The Dragon With One Ruby Eye

by Paul Moomaw

  “Very thoughtful, Mr. Lopez.” Dorn turned to his wife. “Don’t you agree, Rebecca?”

  “Whatever you say, Phil.” She pulled at his sleeve. “Let’s go, please.”

  Hesse waited until they drove away, then walked across the street to a pay phone. He pulled out his credit card and started punching in numbers. In an apartment in Seattle, a telephone rang briefly before a computer modem went into action and relayed the call to a house on the shore of Lake Coeur d’Alene, where the signal bounced again, this time to an office on the 39th floor of the Trade Towers in New York City.

  Hesse heard a phone being picked up, and a voice said, “Speak.”

  “The article you requested is on its way.”

  “I will inform the interested parties,” the voice replied.

  Hesse hung up. He climbed into the BMW. It stank of cigarettes. Hesse made a face, felt anger well up inside him at the imbecile Dorns and their lack of courtesy. Then he shrugged. A small price, he thought, and Rafael could clean the car thoroughly later on. He started the car, and smiled with satisfaction as the powerful engine began to purr. He liked powerful things, as long as he controlled them.

  * * *

  In the village of St. Gilgens, perched by the Wolfgang-See in the mountains of Austria, a gray dawn was breaking over a large house with a red tile roof. Inside the house a man, silver-haired, wrapped in a maroon bathrobe, sat in an ornate chair next to a telephone, and stared through a window into his garden. He had been sitting there all night, and had chosen that particular chair precisely because it was uncomfortable, and would keep him from dropping off. He was not good at waking up once he fell asleep.

  The telephone rang once. The man picked it up before it could ring again.

  “Meissner.”

  “The gift you ordered from America is on its way.”

  “How long before it reaches my friend?”

  “We estimate two weeks. It’s impossible to be more precise.”

  The man in the chair nodded. “Good,” he said. “Please keep me aware of its progress. My friend is most eager to receive it.” He hung up and rose slowly from the chair, making a face as his knees crackled. Then he rubbed his hands together and smiled.

  “Peter!” he shouted. “Coffee. And draw me a hot bath. Very hot.”

  * * *

  Three kilometers away, a man dressed in a brown sweater and wrinkled khaki trousers removed a set of earphones from his head. He sat for a minute, rubbing his head and listening to the birds. Then he walked to a black Fiat sedan, where a small satellite dish perched precariously on the roof. He grabbed the dish, folded it, and tossed it into the back seat of the Fiat. He settled into the driver’s seat, punched a number into a cellular telephone that nestled between the front seats, and tapped his fingers impatiently while the phone at the other end rang six, seven, eight times before someone finally answered.

  “Give me Delon,” he man said in French. “This is Orsine. Let me speak to Delon.” He paused, listening to the voice at the other end. “Wake him up then. He is expecting this call. And hurry. I have better things to do than wait.”

  The man called Orsine wagged the telephone back and forth, whistling tunelessly, for several minutes, then sat straighter and put the unit back to his ear again. “Allo, Monsieur Delon? It is Orsine. There was a call, from America. Something is to be delivered, but not to Meissner, I think.” Orsine paused and listened. “The caller didn’t specify what it is, but Meissner was waiting for the call, answered it on the first ring. He wouldn’t do that unless it was important, non?” He listened again. “The little satellite dish worked about as well as one would expect—perfectly some times, not at all others. And the neighbors started getting curious. One little boy hung around so long that his father came looking, and then of course the father had questions.” Orsine laughed harshly. “I told him I was doing a television test.” He listened and shook his head. “It’s a nice toy, but I think such a gadget could be more trouble in the end than an old fashioned telephone tap.” He nodded, listened, nodded once more. “Ca va. I will return to Paris this morning.”

  Orsine put the telephone back into its cradle and started the engine. It would be good to go home. He did not like Austrians.

  Chapter 4

  Josef Ruhm’s showroom lay at the end of a long, ninth-floor hallway, behind an ornate oak door which, Pray knew, concealed a slab of heavy steel. A small brass plate, inscribed “Josef Ruhm, Jade,” offered the only clue to what lay behind that barrier.

  A mother-of-pearl bell push perched on the wall next to the door. Pray pressed it, and the door swung silently.

  “You are late, Adam,” Ruhm said with a smile, stepping back to let Pray enter. He stood close to a foot shorter than the younger man. “You are always late,” he added. “I hope she was pretty.”

  Pray laughed and closed the door. “Nothing more romantic than the usual fight for downtown parking.”

  Ruhm shook his head and clucked. “Not good, Adam. Young men like you should be delayed only by beauty, and leave ancients such as myself to worry about parking.”

  “I’m not all that young, and you’re not all that old.”

  “I am very old. I was never allowed to be young.” A shadow passed behind Ruhm’s eyes, as it always did when he made any reference to Germany and the concentration camps. He shuffled to a long, wooden deal table under the tall, narrow windows that lined the room’s wall. “But even the old can respond to beauty,” he said. “Come and look.”

  On the table a plain, ebony box rested. Ruhm unlatched and lifted the top, and the sides fell flat of their own accord. The inside of the box was of red lacquer, and floating on that scarlet sea was the dragon boat. Pray walked to the table like a man in a trance.

  “Go ahead,” Ruhm said. “Pick it up.”

  Pray stared at the boat, letting himself fall in love with it, with the beauty of its lines, and the way the pearly light from the window and the reflected red of the box mingled in the depths of the boat’s translucent hull. Then, reluctantly, knowing he would not want to put it back down, he picked the craft up and let the cool, smooth stone caress his hands.

  “For you are such a smart little craft,” he whispered half to himself. “Such a bright little, tight little, slight little craft.”

  Ruhm chuckled. “Ah, Adam,” he said. “Who but you would quote Gilbert and Sullivan at such a time?”

  “And who but you would know the quote, old man?” Pray placed the boat lovingly back onto its case. “Where did you find it?”

  “There was an old man—really old, even more ancient than I—in Vancouver, in British Columbia. His name was Lee Hseng Fua. I think he started his career as a tong hatchet man, but by the time I knew him, he had acquired great wealth, great respectability, and a great amount of jade.” Ruhm reached out and stroked the boat lovingly. “I sold him several pieces over the years, but not this. I don’t know where he got this. It’s Chinese, of course—I estimate late Seventeenth or early Eighteenth Century. He died, and his son asked me to appraise and auction his jade collection.”

  Ruhm paused and looked up at Pray, his eyes, still a clear blue despite his years, shining. “I held this apart, for you.”

  “I don’t know if I can afford it,” Pray said, knowing he was quibbling, that he didn’t give a damn whether he could afford it or not.

  Ruhm obviously knew that, too. He clucked and shook his head from side to side. “Right now, I won’t even quote you a price. I want you to take it home and live with it for a week or so. Then, if you come back and tell me no, I will accept your decision.”

  “You’re not playing fair, Josef.”

  Ruhm grinned slyly. “Probably not, but there it is. Also, doing it this way will allow me to tell a certain other person, truthfully, that I don’t have the piece.”

  “Someone else wants it?”

  “Badly. I could get from him twice what I will ask you for it. But I want to sell it to you; and I do not want to sell it
to him. I don’t even know how he found out I have it. He is not someone I like doing business with.”

  “Business is business, Josef.”

  The old man shook his head and gazed at Pray with grave eyes.

  “No, Adam. The paving stones of Hell are engraved with statements like that. That is how the Krupps, and all the others like them, justified their corruption by the Nazis.”

  Ruhm latched up the ebony case, handed it to Pray, and walked to the door.

  “Take it home, Adam. Let it tell you where it belongs.”

  Ruhm opened the door, still facing Pray, so that he failed to see two young men who stood in the hall—overgrown street urchins, one tan, with the heavy muscles of a body builder, one thin and haggard, with pasty skin, and both with the shaved skulls that marked them as skinheads.

  The muscular one, wearing a leather vest with a swastika patch, pushed his way into the room with a grin. He held a short length of chain in his fist, which he swung back and forth as he walked. The other man wore a heavy blue pea coat with the air of someone who is always cold. As he entered the room, he reached inside the coat and retrieved a wicked looking knife, the straight blade only about eight inches long, but as wide as a machete blade, with a hand guard that gave it the look of a cutlass.

  “We came to make a pickup,” the muscular man said, and grinned again.

  Ruhm shrank against the wall. “Take what you wish and leave, please,” he said, resignation, but no fear, in his voice.

  The muscular hood slapped the chain against his thigh and gazed around the room. The skinny one stepped up next to him and looked around as well.

  “I don’t see no boat,” he said.

  The larger man pulled out a creased photograph and held it toward Ruhm. It was a picture, in black and white, of the dragon boat. “Where is it?” he asked.

  Pray sidled toward the table and placed the ebony case on it. Not my boat, you don’t, he thought, as he sized the two men up. He worried more about the chain than the knife. Chains were tricky, like snakes; you couldn’t predict the angle of their strike, couldn’t always even see them coming at you. A big, clumsy knife was easy—a target, not a weapon. And the little guy held it awkwardly, not like someone skilled with such a weapon. He was inviting a broken elbow, as far as Pray was concerned, and the knife would be Pray’s as a bonus.

  “Where’s the boat?” the bigger man asked again. He grabbed Ruhm by the lapel.

  The old man didn’t resist. “I don’t have a boat,” he said. “It is already with someone else.”

  “Bullshit!” The muscular thug shook Ruhm like a rat. “I know you got it. You ain’t had time to get rid of it. You think we’re stupid, or something?”

  “Yeah, we got information,” the skinny one said.

  Pray’s fingers curled into fists. The big one first, he decided. Take his knee out quickly. That would slow him down, and even if the leg didn’t break, the pain would distract him long enough to allow Pray to destroy the knife-wielder. Then he could go back to the other and give his full attention to that deadly chain without having to look over his shoulder.

  The big thug screwed up Pray’s plan before he could begin to put it in action.

  What’s that?” he asked, and pointed to the ebony case. He shoved Ruhm toward his companion. “Take care of the old fart while I look.” He flicked the chain toward Pray. “You just back off and give me some space, all right?”

  Pray backed away from the table, unwilling to offer a challenge as long as Ruhm stood in the skinny man’s arms, the knife blade creasing his throat.

  The muscular man fumbled with the latch and the case fell open.

  “Look what we got here,” he said. He turned to face Ruhm. “You fucking Jews always lie, don’t you? I ought to have my buddy carve you up good.”

  “He told the truth,” Pray said. “I had the boat.”

  “You shut up,” the man said, and returned his attention to Ruhm. “Come here, Yid,” he said.

  The skinny guy let go of Ruhm and prodded him in the small of the back with the knife blade.

  “I said come here,” the man said again.

  Ruhm stepped reluctantly toward him. Pray gave him three steps, to get out of range of the knife. Then he launched himself at the skinny man, feinting a blow with his left fist. The man swung the knife, and Pray stepped inside and smashed the palm of his right hand into the man’s nose. Then he grabbed the man’s knife arm, ducked under it, and pulled it down, hard, into the crook of his own arm. The skinny guy was screaming and holding his elbow, the knife forgotten on the floor, as Pray turned to face the other man, who made a lunge for Ruhm, then yelped in rage as the old man kicked him in the shins.

  “Good work!” Pray yelled, then winced in sympathetic pain as the thug struck Ruhm in the stomach, doubling him over, straightened him out again with an uppercut, and raked him across the eyes with the chain.

  Then the man grabbed the dragon boat and headed for the door. Pray sprinted to intercept him, and planted a hard side kick into his solar plexus. The man whuffed, and the dragon boat flew through the air.

  Pray made a desperate, reflexive lunge for the boat, even as he told himself that jade is tough as steel, that landing on a wooden floor wouldn’t hurt it, that he was making a terrible mistake.

  He managed to brush the boat with his fingers, and then his head was somehow between the hard floor and someone’s fist, or maybe it was a foot. Then the lights went out.

  * * *

  Pray returned to consciousness and a throbbing head. He lay curled up on his side, the floor still pressing against his cheek. He raised himself carefully, trying to ignore the waves of pain that washed through his skull, and looked around.

  The thugs were gone. Josef Ruhm sat in a corner, holding his face in his hands. Pray half walked, half crawled over to the old man.

  “Josef, are you all right?” he asked. “Let me see your face.”

  Ruhm shook his head slightly. “Where is the boat?” he asked, his voice muffled by his hands.

  “Never mind the boat,” Pray said, but he looked around the room. The boat was nowhere in sight.

  Chapter 5

  Priest Lake glimmered in the false dawn, a faint pearl-gray against the low Idaho hills and dark pines that cradled it. The breeze, chopped into odd pieces by its passage through the trees, raised unpredictable patterns of riffles on the smooth water. There were no sounds; it was the in-between time, no longer dark enough for the animals of the night, and not yet light enough for those of the day.

  Nick and Leonard huddled inside the black van, pulled up to the water’s edge, its blunt nose protruding from a stand of trees. Next to them lay a small clearing with a cluster of picnic tables and fire rings. A narrow wooden pier, worn and precarious looking, extended a little less than twenty feet into the lake.

  Leonard reached over and turned on the van’s engine. A roaring heater sprang to life.

  “Good thing we filled the tank in Sandpoint,” he said. “Like to froze my ass off as it is.”

  Nick switched the engine off.

  “Hey, I’m cold,” Leonard said.

  “Shut up. I think I hear something.” Nick rolled the van window down, stuck his head out, then nodded. “The plane’s coming.” He opened the door and climbed out. Leonard wrapped his arms around his chest and crouched deeper into the seat. “It’s cold enough in here,” he said.

  “Weakling,” Nick muttered, and walked toward the water. The sound of the airplane grew louder, an alto snarl that bounced off the lake. A dark speck appeared over the trees, and became a single-engine seaplane that passed low overhead, turned, and settled toward the water. The pilot throttled the engine back so that it made only a low, soft, chopping sound as the craft skimmed over the waves, then touched down, its pontoons throwing brief rooster tails. It lost speed rapidly, then turned and pointed its nose toward the pier, the engine growling as the pilot increased the throttle slightly.

  Nick looked back at the van
. “Come on,” he shouted.

  Leonard climbed down stiffly and stood next to the van, stamping his feet. He looked at the seaplane, which was pulling up against the rickety pier, the bow wave from its pontoons making the wooden structure rise and fall. “We have to walk out on that thing?”

  “Come on,” Nick said again, and trotted toward the plane. As his feet hit the pier, the engine died and the pilot’s door opened. A short, brown-skinned man with coal black hair and a hawk nose stepped onto the wing strut and tossed out a line. Nick pulled the line tight and wrapped it around a projection on the pier. The pilot swung down lightly, carrying more line, attached to a wooden chock. He slipped the chock into the craft’s aileron, pulled the line taut behind the plane, and secured it to the pier.

  Nick turned back. Leonard still waited on the shore.

  “Cunt-heart,” Nick muttered. “Start bringing the stuff,” he said in a louder voice.

  Leonard returned to the van, opened the side door, and retrieved two of the metal bottles. He carried them to the water.

  “Here. I’ll bring them from the truck and you take them to the plane. I don’t trust my balance on that thing.”

  Nick sighed and took the bottles. He walked back down the pier and handed them to the pilot.

  “You’re Rafael?” he asked.

  “I am Rafael. How many of these have you brought?”

  “Thirteen.”

  Rafael nodded and stored the two bottles behind the pilot’s seat. He surveyed the space. “There is room,” he said.

  “There’d fucking well better be. We didn’t bring this shit for you to decide not to take it.”

  Rafael said nothing. He stood, leaning against the wing strut, and stared at Nick. His eyes were as dark as his hair. In the pale morning light, they looked like two black holes in his face.

  The men relayed the bottles, a pair at a time, to the waiting plane. Standing with the final bottle, Leonard nodded toward Rafael.

  “Creepy looking dude, ain’t he? Some kind of spic, I guess.”