The Dragon With One Ruby Eye

by Paul Moomaw

  “As you so indelicately pointed out, I don’t make it as a wolf. After all, real wolves mate for life. It’s always seemed odd to me to use the term to describe a womanizer.” Pray peered into the attache case to change the subject. “There it is,” he said, and pulled out a plastic bag.

  Gabriela’s eyes widened. “That’s all cocaine?”

  “Supposed to be. All active ingredient, uncut.”

  “How much is it worth?”

  “Damned if I know. A lot, I guess.”

  “Enough that Troy might have been tempted to switch it for sugar, or something?”

  “Oh, come on, Gaby. That was a Company man. Honor among spooks, and all that.”

  “Do you really believe that?”

  “No,” Pray said.

  “So, you see?”

  “Okay, maybe no honor. But give a spook credit for a little common sense and fear of reprisal.”

  Gabriela shook her head. “There was something about the way he looked at you. A man looked at me like that once. I was house-sitting for a friend east of Seattle, up by Snoqualmie Pass, and ordered some firewood. The guy delivered maybe a quarter of what was due, and said he’d be back the next day with the rest. I went ahead and paid him for the whole load, and I never saw the wood, or the guy, or my money, again.” She smiled suddenly. “As a matter of fact, my dad gets the same look on his face when he’s playing poker and deciding whether to try a bluff. Almost the same, anyway, except not so mean.”

  “The devil damn thee black, thou cream faced loon. Where gottest thou that goose look?”

  Gabriela made a face. “What?”

  “Shakespeare. Macbeth, I think.”

  “Oh for Christ’s sake, Adam.” She leaned back in her chair. “Speaking of spooks, I saw that man again when we were leaving Vienna. The one with the glasses. I’m sure he’s interested in us.”

  “In you, maybe.”

  “Don’t joke, Adam. Even women like to be taken seriously now and then.”

  “Sorry. At any rate, if you’re right, there’ll be more than one.”

  “Why?”

  “Tails work in tandem. That way they can spell each other, give each other a rest. And you’re less likely to notice that way. The Russians have it down to a science. Did you know the Metro, the Moscow subway system, is especially wired for surveillance? Every station has a special KGB telephone, so a mark can be passed on from agent to agent.”

  Gabriela stared silently out the tall windows for a moment. Then she turned back to Pray. “Do you trust Larry Biven?”

  Pray shook his head thoughtfully. “When I worked for the Company I never thought about trust. It wasn’t relevant.” He laughed. “Isn’t that odd? And now you ask, I don’t have the slightest idea whether I trust Larry or not. Why?”

  “Just wondered.”

  “How do you know him?”

  “I was in South America, doing a job for a local politician, and persons unknown slit my employer’s throat. I was going to be next in line, I expect. I knew Larry vaguely, from social contacts, knew he had an embassy connection, although I didn’t know just what. He bailed me out, and he never even tried to bed me down, afterwards.” She smiled wryly. “Just said I owed him one, and he’d collect some day. We’ve had some contact, off and on, since then. Now it’s collection day.” She reached over and grabbed the bag. “What do you say we run a quick quality test on this stuff?”

  Pray shook his head. “It’s sealed. I think it’s best to leave it that way.” He reached into the attache bag again, pulling out the brown plastic case. He opened it and clucked contentedly.

  Here’s my little toy,” he said. He showed the derringer to Gabriela. “Now you can sleep nights.”

  She snorted. “What good is that dinky thing going to do?”

  “If I’m real close, plenty. It fires a magnum round with a hollow point. Does awful things to your innards. And I figure that if I’m too far away to hit my target, I’m far enough away to run like hell instead of shooting.”

  “Such a brave soldier.”

  “It is characteristic of wisdom not to do desperate things.” Pray grinned sheepishly. “Thoreau.”

  “For God’s sake, Adam, don’t you ever have any thoughts of your own?”

  He looked at her for a long time.

  “I think you’re absolutely beautiful,” he said.

  Gabriela’s face went soft. “Do you really?” she said, and her broad mouth broke into a smile. She inched closer and grasped Pray’s hand with strong, cool fingers. Pray touched her cheek with his free hand, then ran his fingers through her hair, past her ears. Gabriela flinched and pulled away.

  “Did I hurt you?” Pray asked, puzzled.

  Gabriela ducked her head and looked at her lap. Then she giggled.

  “I’m touchy about my ears,” she said finally, looking up at him again and blushing. She pulled her hair back, exposing them. “See?”

  “What’s to see?”

  “They’re huge, like Dumbo’s.”

  Pray reached out again and cupped one ear firmly in his hand. “Makes for a better grip, is all,” he said, and pulled her toward him. She moved closer and slipped an arm around his neck. They sat nose to nose for a moment, Gabriela’s eyes so large they made Pray a little dizzy.

  “We didn’t get this relationship off on exactly the best footing, did we?” she said softly. “Maybe we should reexamine it.”

  “I hear perestroika is all the rage these days.” He moved his face the last two inches forward to test the generosity of her lips, and someone knocked at the door. “Shit!” he said.

  Gabriela laughed and jumped up. She opened the door to reveal a slender, dark-haired woman in a black frock and white apron, holding a tray.

  “Compliments of the hotel,” the young woman said. She walked smartly in, deposited the tray on the table in front of Pray, smiled and walked back out with a “Guten Abend.”

  The tray contained a silver coffee pot, two Remy Martin XO miniatures, cups, snifters, linen napkins, and a small assortment of pastries. Gabriela seated herself at the table again, cracked the seals on the miniature bottles, and emptied the contents into the snifters. She picked up one of the pastries, a small rum ball dusted in powdered sugar, and held it between thumb and forefinger.

  “Should zere not be also a cigar zat I must light for you, Excellenz?” she asked.

  “I told them neither of us smokes,” Pray said, closing the attache case and tossing it onto a small love seat with brocade upholstery.

  Gabriela popped the rum ball into her mouth. “You mean you set this up?”

  “Sure. We have an appointment with Herr Reinhardt Meissner tomorrow. I wanted you docile.”

  Gabriela lowered herself gently onto Pray’s lap. “I don’t understand at all,” she said. “I’m afraid you’ll have to show me.”

  Pray wrapped his arms around her shoulders and pulled her the rest of the way down against him, and then the telephone rang.

  “Ligachev lives,” he said with a sigh. “And he’s still fighting perestroika.”

  “Bitte?” he said into the telephone, then listened, frowning. He nodded, nodded again. “Please ask him to come to the room,” He said, finally, and hung up.

  “That was the front desk. It seems there’s an Inspector Pflantz, of the Salzburg Municipal Police, who wishes to speak to us.” He laughed. “The desk clerk is upset. He informed me that the Hotel Schloss Monchstein is quite unaccustomed to visits from the police.” He turned the side of his head to Gabriela and pointed to his ear. “Any signs of frostbite?”

  Gabriela shook her head. “What do you suppose the police want with us?”

  A knock at the door answered her. Pray opened it to admit a stocky, middle-aged man in a dark gray suit and heavy, black shoes.

  “Herr Adam Pray?” the man said.

  Pray nodded and waved the man into the room.

  “I am Inspector Pflantz,” the man said. He produced a wallet, opened it to show identif
ication, then snapped it shut and placed it back in his pocket. He turned to Gabriela, bowed stiffly. “Gnaedige Fraulein,” he said, then turned back to Pray. “You are the owner of a black BMW sports sedan, Austrian plates . . .” he paused and fished a piece of paper from his jacket pocket, and read from it, “Austrian plates numbered K147GU?”

  Pray nodded, suppressing a smile at the degree to which the inspector flaunted his precision, even though he undoubtedly had already memorized the license plate number. “I am renting such a car,” he said. “Is there a problem?”

  “Have you authorized another person,” he turned and bowed again toward Gabriela, “Other than the Fraulein, of course, to drive this vehicle?”

  “No, Inspector.”

  “Someone appears to have attempted to drive the car without your authorization, then.”

  “A car thief? Has he been caught?”

  “Unfortunately, it was not necessary to catch him, Herr Pray. When this person, who has not been identified, started the engine, the BMW in question exploded. We may, indeed, never identify the driver; it was difficult enough to identify the car.”

  Pray stared at the policeman, his mouth hanging open, at a loss for anything to say. Inspector Pflantz gazed calmly back at Pray, one eyebrow arched quizzically.

  “Is it that you have, perhaps, enemies?” he said.

  Chapter 24

  Jules Moreaux watched the two Americans enter the lift which would take them from the parking lot to the Hotel Schloss Monchstein. The man of the pair looked on the surface to be an easy mark, but Moreaux knew that appearances could deceive; and something about the American’s lazy gait hinted at the potential for great speed, and strength and agility.

  Not a case for the direct approach, Moreaux had already decided, and had not changed his mind after one failed effort. A bullet fired from a safe distance, a hit-and-run with a car if conditions were just right; but an attempt to capture the man first, in order to take him to a quiet spot to finish the job, or to question him, felt too risky. Monsieur Delon didn’t seem interested in questions, anyway, nor even in discretion. If anything, Moreaux had the impression that a public execution would be just the ticket.

  Moreaux himself had no idea who the American was, or who had hired Delon to take him down, nor did he care.

  It was too bad about the bomb. But how was Moreaux to expect that some idiot child of the streets would take it into his head to go for a joy ride, at just the wrong time, in the wrong car? Monsieur Delon had not been happy about that, nor could Moreaux blame him. He disliked wasted deaths. It was not business-like

  There were two fringe benefits from that disaster, however. It had made it easy for Moreaux to approach the hotel desk clerk, who had assumed, nudged by a few broad hints, that Moreaux was with the police. The clerk had been eager to cooperate, with the result that Moreaux would know about every message, every phone call, every piece of mail, that had to do with this Adam Pray.

  The other positive was that the woman was still alive. The death of the car thief was bad enough. To kill such a woman, Moreaux was certain, would be an unforgivable sin. She was a stunner. Moreaux whistled softly under his breath as he remembered the way she walked and moved. He liked big women, and he liked redheads, and this one was both. Maybe after he killed the man, he could take a little time to approach her. Big redheads frequently seemed to like him, too. The thought lightened his steps as he moved to his own vehicle, an unassuming Renault, nothing like the fancy BMW his plastique had scattered to the winds. He liked to think he might own a BMW some day, maybe just a small, used one. In the meantime, there was his job, in which he took great pride. The American had an appointment in St. Gilgens with the jade collector, Meissner, in the morning. Moreaux decided he would follow Pray there and back, to see if he could spot a likely place for an ambush. The hotel itself, perched atop its little mountain, was too difficult. The job would have to be done elsewhere, and winding mountain roads often provided useful locations. In this case, the road followed a lake shore, which led Moreaux to wonder about the availability, legally or otherwise, of small, fast boats.

  Monsieur Delon also had an interest in the man Meissner, Moreaux knew. It would be good if the hotel clerk intercepted something interesting there, between the American and the old Austrian.

  In the meantime, Moreaux was hungry, and a little horny, as well. He started the car and pulled carefully into the street. He was a cautious driver, especially on a job—it would be stupid in the extreme to have a wreck, perhaps spend a night in jail, because of careless driving. He turned left and headed toward the cafe he had stumbled into the day before, where the food was almost as good as French, and where the waitress—not a redhead, but large and well-endowed—had seemed interested in more than just a good tip.

  Chapter 25

  Reinhardt Meissner’s house lay snugly in a stand of pines, only its red tile roof visible from the road. Pray pulled up the circular gravel drive that led to the front door, turned off the engine, and gazed appreciatively at Gabriela’s long legs, stretched out in the passenger seat of the bronze Mercedes roadster that had replaced the unfortunate BMW. She had decided to “Dress as a redhead” today, in a flowing green dress made more brilliant by the bright autumn sun, and spike-heeled pumps of the same color. Pray had dressed as sedately as he knew how in a dark suit, white shirt and neatly patterned tie—but with a large, flashy diamond tie pin, on the theory that a touch of gaudiness would add believability to his cover.

  “What style would you call that?” Gabriela asked, motioning toward the house, which was a mixture of Mediterranean modern and plastic Tyrolean, with a steeply pitched roof and little wooden balconies, a round tower at one corner, and huge picture windows in the white, stuccoed walls.

  “Eclectic?” Pray replied, as a man, medium height, with dark hair and a heavy brow, emerged from the front door and marched to the car. He opened Gabriela’s door, and closed it again as she got out.

  Apparently I handle my own, Pray thought, and climbed out of the vehicle.

  “You will be Herr Pray?” the man asked. Pray nodded. “I am Hannes,” the man continued. “Herr Meissner waits for you inside, please.” He opened the heavy, ornately carved front door of the house and motioned them through, his eyes lingering appreciatively on Gabriela. Pray paused to examine the door, which sported a large brass dragon of medieval design for a handle. The dragon’s tongue appeared to be the latch.

  “Here there be dragons,” Pray murmured, as the man led them through the house to a large, high-ceilinged drawing room with tall windows and French doors that offered the view of an autumn-withered garden beyond.

  Meissner and a younger woman stood next to the windows. Meissner wore dark gray trousers, a Navy blazer and a white shirt that looked to Pray as if they should be on a younger man. A dandy, he thought.

  Goya’s Maja desnuda popped into Pray’s mind as he looked—rather, tried not to stare—at the woman. She smiled back at him, looking as if she were familiar with the effect her dark curls, luminous dark eyes, and ivory skin had on men.

  “Herr Pray,” the man said. “Please come in.” He turned to the woman. “Allow me to present a friend, Frau Ilona Horthy.”

  The woman extended her hand and Pray took it with a quick little bow. “Ich kuss die Hand, gnaedige Frau.”

  “Ach, denn. Ein Kavalier,” she replied with a smile that was meant to dazzle and charm, and did. Pray felt like a well-praised child.

  “This is Fraulein Gabriela Villani,” he said, dropping Ilona Horthy’s hand and turning to his partner, who was, he noticed, not smiling.

  “Frau Horthy does an old man the favor of bringing her elegant presence up from Vienna every now and then,” Meissner said. “Excuse me for a moment.” He took her arm and walked with her to the door of the drawing room, murmuring something inaudible to her. Pray looked around the room, which was filled with jade pieces of all kinds—vases, statues, carvings. Some looked very old, others contemporary.

>   Then Pray froze. Across the room, in splendid, arrogant isolation, on a small table next to one of the windows, the golden autumn sun glowing through its translucent sides, sat the dragon boat Pray had last seen in Josef Ruhm’s display room.

  Pray moved closer, not believing his eyes at first, but there was no doubt. It had the same marvelously thin sides, and the same dragon, glaring at him with its one ruby eye, as if it blamed him for its situation. Pray picked the piece up and stroked it, willing the adrenaline which rushed through him to subside. A picture of Ruhm’s battered face, the last time he had seen him, rose before his eyes.

  “I said, do you like that one?” The voice startled Pray, jerked him back to reality. Meissner stood at his shoulder, smiling.

  Pray took a silent, labored breath and put the boat carefully back onto its table.

  “It’s quite wonderful,” he said, willing his throat to relax enough to speak normally. He kept his eyes on the carving, not ready yet to look Meissner full in the face.

  “I’m rather proud of it myself,” Meissner said. He had a pleasant, baritone voice, carefully modulated.

  Meissner picked up the boat, held it up to the light. “It is a recent acquisition,” he said. “A gift from a friend in America.” He put the boat back down. “But you have to forgive me. I am not being a good host. May I offer you something? Coffee, perhaps? Or a little champagne? I personally am fond of champagne in the late morning, but I had to do without while Ilona was here. She doesn’t approve of the habit, gives me—how do you say it—fits.”

  Pray glanced at Gabriela with a questioning smile, and she shrugged, as if to say “Why not?”

  “I’m sure champagne would be very nice,” Pray said.

  “Wonderful,” Meissner replied, and tugged at an ornately embroidered bell pull which hung against one wall.

  The man who had called himself Hannes appeared almost immediately, as if he had been hanging around, waiting for the summons.

  “Champagner, bitte,” Meissner said.

  “Ja wohl!” Hannes bowed and vanished.