by Paul Moomaw
“This is the first time I’ve seen him since I was twelve. I don’t know him any more.”
“Well, look, here’s the problem,” Londos said. “The word I got the other day is that it isn’t just toxic shit Fugger is dumping now. His next deposit into the local caves is likely to include radioactive waste. If he has that on board, he would have to dump it. No way could he use his fancy incinerator on that. So if I can prove some of his cargo is hot, I can nail the bastard.”
“So call in the cops,” Pray said.
“You Americans have such a sense of humor,” Londos said. “Nobody can do anything officially, because Fugger is in international waters. And because he has what you might call friends in high places, like the CIA, nobody is willing to do anything unofficial, either.” He rubbed his hands together. “At least, almost nobody,” he said.
Pray gazed at Londos and smiled. “Nobody except maybe a cop named Agamemnon Londos,” he said.
Londos nodded and leaned across the table toward Pray. “If I can get aboard that big boat of Fugger’s and prove to my own satisfaction there’s nuclear waste aboard—and all that would take is a Geiger counter, which I can get—then I would be willing to take the damn place over at gun point and force Fugger to sail to a Greek port. Then the authorities would have no choice but to act.”
“Is that legal?” Pray said.
Londos shook his head. “Probably makes me a pirate, or something.”
“What does that do to your career?”
“I’ll worry about that when the time comes. I’m about ready to retire anyway.” He smiled. “I need a little help, though, from somebody who can be a real tough guy in a fight.”
“And you just happened to think of me,” Pray said.
“You don’t think I pulled you off that hulk in the harbor just because I’m a nice guy?” Londos replied. “You’re good. I know that from personal experience, don’t I? And I figure that in a showdown, if you’re there your brother might have a change of heart and do the right thing for once.”
“If he doesn’t, you’ll have to deal with that,” Pray said. “I won’t do anything to hurt him. He may have taken a wrong turn somewhere, but he’s still my brother.”
Londos nodded and grinned. He reached out with a meaty hand and grabbed Pray’s arm. “Good,” he said. “I’ll take that as a yes.” He stood up. “Get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow we’ll plan the details. Right now I have to find us a boat.”
“I’m going too,” Lydia said. Pray had not realized that she had returned and was standing by their table.
“Too dangerous,” he said.
“Irene was my sister. I’m going,” Lydia said.
“What the hell,” Londos said. “We may need a getaway driver. See you in the morning.” He walked to the door and out into the night.
Lydia glowered up at Pray. “I suppose you need a place to sleep,” she said.
“I guess I do,” Pray said.
“You can stay this last night at our house,” Lydia said. “But don’t get the wrong idea.” She turned and strode toward the door. Pray followed.
“Not a chance of that,” he murmured to himself with a grin.
Chapter 48
Terry Parker caught the white shine of der Rattensinger through his port window, and corrected the helicopter’s course. He scanned the water, and thought, for the dozenth time, he saw a dark shadow gliding like a shark in the same direction the tiny aircraft flew.
“I’m seeing submarines under every wave,” he muttered. He did not know if the Israelis had put to sea yet. But they did not make idle threats. He supposed he should be happy they had given any warning at all. Act first, stonewall later, was the Mossad’s more usual method. He slowed the helicopter to a near-hover as he got close enough to see detail on the ship below, and felt a shiver pass down his spine as he watched the small radar dish above her bridge stop its steady circling and focus on him. He wondered if the crew of the Israeli helicopter had been granted time to think or feel anything, and wished briefly he had given Fugger advance warning of this visit. Then he resumed his approach, slow and high, trying to make it obvious that he presented no threat.
Dieter Fugger stood on the bridge and focused binoculars on the approaching helicopter.
“Only one man,” he said. “It looks like Parker. You can put your toy away.”
Gotard, standing just behind him, grunted.
“I’ll wait to be sure,” he said. He sounded disappointed.
Fugger shrugged. “Stay here and play desperado, then,” he said. “I’m going down to the pad.”
Gotard watched him go with contempt. Don’t you have a surprise coming, Mr. Big Shot, he thought. He had no real plan, did not feel the need for one. No one could touch him as long as he had the bomb. He kept the trigger with him, always. He slept and ate with at his side. Sometimes he toyed with fantasies of being a modern pirate, ambling from port to port in der Rattensinger, loading its fat, white belly with tribute from the cities of the Mediterranean, eating their best food, drinking their finest brandies, and fucking their most beautiful women. And then, perhaps, in the end, when it had all gotten boring, because everything eventually did, anchoring at Marseilles, where his life had begun, and bringing it to an end with a fine, nuclear brilliance.
He turned his attention back to the little helicopter, which had continued its cautious approach to the landing pad. Fugger had been right. The American spy, Parker, piloted the craft. Gotard felt a moment’s envy. He had always wanted to learn to fly a helicopter. He felt a brief impulse to grab Parker, tie him up with a knife to his throat, and make him give a few flying lessons. The thought gave him pleasure, even though he knew it was not realistic, and he laughed. He gave the Stinger a pat, like a treasured pet. There were two of the shoulder-launched missiles aboard. There had been three, his contribution to the ship, the product of some of his own dickering with contraband and drugs. He had purchased them from a Lebanese arms dealer, who had gotten them under the table from the Israelis, which made using one of them to blow a bunch of Jews to hell all the more beautiful. Fugger had not liked having them on board, but Fugger was weak, which made everything that much easier. When the end came, the German would collapse.
Fugger braced himself against the wash of the helicopter’s rotor and wondered what Parker wanted. It probably would be bad news. It almost always was, when the American visited—a complaint, or a demand for some new service that would create new difficulties in Fugger’s life.
The engine died, and Parker swung himself onto the deck. He smiled at Fugger—more of a smirk, the German thought—and waved his hand in a half salute.
“You look delighted to see me,” he said.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Parker?”
Parker thrust an index finger forward.
“You can do something about your animal there.”
Fugger glanced over his shoulder. Gotard stood just behind him. He had not noticed his approach. The French bastard was too quiet for a man his size, or for anyone. He turned back to Parker.
“What is the problem?”
“If you don’t know, you need to run a tighter ship. You’re sitting on about eighty kilotons of sudden death, and Gruesome here brought it aboard, with the help of a Libyan named Rashid al Hamani, whom he also seems to have brought aboard.
Fugger realized he had not seen the Arab for several days. He pivoted to face Gotard.
“Where is Rashid?”
Gotard grinned. “Fell overboard, perhaps.”
Hands on Fugger’s shoulder spun him roughly around.
“Don’t change the subject, Fugger,” Parker snarled. Fugger felt a flash of anger, then suppressed it.He did not approve of violence, in himself or others. Some people thought he was a coward. But he had long ago stopped caring what most other people thought.
“I will appreciate your removing your paws,” he said, his voice calm, his eyes as cold as he could make them. The American let go and stepped b
ack.
“You are in deep shit, mein lieber Herr Fugger,” he said.
Fugger smiled and swept his hand grandly toward the bridge of der Rattensinger.
“Of course,” he said. “That is my business, isn’t it so?”
“Listen to me, Dieter,” Parker said. It got Fugger’s attention. The American had never called him by his first name before.
“I listen,” he said.
“Somewhere on this ship,” and Parker glanced briefly at Gotard, “he knows where, there is a nuclear device. It’s armed, as far as anyone knows, and it’s not acceptable.”
Gotard shoved past Fugger and jutted his face forward, putting it inches from Parker’s. “I will decide what is acceptable.”
“Is this true?” Fugger asked.
Gotard laughed. It came all the way from his belly, radiating joy as it rose to his throat, the joy of power, of looking at this American, who represented so much he, Gotard, should be afraid of, and knowing that he did not have to be afraid, that the American and his entire country were powerless, puny, in the face of what Gotard held.
“Is what he says true?” Fugger repeated.
Gotard turned to face him and nodded vigorously.
“You can’t do that to my ship!”
“Fuck you. I can do what I want.”
“There’s more,” Parker said.
Fugger slumped. Of course there would be more. However bad it was, the American could always make it worse.
“The Israelis have decided to do something about the problem,” Parker said. “Their answer is to blow your ship out of the water. They have a submarine out there, right now.” If that wasn’t strictly true, it would be soon enough, he thought, “Either you turn der Rattensinger, and the bomb, over to them, or you and your ship got o the bottom. They seem to believe that an unexploded nuclear device at the bottom of the Mediterranean beats having one blow up some place like Haifa.”
“You are talking to the wrong person,” Gotard said. “I make the decisions now.”
Fugger felt his world slipping away. He was surprised to discover that he felt no fear, or anger, but only resignation. “They’ve beaten me after all,” he murmured.
“What?” Parker asked.
Fugger shook his head. “Nothing. How long?”
“Four, five days.” Parker spread his hands in resignation. “That’s the message. It’s your ball. I’m leaving.” He turned back toward the helicopter. Gotard sprang after him. He wrapped his arms around Parker’s chest, spun him around, and drove his head into the bulkhead.
“You go nowhere,” he said, “except to the radio room. Then you will call your people and let them know that the bomb is armed and triggered. At the first sign of attack, I will set it off.”
Parker rose shakily to his feet, trying to clear the bells and cobwebs from his head.
“You go up in smoke, too, in that case,” he said.
Gotard laughed again, still full of the joy of unstoppable victory.
“Can you think of a more wonderful way to die?” he said.
Chapter 49
The Broken Wing lay snugly tied against the port-side boarding ramp of der Rattensinger, protected by the larger vessel from a north wind that had begun to blow in fierce gusts. Londos, Pray, and Lydia Kouris surveyed the scene through the dirty windshield of the small fishing boat Londos had managed to obtain for the journey to Fugger’s ship. The small boat lay beyond the wind shadow the ship, and the waves pitched it around like a cork. The moon, three quarters full and intensely bright, created broken triangles of silver and black inside the fishing boat.
“I wish it were a little darker,” Pray said. “I could do without the spotlight,”
“Me, too,” Londos replied. “But the crew is likely to stay inside in this weather. We’ll see them before they see us. And, on the other hand, we got the wind. It will cover any sound we make when we board.”
“What I want those bastards to see is my gun in their faces,” Lydia said.
“You’re staying here,” Pray said. “Remember? No guns, and no leaving the boat. That was the agreement.”
“It was my sister who died,” Lydia said. “My blood, not yours. I have the right.”
Londos chuckled and crossed his arms and legs, then leaned back against the bulkhead. “But we have the might, kyria, and might makes right, as I’m sure you have heard.”
“Fucking men think they own the world,” Lydia snarled, and threw herself back into her chair.
“When I was a boy, a woman’s father would have beaten her for talking like that,” Londos said, shaking his head disapprovingly. “In public, right out on the sidewalk, no matter how old she was. And if the old man was too feeble, a brother would have done the job.”
“Times change,” Pray said.
“Yeah,” Londos said. “And it’s maybe the fault of guys like me, who left home. We bring back the American disease. Disrespect.” He grunted and peered out of the porthole again. “We should make our move soon. You’re sure there will be only two crewmen?”
Pray nodded. “Plus one visiting Arab and the gorilla. I expect Gotard will be with Fugger and Julian. Demetria, too. Fugger likes an audience.”
“And the others?”
“Who knows? Their quarters are the next level down. They have satellite television, so with any luck they’ll be tucked in fort he night.”
“How many ways into the crew area?”
Pray closed his eyes and reviewed his time on der Rattensinger. “Two, I think. One forward, at the end of a gangway that leads down from the bridge, and one at the rear, that opens onto the main deck.”
Londos nodded thoughtfully, his index finger curled around the tip of his nose. It made a question mark, Pray thought. The whole expedition was a question mark.
“If we go in the rear entrance, we can secure the crew,” Londos said.
“If we find them there.”
Londos waved the remark away. “Even if we don’t, we can lock that door, or wedge it closed, and not have to worry about the deck entrance.”
“There is one small problem,” Pray said. “The gangway up from the water goes straight to the bridge. We have to go up, before we can go down.”
Londos shrugged. “Nothing is perfect, right?” He stretched his arms wide, then brought his hands together with a soft clap. “Let’s go do it.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small pistol. It was a well-worn Browning.308 semi-automatic. “Take good care of this. It’s sort of a family heirloom,” he said. He handed the gun to Pray.
Lydia jumped up. “Let me come,” she said. “I can keep watch for you.”
“No dice,” Pray said. “You can help us more staying here.”
“Sitting on my backside?”
Pray stepped across to the short wave set tucked into a corner. “This is set to an emergency frequency. You turn it on with this switch.” He demonstrated. “If we’re not back in . . .” He paused. “How long, do you think?” he asked.
“Hour and a half,” Londos said.
Pray turned back to Lydia. “Give us that long, then get on the radio and start calling for help. You press this button on the microphone to talk.”
“What do I say?”
“It doesn’t matter. Say anything. Say they’re killing people. Whatever you like.”
“Doesn’t the ship have a radio?”
Pray nodded, and Lydia thrust an index finger at him in triumph. “Then they will hear me,” she said.
“All the better. It will create a diversion, buy us some time.”
“It’s a stupid idea,” Lydia said.
“Just do it,” Pray said.
“You need to be more masterful with women,” Londos said. He punched Pray lightly on the shoulder and laughed, then eased the throttle of the fishing boar forward. The small craft crept slowly toward der Rattensinger. It passed into the wind shadow of the larger ship, and the water became calm, which, if anything, made the moonlight seem even more i
ntense. Pray began to feel like a bug on a bright mirror. “You always hear about the wonderful light in Greece,” he muttered. Finally, the fishing boat drew close enough to pass into the dark shadow cast by the larger ship. Pray scuttled to the bow and grabbed a line. Londos nudged the bow of the fishing boat against the stern of The Broken Wing, and Pray leaped across. He lashed the two vessels together, then waved to Londos, who cut the fishing boat’s engine and joined Pray. Together they crossed the deck of Julian’s ketch.
“Wish us luck,” Londos said, and began to climb the gangway that led up to the bridge of der Rattensinger.
Pray followed. Fugger’s ship suddenly seemed very large, and he very small.
As Londos reached the level of the bridge, light suddenly framed his head. Then he ducked and vanished into shadow. Pray took the remaining steps quickly.
“Stay down,” Londos commanded in a whisper. He grabbed Pray’s arm and pulled him closer.
“What happened?” Pray asked.
“I was standing in front of that goddamn big window, and the light came on. Someone walked in, but I didn’t wait to see who.”
Pray crawled until he was past the window. He rose and edged toward the glass, tilted his head to peek in, then jerked it quickly back. Fugger stood just on the other side of the window, gazing out. Pray lowered himself to his stomach, and squirmed away from the bulkhead until he could make out the German’s shape. Fugger stood there a while longer, then scratched his head and turned away. Pray stood up again and tried another look.
Fugger stood at a wet bar, back to the window, mixing a drink. Gotard slouched in an overstuffed chair, looking bored. Demetria lay curled on the carpet at his feet. Julian was nowhere to be seen, but sitting across from the big Frenchman, not looking happy to be there, was Terry Parker.
“Son of a bitch,” Pray said.
“What do you see?” Londos asked.
“CIA has graced us with its presence, in the shape of one of its biggest assholes.”
“Who?” Londos said. He struggled to his feet and peered over Pray’s shoulder.
“The guy sitting in the hard chair, looking pissed,” Pray said. “That’s Terry Parker. He’s CIA. I wonder what the hell he’s doing here?”