The Dragon With One Ruby Eye

by Paul Moomaw

  But there would be no boom, just a meeting at sea, a transfer of cargo, a boat ride to Trieste, and a bonus. A big bonus, Hannes had assured him. He’d better be right, Peter thought. He sighed, settled back against the bench, and wrapped his arms around himself, letting his mind go off on its own. He never knew where it went, but had done it from childhood, suspended at times with a shoe pulled halfway onto his foot, until his father would bring him back with a slap. It wasn’t a slap this time, but the beep of the van’s horn, that brought him back to reality. He shook himself aware and swiveled around. Fayed leaned from the window of the vehicle.

  “Time to go,” he said.

  Peter stood up and stretched the kinks out of his joints. The wind had gotten stronger, and carried an edge of chill.

  “We go right there,” Fayed said, nodding toward the skiff he had pointed out earlier. Peter nodded in return and started walking toward the craft. Fayed followed slowly in the van.

  Fayed climbed out of the van and jumped lightly off the low wall into the boat.

  “You bring, I stack,” he said, waving Peter toward the van. Peter turned and opened the vehicle’s rear door. He retrieved one of the steel bottles, struck again by how light it seemed for its size, and walked back to the boat. He tried to hold it out to Fayed, but they couldn’t quite reach each other.

  “Throw,” Fayed said. Peter cradled the bottle in both hands, then pitched it underhand toward Fayed, who caught it and laid it carefully on the bottom of the boat. They transferred a second bottle, and a third, without incident. The fourth time, a wave, perhaps the wake of a vessel farther out, rocked the boat just as Peter tossed the bottle. Fayed lurched, lunged at the bottle, and missed. It fell with a clang at his feet. Both men froze, and Peter felt little fingers of fear clenching at his asshole, but nothing happened. Fayed grinned with a noisy sigh and arranged the bottle with the rest, and the two men finished the job without incident.

  Fayed stepped to the rear of the skiff and cranked furiously at a small outboard engine, one that looked more like the kind of little putters they used for trolling on lakes than something designed for hauling cargo. When the engine finally caught on the fifth or sixth tug of the starter cord, it rattled and banged startlingly loud, echoing across the water.

  Let the whole world know we’re here, Peter thought, as he settled on the boat’s bench seat. What the hell, he reflected, if anyone had cared a damn they would have done something long before this stage. Fayed pushed the nose harborward with an oar, then hunkered down by the tiller and pointed the skiff toward the waiting Seagull. Peter clutched the canvas bag with the transmitter inside. He wondered if it would work from inside the ship, or if it needed to be on deck. Better on deck, he decided. And better I stay with it. Probably stinks inside, anyway. He wondered vaguely if the other boat, the one that waited, somewhere out on the water, for Peter’s transmitter to call it, would be in any better shape.

  Chapter 27

  Adam Pray watched eagerly as the waiter, balancing with one hand a Salzburger Nockerln—the giant pile of meringue and raspberry jam the Goldener Hirsch Restaurant touted as the best dessert in the city—threaded his way toward their table. At the last minute, the waiter veered left and deposited his cargo with a flourish onto a table occupied by a middle-aged couple.

  Pray made a face and sat back in his chair.

  “I could have sworn he was looking straight at us,” he said.

  “Maybe he wasn’t,” Gabriela said. “But someone else is.” She nodded slightly toward the other side of the room. “Our friend with the beard again. Such brass!”

  Pray followed Gabriela’s eyes to a table against the wall, where a bearded man in horn-rimmed glasses sat toying with a coffee cup. Just as Pray looked, the other man glanced up and let his eyes sweep desultorily across the room, crossing Pray’s gaze and moving on with a disinterest that was just a hair too well-done.

  “My apologies for ever doubting you,” Pray said. “But whoever he is, he’s welcome to sit and watch us eat dessert, if it ever comes. How long can it take to spread jam?” He gazed wistfully at the other table, where a well-padded Austrian couple leaned over plates and brandished weapons—the man a spoon, the woman a fork.

  “I think he caught me looking back at him,” Gabriela said. “He’s getting up.”

  Pray looked across the room. The man with the beard was halfway out of his chair.

  “That means his partner is clocking in, dammit, and we don’t have a notion who that might be.” Pray jumped up. “Let’s see what happens if I force the issue.”

  He wove his way between the crowded tables toward the other side of the floor.

  The bearded man didn’t give any sign of noticing, but suddenly started moving faster. Pray veered, intent on cutting him off at the door. With his eyes glued to his prey, he didn’t see disaster coming until it struck.

  Not all of the waiters at the Goldener Hirsch balance their trays over their heads. Otherwise the dish laden with duck breast floating in heavy, brown orange sauce might have sailed past Pray and landed somewhere else, instead of imbedding itself between Pray and the waiter who carried it as Pray crashed into a three-way, stumbling dance—himself, the waiter, and a tall, overweight gentleman who smelled of liquor.

  “Why the hell can’t you watch where you’re going?” the man shouted in a voice with a strong Middle American accent, clinging to Pray with one hand, and the waiter with the other, his weight drawing them together like the halves of a duck sandwich.

  Pray pushed himself away. “Sorry,” he said. “You’re right, I should have been.” The waiter, clucking apologetically, whipped out a large cloth napkin and began to wipe sauce from Pray’s shirt and tie.

  The other man stepped back and looked down with bloodshot, blue eyes set in fleshy wrinkles over bright red cheeks.

  “You’re an American, too, aren’t you?” the man said, as Pray shuffled sideways and peered past the other’s shoulder in time to see his quarry vanish through the restaurant exit. “Wouldn’t have yelled at you if I’d known that.”

  “It was my fault,” Pray said. “I thought I saw a friend. I sure didn’t see you.”

  “Guess I shouldn’t complain, anyway,” the man said, looking at Pray’s duck-stained front, then glancing down at his own, untouched clothes. “You got the worst of it. I hope that wasn’t your dinner.”

  “No,” Pray said, cursing himself for a fool and trying to edge away. The tall American insisted on accompanying him back to his table.

  “Ought to buy you a drink, anyway,” he said. “One for the lady, too.” He smiled at Gabriela. “Didn’t expect to see Americans in here, you know? The fellow at the hotel said this was a real, authentic place. Don’t know if I want to eat here if it’s gonna be full of tourists.”

  The headwaiter had appeared. Pray rolled his eyes at him desperately, and was rewarded with a slight wink as the headwaiter took the tall American’s arm and guided him with gentle coaxing to a table far across the restaurant.

  Pray sat down and stared at the tablecloth. “I’ve really got the touch,” he said disgustedly.

  Across the floor, a waiter approached, balancing their dessert on a tray. Pray watched grumpily as he gave them their plates.

  “A fitting climax,” he said.

  “What?” Gabriela asked, as the waiter retreated.

  Pray pointed to the Nockerln. “A raspberry,” he said.

  Chapter 28

  Pray pulled up in front of Reinhardt Meissner’s house, then glanced around the interior of the car, feeling vaguely vexed. He had a sense of having forgotten something, left something behind. His gaze shifted, without focus, toward the windshield.

  “I suppose I’ll find out when it’s too late,” he muttered, and climbed out of the car.

  As he approached the door of the house, it opened to reveal Meissner in pale, cream-colored slacks, matching Italianate loafers, and a powder blue sports coat.

  Quite the dandy, Pray thought, march
ing toward the older man with his hand extended.

  “Good morning, Herr Meissner. Wie geht’s Ihnen?”

  “Sehr gut, danke,” Meissner replied with a small bow. “Please come in.” He turned and led the way into the house and toward the sitting room they had met in the day before. “Please tell me if you would prefer something alcoholic, or perhaps tea or coffee,” he said over his shoulder. “I’m afraid I must be both host and butler today. My men Hannes and Peter are gone for the time being.”

  “Coffee would suit me, if it’s convenient for you.”

  “Very well,” Meissner said. Pray thought he sounded a little disappointed. Meissner opened the double doors to the drawing room and waved Pray through. “Please go in and make yourself comfortable, Herr Pray. I’ll be back shortly.”

  The dragon boat still occupied its place of honor on a table next to the windows. Pray felt again the combination of fascination with the thing’s beauty and anger at the way it had gotten there. He picked it up and stroked the dragon’s smooth, hard head.

  “What could you tell me, I wonder?” he murmured, and could almost imagine that the dragon’s grin widened a little as it gazed unblinkingly at him with its ruby eye. He still held it when Meissner reappeared, pushing the large metal cart which had served them before, and making heavy work of it.

  “My respect for Peter and Hannes rises with every meter,” Meissner said as he aimed the cart toward Pray. “This wheels itself with all the grace and balance of a diesel truck, and it seems frequently not to agree with me on destination.” He stopped the cart next to the table Pray stood by. “But what is one to do?” He pulled a handkerchief from his jacket and wiped his hands. “As I think I said, I am bereft of help at the moment. Peter is on an errand for me, and Hannes announced precipitously that he must go to a funeral.” He smiled and shrugged. “I think a woman, more likely, nicht wahr? But, then, he is a good worker, so I try to look the other way.”

  Meissner poured a cup of coffee and held it out to Pray, who replaced the dragon boat on the table and accepted the cup with a nod.

  Meissner gestured toward the boat with the coffee pot. “It is difficult to keep one’s hands off, isn’t it?” He poured a cup for himself and sat down, motioning Pray to do likewise.

  “It begs to be held,” Pray said.

  “It is indeed beautiful.” Meissner smiled again. “And one can see that you are a lover of beautiful things. Your . . . how did you refer to her? Your secretary, for instance. A very striking example, I must say it.”

  At the mention of Gabriela, Pray realized what he had missed as he pulled into Meissner’s driveway.

  I seem to have gotten used to her awfully damned fast, he thought.

  “I would say I’m not the only person in the room with an appreciation of beautiful things,” he said. “I refer to the lovely brunette who was here yesterday. Frau Horthy.”

  “A very dear friend,” Meissner replied.

  I bet, Pray thought.

  “Ilona was the daughter of a close friend from Budapest. He had the misfortune to be on the wrong side of things at the end of World War Two, and was murdered, although they called it an execution; and they did indeed give him a travesty of a trial. Ilona and her mother were left without resources, and the mother was on the edge of death from tuberculosis and God knows what else. She managed to make contact with me, and I twisted some arms to get her child out. I had some money, and money buys many things. Often I think Ilona has mixed feelings about me: gratitude for her own rescue, and resentment that I didn’t do, couldn’t do, the same for her mother.”

  It was a beautiful story, Pray thought. He wondered if any of it was true. “I’m sorry not to see her today, at any rate,” he said.

  “Perhaps you will run into each other again before you leave Austria. But you might find your redhead doesn’t approve,” Meissner said. “For my part, I’m sad she cannot be here. She is decorative, do you know?”

  “I bleed to leave her behind,” Pray said with a smile. “But it was necessary. As you have said, money buys many things, and the lack of it can be costly.” He smiled again and took a silent breath.

  Here goes, he thought.

  “If I could beg another cup of coffee,” he said.

  Meissner filled the cup. “An interesting subject, money,” he said.

  “An embarrassing one, at times. That’s one reason Gabriela is not with me today. It would be difficult for me to speak frankly in front of her. She cherishes certain illusions about me. I encourage them.”

  “If I may risk being boorish, Herr Pray, what do you do for a living?”

  Pray smiled, ducked his head and spread his palms. “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “I’ve experienced working for a living, and while I’m not totally opposed to it, I prefer not to. And thanks to a dear aunt, who unfortunately died, but who also left me a considerable sum of money to assuage my grief, I haven’t had to work for the past few years.”

  “How fortunate for you.”

  “What isn’t so fortunate is the degree to which I misjudged the extent of my fortune. I’ve been a little unwise, I’m afraid.”

  Meissner nodded slowly. “It happens, certainly. I had assumed that your interest in my jade collection was to admire it and perhaps to try to talk me into selling some of it. Perhaps you see me in the role of purchaser, instead?”

  Pray cocked his head and grinned. He looked away from Meissner, out the window, and counted silently to four, then turned his gaze back to the older man.

  “As I have said, not of jade, Mein Herr.”

  “Perhaps you will explain?”

  “Your renown as a collector of jade is equaled only by your fame, in certain quarters, as a dealer in other items of value.”

  Meissner grew very still. Pray looked at him across the table, and the older man gazed back, watchfully, his eyes unreadable. The smile remained, but the lips pursed together more tightly, accentuating the small wrinkles that creased the upper one.

  “I have friends in odd places,” Pray went on. “There are things they desire, and they are willing to pay a premium.”

  “And you?”

  “You could consider me a finder, working for a finder’s fee.” Pray smiled and wagged his head from side to side. “No find, no fee.”

  “Where do your eager friends live?”

  “Somewhere south of Mexico.”

  “And do they have no access to the things they want in their own part of the world?”

  Pray nodded. He paused, looked out the window. “This is difficult to talk about,” he said. Give me time to make it good, he thought. “It’s like this. These people have a great need to defend themselves.” He glanced at Meissner. “Do you follow?”

  Meissner nodded. “Go on. Even if I don’t follow, I sense a fascinating story.”

  I hope so, Pray thought. “A twisted story, I’m afraid.” And I hope you’ll never know just how true that is. “These friends, as I said, have a great concern with self defense. For the past decade, they have met those concerns satisfactorily through a certain agency to the north.”

  “But no more?”

  Pray shook his head. “Not at a price they are willing to pay. They want certain articles which very few people could provide. The northern agency is one of those sources, but it has demanded a controlling interest in their livelihood. In fact, it insisted on diverting my friends’ energies into activities which would serve its own purposes. They would be required, in fact, to use the newly obtained items of self defense as weapons of aggression to turn them on faithful and unsuspecting allies.”

  “Ah, greed,” Meissner said quietly.

  “Pure extortion.”

  “But if this northern agency is the sole source of what your friends need . . .”

  Pray shook his head. “One of the sole sources. I am told by these very friends that another potential source lives right here in St. Gilgens.”

  “How very interesting.” Meis
sner’s face remained a smiling mask.

  “I am also told that, while he is a sharp businessman who would appreciate the chance for a very fair profit, he would undoubtedly be more reasonable than that northern agency I spoke of.”

  “I wonder who this person could be? I thought I knew everyone in town.” Meissner leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers together.

  We’re magnificent, Pray thought. Both of us. Hollywood is missing a bet. “I’m sure you do,” he said. He reached for the coffee pot. “May I?”

  “Oh, please,” Meissner replied. Pray filled his own cup, and gestured toward Meissner’s with a questioning look. The older man nodded, and Pray filled his cup as well.

  “Danke,” Meissner said with a nod.

  “Bitte. I’m sure, as I said, that you do know everyone worth knowing. You might, in fact, want to drop a word in the right place.” Like right here.

  “Your friends have a great deal of money to spend?”

  Pray shook his head. “They offer a bargain in certain agricultural products.”

  Meissner sighed noisily and stood up. “Agriculture is such a tricky business. One always worries about contamination.” He pulled back the sleeve of his jacket and consulted his watch—an expensive looking piece with a gold coin for a face. “I hate to be a poor host . . .”

  Pray jumped to his feet. “I understand.”

  The two men walked toward the door. “And I understand one must worry about contamination where agricultural products are concerned,” Pray continued. “Certainly we will never be the same after Chernobyl. But the product I speak of, which I think is in much shorter supply on this side of the Atlantic than on mine, by the way, is extremely pure.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Absolutely.” Pray halted his stride, waited for Meissner to stop and turn to face him. “As pure as the driven snow.”

  Meissner gazed another long moment at Pray with his expressionless eyes. Then he turned and led the way to the front door of the house.