The Dragon With One Ruby Eye

by Paul Moomaw

  Biven looked at Pray and laughed. “Adam Pray, meet Gabriela Villani; and close your mouth before a fly lands on your tongue.” He turned to the redhead. “Come in and have a drink.”

  She shook her head. “Let’s go straight to the restaurant. I’m starving.” She gave Pray a slow look. “I could eat anything, in fact. Anything at all.” She leaned against the door jamb and folded her arms in front of her. As Pray approached the door, she stretched her shoulders back so that the folded arms lifted her breasts.

  Pray paused as he passed her. “That’s a very interesting effect, but a little bit disconcerting.”

  “I can always read a man’s character right away by how he reacts to my boobs,” she replied.

  “Oh, come on, Gabriela,” Biven said. “They’re not that big.” He led the way to the elevators.

  Pray waited for Gabriela to turn and follow Biven, then brought up the rear.

  Boobs, nothing, he thought. You can’t trust boobs anyway. But my god, what haunches. He felt suddenly awkward, overwhelmed with an almost adolescent lasciviousness, transported back to the days of his youth, when his muscles were small, and his fantasies large.

  Almost as if she read his thoughts, Gabriela loosened her stride a little, so that her hips swayed more with each step.

  * * *

  The hotel restaurant was crowded and noisy, which Biven pronounced a good thing. “Harder to eavesdrop, you know?”

  The hostess, classic resort modern in white knee socks, deck shoes, and bermuda shorts, led them to a window alcove overlooking the gaily lit marina, and left them with oversized menus.

  Gabriela turned her eyes on Pray. They were vivid green, large ovals, spaced almost too widely on her face, and they made Pray think of a painting on a Mycenaean urn.

  “Do you always dress like that?” she asked.

  Pray glanced down at his outfit. “Only on a job. I like to be inconspicuous. And these,” he stuck a foot up to display the worn New Balance running shoe, “Are hard to beat if I have to run like hell.” He tucked the foot hastily back under the table as a waitress approached.

  “Hi,” she said. “I’m Claire, and I’ll be your waitperson this evening, right from the soup through the sticky-gooey. Can I get you something from the bar before you order?”

  Gabriela laced her fingers together in front of her and stared intently at them, her eyebrows arching. Her fingers were long, and the nails, also long, were coated in a yellow polish that matched her dress. Pray found himself wondering how they would feel touching him. He tore his eyes away from her long enough to order a brandy and soda. Biven added his order for a bourbon and water, and the waitress turned to Gabriela with an expectant smile.

  Gabriela stared stonily at the waitress. “I would like a Justerini and Brooks, on the rocks.” She paused. “Miss,” she added.

  The waitress bounced cheerily away.

  “I hate that ‘Hi, my name’s Poopy’ routine,” Gabriela said.

  “There is no sport in hate, when all the rage is on one side,” Pray murmured.

  Gabriela cocked her head. “What?”

  “Shelley,” Pray said.

  “I should have warned you. He quotes,” Biven said.

  “He quotes?”

  “Right.” Biven leaned closer to Gabriela. “Just between the two of us, that’s why he’s not with the Company any more. He says he quit, but the truth is, he was forced to resign. Nobody could be certain he wasn’t really sending messages in code to the other side.”

  “I can’t help myself,” Pray said. “They just pop out. It’s my father’s fault. He was determined I would have culture. Every night at dinner, from the time I was six until I left for prep school, I had to offer up one quotation from Bartlett’s—memorized and interpreted. Now I can’t stop.”

  Gabriela gazed at him for a long moment, a smile tugging at one edge of her large mouth.

  “How interesting,” she said, finally.

  “It’s a silly habit, I suppose,” Pray said, aware as he said it that it had never seemed silly to him before.

  Biven reached into his jacket pocket, then let his hand stay there as the waitress approached with their drinks. As she left, he finished the movement and pulled out a photograph, which he laid on the table between them.

  “This is Reinhardt Meissner,” he said. Gabriela reached for the photograph, and Pray found himself acutely aware of the strength and fluidity in the movement, and how athletic her arm looked. She picked up the picture, then paused and glanced over Biven’s shoulder.

  “Somebody else looks interested, too,” she said, turning the photo face down. She nodded in the direction she was looking.

  “What do you see, Adam?” Biven asked, keeping his own face turned toward Gabriela’s.

  Pray turned slowly, surveying the room behind him with a corner of his eye.

  “A man,” he said. “Sits tall, but I have an impression of shortness. Dark—very brown skin and eyes like pieces of coal. I think he knows we caught him prying. Sound familiar?”

  Biven shook his head. “Does either of you recognize him?”

  “Not in the least,” Pray said.

  Gabriela suddenly stood up and flagged a passing waitress.

  “That man over there,” she said in a loud, shrill voice. “That man has been sitting there making obscene gestures at me.” She pointed at their observer. “I insist you do something. Either he goes, or I go. And if I go, it’s straight to the police.”

  The waitress turned to the man, who rose from his seat and shook his head angrily. He extended his palms toward the waitress and opened his mouth. Then he shut it again without speaking, whirled, and stalked away.

  “I don’t know if I mentioned that Gabriela is very creative,” Biven said.

  Pray didn’t respond, but stared at Gabriela as she picked up the photograph and dropped back into her seat with a satisfied looking grin.

  “So this is the man we want to meet,” she said. “Dignified looking, isn’t he?” She held the photograph out to Pray, and their fingers brushed lightly as he took it from her. Pray had to resist an impulse to grab her hand and hang onto it.

  Watch yourself, he thought, and concentrated on the photo. A man in his sixties smiled and gazed into the camera, wearing an ordinary looking, dark business suit. He had a thatch of only slightly thinning silver hair that Pray guessed had been dark brown or black in the man’s youth. The features were regular in a Germanic way, with a straight nose that was a little on the pinched side, a wide, thin-lipped mouth, and a high forehead. He sat behind an ornate desk that obscured his hands and the lower half of his body.

  “Nice smile,” Pray said, as he handed the photo back to Biven.

  “Adam specialized in personality assessments when he worked for us,” Biven said. “Very deep stuff, as you can see.”

  Gabriela didn’t respond to Biven. She was gazing intently at Pray.

  “Where did you get the scar?” she asked.

  Pray’s finger involuntarily moved to the hairline of scar tissue that ran across his cheek, scimitar-shaped, from the outer corner of his left eye.

  “I picked it up in a fight with my older brother when I was a kid. My father wanted to have the scar removed, but my mother thought it made me look romantic and sinister. I didn’t mind. I always wanted to go to Heidelberg and get a dueling scar, anyway.”

  Gabriela turned to Biven. “You didn’t say you were getting me such a he-man,” she said. “I would have settled for brains.”

  Biven glanced quickly from her to Pray and back again. “Very interesting perfume you’re wearing, Gabriela,” he said. “What’s it called?”

  She smiled archly. “It’s called Poison.”

  “Old women should not seek to be perfumed,” Pray said. He thought he said it to himself, but Gabriela’s head snapped toward him, such fire in her eyes that Pray winced.

  “Archilochus, Sixth Century BC.” He smiled lamely at her.

  Gabriela stood up, grasped h
er drink and leaned across the table toward Pray.

  I think I’ll eat in my room, after all,” she said, and poured the drink onto Pray’s head. “Have baby blue eyes here call me when he absolutely has to, not before.”

  Biven watched Gabriela go, then looked at Pray with a sunny smile. “I’m sure you’re going to enjoy working together,” he said.

  Pray swabbed his hair with his napkin, his eyes still on the retreating yellow dress.

  “I think I’m in love,” he said.

  The waitress returned, and both men ordered steaks, rare.

  Chapter 14

  Fog lay thick and heavy on the water off the southwest shore of Vancouver Island. The Betty Kaye moved cautiously toward land, her hold full enough of halibut to make her master’s next mortgage payment and replace an almost empty bottle of rye whiskey. The engine throbbed softly, barely turning, muted further by the fog. Otherwise Ribeiro might not have heard the dog.

  At first, in fact, he wasn’t sure he did hear it. Then the sound came again, mournful and hoarse, the kind a dog makes when it has been barking for a long time.

  Ribeiro throttled the engine back more and listened. The barking came again, off the Betty Kaye’s port bow. It was deep—probably a good-sized dog, he thought.

  What’s up?” Coelho’s head popped into the wheel house. “Ain’t we going slow enough already?”

  Ribeiro held a finger to his lips, and pointed into the fog. The dog barked again. Coelho cocked his head to one side.

  “Funny place for a kennel,” he said. “Wanna go take a look?”

  Ribeiro nodded, and Coelho ducked out of the wheel house. As Ribeiro wheeled the Betty Kaye to port the other man, a dark, wool-covered shape in the fog, scrambled toward the bow.

  The barking came again, louder, and then a boat appeared suddenly, a ketch, black, with black sails reefed tight on their booms. Ribeiro killed the engine, and the Betty Kaye slipped silently forward, slowing rapidly, and stopping dead in the calm water just as it nosed up against the other vessel. Ribeiro nodded in satisfaction and left the wheel house.

  “Nice dog,” Coelho said as Ribeiro reached his side. Ribeiro followed his mate’s pointing finger to a large, brindle boxer that stood on the deck of the other boat. The dog whimpered and pranced, its stub of tail jerking rapidly back and forth. It extended its front legs and lowered its head between them, then jumped up and started whimpering again.

  “Friendly, anyway,” Coelho said.

  “I guess.” Ribeiro stepped to the gunwale of the Betty Kaye and extended a hand toward the dog. “Hey, pup,” he said. The dog edged toward the ketch’s low, decorative railing, stretching toward Ribeiro with a short, eager yap. Ribeiro grinned at Coelho. “Want a new dog?” he asked.

  “If he don’t bite you.”

  Ribeiro nodded and reached across the water. He grabbed the railing of the ketch and swung across.

  “Hey, Tarzan,” Coelho called. “You take the dog, I’ll take the boat.”

  Ribeiro waved as he clambered to his feet. He stood, hands on hips, and looked around. Other than the dog, the boat appeared deserted. He walked toward the stern, where the wheel stood in a shallow well behind a small doghouse that provided entry below decks. The dog raced ahead of him, barking in short, sharp yaps.

  The wheel was lashed, as if someone had set the rudder and gone below for a nap, or a meal. On the doghouse, above the hatch, the name Roxene appeared in faded paint.

  “Hello, below,” Ribeiro yelled, and knocked on the hatch. The dog hunkered down at his feet and whined softly. There was no other sound. A breeze played at Ribeiro’s ears. He moved forward to be sure no one was on deck, then returned to the stern, the dog watching every move he made. As he approached, the animal whined again and wagged its stubby tail. Ribeiro glanced back at the Betty Kaye. Coelho stood silently, watching him. Ribeiro waved, then reached for the hatch. He tugged on it, and it opened easily. Gagging, he slammed it shut. Whoever was down there wasn’t having a meal.

  Ribeiro went forward again.

  “Get me a light,” he said.

  Coelho nodded and disappeared into the wheelhouse. Ribeiro gazed thoughtfully at the dog, which remained by the ketch’s wheel, until Coelho returned and reached across the narrow space between the two boats with a flashlight.

  “Thanks,” Ribeiro said, and started toward the rear again.

  “What’s going on?” Coelho asked.

  Ribeiro paused and looked back at his mate’s dim figure. “I’m not sure I want to know,” he said.

  As he reached the hatch again, he pulled a blue and white bandanna from his pocket and held it over his mouth and nose. Then he switched the flashlight on and opened the hatch. Even through the bandanna the overwhelming smell of death made him want to vomit. He stifled the urge and forced himself to step cautiously below deck and into a fairly spacious cabin with a low ceiling. He swung the light around, pausing as it touched a chair, then a table, and finally a bunk.

  In the bunk lay the body of a man, or what had been a man. It was dark, and swollen, a light-colored windbreaker and pants stretched tight around it. A plastic bag lay on the body, open, with some kind of brown powder spilling from it.

  Ribeiro flinched as something pressed against his leg, then relaxed as a soft whine told him it was the dog. He reached down distractedly and scratched the dog’s ears.

  “He belonged to you, I guess, pup.”

  The dog sidled toward the body on the bed with a continuous, low whimpering. It looked back at Ribeiro, then settled down next to the bunk.

  Ribeiro climbed back to the deck and stood, taking deep breaths of fresh, damp air, while the knot in his stomach began to loosen. He walked forward again, to where the two craft almost touched, and swung himself back aboard the Betty Kaye.

  “What’s the deal?” Coelho asked.

  “I don’t think you’re going to want that boat,” Ribeiro replied. He told Coelho what he had found. “I’m guessing it was some kinda dope deal. Anyway, let’s get a line on her and tow her to port.”

  After the two men had secured the ketch, Ribeiro went back to the wheelhouse of the Betty Kaye and started the engine. Then he turned it off with a muttered curse.

  Poor dog, he thought. “Get me a couple of fish,” he called to Coelho. “Then haul that ketch up close.” He found a bucket and filled it a third of the way to the top with fresh water. He hopped to the deck of the ketch, the fish slopping inside the bucket.

  “Hey pup,” he called softly. The dog didn’t appear. He went to the hatch and opened it. The stench of the body was still bad, but diluted by sea air, not as strong as before.

  “Hey, pup,” he called again. “Come eat.”

  He heard the dog whine, but the animal stayed below. Ribeiro put the bucket down. He took a deep breath and covered his face with the bandanna again, turning on the flashlight as he started below deck. The dog still lay by the bunk.

  “Come eat, pup. Food.”

  The dog whined softly and wagged its tail, but didn’t move.

  “Come on, pup. That’s no meal there.” Ribeiro stepped toward the dog. It raised its head and began to growl. He took another step, and the growl grew louder.

  “Shit, have it your way.” Ribeiro turned and went back up. “Food’s here, if you want it,” he called down the hatch. He pulled the fish from the bucket and dropped them in the shallow well around the wheel. Then he returned to the Betty Kaye.

  Chapter 15

  The bald man behind the desk had the bland face and expressionless eyes of a pasty-skinned Buddha. He stared at Larry Biven, who stood before him, more or less at attention.

  “Sit down,” he said, and Biven settled, still more or less at attention, into the hard wooden chair in front of the desk.

  For half a minute, they faced each other silently in the nondescript office on the ground floor of CIA Headquarters—the old Headquarters in downtown Washington DC, behind the Navy medical facility, on Twenty-Third Street Northwest, rep
laced when it became too small by the new Headquarters in the woods, but then kept in service when the Company discovered that the new facility was also too small.

  “Has the insertion begun?” the bald man asked.

  “Everything’s rolling,” Biven replied. “They’re on their way to Vienna, or will be, tomorrow.”

  “What did you tell Pray?”

  “The truth, as far as it went. That I want Meissner. That someone in the Company is scuttling my efforts. That I suspect Terry Parker. That it is essential Pray not let Chet Tarbell know he’s in Vienna.”

  “How is Tarbell to be informed?”

  “I’m sending the trade goods, and a weapon, by pouch. A man named Albert Troy will make the delivery. He’s a hanger-on, an American expatriate who makes his living picking up odd jobs, legal and otherwise. We use him occasionally for non-sensitive assignments. Troy will tell Tarbell, and Tarbell will tell Parker.”

  “How do you know Troy will inform Tarbell?”

  “Because I told him absolutely not to. I also hinted that Pray was out to get someone close to Tarbell. Troy will use the information to make points with Tarbell. He’ll assume I’ll never find out. He’s that kind of fellow.”

  “He sounds a little stupid.”

  “That, too.”

  “He doesn’t know about the Meissner aspect?”

  “No one knows about Meissner, except you and me.”

  The bald man pursed his lips.

  “Perhaps. Who covers Pray and the woman at that end?”

  “Oates and Carmichael will work in tandem.”

  The other man nodded. “Good choice. They are very skilled interrogators.”

  Biven massaged his palm with his knuckles. “Now we wait for Parker to provide them with someone to interrogate.”

  “If it’s Parker.”

  “You know damn well it is.”

  The other man shook his head with a thin smile. “I never know anything that well. It may be Parker, it may not be. If it is, he may feel endangered enough to try to eliminate Pray, and he may not. And if he does, he may leave a trail back to himself, and he may not.”