by Paul Moomaw
“Don’t call me names.” He remembered that Delon probably had a gun. “Turn around, put your hands on the dash and keep them there. And tell your animal to take this highway north.” Hannes would have been proud that he had thought of the hands. Hands could be dangerous, if you couldn’t see what they were doing, and especially if there was a gun somewhere. Peter pressed the barrel of the rifle against the back of Delon’s neck. “Don’t move a centimeter,” he said, and stretched to pat Delon’s coat. The pistol was there, and Peter flipped the coat back and pulled the weapon from a spring-clip shoulder holster. He sat back again, and rapped the muzzle of the rifle against the base of Delon’s skull, not too gently.
“Tell your driver no funny stuff. I would like an excuse to kill him. Be sure to tell him that.”
Delon spoke harshly to Orsine, who already had slowed for the intersecting highway. Orsine responded angrily, flicked an obscene gesture at Delon, and made the turn north.
Another sign appeared. It read, “Pordenone 22 km.” Peter had no idea where Pordenone was, but they were going north, and there would be other highway signs to guide them to the border, and across it. He smiled and hunkered down cross-legged, the rifle resting snugly against his knees, and tucked the pistol into his belt.
“It’s a great drive,” he called to the two Frenchmen. “Relax and enjoy the view.” He laughed, suddenly able to appreciate the joke.
Chapter 38
Gabriela stood at the door to the balcony, legs spraddled and hands on hips, staring at the lights of Salzburg. She rapped her knuckles rhythmically against the glass, then slapped it hard with the palm of her hand and turned around.
“It had to be the guy that delivered the package,” she said. “I knew he was a creep.” She turned and jutted her jaw at Pray, who sat slouched next to Larry Biven, sipping disconsolately on a brandy and soda. It was after midnight, and the three had been back at the Schloss Monchstein for just under an hour, after a frantic telephone call to the American embassy had reached someone who managed to find Biven and send him to the police station on a mission of rescue.
Gabriela stalked across the floor and threw herself into a small love seat. “And we never even found out his name.”
“Albert Troy,” Biven said.
Pray took another swallow of brandy. “So what does Mr. Troy have to say.”
“Not much.” Biven stretched his legs out and sighed noisily. “Not much, not never, to nobody. He’s dead.”
“So we get at least part of a happy ending,” Gabriela said.
“They found him in an alley near the People’s Park, not far from the Prater Wheel. Somebody had slit his throat very thoroughly; trademark of the Turks, I’m told. The Turks apparently have carved themselves a niche in the Vienna drug scene. I suppose poor Albert got them annoyed, somehow.”
“I can understand that,” Gabriela said with a laugh. “He managed to annoy me in the space of thirty seconds.”
Pray launched himself toward the bar and mixed another drink. It was his third, and he knew it was too much already, and probably would lead to a fourth, and a fifth, and a hangover the next morning. He also knew he didn’t give a damn.
“I don’t suppose it matters, anyhow,” he said. “The deal is blown to hell, isn’t it?”
Biven nodded.
“What do we do now?” Gabriela asked.
“Take Herr Meissner’s advice and go home,” Biven said.
“I can’t believe he thinks we were dumb enough to try a switch on him,” Pray said.
“Maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he just thinks you’re so incredibly stupid that you’d be dangerous to be in the same country with.”
Pray sagged back into his chair. “I guess we let you down pretty thoroughly.”
“It’s a shame you don’t like cocaine,” Biven said with a tired smile. “Maybe you would have sampled the goods in advance, and known you’d been had.”
“At the end, Meissner remarked about not being able to call the police. His idea of a joke, I suppose.” Pray shook his head slowly, distractedly. “But something doesn’t make sense.”
“Adam.” Gabriela leaned forward and tapped his hand. “It couldn’t have been because of the cocaine thing that he set us up.”
“Of course, it was.”
“No.” She shook her head emphatically. “Nobody had any access to my purse, after I took the cocaine out, except me.”
Pray looked at her, feeling like an imbecile. “That’s right. You had it in your lap from that point on.”
“But before that, it was all by itself in a corner of the room. It would have been easy for Meissner or Hesse to slip that piece of jade inside.”
“So Meissner meant to set us up all along? What a crook.” Pray stood up. “I think I do need to get drunk.”
Biven held out his own empty glass. “While you’re at it,” he said. He settled deeper into his chair. “So the stingers got stung, and you’re going back to the States. Both of you. First plane out. You’ve gotten yourself into a squeeze play—Meissner on one side, Parker on the other; and Parker wants to kill you.”
Pray snorted. “I’m supposed to be afraid of that candy ass?”
Biven stared at him quietly again. “You bet.” He drained the rest of his drink. “Parker’s into something, up to his neck. I’m not sure what, and I don’t think he’s much more than a messenger boy. It goes higher, and it crosses out of the Company into the National Security Agency. You can bet your ass he’ll have you killed if he thinks you’re still a threat, even if he doesn’t have the balls to pull the trigger himself.
“Jesus,” Pray said. A vision of gray, windswept water and the barrel of a rifle appeared before his eyes, and a little chill ran down his back. He shivered.
“Scary,” Biven said.
“Exciting,” Pray replied. “I told you I was bored. You can’t pull me away from this now, just when things are getting interesting.”
“I can, and I will. I’m sorry, Adam, but if your cover is gone, you’re useless. Worse. You’re a danger to me.”
“Just a dispensable asset, that’s me.”
“Exactly,” Biven said, no humor in his voice.
“Shit,” Pray said. “I suppose you’re right.” He slumped deeper in the chair. “But it’s not fair.”
Larry rose. “I’m going, so you two can console each other, or something.”
Gabriela smiled nastily up at him. “I bet you were a dirty old man when you were six, Larry.”
Biven laughed. “You bet. I’ll arrange tickets back. First class, of course.”
Pray stood up and stuck his hands into his pockets, his clenched fists forming hills under the material. “First class tickets for a first class fuckup. I’m sorry, Larry.”
“Don’t be grandiose. We just had some bad luck, that’s all.” He stepped into the hallway. “Get some sleep,” he said, and closed the door behind him.
Pray returned to the bar and mixed himself another brandy and soda. He stepped out onto the balcony. The breeze was icy. It felt good. He sensed, rather than saw, Gabriela at his side, and slipped an arm around her shoulders. She snuggled against him.
“You better not forget my telephone number when we get back to Seattle,” she said.
Pray kissed her lightly on the nose, which was cold from the wind, then on the lips, which weren’t.
“I never knew your telephone number to begin with, lady.”
Gabriela poked him in the ribs, hard enough to make him wince. “I’m in the book, asshole.” She wrapped her arms tighter around him and tucked her cheek into the hollow of his. Pray ruffled her hair and kissed her distractedly. Pieces of thoughts, slippery fragments that refused to stand still long enough for inspection, raced through his brain. He shook his head slightly, rapidly, without realizing he was doing it.
Gabriela pulled away and gave him a sideways look, one eyebrow cocked. “What’s going on behind those soft blue eyes?”
Pray disentangled himself from her and
rubbed his hands together. Inside him, somewhere, impulse was hardening into resolve, and the scattered thoughts were coalescing into a coherent decision.
“I don’t give a damn what Larry thinks,” he said. “I’m not leaving without my boat.”
“Your what?”
“My boat. My dragon boat. Meissner stole it, and I’m not leaving until I get it back.”
“I hope you have some bright ideas about just how you’re going to make that happen.”
Pray shook his head. “I haven’t gotten to that part yet.” He headed toward the bar. “I need another drink to lubricate the creative process.”
Gabriela followed him into the room, her arms crossed in front of her. “You’re going to get drunk, Adam.”
“I’m already drunk. Stop sounding like my mother.” He poured three fingers of brandy into his glass, picked up the soda siphon, then put it down and walked with exaggerated care to a chair and sat down.
“I’m going to get that boat,” he said, and took a large swallow of brandy.
“Gonna get it, sure as hell,” he muttered. “Gotta close my eyes and think how.” His eyelids dropped like lead shutters, and his head sagged abruptly to one side. Gabriela grabbed the glass of brandy before it slipped from his hand. She started to put it on a table, then looked at it and shrugged.
“What the hell. Nobody should have to get drunk alone.” She drained the glass, made a face, and carried it back to the bar to mix something more to her liking.
Chapter 39
The sign said they were approaching the town of Greifenburg. Peter nodded to himself and relaxed a little more. The road they traveled would take them to Spittal, and from there they would have a straight shot north on the Autobahn to Salzburg. He had almost forgotten to breathe crossing the border, especially when the customs guard flashed his light into the interior of the van, but there had been no trouble. Otherwise the trip had gone without incident, although it had required a couple of more cracks of the rifle muzzle to Delon’s head to get him and Orsine to stop talking in French. Peter could feel his spirits lighten. A few more hours would have them in St. Gilgens.
He was rehearsing, in his mind, the explanation he would offer to Herr Meissner, when the van slowed. He raised the rifle, instantly alert. “Why are we stopping?” he asked.
“Maybe you never need to piss,” Delon replied. “But we do.”
“Piss on the floorboards.”
“Don’t be a jerk. Who wants to have to smell the stink?”
Peter waved the barrel between the two Frenchmen. He could have used a chance to relieve himself, as well, but had become resigned to waiting, and hoping as time passed that the road wouldn’t be too bumpy.
“All right,” he said, finally. “But only one of you at a time.”
Delon nodded to Orsine, who brought the van to a halt on the side of the road.
Peter pointed the muzzle at the back of Orsine’s head. “Him first,” he told Delon. “Tell him to leave the engine running.” Peter wasn’t sure why he demanded that, except he knew he didn’t want the keys leaving the ignition. “And make sure he knows I’ll blow your brains out if he tries anything funny.”
Delon sighed laboriously. “He’s not a fool.” He spoke briefly to Orsine in French, and the latter rolled his eyes dramatically, turning to make sure Peter saw. Then he opened the driver’s door, stepped down to the road, and disappeared to the rear.
“Where’s he going?”
“Behind the van, to get away from headlights, of course. Or would you rather he step into the middle of the road and wave his cock at the traffic?”
“No funny stuff,” Peter said, glancing over his shoulder, then nervously back at Delon. Frenchmen were too damn clever for their own good, he thought. He heard Orsine’s feet scrape in the gravel, followed by silence.
“How long can it take even a Frenchman to pee?”
“It hasn’t been that long.”
“Long enough to . . .”
The van’s rear door flew open.
Shit, I thought it was locked, Peter thought.
Orsine stood, framed in the glow of a distant pair of headlights. Peter swung the rifle around. He slammed the butt toward Delon, but Delon had already jumped from the van. Peter pointed the muzzle frantically at Orsine, whose raised left hand held a knife. Peter stared in fascination as the hand came down, impossibly fast, and the knife leaped toward him. As he pulled the trigger, something hard hit him, just below the ribs.
Orsine rolled to one side, and Peter fired again. He turned and fired out the door through which Delon had exited, then dropped the rifle and scrambled to the driver’s seat. He jammed the gear lever toward first gear, and was rewarded by resistance and a shriek of metal. He had forgotten to depress the clutch. He looked into the rear view mirror, and saw Orsine’s silhouette in the open door. He slammed his foot down, hit the brake, finally found the clutch and shifted into first gear. He stepped on the accelerator, but let the clutch out too soon. The engine bucked and almost died. He felt the weight of Orsine’s body as the Frenchman stepped onto the van’s rear bumper.
Finally he got everything right, and the vehicle lurched forward. The driver’s door slammed shut with the motion of the van; the door on the other side swung oddly. There was a shout, and Peter was aware, distractedly, that Delon must still be hanging on to it. His attention was to the rear, where Orsine clung, pulled back by the van’s acceleration, trying to climb inside. Peter hit the brake hard, then accelerated again, weaving violently from side to side as he did. Orsine still clung to the rear of the van. Then Peter remembered the handgun in his belt. He pulled it out and fired blindly over his shoulder.
When he looked in the mirror again, Orsine was gone. Peter reached over to close the door on the passenger’s side of the van, wincing as he did. Something hurt. He put the gun back into his trousers, and felt wetness. When he looked at his hand, it was red. He drove for another ten minutes, wanting to be sure he was as far away as possible from the Frenchmen; then he pulled over to close the rear door.
His side hurt worse when he stepped down from the van and half walked, half staggered, to the rear of the vehicle. By the time he was back in the driver’s seat, the pain was less, but he felt dizzy, and a little sick to his stomach. He felt the wet spot under his ribs again, and a stronger wave of nausea rolled through him, forcing bile into his mouth. He made himself swallow it back down.
“Just a scratch,” he muttered through clenched teeth. If only he could stop the road from weaving and lurching. It was hard to keep the van properly aimed, when the road moved around like that. His head also had a will of its own, trying constantly to lay itself down onto the steering wheel. He shook it, and blinked, only to have it lower itself irresistibly toward the steering wheel once more.
Peter lifted his head again, blinking. The van sat motionless, its engine still running, and he had no idea where he was, or how long he had been there. The road that showed in his headlights was dirt, scarcely more than a track. His side hurt like the devil, and a terrible thirst assailed him.
Peter put the van into gear and drove slowly forward. He had to assume that this little road would lead somewhere. After a few minutes, he had pavement under his wheels again, and could make out the lights of buildings ahead of him. He was on the outskirts of a small town—God only knew which one.
On the dashboard was a compass, one of those vertical, floating gadgets that are never quite accurate. But it said the van was heading more or less north. Peter nodded and coughed. As long as he headed north, he had to get where he was going.
Unless I die and go to hell, he thought. Then I guess I should be going south.
He laughed at the joke, and a searing pain in his side told him he shouldn’t have. He gritted his teeth and drove on, clinging to the steering wheel.
One house, set back from the road, caught his eye. There was light inside. And there was a lighted sign, outside, that said, “Dr. Gerhardt Bruch - Sprechstunden, 8-2
0 Uhren.”
A physician. Instinctively, Peter slowed the van, turned it toward the driveway of the house. Part of him argued against it. One look at the wound, and this Dr. Bruch would call the police. It wasn’t safe.
Neither is bleeding to death when you’re driving, he thought, and almost laughed again, then caught himself.
He limped carefully toward the door of the house. It took almost all his effort. He kept the gun in his trousers. It would help persuade the doctor to keep his mouth shut, Peter hoped. Stiffly, holding onto his side with his other hand, he rang the bell.
Time went away again while he waited, and he felt a vague sense of surprise when the door opened to reveal a tall, skinny middle-aged man in shirtsleeves.
Peter looked up at him. “Doctor?”
Bruch nodded, his eyes fixed on the gun tucked into Peter’s bloodstained middle.
“Come in,” he said, and stood to one side as Peter lurched through the door, tried to reach a chair on the other side of the room, and failed.
Chapter 40
A steady rain beat down on the roof of Reinhardt Meissner’s house, pouring unhindered over the gutterless eaves, and onto the garden terrace..
“This is crazy, Adam,” Gabriela said.
“A nice, hard rain helps muffle other sounds—like the sound of your complaining. And, anyway, you didn’t have to come.”
“Somebody had to keep you out of trouble.”
“Wonderful. In my hour of greatest need, a mommy of my very own.”
Gabriela reached out and tickled Pray’s earlobe. “You’ll pay for that one some day, sweetie.”
“I’m sure I will. But in the meantime, as long as you insisted on being here, make yourself useful.”
“Your wish is my command, mon General.”
Pray pointed off to his right. “You go that way, and I’ll go the other. Check the walls and windows for any sign of an alarm system. We can compare notes at the rear of the house.”
Gabriela nodded and turned away. Pray watched her briefly. Even wet and soggy, she was sexy.