The Curse of the Dragon God

THE YOUNG MAN KNOWN ONLY AS THE TUNISIAN LAY ON the bed, naked and unconscious. Eden watched him from the balcony doorway overlooking the Gulf of Aden and thought to himself how beautiful the young man was; too beautiful for this line of work. Spies often die young. The choices he made, the risks he braved, guaranteed the young Tunisian would one day leave behind a good-looking corpse and a heart full of secrets. Then again, many had said the same of the handsome Dr. Eden Santiago.

Last night, Eden had met the Tunisian in an out-of-the-way restaurant and after brief, flirtatious small talk had taken him back to his hotel, where Eden opened a bottle of white wine, handed the Tunisian a glass, and then eased the young spy onto the king-sized bed. The two had been together before—once at the Hotel Descartes in Paris, once at the Chelsea in New York, and once under the stars after a secret rendezvous in a Sicilian fort that had been destroyed during the Second World War.

Strange, Eden thought to himself as he once again tasted the Tunisian’s sweet, soft flesh. Strange how well he knew this body, this brown, beautiful specimen of a man. And yet, apart from the physical, he knew nothing about the Tunisian at all. Nobody did, except the Professor.

To the world, the Tunisian was a ghost.

But he made love like an angel.

After Eden poured the Tunisian a second drink, he took a condom and turned the blue-eyed spy over on the bed, caressing the young spy’s perfect round cheeks before parting them and claiming that hot, tight ass.

Their lovemaking was tender and tireless. Eden made it last as long as possible, savoring every moment, knowing that any time he made love to the Tunisian could be the last.

When he came, he came with a tremendous cry, pushing himself completely inside the black-haired spy, who in turn rained jewels of cum over the bed. Eden bit gently into the Tunisian’s shoulder. This time it was the Tunisian who cried out, the teeth marks in his flesh triggering another burst of cum from his perfect, rocking cock.

Eden locked his arms around the young spy and held him close, their sweating, panting bodies as one.

Afterward, they sat on the satin sheets facing each other, their legs entwined.

“You must be careful,” the Tunisian warned, his blue eyes imploring Eden. “Qassim Qahtani is a dangerous man. It’s not his shipping business that has made him his millions. It’s his involvement in illegal weapons, and it comes at a cost.”

Eden reassured him with a soft stroke of his face, “I’m only here to observe, not intervene. We need to know who’s trading the diamonds and what Qahtani is offering in exchange.”

“Then let me go with you.”

“You’ve already helped enough.”

“Eden, I’m coming. I owe Professor Fathom everything.”

“And I owe you an apology.” Eden took the half-empty wineglass out of the Tunisian’s hand as the young man began to sway on the bed.

“W-what are you talking about? Oh…E-e-den?” The Tunisian’s speech was beginning to slur as realization set in. “You’ve…drugged me…one of your potions…”

“Potions? I’m a scientist, not a witch doctor. Just take it easy now, it was a heavy dose. I had no choice—I knew you’d insist on getting involved.”

The Tunisian looked at the pale wine swilling in the bottom of his glass, his face struggling with a look of surprise and betrayal as the drugs kicked in. Then a faint smile. “You know me too well.”

“On the contrary. I don’t even know your name.”

But the Tunisian barely heard him. With a graceful swoon his body began to sink. “What—what about you?”

Eden smiled and wrapped his arms around him, laying him gently on the bed. “Shh. Sleep now. I told you, I’m only here to observe. Tomorrow when you wake you’ll have a terrible headache, but at least this way you won’t try to follow me and you won’t get hurt.”

The Tunisian’s crystal-blue eyes closed as he slipped into a deep sleep. Eden kissed him lightly on each eyelid and laid the young man’s head on his pillow.

Returning his attention to the harbor, Eden watched the lights of the boats and the late-night activities of the merchant shipping port. There were three ships moored at the docks: a Suezmax-class French cargo ship, an African oil tanker, and a huge, rusted Yemeni vessel. As the hours passed, he watched the last of the Yemeni ship’s containers being unloaded, carted from the bowels of the ship on large heavy-duty forklifts and down a loading ramp before being stacked on the wharf.

As the sun rose over the harbor, Eden dressed and left, glancing back to make sure the Tunisian was still asleep as he locked the door safely behind him.

Sitting at a roadside café in the hot morning light, Eden dipped his head slightly and peered over the top of his sunglasses. This is where the Tunisian told him to wait as the Yemeni traders passed by on their way to broker the deal. The fast-approaching drone of a car’s engine echoed somewhere out of sight down the narrow street. Sweat trickled down his forehead as a battered Fiat appeared around the corner and chugged past, blowing dust into the still air. Rowdy young Yemeni kids shouted out the open windows of the rickety car to a pretty girl across the street and were gone.

Eden pushed his sunglasses back onto the bridge of his nose and unfastened another button on his soaked shirt. He picked up his iced tea and listened to the ice spin and chime as dust from the Fiat settled on the table.

The slovenly mustachioed waiter stepped up to the table and asked him if he intended to eat.

Eden was about to answer when he heard not one but two cars approaching.

A black BMW appeared at the end of the street and sped by, followed closely by a second one. Eden stood, tossed money on the table, and hastily yanked his rented Vespa off the sidewalk and onto the street. He buzzed after the BMWs, keeping his distance while being careful not to lose sight of the cars as they wound through the dusty streets to the port.

The two BMWs steered a steady course along the dock past stacked containers and giant coiled shipping ropes, past the African tanker and the French cargo ship, heading straight for the rusted old Yemeni vessel.

Eden pulled the Vespa to a halt behind a high wall at the entrance to the port, then walked purposefully along the length of the dock, pretending he belonged there. He made his way confidently past a group of African seamen loudly chatting and laughing as they filed down a gangplank from the tanker; past a dozen young French sailors in white caps; and straight past the office of the dozing harbor master. When he was within 50 feet of the Yemeni ship he quickly ducked behind a giant, grease-slicked chain and peered over the top.

The two BMWs had stopped at the loading ramp leading into the black bowels of the rusting ship. Several of the ship’s unkempt crew stood at a safe distance on the dock, with the exception of the freighter’s captain, a surly, heavy-browed man, who stepped forward to try to look through his own reflection into the second BMW’s tinted windows.

As the back window began to slide down, the captain’s image disappeared, replaced by a fat, hairy, bejeweled hand holding out a stuffed envelope.

“Qassim Qahtani, I presume,” Eden whispered to himself.

The captain gushed with overplayed gestures as the window sealed itself shut to block out his babble. Barking orders at his crew, he waved the cars up the ramp and inside the belly of the ship.

Hastily the crew began to unhitch the ship’s massive mooring lines and chains. Several charged up a narrow boarding gangplank and then winched it off the dock, securing it in a horizontal position against the ship’s sheer, eight-story-high side.

Before the captain vanished into the cargo hold, he pulled out a walkie-talkie and spoke into the handset. Almost instantly Eden felt a rumbling beneath the docks, and the sea began to churn at the rear of the vessel. The ship’s remaining crew scurried aboard as the loading ramp lifted off the dock like an ancient, rusted drawbridge. Eden knew his time to get aboard was now or never!

Thinking fast, he ran his hands over the grimy, slippery chain in front of him, then smeared his shirt with grease and snapped off several buttons.

He bolted across the dock, reached the edge of the wharf, and launched himself up onto the rising ramp, tumbling down the other side, into the dark, knocking into the back of the captain’s legs. In a tirade of Arabic and angry spit, the captain turned and waved him inside the black void of the ship, without so much as a look.

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