by Paul Moomaw
“Tell him it can wait.”
“I wish I could.”
“Meissner is more important to you than I am, right?”
“Actually, I am afraid at times that he is more important to you than I am. I’m not sure you don’t just use me to get to him.” She pulled out of his grasp and walked across the room to her closet. “I think, maybe, I have gotten too accustomed to being used,” she said, reaching for a heavy, terry-cloth robe and pulling it on.
Haven’t we all, Tarbell thought, as he began putting his own clothes on.
* * *
He didn’t try hard to find parking in front of his own apartment building on the Lainzer Strasse. A walk in the rain would neutralize Ilona’s perfume. Even better that the damp air carried the smells of the zoo from the grounds of the Schonbrunn Palace across the way. Better to smell like elephant than unfaithful husband, he thought with a rueful grin as he entered the lobby of the building and headed for the stairs.
He let himself into the apartment. Elaine sat next to the window in the overstuffed recliner chair that he had purchased years before, Stateside, and carried from station to station. She used it more than he did, he thought, closing the door softly and watching her. She sat with her eyes closed—not that it would have mattered—and earphones on, listening to music. Some sixth sense seemed to inform her as he crossed the carpet, and she extended a pale, slender hand. He gave it a kiss, and her eyes opened and aimed at him, just as if she could really see him.
“Hi, Daddy,” she said. She removed the headset. “How did your day go? It feels late.”
“Fraid so,” he said.
“There’s still some supper left.”
“I ate,” he said. Don’t ask me what, he thought. “New music?”
“Listen.” She held the earphones out, and he put them on. The sweet, dissonant sound of strings filled his head. He removed the phones.
“What’s that?”
“Ralph Vaughn Williams.”
Tarbell laughed. “Don’t understand why you can’t just listen to heavy metal like normal kids.”
“I guess I’m just not normal, Daddy.”
I guess not, he thought, with a pang. He surprised himself constantly by forgetting the blindness, so that it slipped up on him, caught him off guard, forced him to discover it all over again.
He glanced up and saw Susan standing in the door to the bedroom.
“Been packing?” he asked. She nodded, then said “Yes,” as if she had caught herself.
She forgets, too, Tarbell thought.
“You don’t want anything to eat,” she said. It was a statement, an expectation clearly held.
“Right,” he said. “I’ll just have a drink.”
“If you have to.” She turned back to the bedroom. Tarbell felt an impulse to follow her into that room with its bright lights and colors, so different from the one he had just left. He stifled it, and went to the bar. He poured himself a stiff drink, then stood in the middle of the room, feeling foolish. Finally he went into the bedroom, then stood again, still feeling awkward, watching his wife shuttle between closet and drawers and the suitcases on the bed, her movements brisk, her slender body brittle. There were times, he thought, when even her straight, blonde hair seemed all angles and sharp edges.
“Anything I can do to help?” he asked.
She paused in the act of bending over a suitcase, her back hunched and tense.
“No,” she said. She reached toward a suitcase again, then straightened and turned to face him. “No,” she repeated. “I don’t think there’s anything you can do to help.”
In that other bedroom, one lamp burned, its light reflecting off the dormer windows, flooding the table it stood on. Ilona Horthy sat at the table, telephone to her ear.
“Reinhardt,” she said. “Ilona here. He has just left.” She paused, listened, and laughed. “Like a lamb. He wanted me to take a trip with him.” She paused again, then rolled her eyes. “Give me time, Reinhardt. You can’t rush these things. And anyway, I don’t think he knows that much . . . . What? Oh, you terrible, nasty old man. Not bad, actually, for an American. And he’ll get better, if I have anything to do with it. Yes, I know, that’s just a side dish. Don’t worry, Liebchen. I will see you day after tomorrow, at any rate. Ciao.” She made a kissing sound into the telephone and hung it up. Then she got up, poured herself a couple of fingers of Vermouth, and stretched out on the bed.
Chapter 12
A small bulb high in the arched ceiling of Facundo Hesse’s lake shore house cast a pool of light on a brass and lucite coffee table. On the table, its container open and lying flat, a boat rested—a boat carved of white jade, its prow a dragon’s head whose single ruby eye glowed in the light. Hesse sat in the shadows and gazed at the boat, sipping distractedly at a cup of sweet, hot coffee laced with rum. Then he returned his attention to the view, through the house’s high, cathedral window, of the Coeur d’Alene Resort, which shimmered across the water, a hazy lace of white and colored lights.
Hesse disliked CIA people. He had no love for anyone who represented both authority and opposition, but he especially detested the CIA. They were utterly dishonest, he thought, taking another sip, savoring the double heat of coffee and alcohol. Most of all, he didn’t like it that one of their agents was sitting right across the lake, practically in his lap. Hesse didn’t believe in coincidences. He knew the law prohibited the CIA from operating within the United States. He also knew that the agency paid no attention to any law it could get away with breaking. And so hypocritical about it. Hesse accepted himself for a lawbreaker—more, a despiser of law who stole, occasionally murdered, and even lied when needed.
“But never to myself,” he murmured into the cup. “I never lie to myself. And when my luck runs out, I won’t whine and say it isn’t fair.” Hesse admitted freely, when it was safe to do so, that he enjoyed being a predator. Those government scum enjoy it, too, he thought. They simply aren’t men enough to admit it.
He sensed Rafael standing in the darkness behind him.
“Tell me what you’ve found out,” he said. He had recognized Larry Biven in the restaurant. He had never before seen the man who had sat with Biven over drinks at the hotel. That bothered him. Hesse did not like mysteries.
Rafael switched on a brighter light and moved to stand between Hesse and the window. He held a newspaper under his arm.
“The man’s name is Adam Pray,” he said. “He is here from Seattle, staying at the hotel.”
“What business does he have with a CIA man?”
Rafael shrugged. “A party, supposedly. A retirement party for someone. The man Biven reserved the room for him.”
“What does Mr. Pray do for a living?”
“No occupation was listed on the registration. He gave an address on Eighth Place in Seattle.”
“Fancy. Maybe he doesn’t need to work for a living. Or maybe his livelihood doesn’t bear talking about in polite company. Que no?”
Hesse cocked his head, looked at Rafael, and laughed.
Rafael stared back impassively, and Hesse finally looked away.
Sometimes you give me the creeps, he thought.
“What else did you find out?” he asked.
“Little. The man Biven has reserved a table for a nine o’clock dinner at the restaurant—for three people.”
Hesse drained the cup, let it dangle from his finger. “Get a place next to them. Bribe anybody you have to. Find out if he meets with this Pray, and what they talk about. Even if it’s nothing to do with me, knowledge is power.”
As he said the words, it occurred to Hesse that if they were true, Rafael had a lot of power over him. The thought made him uncomfortable. He pointed to the jade boat.
“That is to go to Reinhardt Meissner,” he said. “It’s a gift, so be sure it is presented as such. And it has to go strictly back channels. It is stolen. Please see to it as soon as possible.”
“Tomorrow,” Rafael said.
&nbs
p; “Good,” Hesse replied.
He held out the cup. “Get me another one of these, too.”
Rafael took the cup and handed Hesse the newspaper.
There is a story that may interest you,” he said. “It is on page eight of the first section, in the upper left corner.” He walked away with the cup.
Hesse took the paper reluctantly. He didn’t like to touch newspapers; the ink always smudged his fingers. He turned to page eight. At the top of columns one and two a headline read, “Green Leader Out of Work.”
Hesse scanned the story quickly. It was about Harry Dorn, who was threatening to sue the U.S. Department of Agriculture for firing him. The story was vague on the reasons for the firing, but it appeared to have something to do with misuse of a government vehicle. Dorn claimed he was being persecuted because of his involvement with the local Green Party.
Hesse tossed the newspaper to the floor and stared out the window, drumming his fingers on the arm of the chair. He felt a chill in the pit of his stomach.
Calm down, he told himself. You gave him currency, so there’s nothing to trace. The idiot doesn’t even know your name. He’d be a fool to talk, anyway. He probably kept most of the money for himself.
Then Hesse remembered the wife, how tense and uncomfortable she had been, and how she had kept glancing at his hand.
“Jesus,” he muttered. “Why did the cabron have to bring the woman?”
She would talk. Women always did. He laughed, as much at himself as at the situation. “She’ll think she’s saving his soul.”
The aroma of coffee and rum told Hesse that Rafael had returned. He twisted in his chair and followed the man’s progress toward him.
“Sometimes I think I ought to put a bell on you,” he said.
Rafael handed him the cup. “When I was a child, we had a cat,” he said. “It killed birds, squirrels, everything it could. My parents put a bell on it, but it learned to move without sounding it, and the birds and squirrels continued to die.” He bent over and picked up the paper, then stood and gazed at Hesse expectantly.
“I will need a hundred dollars,” he said finally.
“So much?”
“Just in case.”
“Christ, how much can it take to buy a table at a backwoods resort? I might as well buy the damned hotel.” Hesse took too large a swallow of coffee and winced as it burned his mouth. “Go ahead and get it from the safe.”
Rafael stood in front of Hesse a moment longer, as if he expected something more. Hesse thought briefly of not involving him with the Dorns. He was becoming acutely uncomfortable with the extent of Rafael’s knowledge of his affairs. Men can be bought, he thought. I bought you, and so could someone else.
But Rafael was the only resource immediately at hand. Hesse nodded toward the newspaper.
“As for that other thing,” he said. “Take care of it. Be careful, but be final.”
“Both of them?”
“Yes. Now please turn out the light and leave me alone.”
Rafael walked silently out, and Hesse settled back into the chair. He sipped at his drink and thought about the Dorns. In two days he would be leaving for Austria. He was glad he would not be in Idaho when the thing happened.
Chapter 13
Larry Biven turned from the small wet bar in his hotel suite, a glass in each hand.
“Here you are, old man,” Biven said. “Bourbon and branch for me, brandy and soda for you.”
He handed Pray the drink and settled into an overstuffed, beige armchair. “Now, what about it? Do we have liftoff?”
Pray leaned back and stared at the ceiling. “I’m thinking.”
“Oh, come on, Adam. You’ve had all afternoon to think. Yes or no?”
Pray grinned at his companion. “How can I turn down such a charming fellow?”
“That’s the Adam I know and love.” Biven jumped to his feet and started pacing back and forth. “Meissner is in the middle of a lot of stuff—guns, other weapons, drugs, even some legal stuff; anything he can turn a profit on, basically. To the extent he has an ideology, he’s a bit of a Nazi, for all that he didn’t show much conviction during the Second World War. He carries courtesy membership in the Bavarian Republican Party, even though he’s Austrian; most of the founding members are former SS and proud of it. And he showed up at Camp Hobbit, in the Appennines, back in Eighty—gave the fascist youth groups there a rousing speech, I hear. But mostly it’s money he cares about. He lives very well.”
“I can resonate to that.”
Biven sat down again, took a swallow of bourbon, and pointed his glass at Pray. “Exactly. In fact, I think Meissner would be very sympathetic to a young wastrel who has already gone through too much of his inheritance, and wants to make top profits with what’s left. He’d find that very believable.”
“He’ll have to make do with a middle-aged wastrel.”
Biven waved Pray’s quibble away. “No matter. You have half of a perfect cover already. You’re wealthy—with easy money you never worked for—and you went to a good prep school; that sort of thing counts with Meissner. You do, in fact, enjoy living well, and you collect jade. You collect expensive jade.”
“That’s the only kind there is. If it’s cheap, it ain’t jade.”
“All the better. Your shared passion for overpriced rock should get you an entree. I think he’s egotistical enough to take it for granted you would know about his collection; if not, I can give you a name to drop—a gem dealer who knows Meissner and owes me a favor.”
“What do I do once I’m through his door?”
Biven smiled and waved his drink at Pray again. “That’s what I like about you, Adam. Never a stone unturned.”
“And so you made me a translator.”
“Nope. Wasn’t me who did that. It was the wise ones, with their magical computers. Anyway, that’s all past, right?”
“Right.”
“So what do you do once you’re in the door?”
“I think that was the question.”
“You let it be known, in good time, that you’re a little strapped, and open for a deal. If he shows interest, you can let him know that there are some wonderful folks in Colombia who have top grade cocaine they’d like to trade for some top grade weaponry. Something he couldn’t get, or trade, legally.”
Pray went to the window. Colored lights on the marina reflected in fragments off the choppy water. The wind still blew across the deserted hotel grounds.
“What if he calls my bluff?”
“No bluff. There’s a man in Colombia, name of Ramon Carnero. He’s positioned fairly high in the Cali Cartel. The Cartel is the big noise these days in the Colombian drug business, and we own Carnero.” Biven drained his drink, went to the bar, and made himself another. “You’ll come equipped with a kilo of the finest he can supply us, which means the finest you can get anywhere. That will interest Meissner. Europe is flooded with heroin, but cocaine is scarce. It all comes to the United States.”
“The law of the market place,” Pray said. He laughed. “I have a sudden fantasy. I see myself sitting morosely in a Viennese jail cell, trying to explain how I came into possession of a kilo of Colombian cocaine.”
“Give us credit, Adam.” Biven raised a protesting palm. “The stuff will be waiting for you when you arrive. We’ll ship it there in one of those marvelous, canvas diplomatic pouches, along with all the other contraband we send around. Do you want a gun, by the way?”
Pray started to say no, then changed his mind. “Can I trust you with one of my own?”
“You can trust us with your life itself, old boy.”
“I expect I am, aren’t I?”
Biven chuckled into his drink. “What’s the weapon?”
“I have an old, Hi-Standard .22 magnum derringer I’m pretty attached to. It’s just a belly gun—two barrels, over and under, double action—strictly for desperate situations.”
“Consider it done. Get the weapon to me, and I’ll get in th
e pouch.”
“And how do I get it to you? It’s at home right now.”
“I’ve got the answer to that, too. Just stick with me, kid. Now, as far as the details are concerned, the job will be mostly up to you. I’m to see to it you have any tools, weapons, and other etceteras you might need, along with a big bundle of Austrian currency. You can also submit for recovery of any extraordinary expenses, of course. But how you set Meissner up is your concern. Come to any agreement you can manage, as long as it’s illegal—and extremely embarrassing to the Austrian government.”
“On my own, then?”
“Well, not quite.” Biven stood up and went to the window. “As a matter of fact, we’re giving you a partner.”
“Forget it.” Pray stood up. “I’ll have one more of these to show there’s no hard feelings. Then I’ll be going.”
“Just settle down, Adam.” Biven took the glass and went to the bar. “It’s not one of ours. It’s an independent, just like you, someone I think you’ll find helpful. But you’ll be in charge.” He returned with Pray’s drink.
“Think of this person as an assistant,” he said, sitting down again. “And a good one. A pilot who can fly just about anything with wings or rotors; trained in martial arts; and a bit of a linguist.”
“Fluent in German?”
“Well, no, actually. French and Italian. But you never know when that might come in handy, right? Damned good with a knife, too. And . . .” A knock sounded. “Best of all,” Biven said as he walked toward the door, “She has great legs.”
“A woman?” Pray stood up. “You want me to work with a woman?”
Biven pressed a finger to his lips and opened the door. Pray nearly dropped his glass. The object of the men’s discussion stood framed in the doorway like a painting of somebody’s fantasy. A wild halo of flaming red curls surrounded her heart-shaped face. She wore a soft, flowing dress of deep yellow that made Pray’s fingers curl with an involuntary desire to touch, and she was smiling with a mouth that was large, the kind they call generous. Pray wondered if it was.
Her lips suck forth my soul; see, where it flies. The lines from Dr. Faustus sprang unbidden to his mind.