by Paul Moomaw
Meissner rose and went to an antique cupboard in one corner of the room. From a drawer he pulled a gold snuff box and silver straw, a sign that sex would be garnished with cocaine tonight. Meissner had told Peter the utensils’ histories: the snuff box had come from a Nazi general who had stolen it from a chateau in Nancy during the German occupation of France; and the straw, Argentinian and originally used to drink the tea known as mate, had been a gift from Herr Hesse. Peter didn’t like Hesse; he feared the South American’s bulk and cold eyes, and found himself always staring at the gap where Hesse’s finger should have been.
Meissner settled himself on the edge of his bed and patted the space next to him with one hand, motioning to Peter with the other, which held the straw and snuff box.
“Tonight I have something to celebrate,” he said. “And I have a very special assignment to give you.”
Peter sat next to his employer, feeling stiff and uncomfortable as he always did at first. He waited silently for Meissner to continue.
Meissner ran his fingers lightly over the top of Peter’s thigh. “Do you know what plutonium is?”
“Something about bombs.”
Meissner laughed. “Exactly, mein lieber Spitzbube.” Peter winced inwardly at the term. He didn’t like being called a fool, even in jest.
Plutonium has very much to do with bombs,” Meissner continued. “Atomic bombs and hydrogen bombs.” He preened slightly and patted his hair smooth. “It also has to do with the greatest coup of my career.” He opened the snuff box and poured a small pile of cocaine onto the back of his hand, then handed Peter the snuff box. From a pocket of his robe he pulled a small, jeweled switchblade knife—another gift from an admirer, Peter knew—and carefully diced and arranged the white powder into a thin line. He held his hand up and snorted the cocaine into his left nostril with the silver straw. Then he repeated the process with his right nostril.
“I have arranged the theft of a sizable quantity of this plutonium, right from under the noses of the stupid Americans.” He smiled, his eyes glittering a little as the cocaine hit.
“Is it valuable, then?”
Meissner handed Peter the straw and motioned for him to help himself to the cocaine. “When you have the right buyer, it is,” he said, and sniffed loudly. “And I have a buyer who is willing to pay almost anything for enough plutonium to make a bomb.”
“A bomb?” Peter felt irritation rising. Meissner frequently played riddles with him, and Peter knew it was his role to go along, acting the straight man, even though it made him feel stupid.
“A bomb,” Meissner said, nodding slowly and dramatically. “The man’s name is Qaddafi, and he lives in Libya.”
“I know who Qaddafi is,” Peter said. Get on with it, he thought.
“How clever of you,” Meissner said. “Now, here is the thing. This plutonium is coming half-way around the world, from the State of Washington in the United States. It’s on its way now to Cairo, by airplane. From there, it is to go to Alexandria, and from Alexandria, by boat, to Tobruk—the shortest part of the journey, but the most important.”
Meissner retrieved the snuff box and straw, and took another two hits of cocaine. Then he tucked the utensils into his pocket and stroked Peter’s leg again.
“I need someone I can trust absolutely,” he said. “Someone who can meet the shipment at Cairo, make sure it gets to Tobruk and, most important, get a receipt.” He threw back his head and laughed ferociously. “Even in crime, one must always have a receipt, isn’t that so?”
“I suppose,” Peter replied. He wanted more cocaine, but was afraid to ask for it—knew, in fact, that his employer’s tucking the stuff into a pocket meant there would be no more. “Whom do you mean to send?” He was sure he knew already, but stayed in his role, allowing Meissner to play the game out to the end.
Meissner pointed a skinny finger at Peter. “I am sending you,” he said. “I know I can trust you, can’t I?”
“Of course,” Peter said.
“I don’t trust your brother, though.” Meissner was suddenly all business. “He’s up to something.” He looked at Peter thoughtfully. “He wouldn’t tell you, I don’t suppose.”
Peter shrugged, afraid to open his mouth. He wondered how much Meissner knew.
“Do you know what he’s up to?” Meissner asked. “He’s been playing footsie with some Frenchman. Did you know that?”
Peter shook his head again. He forced himself to look at the older man, and was relieved to see no hint of suspicion in Meissner’s face. But you never know about him, he thought.
“So I shouldn’t tell him about this?” he said, finally, pushing the words past teeth and jaw that didn’t want to move.
“Exactly. It will just be our secret,” Meissner said. “Just another one of our little secrets, isn’t it so?”
Peter nodded his head. “Ja,” he replied. “A secret.”
“Good.” Meissner untied the belt of his robe and pulled it open. He lay back, stroking his penis, which swayed over his abdomen. Peter watched silently. He was always a little amazed at how youthful Meissner’s body was, how soft and white. He reached out and touched the inside of the older man’s thigh, and ran a fingertip gently through the mass of graying pubic hair. Then he stood up and began to unbutton his shirt.
“Never mind that,” Meissner said. “Just take care of this.” He slapped lightly at his erect penis and giggled. He reached for Peter, guiding his head toward his groin, tugging at his earlobes and stroking his scalp rhythmically, slowly and lightly at first, then with more pressure and urgency as Peter bent to his task. He finished quickly, with a long moan.
Peter stretched out on the bed and unzipped his own trousers. He pulled his penis out and began masturbating himself with one hand, trying to reach Meissner and stroke him with the other. He grabbed at Meissner’s hand and tried to kiss it, but Meissner jerked it away.
“Go on. I’m not in the mood for anything more,” Meissner said, and rolled away from Peter. Peter tried again to grab him. Meissner pushed his hand away and sat up.
“I said go on,” he repeated. “When I want more than a blow job, I’ll let you know. Go get ready for your trip. You are to leave day after tomorrow.” He glanced over at Peter. “And for God’s sake, tuck that thing back into your pants.”
Peter covered himself and backed out of the room. The cocaine was wearing off, and he felt depressed—more, through the depression, he felt anger.
“The old cunt takes me for granted,” he muttered as he walked across the gravel drive to the quarters he shared with Hannes. He entered the building and climbed the stairs to the flat. The living room was empty, but a line of light under Hannes’ door told him his brother had not yet gone to sleep.
Peter stood indecisively for a long time, then went to the cupboard and poured himself a stiff drink of schnapps. He tossed it off, and followed it with another. He went to the small window that offered a view of the main house, and stared across to it. Meissner’s window, visible from where Peter stood, was dark.
“Already sleeping me off,” Peter said. He poured another three fingers of schnapps into his glass and drained it, then turned to his brother’s bedroom door again. The light still gleamed at the bottom. He walked across and knocked at the door.
“Hannes,” he said softly. Then, more loudly, “Hannes, let me in. I have to tell you something.”
Chapter 22
Albert Troy sat in the Cafe Demels, fingering his freshly trimmed beard, ducking the waitresses who carried their coffee and pastry laden trays past his table to the late-afternoon shoppers who streamed in from the pricey stores along the Kohlmarkt. He was playing one of his favorite games—spot the American. The contest had degrees of difficulty. Picking out Americans who had, like himself, gone a little native, offered some challenge, but not much. Most of them gave themselves away as soon as they opened their mouths—the American cadences clanging in harsh contrast to the bubbling Viennese German that filled the air. Hardes
t were those who had roosted in Europe for a long time, and who managed to sound, if not like good Austrians, at least vaguely European. But Troy usually managed to spot those, as well. There is something about an American, he thought, which gives the species away. They carry an air of certainty, almost of destiny, about them. They always look as if they have a definite place to go, and know exactly how to get there, even when they don’t have a clue. Troy himself took pride in having his own Yankee origins well-camouflaged.
The game was no challenge this day; all of the Americans were tourists, as easily identified as if they wore uniforms, with their obviously American clothes and haircuts, and draped in cameras and brochures.
So that when the sole American who wasn’t a tourist drifted in, Troy spotted him right away, and guessed that it was the man he had been waiting for. The newcomer, who carried a black attache case of the kind all good Viennese use for important papers and luncheon sausages, confirmed the guess by trying too hard to look nondescript, to survey the crowded tables without appearing to, and to drift aimlessly toward the rear, as if liebkuchen were the only thing on his mind.
The other man, whose name was Martin, was supposed to know what Troy looked like, but it didn’t seem to be working. I should have worn a flower, or a sign, Troy thought. Something like the ones they hold up at the airport—“Herr Jones, here is your dope.” Troy tried to catch the other man’s eye and failed. A fucking amateur, he thought. He wondered what they were paying this mule. Maybe a little bit of the cocaine, he decided.
Finally Troy got up, leaving his newspaper to mark possession of his table, walked over to the man and took him by the arm.
“Herr Martin?” he said.
The other man jerked away with a startled look.
“I believe you’re looking for me,” Troy continued. The other man looked him over carefully. It reminded Troy of going through passport control at Sheremetsevo Airport in Moscow, where earnest young soldiers stare at you through the glass of their booth, comparing you, one hair at a time, with your passport photo.
“You’re being a little obvious, don’t you think?” the other man finally said. Troy shrugged and walked back to his table, leaving the other to follow him.
When they were seated, Troy took a sip of coffee and gazed in amusement at his companion, who fidgeted in his chair.
“You are Martin?” he said, finally.
The other man nodded. “You’re Troy?”
“Very perceptive.”
“You don’t look much like your picture,” Martin said.
“I’m glad to hear it.”
Martin raised his eyebrows questioningly. “I beg your pardon?”
“Nothing.” Troy lifted a leather briefcase, the match of the one Martin carried, and held it in his lap.
“The weather in Spain is troublesome this time of year,” he said, and forced himself not to laugh as Martin’s eyes went blank. Troy let the other man squirm for a few moments, searching his mind for a non-existent response to the password Troy had just made up.
“Sorry. Couldn’t resist,” he said finally. “I like your attache case very much, by the way. I don’t suppose you’d be interested in a straight trade.”
“What am I suppose to do,” Martin snapped, “Pull it out of your lap?”
Troy replaced his own briefcase on the floor between them.
“Better?”
“You’re a jerk, you know that?”
“You bet.” Troy nudged the attache case toward the other man. “And you’re beginning to bore me. Let’s finish this.”
“Pig in a poke time?”
“Both ways.”
“I assume you understand that our organization would take a dim view of any funny business.”
“Again, both ways,” Troy said. He picked up the other briefcase and rose from the table. “Keep the newspaper, I’ve read it.” He turned and walked away.
Outside, he drifted down the Kohlmarkt, pausing to peer at the fancy goods on display in the shop windows. A chilly wind had sprung up, and raindrops spattered the sidewalk and landed on his bare head. He flipped the collar of his coat up, but the weather couldn’t really touch him. He felt too good. A few more deals like this one and he would be able to afford all the luxury items he wanted. Not, he reminded himself, that he could expect small fortunes to drop into his lap every day, the way this one had. A whole kilo of cocaine. He smiled, remembering his incredulity when Larry Biven had made contact with him and told him about the “Special delivery” he was to make to some jerk named Adam Pray. He hadn’t really believed it until the sealed packet had arrived and he had sampled the contents. It was good stuff, the very best, and he had helped himself to a reasonable sample—he thought of it as a commission—before getting in touch with the drug dealers whom the man Martin represented.
Troy turned onto the short, wide street known as the Graben—the Ditch—cut across to the Stephansdom and found a bench in the shadow of the old cathedral. He sat down, unlatched the attache case and pulled out a fat envelope, which he opened enough to see the stack of bills, all American currency, and all large denomination, which it contained. He didn’t bother to count them, but riffled the stack quickly to assure himself that it was all really money.
Feeling quietly pleased with himself, he slipped the envelope into a pocket of his overcoat. From another pocket he pulled a plastic bag full of white powder—a duplicate of the one in the attache case he had given Martin, except that this bag contained pure talcum.
Troy dropped the bag into the attache case. From the same pocket he retrieved a smaller case, made of dark brown plastic, which had been part of the shipment. It contained, he had discovered, a worn derringer, a Hi-Standard .22 magnum caliber, double action, with two superposed barrels. The gun was loaded, and the case also contained half a dozen spare rounds. Troy lusted after the little gun, but restrained himself. Cocaine, he could fake, but not a weapon.
He dropped the gun case into the attache bag, rose from the bench, and made his way to Schulerstrasse and the Hotel Koenig von Ungarn, where he presented himself to the reception desk and demanded the room number of Herr Adam Pray.
Five minutes later, he stood at the open door of Pray’s suite, gazing at a man who was a couple of inches taller than him.
He doesn’t look smart enough to tie his own shoes, Troy thought, and wondered what kind of conspiracy this man could be involved in. He had heard of Pray, knew he had been a spook, had worked for the Company. It was obvious he had come up in the world since then, Troy thought, with a dim sense of resentment. You didn’t stay at hotels like this one on a CIA salary. Pray obviously led the kind of life Troy wanted to lead, was determined to lead some day. You didn’t get women like the one who stared at Troy over Pray’s shoulder on a spook’s salary, either. A real looker, if you liked red heads. Troy liked women, period. This one’s nose was a little big, but he could put up with that, he thought. Her mouth was big, too, and lush. Troy permitted himself a brief, groin-itching fantasy of what it could accomplish between his legs. But she looked sharp—smarter than Pray. Where the man’s eyes had a sort of unseeing innocent air—the look of one of nature’s suckers—the woman practically peeled Troy’s skin away with her gaze, as if she could see what lay hidden underneath. She wouldn’t miss a thing, he thought, and was glad he didn’t have her to deal with.
“This is for you, from a friend in the States,” Troy said, and held out the attache case.
Pray took the case with a smile. “Thanks,” he said. “Can we offer you a drink?”
“No time,” Troy said. He didn’t turn down free drinks very often, and it would have been nice to get a look at the interior of the suite—something else to impress a gullible date with some day. But he wanted to be away from the red head’s sharp stare.
“Whatever,” Pray said. “Thanks again.” He handed the attache case to the woman and started to close the door.
“Aren’t you going to check the contents?” Troy asked.
“Oh, I know what’s in it,” Pray said airily. “Thanks again.” He closed the door.
What a sucker, Troy thought as he left the hotel. What a dope. You try to deal that somewhere, in this town, and you’re a dead man.
“All the better for me, in that case,” he said aloud, drawing a puzzled look from the doorman.
Chapter 23
Gabriela turned from the tall window of the suite in the Hotel Schloss Monchstein, which perched atop the high hill called the Monchsberg that rises from the middle of Salzburg. Beyond the glass lay a terrace, and far below, the lights of the city.
“I can’t believe you haven’t opened that up yet, Adam,” she said. Pray sat at a small, round table in the middle of the large room, the attache case Albert Troy had delivered to him in Vienna across his knees. Gabriela settled herself across from him and leaned on her elbows. “I’d think you’d at least be curious.”
Pray threw an exaggerated leer at the soft, rust-colored knit dress she wore. “I’m curious about what’s inside there, too, and I haven’t opened it yet, have I?”
Gabriela shook her head and smiled. “Give it up, Adam. As a wolf, you don’t make it.” She continued to gaze at him with her vivid, green eyes. “Have you really stayed a bachelor all this time?”
“Absolutely. Confirmed and dedicated.”
“How’d you manage that?”
