The Dragon With One Ruby Eye

by Paul Moomaw

  “About the CIA, Mr. Pray,” Hesse said. “And most especially, about your connection with Mr. Biven.”

  Pray nodded. “Right. It’s a long story, though.” The power boat lay dead in the water, close enough for Pray to see that its black paint job was worn and peeled in places. A figure in a dark rain slicker had appeared behind the windshield, and was scanning the shore with binoculars.

  “I am willing to take the time,” Hesse said.

  “Very well,” Pray said, leaning toward Hesse with a smile. “First of all, a point for you. I was a spook. But I left. I didn’t like the work. What wasn’t dangerous was boring.”

  “I believe that.”

  “I might not have left under ordinary circumstances—have to make a living, after all. But I got left a bundle by an aunt who thought I was just wonderful, and who died before she got to know me well enough to change her mind.”

  Hesse’s high, piercing laugh filled the air again. “If we cannot make a deal, Mr. Pray, you must go on the stage. You would be a huge success, I assure you.”

  “Those are simply the facts.”

  “Facts have no loyalty. They serve truth and falsehood with equal fervor.”

  “That’s marvelous.” Feeling like a bystander inside his own head, Pray watched his mind snap the words up, storing them away for future use. “Did you make that up, or steal it from somewhere else?”

  “You’re changing the subject, Mr. Pray.”

  “Sorry. Where was I?”

  “A doting aunt had just left you a bundle—of money, I assume.”

  “Stocks and bonds. I quit CIA, bought a cute little place in Seattle, and settled into a life of ease. It was pretty wonderful, while it lasted.”

  “It has come to an end?”

  “Not quite, but pretty damned close. I made the mistake of thinking that just because I had a million dollars, I was rich. A few months ago I had to face the fact that a million is less than I thought, and that I would have to curtail my life style pretty sharply—or go back to work for a living. Fortunately, I’m not the only person I know who’d rather not have to punch a clock, so to speak.”

  “Punch a clock?”

  “Sorry. Work regular hours for a living.”

  “I see.”

  “The other person is the man you saw me with at Coeur d’Alene—Larry Biven. Larry does still work for the CIA, and would just as soon not.”

  “I’m afraid things are not getting any clearer, Mr. Pray.”

  Pray nodded energetically. No more stalling for time, he thought. Just make it up as you go along and hope for the best. “Let me give you some background,” he said. “Do you know the name Tomas Borge?”

  Hesse shook his head slightly.

  “Borge was the Sandinista Minister of the Interior in Nicaragua. He managed to cultivate a lot of connections, and after his party lost power, he made good use of them. These days he’s known as “El ministro del polvo blanco,” the minister of the white powder. The Sandinistas dealt cocaine as a way of financing their political agendas, and they haven’t stopped—just gone underground and bribed a few of the right people in the new government. They buy the raw material from Colombia, process it, and funnel it to Miami. They make a tidy profit, and get to enjoy fantasies of destabilizing American society with drugs.”

  Pray stopped to collect his thoughts. The power boat on the lake had started moving again, and was heading once more in the direction of the Kafe Zauberwinkel. There was no pier nearby, and Pray wondered if boats sometimes simply beached themselves. It could get interesting if they try, he thought, watching the lake’s wind-whipped waves climb the shore.

  “Borge,” he went on, “Is in charge of all this, and he’s been playing both sides against the middle for years, skimming part of the cocaine and selling it to other right-win Central American rebels. It was a great racket for years, but times change, politics change, and Borge suddenly has no customers. That’s where Larry Biven and I came in.” Pray shifted in his chair, winced, and glanced down at his shoes. The big toe of his right foot had been sending him random signals all day to the effect that it didn’t like his new shoes.

  “A problem?” Hesse asked.

  “New shoes.”

  “Ah.” Hess lifted a foot to display heavy, worn but well-cared-for walking shoes. “You need something practical like these.”

  “I’m not a particularly practical person,” Pray said. He nodded toward Hesse’s hand. “How’d you lose the finger?”

  “A long story that I may tell you some day. At this moment, I’m more interested in your tale. You can understand, I am sure.” Hesse’s voice challenged, but Pray could hear discomfort there, and in the way the other man squared his shoulders and stuck his chest out the slightest bit.

  So you have your chinks, he thought, and felt a little more at ease.

  “There’s not a lot more to tell,” he said, leaning back. “In Costa Rica, a group of men have decided that their country is in danger of leaning too far to the left. Or maybe they’ve always been tired of democracy, and have gotten a little emboldened by events in the rest of Central America. At any rate, they want to set up a new order in Costa Rica. They call themselves los Fieles.”

  “The faithful.”

  “You speak Spanish?”

  “I am Argentinian—from Buenos Aires.”

  Enlightenment struck Pray. “Facundo. The gaucho king.”

  “Close. I am flattered. Not many foreigners know enough Argentine history to have heard of my namesake.” Hesse smiled. He looked, Pray thought, actually pleased to be named after a petty Argentine dictator from the Nineteenth Century.

  “But tell me about los Fieles,” Hesse said.

  “They have money, but not much support, so they needed a connection.”

  “And you are the connection?”

  “Exactly. Larry Biven has been cultivating Borge for a long time. We’re setting up a new triangle. Biven gives the Costa Rican group’s money to Borge, who sends him back loaded with cocaine. My job is to form the other leg of the triangle, to trade the cocaine to a third party.”

  “Why go to all that trouble, instead of spending their money directly for what they want?”

  Pray laughed, then laughed some more while he worked on an answer to a question so glaringly obvious that he had forgotten to think of it.

  “Two reasons,” he said finally. “First, they hope to use some of the drugs in Costa Rica, just to stir up trouble—the same sort of thing Borge is supposed to be doing with it in the United States. Second, did you ever try to by anything valuable with Costa Rican money?”

  Hesse leaned away from the table and gazed steadily at Pray with his odd, pale eyes. “You wish Herr Meissner to be the third point of the triangle, is this so?”

  “That should be obvious.”

  “Why should I believe you?”

  “Would a kilo of cocaine help ease your doubts?”

  “It might, assuming of course that Herr Meissner has anything your friends want to buy. Even then, all of this would have to be evaluated very carefully, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “You have such an amount of the drug?”

  Pray nodded. “And the reason I have come to Herr Meissner is that he is renowned for his ability to obtain even the most difficult items, when the price is right.”

  “Just what is it that the interests you represent want, Mr. Pray?”

  Another good question, Pray thought. Guns won’t do, Everybody sells guns; that’s not special.

  “Would you believe an atom bomb?”

  Hesse’s eyes clouded over, and the slightest trace of a frown wrinkled his forehead.

  “You are making a joke, of course, Mr. Pray.”

  “I am, of course. But they weren’t.” Pray remembered what Biven had said about the stolen plutonium, and chalked Hesse’s reaction up for future reference. “They have the idea of holding the capital hostage and taking over the government. They’re a little cr
azy. I convinced them that there were some things even a mountain of cocaine couldn’t buy.”

  “And so, instead of this atom bomb?”

  “Nerve gas. That was my idea.” Pray smiled proudly. It was the truth. He had come up with it just that moment.

  Hesse nodded thoughtfully. “That’s very good. Properly located, nerve gas would be as effective as a nuclear device.” He looked up at Pray with his shark’s grin. “And in the event it had to be used, it is much easier on the countryside, of course. You are a very resourceful man, Mr. Pray.”

  “And I assume Herr Meissner is equally resourceful at coming up with . . . trade goods.”

  Hesse laughed. “I will relay your proposal to him.”

  So far, so good. Pray relaxed and leaned back in his chair, gazing out at the lake. The sun hid low behind the clouds, and an early dusk had begun to extend its shadow across the water. The battered looking power boat was closer than ever, and lay still in the water again, although Pray could hear its engine muttering. Someone was visible, leaning over the small windshield, appearing to look straight at Pray’s table with binoculars—not binoculars, but a single, round lens. Pray squinted for a better look, and realized that the lens was a telescopic sight, mounted over a barrel. He sat there, thinking foolishly how tiny the opening of the barrel looked, how harmless, even though it was pointed straight at him.

  That thought, a flash from the barrel, and his dive to the ground all came at once, accompanied by a stinging sensation in his leg. He hit the ground and rolled, scrambling for his derringer. Then he remembered he had left it at the hotel, and realized at the same time how ridiculous he would look using it to defend himself from someone with a scoped rifle. He would have laughed, but something whined past his ear and he scuttled toward the low wall which separated the tables from the street. He heard an engine roar, and when he peeked over the wall, he saw the power boat moving rapidly away from the shore toward the middle of the lake. He rose to his feet. Hesse, who had also hidden behind the stone planter, stood up and brushed his trousers off.

  “You didn’t tell me talking to you could be so dangerous,” Hesse said.

  “Life has its little risks,” Pray replied. Hesse nodded and laughed.

  “Adam, you’re bleeding.” Gabriela suddenly stood in front of him, grabbing him and pushing him toward a chair. “Sit down. You’re hurt.”

  Pray looked down at his leg. A blood stain had begun to spread on his trousers, just below the knee. He glanced around. Oddly, the few people in the vicinity appeared not to have noticed anything at all.

  Hesse handed Pray his napkin.

  “Use this,” he said. “If you aren’t too badly hurt, I assume you will not want to talk to any officials.”

  “You assume right.”

  “Can you walk to your car?”

  “With the lady’s help.”

  Hesse smiled, but his eyes remained wary. “Ah, yes, the lady. The lady I requested specifically not be here, if I recall.”

  Pray grinned and shrugged. “God created women, and boredom ceased from that moment.”

  Hesse clapped his hands together. “What can I say, when you bring the great Nietsche to your defense?”

  “I hope to hear from you, Mr. Hesse.” Pray’s leg had starting hurting like hell. He turned to Gabriela. “Let’s go.”

  glancing back as they turned the corner and headed away from the lake, Pray saw that Hesse had seated himself again and was motioning to the waiter as if nothing had happened.

  Chapter 31

  Night was half done, and high, thin clouds dimmed the outline of the moon, taking its light to themselves before they relayed it faintly to the sea below. The Sea Gull’s engines labored as she moved slowly through the choppy waves. Peter sat huddled on the deck next to the bag that held the transmitter. He shivered and wondered how much longer he would have to wait.

  Fayed and his brother, whom he had introduced as Hamil, and who smiled brightly every time he caught Peter’s eye and said “Sehr gut. Sehr gut,” very good, very good, had handled the loading of the Sea Gull, along with the ship’s only crew, a scruffy looking black man whose name Peter was never to discover, and who responded to Hamil’s frequent cries of “Yallah, yallah,” hurry, hurry—with a helpless flapping of his hands and rolling of his eyes. Then Hamil had weighed anchor with a great rattling and clanking, started the ship’s engines, which coughed and sputtered, and finally settled into a more or less smooth mutter, and headed into the night.

  Peter had drifted into a reverie, lulled by the movement of the steamer, and the rhythmic slap of water against the hull, only inches from the low-lying deck, when a gray shape emerged from the gloom, approaching the Sea Gull from her starboard bow. Peter squinted and made out the sleek lines of a motor launch, running without lights. It was starkly designed, almost military looking, and appeared to Peter as if it might ram the Sea Gull.

  Hamil apparently thought so as well. There was a shout from the bridge—even in his ignorance of Arabic Peter recognized it as a curse—and the steamer began to shift its nose to port.

  The motor launch, engines growling, moved faster. It cut in front of the Sea Gull, as the larger ship continued to wheel to port, like an orca after a whale. Another curse rang from the bridge of the Sea Gull, and its engines fell silent. Hamil stepped out of the bridge house and stood at the railing as the Sea Gull lost way. A dark figure appeared on the deck of the motor launch. Hamil shouted something angry-sounding in Arabic. In answer, the figure on the other boat raised dark arms. There was a flash, and a loud report. Hamil grunted and collapsed to the deck of the bridge. The motor launch nudged up to the Sea Gull, and the man who had fired the shot jumped across to the larger vessel. Two other men followed him. Peter recognized the Frenchman, Delon, followed by Hannes and another man Peter hadn’t seen before. Delon marched toward Peter, moving in a crouch, the rifle he had used to kill Hamil held combat style in front of him.

  Stupid tin soldier, Peter thought.

  “Who else is aboard?” Delon asked.

  “Fayed, the brother of that one,” Peter jerked his thumb upwards toward the bridge, “And one crewman. And you can put your toy away. No one is armed. The murder wasn’t necessary.”

  Delon’s figure tensed slightly. “Don’t give me a hard time,” he said. “How was I to know?”

  Peter shrugged and turned away. Delon spoke in rapid French to the third man, who ducked through the passageway that led into the bowels of the ship.

  “Where is the stuff?” Delon asked.

  Peter turned reluctantly and pointed silently to a canvas-covered hatch in the middle of the forward deck. Delon marched off again, still holding the rifle at port arms.

  “Pig,” Peter muttered.

  Hannes clapped his brother on the shoulder. “Don’t let it upset you.”

  “I know his kind. He likes to kill people.”

  Hannes shrugged. “Maybe so. It’s not our problem.”

  “It’s bad enough that we’re doing this. We had a good deal with Herr Meissner.”

  “We still have a good deal with him.”

  Peter shook his head. “He’ll find out, for sure, and then we’re screwed. He has connections everywhere.”

  “So does Delon. And, anyway, Herr Meissner doesn’t need to find out anything.” Hannes grabbed his brother, turned him around to face him. “Not unless someone does something stupid, like telling him.” Peter looked away, and Hannes shook him. “You’re going to keep your mouth shut, right?”

  “Don’t worry,” Peter said. Hannes let go of him.

  “Come on. Let’s go help Delon,” Hannes said, and began walking forward, toward the hatch which Delon had uncovered. At the same time, the other Frenchman appeared, pushing Fayed in front of him. Delon spoke briefly to the man, who shrugged and bent to the hatch.

  “Orsine will help you transfer the cargo,” Delon said to the two Austrians. “I’ll keep an eye on this one.”

  “Don’t strain yourself
with work,” Peter muttered.

  “Come off that,” Hannes said, poking his brother in the arm. “Since when do bosses dirty their hands?”

  “He doesn’t mind dirtying his hands with murder,” Peter said as he followed Hannes morosely toward the hatch. As he passed Delon, he made a point of spitting, but Delon just laughed.

  The wooden crate was too heavy to handle safely between the two vessels, so they emptied it and passed the steel bottles across one at a time, Peter gritting his teeth every time he touched one. Then they transferred the empty crate and re-loaded it. Delon stayed aboard the Sea Gull, his rifle trained on Fayed. When they had finished stowing the plutonium, the man called Orsine jumped back aboard the Sea Gull and disappeared through the hatchway. A few minutes later he reappeared, holding the struggling black crewman in a hammerlock.

  Delon’s rifle barked, and Fayed staggered back two steps, then fell to the deck. The other crewman began to struggle again, and broke free of Orsine’s grip. He sprinted toward the railing, as if he hoped to dive to the safety of the sea. A bullet caught him in the back just as he reached the edge of the deck, and he straightened up like a steel spring. The rifle spoke again, and the impact of the second bullet knocked him into the water he had so desperately sought.

  Delon laid the rifle on the deck and stood up. He and Orsine picked Fayed’s body up by the arms and legs and pitched it after the crewman.

  “Nice of the nigger to jump in for us,” Delon said with a laugh as they returned to the motor launch.

  “Why did you have to kill them. They weren’t a threat.”

  Delon shrugged. “Maybe if I hadn’t needed to kill the first one, I would have let them all live. But kill one of these Arabs, you have to kill them all. They have this ridiculous thing about loyalty, especially brothers. It’s probably to do with their all being queers to begin with. And as for the other, the fewer niggers in the world, the better, n’est ce pas?” He grinned, tossed the rifle to Orsine, and ducked into the interior of the motor launch. Orsine followed, then reappeared with a canvas bag.