then began to run his index finger around the rim, slowly, precisely, as if nothing could be more important. “But some choices can feel pretty necessary, sometimes. You might as well know, the only reason I sent that card was to hit you up for money. It was just before Fugger hired me, and I was in a hell of a tight place, and I knew through the grapevine that you had inherited Auntie’s stash.”

  “You picked a pretty haphazard way to get me here. I might never have thought of the invisible ink trick.”

  “That was how I salved my pride,” Julian said, and took another swallow of bourbon. “I figured that if you remembered that, it would mean fate had meant you to come, and then it would be all right to ask you for money.”

  Pray watched his brother silently, not sure what to say. “What are you going to do now?” he asked finally.

  Julian played with the mug a moment more, than sat back and looked at Pray again. This time their eyes connected.

  “Pay my respects to Milos Argyros and check my mail. Then pack in some supplies and go see if I still have a job.” He drank again. “Or a bedmate, for that matter.”

  “Demetria.”

  Julian nodded.

  “She seemed pretty taken with the big French gorilla,” Pray said.

  “True. But I still have her clothes. Still have that, too.” He jerked a thumb toward the battered, green steamer trunk that squatted in one corner. “I think she’s more attached to that than anything in the world.”

  “What’s in it?”

  “Damned if I know. She was sitting on it first time I met her, on the dock on Symi. I had been on the Turkish mainland, doing a little trading, and decided it would be better to spend the night in a different country. Symi’s close enough you could spit on it from the coastal mountains, but it’s Greek. I pulled into the harbor, and there she was, perched on this big trunk. She asked for a ride, to Crete. When I carried the trunk aboard, she hovered over it like a mother hen. I think she held her breath from the minute I picked it up until I tucked it away over there. Later on, I was alone down here one morning, and started fiddling with the latch. I never heard her come in, but all of a sudden she was on my back, clawing at my neck, screaming at me to stay away from her trunk.” He shook his head and touched his neck, as if remembering the injury. “What will you do now?”

  “I may look up a friend.”

  “A friend?” Julian’s grin widened. “What’s her name.”

  Pray found himself reluctant to answer at first, and realized that Julian still intimidated some part of him. “Lydia,” he said finally.

  “Irene’s sister?”

  Pray nodded.

  Julian laughed. “Good luck. But watch out for Greek women. Remember my bad example.” He paused and took another swallow of liquor, gazing intently at Pray. Then he sighed. “I guess you can bed down here as long as I’m docked.”

  “You sure?”

  Julian grinned and nodded. “What the hell? You’re still my brother.”

  “Thanks,” Pray said.

  Julian leaned across the table toward his brother.

  “What’s she like?” he asked.

  Pray looked back with wide-eyed innocence. “Sorry?”

  “What’s she like?” Julian repeated. “You know.”

  “She’s just a friend.”

  “Come on, Adam.”

  Pray laughed. “Pretty damned good, actually.”

  “As good as Demetria?”

  Pray paused. “Yeah,” he said. He fell silent again, remembering Lydia’s smile, and warmth, and the fit of their bodies, and the safety he had felt in her arms. “Better,” he said.

  “Better?” Julian cocked his eyebrows and sounded disbelieving.

  “She doesn’t bite,” Pray said. Both of them laughed suddenly and loudly, and Pray felt once again, at least for a while, that they really were brothers.

  * * *

  Light glowed through the window of The Fat Fisherman. The dirt on the glass and the hanging displays obscured the interior, but Pray could see figures moving. He opened the door and stepped inside, and the movement died, as if the people there were wind up dolls whose springs had just run down. Andreas Argyros sat at one of the round tables. Milos stood behind the counter, and Lydia hovered in a corner, frozen in the act of replacing a spice jar. Her gaze moved briefly to Pray, then glanced off and settled on a spot at her feet. Pray stood just inside the door, feeling hostility and wondering what caused it. He nearly lost his balance as Julian pushed past him.

  “Hey, we’re back,” Julian said. “How are you tonight, kyrie Argyro?” No one answered. Pray unfroze himself and walked farther into the shop. It required an act of will to push against the silence.

  “How is Irene?” he asked.

  “Irene Argyros is dead, Mr. Pray.”

  Agamemnon Londos came down the stairs, zipping his fly from a trip to the bathroom.

  “Her son, too,” Londos said, continuing to walk toward Pray and his brother. “They say he lasted a few minutes longer.”

  “I’m sorry,” Pray said. It seemed to be his phrase for the evening. He winced as Julian clutched his shoulder, the fingers pressing in like iron springs.

  “I hope you are, Mr. Pray,” Londos said. “I hope both of you are. She was poisoned. Mercury, cadmium, lead, arsenic. God knows what else. It ate her alive. It made holes in her kidneys, and turned her bones to suet. At the end she couldn’t see or hear. She could only scream that the roaring frightened her, and that she hurt. She kept begging for the pain to stop. She begged and begged.”

  Londos walked to the door. He stared at Julian and shook his head. “Maybe you and your brother can explain to these people why Irene had to die. Maybe you can get your friend Fugger to help.” He turned and walked out.

  Lydia moved for the first time, stepping to the table where Andreas sat and clenching the back of a chair, her knuckles pale from the effort.
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  “He says the man Fugger causes this, that he floats around the ocean and poisons it by dumping deadly wastes where no one will look. He says you help him, Julian. He says you find the places where he dumps these things. Is it true, Julian? Do you do that?”

  Julian released his grip on Pray’s shoulder. He stepped past his brother and reached out toward the others with both hands. His mouth opened and closed twice, three times, like a fish gasping on the beach. He slapped his hands against it and shuddered. He made a retching sound, then spun and pushed his way past Pray and to the street.

  Pray stood, wondering whether to go after him. Milos Argyros smashed his fist against the counter.

  “Oh my God!” he cried. He began to beat himself on the face and head, sobbing and gasping, his mouth frozen open. “I had not realized,” he said. “I was helping, too. I killed her, too. Oh my God forgive me.” He sank against the counter and began to cry. Lydia rushed to his side and held him. Pray stared at them, then turned to Andreas. The young Greek watched him silently, death in his eyes.

  Pray turned back to Lydia. She also looked at him now. Pray knew she must be angry, too, but all that showed in her huge, dark eyes was a pain that he felt across the room, that made him want to run and hide.

  “Tell me it was not you as well,” she said.

  Pray shook his head. “Not me,” he said. “Not ever.”

  Lydia nodded sadly. “I am glad for that. But, still, you are his brother.” She looked away, and Pray knew he could do nothing to turn her gaze back to him, to bring back the warmth it had held before.

  “I’m sorry,” he said once more, feeling like a fool. Then he left, because there was nothing else he could do.

  When he reached the dock, the Broken Wing was gone. His suitcase lay abandoned on the concrete, a note pinned to it. Pray pulled the note loose and held it out to catch what light there was.

  “Sorry,” it said. “I still have to make a living. Take care of yourself.”