The Goddess Under Zakros

by Paul Moomaw

  At that moment, Julian emerged from a corner of the stateroom, zipping his fly as he walked. “There’s your brother,” Londos said. “But you never listen to a word I say, do you? I told you the CIA was financing Fugger’s operation. Most of the poison Fugger has been tucking into convenient caves comes right out of American military bases.”

  “So arrest me,” Pray said. He watched intently as Julian poured himself a tumbler full of something straight and sat down, cross-legged, on the carpet. He looked sober, but it was hard to tell.

  “Bang, bang, you’re dead.”

  Pray jerked convulsively at the voice, and bit his tongue. He stifled a curse and spun around. Londos had already grabbed Lydia, who grinned over his shoulder at Pray.

  “I said you needed a lookout, didn’t I?” she said. “And I was right. You are both deaf and blind.”

  “I told you to stay with the boat,” Pray hissed.

  “I compromised. I didn’t bring a gun.”

  “You’ve got no business here,” Pray said. He felt an anger he knew was out of proportion. “If you were a man, I’d punch your lights out,” he hissed.

  “If I were a man, you would not be so angry to begin with. You Americans are just as big sexist pigs as any goddamn Greek.”

  “Maybe we could have this conversation somewhere else,” Londos said. “Where do we go from here?”

  Pray took a deep breath and told himself to calm down. “Forward to the bridge. From there a catwalk leads to that giant dome at the stern. Then down to the deck.”

  Londos nodded and motioned Lydia past him. “Ladies first,” he said. Lydia grinned and curtsied.

  “Such a gentleman,” she said, and skipped toward the bridge. Pray brought up the rear with as much dignity as he could muster.

  At the beginning of the catwalk, Londos motioned Pray forward.

  “You know the way from here,” he said.

  Pray nodded and moved toward the stern. The deck below lay in darkness, and the catwalk itself seemed to vanish as it stretched toward the giant dome that glimmered dimly in the distance. Pray felt his way along the railing, not wanting to stumble and make a noise. As he approached the middle of the suspended walk, he began to feel enclosed in a separate space, where nothing was real, or solid, except the feel of the railing under his hand, and the pressure of his feet against the mesh floor. He had trouble deciding whether his feet were pressing down, or the decking was pressing up, and felt a momentary flash of vertigo. Then he heard Londos breathing, just beyond his shoulder, and reality, and gravity, returned.

  They reached the dome, circled it, and descended to the deck.

  “Nobody home,” Londos said.

  “Let’s hope they’re busy watching dirty movies,” Pray said.

  Londos chuckled. “Maybe a little drunk, too.”

  Pray shook his head. “The paying guests get the booze,” he said. “The crew gets television.” He stepped over to the ramp that descended to the water at the ship’s stern.

  “That’s how they load?” Londos asked.

  “And unload. Gotard tried to unload me that way.”

  “Sounds fascinating.”

  “Remind me to tell you about it some time.” Pray moved in slow, careful steps around the base of the dome and peered toward the bridge. The deck appeared to be occupied only by disorderly ranks of black barrels. He pointed forward.

  “The deck-level entry to crew quarters is directly ahead, the other side of those barrels.”

  “What if they locked it for the night?” Lydia asked.

  “Ships don’t have locks,” Pray said. He had no idea if that was true.

  The door, in fact, stood wide open. The interior of the ship beyond it lay in a darkness more total that what they had just passed through.

  “Come into my parlor,” Pray murmured, straining to see.

  “What?” Londos asked.

  “Nothing. Just working up my nerve.”

  “Yeah,” Londos said. “Last time I walked through an open door in the dark was in Duluth. The guy on the other side tried to fill me full of bullet holes. He was a lousy shot, lucky for me.” He pushed past Pray. “What the hell, right?”

  Pray followed Londos a few steps into the passageway, and nearly bumped into him when he came to a sudden stop.

  “Thought I heard something,” Londos whispered. Both men listened, but there was no sound.

  “Just spooked, I guess,” Londos said. “What say we close that door to the outside, and find a light switch.”

  Pray shook his head. “There ought to be some sound,” he said. “Unless there’s nobody home at all down here.” He crept past Londos, using a hand on the bulkhead to guide him. Suddenly the hand shot forward into empty space. He had reached one of the crew rooms, its door open, its interior dark.

  “I don’t like this,” he muttered. He stepped past the opening and began to feel his way along the corridor again. A loud, metallic clang rang suddenly to his rear, and then the passageway was filled with light, leaving him momentarily blind.

  The first thing his returning vision revealed to him was the barrel of a large, black revolver, gripped in a hand that held it jutting past Londos’ head, so that its muzzle grinned in his face as its owner marched Londos and the gun toward him. Then something hard poked his ribs from behind and maintained a firm presence there as a hand frisked his pockets, located the little Browning Londos had given Pray, and pulled it out.

  “Voila,” a man’s voice said. “Un p’tit pum-pum.”

  “C’est bien.” The voice that replied was Gotard, who approached rapidly behind Londos and his captor, his arm wrapped firmly around the neck of a sullen Lydia.

  “Upstairs, everyone,” he said.

  “Some lookout,” Pray said to Lydia. Her eyes wrinkled and brimmed with tears, and he was immediately sorry he had spoken.

  “It would have made no difference,” Gotard said. “You were as noisy as a flock of ducks.” He held out his hand, and the man who had frisked Pray handed him the Browning. Then Gotard motioned abruptly with his head. “Move.”

  Julian’s mouth dropped open briefly as his brother and the others were herded into the stateroom where he, Fugger and Parker sat. He half-rose from his chair, sagged back and shook his head, smiled and waved his empty glass toward Fugger. “I think I need a drink,” he said. He got up and made his way to the wet bar.

  Fugger’s face was expressionless. He nodded to Pray. “Good evening, Herr Pray. Do I know your friends?”

  “This is kyrios Agamemnon Londos, who is a policeman,” Julian answered for Pray as he sank again into his chair. “The young lady is Lydia Kouris, an innocent thing who I am sure came along only because she is madly in love with my baby brother.”

  Lydia hissed and said nothing. She tried to jerk away from Gotard, who laughed and held her briefly, then shoved her away. She grabbed at Pray for support, then straightened and turned her back on him.

  Londos broke the silence. “How do you do, Mr. Fugger,” he said, and held out his hand. Fugger looked briefly startled, then smiled.

  “I have never shaken hands with a policeman before,” he said, and grasped Londos’ hand.

  “A first time for everything, right?” Londos said. “Can I have a drink?”

  Fugger released his grip. “Please help yourself,” he said. “You, as well, Herr Pray,” he said. “Myself also, for that matter.”

  The three men clustered at the bar, as if attending an odd cocktail party. Lydia stood alone for a moment, then marched to their side.

  “Don’t bother to offer me anything, of course,” she said. She grabbed a glass and a bottle of gin, poured an inch of liquor, and drained it in one move. She made a face and refilled the glass, then moved to stand next to a window.

  “They came armed,” Gotard said. He laid Londos’ nine millimeter and the worn- looking Browning side by side on the table next to Fugger, who immediately picked up the smaller weapon.

  “An antique,” he said. �
�Yours, Herr Pray?”

  “On loan.”

  Fugger tossed the gun gently between his hands. “Then I will ask you to sublease it to me, as it were. “He looked up at Pray and smiled. “Long term, of course. It is a classic. It must be almost as old as I am.” He slipped it into a jacket pocket, then looked around him and sighed.

  “Now what on earth shall I do with all of you?”

  “Kill them,” Gotard said. “Except maybe the girl.” He grinned at Lydia and licked his lips suggestively.

  “If you’re going to kill anyone, Dieter, it should be your thug, there,” Parker said. “Otherwise, we’re all dog meat.” He stood up and sauntered toward Pray. “I should explain the situation to you, Adam. The big French asshole has brought a nuclear device aboard. Out there somewhere,” and he jerked his head toward the large window, “lies an Israeli submarine. They want the bomb. They say if they can’t have it in hand, they’ll just sink the ship. I believe them. They’re Mossad, and they don’t really give a shit.” He nodded toward Gotard. “Our friend here says he doesn’t give a shit either, and if they attack the ship, he’ll blow us all to hell. I believe him, too. He’s even nuttier than the Israelis.” He stood at Pray’s side and placed an arm over his shoulder. “Look at him. Crazy as a clock that strikes noon when it’s ten-after-ten. Which do you like better, anyway, mornings or noon time?”

  Parker obviously was trying to tell him something, and Pray wondered what the point was. Then he realized that Gotard was directly in front of them, and that if he were at twelve o’clock, the only crewman holding a weapon—a giant revolver of ancient years—would be standing at about ten a.m. The other crewman had no weapon that Pray could see; and although he stood close to the table where Gotard had placed Londos’ pistol, he had his attention on Lydia.

  “I’ve never been much of a morning person,” Pray said.

  “No wonder we never got along,” Parker said. “Basically incompatible, aren’t we? I can’t sleep past the crack of dawn, myself. In fact, I wish it were morning right . . .” Pray felt Parker’s grip on his shoulder tighten slightly. “Now!”

  As Parker barked the last word Pray launched himself at Gotard with a leap and a chicken kick—right foot doubling the Frenchman over as it snapped into his groin, left foot following in mid-air and landing against Gotard’s jaw with an impact that sent a satisfying shock up Pray’s lower leg, followed by the even more gratifying sound of Gotard’s head slamming into the steel wall of the stateroom.

  The combination would have left any normal man flat on the deck. Gotard merely blinked, shook his head and bellowed in rage as his eyes focused on his attacker. Then he wrapped his arms around Pray and began to squeeze. Pray willed all his strength to his legs, and slammed Gotard against the bulkhead again, driving his right elbow into the middle of the Frenchman’s chest. He heard bone snap, and hoped it wasn’t his. Gotard’s grip loosened a little, and Pray swiveled his body and drove the other elbow into the same spot. This time Gotard screamed in pain and let go. Pray backed away.

  A gun exploded close to his left ear, and someone cursed. Pray turned to see Parker backing away from the crewman who had been his target. He held his left shoulder as if it hurt. The other man had one hand pressed against his eyes and forehead, from which blood poured copiously. But his other hand still held the huge revolver. Parker’s foot lashed out in a circular kick that sent the gun flying, and then traveled diagonally down into the man’s knee, which suddenly, and dramatically, bent in the wrong direction.

  Gotard started to stand up. Pray spun and kicked him in the head again, then launched himself, sliding and running, for the table where, impossibly, Londos’ nine-millimeter piece still lay. He wondered briefly why no one had picked it up, what the hell Londos was doing, for that matter, then slid to a halt. Fugger held the little Browning. He swung it back and forth, pointing first at Pray, then at Londos, who stood, legs apart, leaning toward Fugger, as if he had been suspended on an invisible clothes line.

  “Everyone will please stop where you are,” Fugger said, and picked up the nine-millimeter with his free hand.

  “You guys should let me in on things,” Londos said. “By the time I woke up to what was happening, it was too late.”

  Gotard moaned. Blood flowed from his nose. Demetria, who had been as good as invisible, was suddenly beside him, kneeling, a pale finger tracing the blood across his lip, around the corner of his mouth, and down his chin.

  Fugger turned toward Gotard, and Londos lunged forward, but the German swung back immediately and slammed the larger pistol into the side of the policeman’s head. Pray started forward at the same time, but Fugger leveled both guns at him.

  “Please don’t make me shoot you,” he said. Pray had a brief impulse to jump him, in the hope that Fugger had never killed before, and would hesitate just long enough.

  Something shiny sailed into the German’s shoulder. It was a highball glass. A bottle followed it. Pray turned to see Julian standing at the bar, his hand scrambling for another missile. At the same instant, Lydia sprang behind Fugger, who yelped in pain and dropped the nine-millimeter. Pray made his move at that instant, chopping hard at Fugger’s wrist, knocking the small pistol from his hand, then dropping the German hard onto his back with a leg sweep.

  Lydia grinned proudly, a vegetable knife in her hand. Blood dripped from it onto her knuckles.

  “I told you I would be handy,” she said.

  Londos scrambled across Fugger and grabbed his gun, then rose a little shakily to his feet. Pray scooped up the Browning. He gave Lydia a thumbs up with his free hand.

  “I take everything back,” he said.

  Julian still stood at the bar.

  “I was never much good in a fight, I’m afraid,” he said with an apologetic smile. He walked to Fugger’s side, knelt, and placed a hand on the German’s shoulder. “Sorry, Dieter,” he said. “I owe you a lot, but I guess blood really is thicker than water, after all.”

  “Which of us has known his brother,” Pray murmured.

  “Good old Thomas Wolfe,” Julian said with a grin, then looked past Pray and stopped smiling. “Where the hell’s Gotard?” he said.

  Pray whirled and looked to his rear. There was no Gotard.

  “Shit!” Londos said. “How can anybody that big move so fast?”

  Pray leaped for the door, realizing as he did that Parker also was nowhere in sight. He charged into the breezeway from the bridge, and got slammed back down for his trouble as Gotard rushed by. The Frenchman stopped and turned. He held a rocket launcher in his hand. Demetria peeked from behind him.

  “One move, and I will incinerate you,” Gotard said. Pray raised his hands in surrender, and the Frenchman spun again and lurched toward the catwalk. Demetria followed him like a pale shadow.

  Londos appeared at Pray’s shoulder. “Why didn’t you shoot the bastard?” he asked, and pushed past Pray into the breezeway, gun extended.

  “He’s got some kind of rocket.”

  Londos lowered the gun. “Oh,” he said. “Where’s your friend Parker?”

  Before Pray could speak, the coughing and stuttering of an engine coming to life answered the question for him. He ran to the front of the bridge.

  “Right there,” he said, pointing to the small helicopter that lifted from the foredeck pad, tilted slightly, then shot straight up into the dark.

  “Taxi home,” Londos said.

  “Screw him,” Pray spat. “I’m more worried about that crazy French bastard and his bomb. He sprinted for the stern. Halfway across the catwalk he stopped, feeling frighteningly exposed. Gotard was no where to be seen. He turned back to Londos.

  “I’ll go to the rear and down to the deck from there,” he said. “You go back to the bridge and down through the crew’s quarters. Maybe we can catch him in our cross fire.”

  “Maybe we can shoot the shit out of each other, too.”

  “You have a better idea?”

  Londos shook his head, slapp
ed Pray on the shoulder, and headed forward in a crouching run. Pray dropped to his own hands, and attempted what he hoped was a rapid and silent traverse of the catwalk. He reached the dome, paused to catch his breath, and then crept toward the stern-side ladder to the deck. Half way around he heard a noise and froze. The noise came again, closer, a combination of scraping and thumping. He backed away in the direction of the catwalk, and the noise followed him. As he reached the catwalk, Gotard appeared. He was limping badly, and appeared not to have noticed Pray. The scraping came from the rocket launcher, which swung against the railing as he moved. Demetria, ghostlike, moved at his side, and appeared to be supporting him.

  Pray scuttled back along the catwalk. Gotard still appeared unaware of him. Then Demetria stopped, stood straighter, and pointed at Pray, her long, white arm extended like a curse. Gotard craned his head forward and stared. Pray still could not tell in the starlight whether he had been spotted or not, but then Gotard shrugged himself away from Demetria, cradled the rocket launcher, and pointed it down the catwalk, and it didn’t matter whether he was seen or not.

  As Pray tried to decide whether to run or jump, noise filled the air, and the helicopter was back. Its dim form clucked and chortled as it made one pass directly over the catwalk, then pirouetted daintily and hung in the air. A bright beam of light lanced from its nose, framing Gotard, Demetria and Pray in blinding silver. A stuttering sound, barely audible in the noise of the chopper blades, was followed by the whanging of bullets caroming off metal. Trust Parker to have packed an assault rifle, Pray thought. But don’t trust the accuracy of his fire from a swaying, dipping whirlybird. He darted farther along the catwalk, not stopping until he stood deep in shadow. Parker fired again, and this time puckers appeared in the steel wall of the dome. Gotard did a crazy dance, trying to dodge the bullets. Demetria gazed upward, as if fascinated by the helicopter, making no attempt to avoid the rifle fire. Parker squeezed off another flurry of shots, and Gotard was suddenly on his knees and cursing loudly enough for Pray to hear his voice over the noise of the helicopter. The Frenchman raised his hand in an obscene gesture, then aimed the rocket launcher at the helicopter and fired. The little missile flared and vanished, and almost immediately orange fire blossomed on the side of the helicopter. It spun rapidly clockwise, tilted sharply and then slid almost directly at Gotard and Demetria, who stood frozen, watching its approach. At the last minute, it veered to the right, its body brushing the side of the dome. Its flashing rotor sliced into the steel wall with a sound like a chain saw. Then the helicopter bounced away, still spinning, and disappeared over the side. Through the gash in the side of the dome a tide of viscous, fluorescent green fluid spurted. It shot into the air, hung there for a long moment as if savoring its freedom, then fell in a slow, sticky splash on top of Gotard and Demetria. It swept them along, dark stick figures, as it spilled to the deck and into the sea.