by Paul Moomaw
Chapter 46
Demetria walked her fingers across Gotard’s trousers, from the top of his thigh to his crotch. Gotard shifted uneasily, the rusty iron bench creaking under his weight. Her hand squeezed. He shoved it away.
“You make me uncomfortable,” he said. “There are people everywhere.”
“Such a puritan,” she said.
Perhaps she was right, he thought. But even if they had been alone, her aggressiveness would have made him uneasy. He did not like it when a woman took the lead. He pushed himself to his feet and took a few, stiff paces along the edge of the pier, hands stuffed into his pockets, gazing morosely at the motor launch from der Rattensinger, which floated with its blue-and-yellow awning along side the dock. Everything seemed out of control, especially that damned Arab Rashid, who acted more and more as if Gotard were some kind of flunky. He clinched his fists and banged them against his legs. It would be necessary to teach the kinky-haired African just who was in charge, eventually. Maybe soon, when he got his hands on what the Arab was supposed to be bringing from whatever Marseilles alley he had gotten himself off to. “You will wait,” he had said. “Make sure you and the woman are here when I return,” he had said. And, when Gotard had asked how long he would be, he had stuck his beak of a nose in the air and said, “You do not need to know,” and had marched off the pier and toward town.
“Here he comes,” Demetria said. Gotard wheeled and scanned the crowd at the base of the pier. Rashid strode quickly toward them, a metal case in his hand.
“You have the trigger switch?” Gotard asked.
Rashid passed Gotard without slowing down. “Get us untied,” he said.
The Frenchman spun slowly on his heels, anger flaring, as he watched Rashid hop to the deck of the launch. “Cochon,” he muttered, and spat on the ground between his feet.
“I will help,” Demetria said, and brushed past him. She sauntered, hips moving in an exaggerated swing, to the stern line and began to uncleat it. Gotard snorted and bent over the bow line, freed it, and carried it to the deck with him.
As soon as they left the harbor, Gotard opened the throttle up. There was enough chop to toss the boat’s bow, and Gotard relished the feel of it rising and then biting the water, then rising again as they sped toward a low bank of fog that lay to the south. Then Rashid was beside him, his hand pressing on his shoulder.
“What is the hurry?” the Arab asked.
“No hurry,” Gotard replied. “I like to go fast.”
“But not when we reach the fog,” Rashid said.
“Mind your own business.”
“Anything you do is my business.”
Gotard shrugged and did not bother to answer. When the boat entered the fog, the water flattened, offering a ride as smooth as silk. Gotard grinned and jammed the throttle all the way open.
Rashid, who had sat down on one of the benches under the bright awning, the metal case between his feet, jumped up again.
“Slow down!” he cried. Gotard glanced over his shoulder. The Arab was practically dancing. Gotard checked the course, then lashed the wheel down, slipped his hands into his pockets, and strolled toward Rashid.
“Relax and enjoy the trip,” he said. He sat down next to Rashid and reached for the case. “Now let’s see this little toy.”
The Arab grabbed it away. “I told you to slow down,” he said. “You will get us killed.” Fear gleamed in his eyes, which pleased Gotard immensely.
“Go fuck yourself,” he said.
Rashid leaped toward the wheel. He grabbed the throttle and pulled it back to neutral, and the boat began to sag to a stop. Gotard felt a sudden flare of rage. Without thinking, he launched himself toward the Arab and chopped at the back of his neck as hard as he could, just as the other man was turning. Rashid saw it coming and ducked. but the blow was hard enough to knock him down. He slid gracelessly along the deck, and Gotard followed, ready to finish the job. Then the Arab reached into a pocket and pulled out a pistol, a twenty-five caliber affair hardly bigger than his hand. “Stop or you are dead,” he said.”
“Fuck you and your pop gun,” Gotard yelled. He lunged at Rashid, and saw the flash of the gun. The sound of it was lost in the pain that struck him in the right part of his chest. He stumbled and fell. Rashid rose, holding the gun on him.
“I should kill you now,” he said. “But I will need you a little longer.” He looked as if he might want to say more, then his head snapped suddenly back. His body straightened, then crumpled to the deck. Demetria stood behind him, the boat’s bright red fire extinguisher in her hands.
“Did I kill him?” she asked.
“You got a good start,” Gotard said. “Now I will finish the job, so that his blood won’t be on your pretty hands.” He struggled to his feet, trying to support himself only with his left hand, because moving his right arm and shoulder made the pain spurt.
Demetria watched him with glistening eyes. “You are bleeding,” she said.
“You look as if that excites you,” he said. She smiled and did not answer.
Rashid moaned and shifted on the deck. Gotard kicked him the head with the ball of his foot, then reversed the arc and kicked him again with his heel. The Arab made a whiffling sound and lay still. Gotard searched his pockets quickly until he found his wallet. He flipped it open and began tossing the contents onto the deck, shaking his head and muttering until he found what he was looking for—five numbers, neatly lettered in black ink on the back of a business card.
He read them aloud, “Eight, five, seven, four, one.” He repeated the sequence and tucked the card into his shirt pocket. Then he grasped Rashid’s robe at the nape of the neck and half lifted, half dragged him to the rail. He took a deep breath to block the pain and then, grunting, lifted the other man overboard. The body slipped into the water with a slight splash and then floated there, face down, pushed against the unmoving boat by a slight eddy.
“Now I am the boss,” Gotard said. He walked to the wheel, unleashed it, and pushed the throttle forward.
As the launch began to make way through the fog, Demetria stepped to Gotard’s right side. She extended a pale finger and touched him where the blood had made his shirt wet, then put her finger in her mouth and sucked on it while she gazed at him.
* * *
BULGARIA, 1945
The motion of his head falling sideways jerks Manfried Hummel awake. His eyes snap open. The woman appears to be asleep, but he does not trust her. They fought earlier that day, at Khaskovo, where the roads cross, one leading south to Greece, and one east to Turkey.
“It is a hundred kilometers to the Greek border and safety,” she said then, and he responded by jabbing a finger at the crinkled map which lay across her thighs. “And only eighty to Turkey.”
“I will not be able to help you in Turkey.”
“In Turkey I will not need your help.”
There are no Germans in Greece any more, only angry Greeks with long memories. The Turks do not love Germans either, but Hummel is willing to risk that. So he turned the car east at the crossroads, and the woman snatched the keys from the ignition and dropped them down her blouse. He ripped the front of the blouse and retrieved the keys, and then drew his pistol out and slapped her across the mouth with the barrel.
She has been silent since, staring out the window of the car as it rolls along the road toward the crossing between Bulgaria and Turkey at Edirne. Now they wait, a few thousand meters from the border, parked in a grove of trees. A full moon, huge overhead, throws odd, sharp shadows across the car. Hummel has made his plan. The car is big and heavy. That, with the added factor of surprise and pre-dawn timing, should allow him to smash through the Bulgarian side of the barrier. Then everything will depend on the reception he gets from the Turks. He glances at the woman. Maybe he will give her to the Turkish border guards as payment for his passage.
He realizes he has dozed off again only when a tug at his waist brings him back to consciousness. He slams instinctivel
y down with his forearm, which strikes against the woman’s arm and elicits a stifled whimper. The bitch has been after his gun.
Hummel realizes he cannot trust himself to stay awake. Only one other solution offers itself to him. He clambers out of the car, walks around to the passenger side, and opens the door. He presses the pistol against the woman’s ribs.
“Out of the car,” he says. As her feet touch the ground, Hummel backs away and pulls the heavy paratrooper’s knife from his pocket. The woman’s eyes widen as the blade locks into place. Hummel swings the knife back, and she stares at him, her eyes still wide, but with no sign of fear. As the blade begins its forward arc toward her belly, she spits in his face. He rips the blade in, and upward, and jerks it out again. She stands in front of him like a contemptuous statue as a bloodstain, black in the moonlight, spreads across her blouse.
Hummel wonders stupidly why she will not fall down. Then he steels himself and shoves the blade carefully between her ribs, at the point he thinks her heart should be. This time she grunts. When he withdraws the blade, she topples to the ground.
Hummel drags her into the trees, then strikes a match and examines her. The eyes are still wide open, but there can be no doubt she is dead. He reaches out nervously and pushes the lids closed.
He returns to the car and opens the rear end, exposing the green steamer trunk. He tugs at the lid. It is locked. Cursing under his breath, Hummel returns to the woman’s body to search for the key. He runs his hands across her clothes. His fingers touch a bare breast. The nipple is stiff, and Hummel experiences a flare of desire. He shakes his head and sucks in several deep breaths, and then continues the search. At length he discovers the key tucked into the toe of her left shoe.
He unlocks the steamer trunk and strikes another match. The statue fills most of one end, staring up at him with its bitch smile. Hummel shudders, then curses himself for a superstitious fool. He paws through the other things, striking match after match, burning his fingers several times, as he tries to guess which of the odd looking pieces of jewelry might be the most valuable. He wants to take the best, and leave the others in the trunk, ransom for the border guards; but he knows nothing of jewelry, or gold, or antiquities, and he settles in the end for things he can slip easily into his pockets. He takes one last look at the goddess. The Turks can have her for sure, he thinks. He slides into the driver’s seat, locks the doors, and curls up to wait for the hour before dawn. At some point he falls asleep. When a loud noise wakes him up, the brightest light in the world is piercing his eyes like knives.
The noise comes again, metal against glass, and the window next to him shatters. Someone reaches through with huge hands and grabs him around the neck, pulling his head through the broken window. A sharp piece of glass slices the side of his face.
The light comes from a flashlight, which the owner waves around, holding it briefly on two men who stand a little way from the car. They stagger under the weight of the woman’s body. The man who holds him says something that sounds like a question, and Hummel whimpers in fear as the big hands shake him like a chicken.
He stares uncomprehendingly at the woman, who hangs between the other two. Her eyes are open again, staring at him, and her mouth gapes in a grin. For a moment Hummel is convinced she is alive. Then the men let go, and she sags to the ground like a rag. Hummel’s bladder releases at the same time, and he feels the warmth of urine spreading down his trouser leg. The man holding him lets go with one hand, which returns with a gun. At the last moment Hummel remembers his own weapon. He is clawing for it when the other man pulls the trigger.
Chapter 47
Adam Pray stood awhile longer on the darkened dock, staring into the night, as if he thought that if he waited long enough Julian’s ketch would re-appear, and everything would turn out just to be another one of his practical jokes. Finally he sighed and bent over to pick up his suitcase. As he did, he caught motion at the corner of his eye. He tried too late to duck. Pain flashed through his head, and the pier came up to meet his face. He saw a brief blossom of orange behind his eyes, then nothing.
When he woke up again, he was still in the dark, but no longer on the stone pier. The surface under him was cold, smooth and tilted, and from the knees down, he was in water. He tried to decide where he might be. There was a vague, half-conscious memory of being dumped into a rowboat, taken somewhere, hauled into the air, and dropped into this place. The image of a boat or ship came winked briefly on and off, but this place did not move, not even slightly, the way a floating vessel would, although the sound of waves came from somewhere near. Pray dropped into unconsciousness again, and when he woke the next time, it was dawn, and enough dim light filtered into the space for Pray to see metal walls, a rusty metal floor, tilted and with water covering two thirds of it, and a metal door that was equally rusty and closed tight. Everything about the place said ship, and Pray remembered the steamer that lay, half out of water, in the harbor, and decided he must be on it. He looked around his prison. There were no portholes, but in the middle of the wall closest to him was a rusty metal door with a large, curved handle. Pray raised himself on one elbow. Even that cautious movement made his head explode in pain. He ran his fingers through his hair. It felt sticky, and the fingers came away dark with half-dried blood. There was a tender lump under the torn scalp, but the skull seemed to be intact. Pray gritted his teeth and raised himself to a crouching position, balancing with his hands on the tilted flooring, and began to shuffle toward the door. He reached it and grabbed at the handle, which resisted at first, and then began to move downward. Pray tugged harder, the handle reached the end of its travel with a loud click, and the door swung inward, but only about two inches. Pray pulled himself closer to the door and peered through the opening. A sturdy chain had been attached on the outside. Pray jerked half-heartedly at the handle a couple of times, but the chain was clearly stronger than he was. He settled down to the floor again, braced himself against the wall with his feet to keep from sliding into the water, and never felt it when he slipped again into sleep.
He woke up with a start. It was dark again, and his legs were once more resting in the water. As he started pulling himself higher on the slanted decking, he heard a sound, and froze. Someone was outside, walking toward his small prison. Pray struggled to his feet, ignoring the renewed pain in his head. A loud noise announced that someone was removing the chain, and then the door began slowly to move inward with a creak. The opening was on Pray’s side. He braced himself against the wall with his left forearm and cocked his right fist against his ribs, ready to strike and, he hoped, grab the first visible body.
“Adam?”
The voice was Lydia’s. Pray sagged and stepped away from the wall. “Hell of a place for a date,” he said.
The door swung open with a squeal, and Lydia stepped inside, followed by Agamemnon Londos.
Pray took Lydia’s shoulders in his hands. “Have I ever told you how gorgeous you are?” he asked. She twisted away.
“Don’t think this means anything,” she said. “I would do the same for anyone.”
“And I wouldn’t have bothered at all,” Londos said. “But I wanted to complain. The film you gave me was no good. It was the daylight film. Some spy you must have been.” He laughed and rubbed his hands together. “Let’s find some place a little less formal and talk,” he said. He bowed and swept his hand grandly toward the door. “After you.”
Lydia led the way, making a visible point of not looking at Pray as she moved past him. He started out himself, and Londos grabbed him by the arm.
“Don’t worry,” he said in a loud stage whisper. “She’s really putty in your hands.”
“She doesn’t seem to be in my hands at all.”
Londos shrugged and grinned, and waved him toward the door.
They walked through the dark streets until they came to the Fat Fisherman. The taverna was closed, but Milos Argyros was inside cleaning up. Lydia tapped on the glass of the front door. Argyr
os looked up from his work, saw them, and walked quickly to the door. “I didn’t believe it until now,” he said as he opened the door. “I apologize for my son, kyrie Pray. I am deeply ashamed.”
Pray turned to Lydia. “What’s he talking about,” he asked.
“Andreas helped the Skevis brothers kidnap you and lock you up in the steamer,” she said. “That’s how I found out what had happened. I was walking by the water and saw them rowing back to the jetty. Andreas is so stupid, he could not resist bragging. He told me that he was going to be a rich man soon, and that I would be lucky if he still wanted me then.. And then he said I shouldn’t count on marrying you, either, because he had taken care of that little problem.” She sniffed loudly. “As if I would want anything to do with you, anyway.”
“You owe this lady a big thanks,” Londos said. “She figured out Andreas must have pulled something nasty, and she came straight to me. I went to Andreas and had a little talk with him, so to speak. He crumpled up like tissue paper. You’d never guess it, but when I get into my bad cop role, I can be real scary.”
“I believe you,” Pray said. He turned to Lydia. “I do owe you,” he said.
“Don’t think it means anything,” Lydia said. “I would have done the same for my neighbor’s dog.” She tossed her head and walked to the counter, where Milos continued to clean and pretend he wasn’t there.
“Don’t believe her,” Londos said in a loud stage whisper. “She’s crazy about you.” He sat down heavily at one of the tables and motioned for Pray to sit with him. “Where’s your brother?” he asked.
“He went back to join Fugger.”
“Even after he knew what happened to Irene.”
Pray nodded. “He left my suitcase on the pier with a note. Said he was sorry, but he had to make a living.”
Londos sighed and shook his head. “If there was a real crunch, where he had to choose, whose side would he take?”
“I don’t know,” Pray said.
“He’s your brother, for Christ sakes!”