Nick Carter

The Spanish Connection

Dedicated to

The Men of the Secret Services

of the

United States of America

One

It was Hawk and he was being arch. He had not had much practice at it, nor would he have been good at it even if he were in top form.

“Do you ski, N3?” he asked me on the phone.

“Of course I ski. Very well, too, if I may say so.”

“Pack your skis. You’re going to Spain.”

“Tough skiing in Spain,” I said. “No snow.”

“Correction. Sierra Nevada. Translation. Snow-covered mountain.”

“Oh, maybe it snows now and then—”

“You’ll have a companion.”

“Also a skier?”

“Very much so. Also an expert on the drug scene. On loan from the Narcotics Division of Treasury.”

“A snow bird?”

“Very funny. You’ll both be meeting a party at a ski resort in the Sierra Nevada.”

“Called—?”

“Sol y Nieve.”

“Translation: ‘sun and snow.’ No, Sir. I mean, who is the party?”

“Brief you later. For now, get a plane out of San Diego to Ensenada.”

“Ensenada?”

“A small fishing town in Baja California.”

“I know what it is and I know where it is. I even know its special smell. What has a desert town to do with skiing?”

“You’ll be picking up the Treasury agent there.”

“Ah.”

“Be nice to her. We need her expertise.”

“Her?” Warning bells jangled in my nerve centers.

“Her.”

“What is this? Am I supposed to be a nursemaid for female narcs?”

“You’re there to see that the meeting comes off.”

“Meeting?”

“Between her and one of the links in the Turkey-Corsica-California chain. He wants to sing. I want to hear the music before his throat is slit.”

“Sir, sometimes you—”

“Don’t say it! The address is La Casa Verde. Ask for Juana Rivera.”

“And then?”

“Bring her with you to Washington.”

“When?”

“On the next plane out of Ensenada.”

“Right.” He could not see my clenched fist.

“Nicholas!” sighed Hawk. He suspects me of frivolity.

I hung up. After closing a case in the Philippines that had the stench of overripe coconuts, I had flown to San Diego from Hawaii just two days ago. I was only beginning to get the kinks out of my muscles and the tension out of my psyche. Killing is never pleasant, I had overdone my quota in P.I.

Best to put it all out of sight, out of mind — with the help of a bevy of beautiful starlets on location in San Diego for a television series. But now...

I rang the desk clerk, informing him of my most regrettable change in plans, and requested that he get my bill ready. I then rang the airport and learned that the next plane to Ensenada would take off in an hour and a half.

If I cut short my needle-pointy shower, I could just make it.

Baja California is a tail hanging down from California proper. No one seemed to know quite what to do with it. For many years it was the subject of a great deal of controversy between the United States and Mexico. After haggling over possession of the desert strip for many months, the Mexicans finally gave in and agreed to take it.

I settled back in my seat and slept all the way to the small dirt-strip airport outside the tiny fishing village called Ensenada. The word actually means “inlet,” or “little stream,” if you go in for fascinating trivia.

When I stepped out of the plane into the blazing sunlight, the glare was so intense I put on a pair of sunglasses.

A new Mustang taxicab stood by the door of the operations tower, and I hailed the driver for a ride into town. After bumping through rutted roads and sagebrush and greasewood-covered savannahs, we finally rolled into the main street of the town.

La Casa Verde — which was supposed to be colored green, if my Spanish still serves, but was actually a kind of vanishing pastel lime — was at the end of a sagging block where it lay sunning itself like a lizard on a rock.

I got out of the cab, took my bag, and strolled into the lobby. After the blazing sunlight, it was pitch dark inside the motel, but I could see the mustachioed youth making a pretense of interest in my arrival. I waved him aside and picked up the house phone.

“Diga.” It was a girl at some miniature switchboard.

“Would you please connect me with Señorita Juana Rivera?”

“Ah, yes.” There was a click and a long ring.

“Diga.” It was another girl.

“Juana Rivera?”

“Si.”

“Do you speak English?”

There was a hesitation. “Jess?”

I closed my eyes. It was going to be one of those missions. I shook my head and recited the code phrase, trying not to feel absurd:

“October is the eighth month of the year.”

“I beg your pardon? Oh. Oh! The apples are ripe then.”

“Good girl! This is George Peabody.” That was my current cover name, and Hawk had not instructed me to change it. So I was still George Peabody.

“Oh, Señor Peabody.” I was pleased to hear the accent had disappeared. “Where are you?”

“I’m in the lobby,” I said. “Shall I come up?”

“No, no!” she said quickly. “I’ll be down.”

“In the bar,” I sighed, looking into the very shady end of the lobby where a man behind the bar was busy wiping glasses.

I turned and made my way into the darkened bar. The bartender looked at me. “Señor?”

“Pisco sour,” I said.

He nodded and turned to make it.

I could feel the heavy air move gently behind me, wafting the scent of fresh lemons my way. I turned and saw a slim, dark-eyed, dark-haired young woman of perhaps twenty-five, with the kind of almost luminescent pale white skin that belongs to water lilies.

“George,” she said in the Spanish way. It sounded like “Hor-hay.”

“Juana?” I said, pronouncing it correctly midway between an “h” and a “w.”

She held out a hand. I took it. Then I motioned to a table beside the wall.

We walked over. She was dainty and clean and very feminine. Her body was lithe and very nicely shaped. So were her legs. “Good old Hawk!” I was thinking. How uncharacteristic of him!

We sat down.

She ordered iced tea, settled herself in her chair and leaned forward, her eyes bright. “Now. What is this all about?”

I shook my head. “No idea. Were being briefed by my superior in Washington.”

“When?”

“Tonight.”

Her face was blank. “But that means that we will not be here tonight.”

“Es verdad.”

Her mouth hung open. “Then there will be no time for the—” She shut her mouth abruptly.

“The what, Juana?”

Her face was pink. “Me he olvidado.”

“You have a short memory,” I said and finished my pisco sour. Lovely aguardiente, I thought. Someday I’d have to visit Pisco, Peru.

I stood up. “Pack your bags, Juana. We re leaving on the next flight out of here.”

“But you must know something about the mission—”

“Drugs,” I said.

“Of course it’s about drugs I”

“And the Mediterranean. We’re going to Spain.”

Her mouth formed an “o.”

“To ski.”

She drank her iced tea. “Would you kindly repeat that?”

I did so.

Then she fooled me. Her eyes lit up. “Ah! Of course, the Sierra Nevada! There is a first-class ski resort there, just outside Granada.”

I stared.

“Can you ski?” she asked me.

It was the day for that question. “Yes. You?”

“Very well,” she responded serenely.

“Modest, too,” I thought. I spoke softly, “We’ll have a ball.”

The bartender was watching me. I winked at Juana, and she winked back. She was beautiful, she was exquisite, she was attainable.

As we stepped outside, the flash of light glinting off the rifle barrel drew my eye to the black hole at the end of it. The man was lying flat on the hot tar-paper roof across the street, and I knew he had me centered in the cross hairs of his scope sight.

For an instant I froze. Then I hurled Juana aside and dived in the opposite direction, toward the shelter of the doorway. The shot reverberated through the street.

“Stay down!” I shouted out to her.

“But Nick—”

“Quiet!” I hissed.

I rose quickly and ran to a window in the lobby. Keeping myself covered, I peered out of the window. Again I caught the glint of the rifle barrel. The man was still on the roof of the dry-goods store.

As I went for my gun, he steadied the rifle and fired again. The slug buried itself in the woodwork just above Juana’s head. Now she was crawling back through the doorway. “Good girl!” I thought.

When I looked up again, the man had vanished.

I could hear running feet. I glanced through the dusty window and saw a man in a black suit coming out of a store down the street, looking up at the spot where the sniper had lain in wait for us.

I ran out of the hotel, waving to Juana to stay inside, and made it up the stairs of the dry-goods store two at a time to the top floor.

I was too late. He was gone.

There was nothing left on the roof but a lot of Mexican cigarette butts and a sombrero that had been purchased two days before in the store downstairs.

“By a foreigner,” said the store owner, a man with a fat belly and a smiling face. Gonzalez.

“A tourist?”

“Sí.”

“Can you describe him?”

González shrugged. “About your height. Brown hair. Brown eyes. A thin man. Nervous.”

That was all.

I drew Juana aside in the hotel lobby as we waited for the cab to pick us up and take us to the airport.

“He was here two days ago,” I told her.

“So?”

“How long have you been here?”

“Four”

“You think he figured out who you are?”

Her eyes narrowed. She took it as an insult. She was Latin and beautiful and full of fire. “I do not think so!” she said indignantly.

I had not meant it as an insult.

“What were you working on before you were contacted for this assignment?”

“A drug drop.”

“Smash it?”

She nodded, her eyes lowered.

“All of it?”

“Yes.” Her chin lifted defiantly.

“One got away?”

“Maybe so,” she said noncommittally.

I turned and glanced out the doorway at the top of the dry-goods store.

“Yes,” I agreed. “I think maybe so.”

Her face knotted in fury.

I grasped her elbow. The cab had come. Lucky Nick. Saved by the Ensenada Taxicab Company.

“Let’s go, Juana. Next stop, Washington, D.C.”

Very authoritarian. Very commanding.

Meekly she climbed in the cab flashing a nice piece of thigh. But I barely noticed it.

Two

Hawk sat at the console of AXE’s screening-room control panel, pushing buttons and setting dials. One button for sound. One button for tapes. One button for 16 mm film. One button for live television. One button for old black-and-white films. One button for slides. Or, if you wanted to rest your eyes, one button for a soft feminine voice reading out intelligence estimates.

The conversation up to this point had been casual chit-chat. I have erased it all from my mind. I only remember that I could take, and did take, Juana Rivera visually. Something about her thoughts, however, seemed preconditioned, pretested, and sterile.

But she was beautiful and I have an affinity for beautiful women. I thought, “If only I could erase her voice, the way Hawk could erase a tape he did not want to hear.”

The lights went completely out and there was the picture in front of us on a screen that had magically appeared on the wall.

“Enrico Corelli,” a woman’s bland voice announced over the picture flashed on the screen. It was a still photograph, taken perhaps fifteen years ago, and blown up from a most minute portion of some larger picture. The background scene was the rotunda of the Vatican.

“Photographed circa 1954,” the voice continued. “This is the last remaining photograph of Corelli. The other photographs of him have been bought off for large sums of money. Investigation cannot prove that the money comes from the Mafia treasury. But that’s what is believed.”

I took a long, hard look at the photograph. There was almost nothing to distinguish the face from any other. The features were quite ordinary, the hair dark, the chin firm, the face shape without distinction. I memorized it the best I could, but because it had been blown up so many times from such a small piece of grainy film, there was almost nothing there I could concentrate on.

A map flashed on the screen. It was a map of Corsica. There was a circle drawn around the town of Basria.

“It is established that Enrico Corelli lives here in a suburb of Basria, Corsica, in a villa dating back to the Napoleonic era. He has a staff of a dozen servants, and two bodyguards. He lives with a woman named Tina Bergson.

“Corelli is now forty-five years of age. He had worked for the Italian government in Rome, but he was dismissed after a very few months. He was married briefly, but his wife died of pneumonia during the time Corelli was out of work. In disgust he began working for members of a ring of forgers and thieves — exiles from the United States who had been born in Sicily and who had been members of the Mafia in New York and Chicago. He became a good enforcer and a very good businessman for them. When the drug chain was established, he was one of the first men to set up a flow point near Naples.

“The drug chain flourished in the 1960s and at the end of that time, Corelli had become the key figure in the Mafia’s entire chain.

“He has had various mistresses since then. One tried to kill him when he dropped her for another woman. She was later found drowned in the Bay of Naples.”

The map disappeared and a palatial yacht, about 180 feet long, filled the screen in a beautiful color slide.

“This is Corelli’s pleasure yacht, the Lysistrata. It flies the flag of France. Corelli considers himself a citizen of Corsica, even though he was born in Milan.”

Now a picture of a large villa appeared on the screen.

“Corelli’s house. Although he has only two bodyguards to keep his own person secure, he has a half dozen gunmen patrolling the estate at all times.”

A new picture flashed on. A body lay in the weeds. It had been shot several times. The corpse was unrecognizable, but from the appearance of the remains, I decided that the slugs that hit it had been dumdums — ordinary bullets sliced across the point in an X. A dumdum slug mushrooms into a cutting, destroying shape when it enters its target.

“This was an agent of France named Emil Ferenc. He had tried to penetrate the Villa Corelli, as the estate is called. He was apparently discovered by the patrols and killed.”

Then picture of desolate, desertlike countryside appeared on the screen. The lens zoomed in on a figure standing near a stately Lombardy poplar, the only tree of any size in sight. As the figure grew bigger, it could be seen that the man was of indeterminate age, but rather tall and powerfully built. The face was in shadow.

“Enrico Corelli. This is the closest anyone has succeeded in photographing him for the past ten years. The picture was taken by telescopic lens from a secure vantage point on an opposite hill. Although the face is indistinguishable, the man’s body can be seen clearly. Estimates from the computer put his weight at about 182, his height at 6 feet, his stance erect, and his health excellent.”

The screen darkened. Then a motion picture started up. It was a scene at the beach, possibly the French Riviera. A stunning blonde girl in a miniscule bikini paraded across the sand, swinging her hips, long blonde hair swinging about her shoulders. Momentarily she stopped and turned, as if someone had spoken to her. She looked past the camera and smiled.

“Tina Bergson. She is twenty-three. Born in Sweden, she moved to Rome where she had a brief, but unsuccessful motion picture career. Then, two years ago, she moved to Switzerland, where she involved herself in money manipulation, apparently for the Mafia, or for some organization like the Mafia. She was caught but never brought to trial. A great deal of money is said to have changed hands to help her escape Swiss authorities.

“Soon after this, she turned up in the household of Enrico Corelli. Corelli has not married her, but she is his constant companion. She speaks Swedish, French, Italian, and Spanish, as well as English. Her IQ is said to be 145 by actual test, made when she filled out an application to be an employee of a Swiss bank. She is an excellent skier.”

The motion picture now showed her on skis, flashing down a slope. I had to admit that she was very good. No wonder she wanted to spend her winter months near a ski slope; she seemed to love the sport.

Another map came on the screen. It showed the world on a Mercator Projection, with a line running from the Near East to Turkey, and from Turkey to Sicily, and from Sicily to Corsica, up to the Riviera, back to Corsica, and then to Portugal, from there to Cuba, on to Central Mexico, and over to San Diego in California.

The drug chain.

“There have been many changes in the basic drug chain over the past few years. Generally, the hard drugs start in the Orient and come west across the Mediterranean, where they are processed. Control of this chain is anchored in Corsica, the stop just before the all-important processing on the Riviera. The drugs then go back to Corsica and on to Cuba, via one of three stops: Portugal, Morocco, or Algeria.”

A new map. It showed Corsica again.

“From this area the lines of distribution extend back to the Near East and forward to the final destination in the West. The money from the West comes here, where it is then distributed to the links in the chain.”

The lens zeroed in on the map, showing Corelli’s estate in the suburbs of Basria circled.

“Rico Corelli is the man in control of the chain. He takes his orders from Sicily, where the second-in-command of the Mafiosi controls the eastern half of the chain. The Don in the West controls the rest of the chain, plus the distribution.”

The picture faded out and the lights came up.

We sat there in silence for a moment.

Hawk cleared his throat. “Well?”

“Interesting,” I said.

“Academic,” Juana said.

“I agree with her,” I went on.

Hawk frowned. “It’s just a briefing.”

“What about Corelli?” Juana asked.

Hawk closed his eyes and swayed back and forth in the comfortable swivel chair.

“The Mafiosi have become dissatisfied with the profits from the drug program,” Hawk said finally. “Six months ago they began to send inside men around to check up on the chain’s system. Corelli’s take was considerable — too much, according to the U.S. Don. But the Sicily second could devise no way to correct the situation. At a high-level meeting it was decided that Corelli would have to go. One man was sent to hit him, but he vanished from sight. You saw what happened to the so-called ‘French agent’ who tried to infiltrate the estate. That was the man.

“Then the Mafiosi Capos decided to attack Corelli through Tina Bergson. A detective claiming to be from Switzerland tried to arrest her one day in Basria on an old Swiss charge. But one of Corelli’s bodyguards interfered and saved Tina. He then delivered the detective to a nearby beach, tied him up and let him wait for high tide to drown him. The man escaped and left Corsica, never to return.”

I held up a hand.

“Nick?”

“How do we know all this?”

“Corelli told us.”

“Directly?”

Hawk sighed. “We have a man close to Corelli, although he has never seen him. Corelli let out the information on his own initiative.”

“Why?” Juana asked.

“He said he wanted to get out for good.”

“To save himself and the girl?” I asked.

“Exactly. And get a safe house in the States.”

“In return for—?”

“The whole line of command, the proper chain, and the way it works.”

“How do we know it isn’t a trick?” I asked.

“We don’t.” Hawk opened his eyes lazily. “That’s where you come in.” He turned to Juana.

She nodded.

“With your expertise, you have to find out if Corelli is giving us the truth — or is leading us down the garden path.”

I sighed. Sometimes Hawk’s diction is hopelessly Victorian.

Juana paid no attention to words. “I’ll find out.”

“Has anything been set up?” I asked.

“There is to be a meeting at Sol y Nieve. A ski resort in Spain. I told you about that?”

“Briefly.”

Hawk leaned back. “Every year Tina Bergson goes to this particular ski resort, and Corelli goes with her. They spend about a month.”

“He goes there as Rico Corelli?”

“No. We don’t know what name he uses. But we do know they always go. And Corelli wants to meet there.”

“It could be a set-up,” I murmured.

“Certainly,” said Hawk. “That’s why you’re there, Nick. That’s why AXE is in the picture.”

“Anticipating a hit.”

He nodded. “Suppose the Mafiosi were aware of Corelli’s plans. Wouldn’t they love to get our number-one enforcer and our number-one drug expert?”

I rubbed my chin. “How do we make the contact?”

Hawk said, “We have a man in Malaga. He has a boy at Sol y Nieve. Corelli’s bodyguards will approach him. You meet our man in Malaga and he will set up the meeting with the boy at the resort. Then you will meet Corelli face to face.”

I nodded. “And then?”

“Then Miss Rivera will take over.”

“Have you prepared our covers?”

“AXE Identification has the papers. You’ll still be George Peabody, but now you’re a professional photographer.”

“Sir, I can’t even operate a Brownie, much less a Hasselblad!”

“These cameras today are foolproof! Besides, we’ll teach you the basics. And you, Miss Rivera, are a photographer’s model. Your papers are all made up. Burn them after you memorize your backgrounds.”

“Do I pose in the nude?” Juana asked.

Hawk was shocked. His blue eyes widened. He was the last of the old Puritans, a totally repressed man in a society where sexual freedom is the rule. “My dear girl!”

“Would you pose in the nude?” I asked quickly.

“Of course,” she replied. “In a professional sense. When I play a part, I play it to the hilt.”

Hawk’s face had changed color. It was very red. He was staring down at his hands in an agony of embarrassment. “If you’re quite through,” he interposed.

I grinned. “Go on.”

“I know you won’t mind that we’ve set up your cover as a husband-and-wife team,” he said quickly, his eyes bright.

“Sir!” That was me exclaiming.

“Mr. and Mrs. George Peabody, of Millers Falls, Minnesota.”

“I love it!” Juana said softly.

“I loathe it!” I growled. “It’s too contrived! And it causes complications!”

“But it enables Miss Rivera to operate more easily — if she must” Hawk’s face turned red once again.

“I fail to follow the logic!” I snapped.

“An unmarried woman, a maiden like Miss Rivera—”

“I resent that!” Juana interrupted.

“—would find it much harder to be, oh, pursued, shall we say, than a married woman. You see?”

I was flat on my face in the sand. I did see the twisted logic.

Hawk turned to Juana. “Do you approve?”

“Completely.” She smiled charmingly.

Hawk nodded with satisfaction. Then he glanced at me. “Any flaws?”

Damn him! “It looks foolproof,” I admitted. “We’ve got to set up some kind of fail-safe signal,” I continued. “I mean, in case everything falls apart. I want to be able to save Juana’s and my skin no matter what.”

“We have a man in Granada, only a half hour’s drive from the resort. Malaga will brief you.”

“Right. That should cover it.”

“You can send out any coded message you want via the Granada drop.”

“Okay,” I said. I turned to Juana. “Do you have anything to discuss?”

She looked at me and then at Hawk.

“I think not. I’m in your hands until I meet Mr. Corelli. Then I’ll take over.”

I had just dozed off when there came a sharp rap on the locked door separating my room from Juana’s.

I got up. “Yes?”

“Nick!” she whispered.

“What?”

“The window.”

I turned. “What about it?”

“Look down into the street.”

I reached for my shoulder holster hanging from the bedpost. I walked over to the window, keeping in the shadows, and hugging the wall. Tipping back the drapes with the barrel of my Luger I peered into the darkened street below.

There was a Cadillac parked across the way, the only car in the whole block.

A man sat in it, on the driver’s side, which was toward me. Then as I watched, another man hurried across the street toward the Cadillac, spoke briefly to the driver, and climbed into the back seat.

The Caddy started up and drove rapidly down the street, turning right at the corner.

I went back to the door separating our rooms.

“Did you recognize him?” I asked her.

“Yes. I saw him get out of the car a moment ago. He looked up at my room — or at yours. I saw his face. And then he hurried across to the hotel lobby.”

“Who was he?”

“I saw him at Dulles Airport this afternoon. When we came in. He was carrying a little leather case. The kind you might put rifle scopes in.”

“Good girl,” I said absently.

There was a pause. “What do we do now?”

“Go to bed,” I said. “At least we know that they know.”

“You’re not going out to find him?”

“In Washington? It’s a big city.”

“Nick!”

“Go to sleep, Juana.” I moved away from the door. “Sweet dreams.”

I could hear her grumbling to herself, and then she walked away from the door. A moment or two later I heard the creaking of the bed as she climbed in and settled down.

Then there was silence.

I sat by the window, watching, waiting. But nobody came.

Three

We came in over the low foothills and landed at the airstrip outside Malaga. A cabby got us to town through the swirl of miniature European cars of all makes and shapes.

We were staying at one of the main hotels in town, which overlooked Malaga Harbor. There were a number of commercial ships and pleasure boats tied up at or anchored near well-kept marinas.

Juana was tired. She locked herself in her half of the suite and took a nap and shower. I went out immediately to AXE’s safe house.

It was a small office in a building one block down the street and around the corner.

“CONSTRUCCION,” the sign on the door said. “SRS. RAMIREZ Y KELLY.”

I knocked.

“Quién es?”

“Señor Peabody.”

“Si.”

The door opened. It was Mitch Kelly.

“Hey, Kelly,” I said.

“Hey, Señor.” He grinned and let me in. Then, after a glance up and down the dark, ancient hallway, he carefully locked the door.

I looked around at the office. It was small, with one battered desk, a bank of old file cabinets, and a door leading to what was obviously a washroom. Behind the desk a window overlooked the harbor and the town of Malaga.

Kelly slapped me on the back. “Haven’t seen you since the Red Oranges business, Nick.”

That had taken place in Greece. “Five years ago, right?”

“Right. Hawk said you’d be coming.”

He opened a drawer and lifted out a fine pair of Bausch & Lomb 30x binoculars, which he thoughtfully weighed in his hand.

“I may have news for you.”

“Oh?”

He fitted the glasses to his eyes and turned to survey the harbor. I realized he had been watching the boats when I had knocked.

Kelly had been AXE’s control in Malaga for at least three years. It was his job to know what and who came in and went out of Malaga.

I watched over his shoulder. He was studying the pleasure marina in the center of the harbor. He seemed particularly intent on a large yacht that was anchored somewhere near the middle.

“That’s it,” he said. “It’s the Lysistrata. Corelli’s yacht.”

I remembered the picture I’d seen at AXE’s headquarters.

He handed the glasses to me. I focused them. They were excellent; I could see the yacht very clearly. Several crew members were fussing about on deck. Everything was quiet and serene on board. I could see a row of cabins on the main deck, with two rows of portholes that meant there were cabins on two decks below.

It was a large, beautiful pleasure yacht. The flag of France flew from the stem.

Mitch Kelly sat down at his desk, rustling a paper. I knew he wanted me to pay attention to what he was saying. As I was about to hand back the glasses I saw someone in a sweater and slacks step out of the main cabin onto the deck. It was a woman with long blonde hair. She was very busty and thin-waisted, and the tightly clinging slacks outlining her thighs and hips left nothing to the imagination. She had good legs under those doe-colored slacks. Her skin was fair and smooth, and she had blue eyes. As she came into the sunlight, she put on a pair of dark glasses and tapped them absently into place.

“Tina Bergson,” I said aloud.

Kelly craned his neck around and peered out the window, squinting against the sunlight on the water. “Yeah.”

“Quite a girl,” I observed.

“Another Nick Carter special,” Kelly said with a snort. “How do you manage?”

“I simply do what the man in Washington says to do,” I murmured.

“This came in yesterday,” Kelly said, rattling the paper again.

I tore my eyes away from Tina Bergson’s shapely shoulders and breasts modeled by the sweater and put the binoculars down reluctantly. Kelly lifted them, swiveled the chair and focused them on Tina Bergson while I read the typed paper.

KELLY. RAMIREZ Y KELLY. 3 PASEO ZAFIO. ARRIVE TUESDAY ABOARD LYSISTRATA. HAVE VISITOR READY. TINA BERGSON WILL BRING HIM TO YACHT. WILL SET UP SKI RENDEZVOUS LATER WITH DRUG EXPERT.

ROMAN NOSE

“Roman Nose!” I repeated with a grin.

“That’s Corelli’s cover name,” said Kelly. “Pretty corny, no?”

“Pretty corny, yes.” Roman Nose was an Indian Chief.

“Corelli thinks he’s an outcast himself. You know — from the Mafiosi.”

I looked at the message again. “The way it’s worded, I guess she picks me up, huh?”

“Right. She knows your hotel. I sent out a note already.”

“When will she be there?”

“She’s to pick you up in the lobby at noon.” Kelly glanced at his watch. “That gives you half an hour.”

“What about Juana?”

“She can wait. This is an initial probe.”

I shrugged. “Why all the rigmarole?”

“Roman Nose is running scared. I think he wants to find out if he’s being tailed.”

“Or if we are,” I mused.

I was waiting in the lobby at noon.

When she came in, every eye in the lobby turned to her, the women glaring with resentment, the men leering with interest. The locals behind the desk suddenly turned into debonair Lotharios.

I stood and walked toward her. “Miss Bergson,” I said, in English.

“Yes,” she responded, with only the slightest of accents. “I am late. So sorry.”

“You’re well worth waiting for,” I said.

She stared at me coolly. I thought of icebergs in the fjords. “Shall we go, then?”

“Yes,” I said.

She turned and led me out of the lobby into the bright Spanish sunshine.

“It is only across the plaza,” she said. “We can walk.”

I nodded, and reached gallantly for her arm. After all, I was in Europe. She gave it to me without comment. Every Spanish eye turned to greet the two of us — her with admiration, me with envy.

“It’s a beautiful day,” she said, breathing in deeply.

“You like Malaga?” I riveted my gaze to her face.

“Oh, yes,” she said. “It is lazy and easy here. I like sunshine. I like warmth.”

She created it, but I did not mention that. “How was your boat trip down?”

She sighed. “We ran into a squall off the Costa Brava. Otherwise—”

“And your — your companion?”

She eyed me thoughtfully. “Mister Roman?”

“Mister Roman.” The charade continued.

“You will see him in a short time.”

“I understand you ski,” I said as we neared the marina.

“I love it.” She smiled. “Do you?”

“Moderately,” I said. “Mostly in the United States. Aspen. Stowe.”

“I want to go to America some day,” said Tina Bergson, her blue eyes warm and intent on mine.

“Perhaps Mister — uh, Roman — will have something to say about that.”

She laughed. Her teeth were perfect. “Perhaps, indeed.” She stared at me intently. “I think you and he will get along fine.”

Then we were on the quay and a young man at the end of it stood at attention, directing his attitude toward Tina Bergson. He was fairly thin, but he looked wiry and strong. He had curly black hair and a fine pencil-line mustache.

“Señorita,” he said. He reached out to help her down into a small sleek powerboat tied to the quay.

“Thank you, Bertillo,” she said sweetly. “This is Mister Peabody,” she told him, gesturing to me.

“Señor,” said Bertillo. His eyes were dark and intelligent.

I jumped down after Tina Bergson and then Bertillo cast off, got the inboard moving, and we made an arc toward the yacht some three hundred yards away.

The bay sparkled in the sunshine, the gulls picked waste out of the sea, and as we cut through the water, they fluttered into the sky angrily, splashing us with seasuds.

In minutes we were tied up to the yacht. I could see the name now, Lysistrata. Above us two deckhands looked down and dropped a ladder. We clambered up the side.

In the cabin on the main deck, which turned out to be the salon, I could see a muscular man seated in a comfortable lounging chair. He was smoking a cigar that had made halos of blue smoke above his head.

We went in. He rose, his large head moving up into the smoke cloud. “Tina!” he greeted her, and she smiled back.

“This is Mister Peabody, from America,” she said. “Mister Peabody, this is Mister — uh — Roman.”

I glanced around. The surroundings were posh.

He laughed, shook hands. His grip was firm. “Mister Peabody, I believe you ski?”

I nodded. “I do.”

“So does Tina. And I do, but only a little. We are spending some time at Sol y Nieve. I understand you are going to be there?”

“I am.”

“With a companion of yours?”

“Yes.”

“This companion. He understands the nature of the rendezvous?”

“He is a she.”

“Pardon?”

“My companion is a woman. She understands the nature of the rendezvous.”

I was studying Roman Nose. From the picture I had seen I realized that he could easily be Rico Corelli. In fact, I was sure he was Rico Corelli. He was the right age, although he did not show his age as much as most men in his business.

“I have always had good relations with Americans,” Corelli said.

Tina smiled. “Always.”

“We are looking forward to your presence in our country,” I said. “At least, I understand that you—”

Corelli held up his hand. “I hope to be making the trip. If we can make a deal.”

“It will take only one meeting,” I said. “At the ski resort.”

He nodded.

“What is the reason for this preliminary meet?” I asked abruptly.

“Security,” he snapped, puffing at his cigar. The heavy smoke had begun to wander all over the salon.

“You seem reasonably secure.” I leaned forward and spoke evenly and significantly. “I assure you, there will be no trouble with security while I am around.”

A faint smile flickered across his mouth. “Perhaps not.”

A steward brought in drinks. I leaned back. The meeting had been discussed and agreed to. It would simply be a matter of contacting him at the resort hotel and bringing Juana along with me.

We drank.

We talked of other things. Fifteen minutes passed. Finally Tina rose.

“I suppose Mister Peabody is anxious to get back to his hotel.”

I nodded. “Thank you for your time, Mister Roman. I look forward to a fuller discussion in the snow country.”

We looked at each other and I turned to leave. Tina came up to me and took my arm.

“I am sorry that I cannot return to the shore with you. But Bertillo will take you back.”

I shook hands slowly. “Thank you — both — for your charming hospitality.”

We were on deck now, and I climbed down into the powerboat. She waved at me from the deck as the inboard started to swing around and head for the marina.

We had proceeded only fifty yards when there was a sudden scream from the yacht. The startling sound traveled speedily and uninterruptedly along the surface of the water.

I turned quickly. “Stop, Bertillo!”

I saw Tina come out of the salon where she had just gone. She was stumbling.

A series of orange flashes blazed inside the salon, then the rattle of automatic riflefire chopped across the water.

I heard a shout.

There was another scorching burst of gunfire, and I saw Tina Bergson fall to the deck, her voice cut off in mid-scream.

A figure in a dark wetsuit moved quickly across the deck in strides like a panther’s, and jumped off over the rail on the far side into the water. I had drawn my gun, but could not get a clear shot of him.

“Circle the yacht!” I snapped to Bertillo.

Astonished, frightened, but able, he gunned the powerboat, and we swept around from the right hand side, past the bow of the yacht.

Only bubbles showed where the man in the wetsuit had gone. He had left scuba gear hanging there, that much was obvious. He was gone for good.

We circled about for a full minute, but he did not emerge.

I climbed the ladder to the deck where four crewmen surrounded Tina, who was breathing, but moaning softly. The shoulder of her sweater was drenched in rapidly drying blood.

I ran into the salon.

The big man was lying on the floor. His head had been almost entirely crushed by the force of the bullets. He had died before he hit the decking.

Outside I stared toward the shore, but the man in the wetsuit did not appear.

I grabbed up the ship-to-shore and called Mitch Kelly. He was shocked, but he was a pro. He went right to work and got the Malaga Guardia Civil.

Tina opened her eyes.

“It hurts!” she moaned.

Then she saw the blood and fainted.

Four

Mitch Kelly pulled open the bottom drawer of the file cabinet. He could see I was boiling mad. I watched him unbutton the leather case in which the radio-telephone transmitter was kept.

It was a beautiful little set: Japanese-made, with solid state transistors throughout. You could almost beam to the moon and back with it.

It hummed a moment or two after he switched it on until it warmed up. He did not look at me at all, but went to work and raised AXE after a few preliminary calls, and chatted briefly with the operator at AXE Monitor, using the usual R/T gibberish. Finally he turned to me.

“I’ve got Hawk.”

I took the handset. “Sir?” I could barely contain my anger.

“Nick, this is not an authorized call! I’ll have you know—”

“Are we in clear?”

“Yes.”

“Scramble.”

“Right.” Hawk’s voice turned cautious. “What is it, Nick? I always get butterflies when you observe proper security precautions.”

“Who set up this mission? Treasury?”

“You know I’m not authorized to say.”

“It has a funny smell.”

“Say again?”

“It stinks! Corelli is dead.”

“Dead?” Pause. “Oh, dear me.”

“Who set this up?” I asked again.

“I’m not at liberty—”

“It was a set-up. And whoever set it up used me to finger Corelli.”

“No! Oh, I see what you mean.”

“Check it out, sir, please! If the Mafia is clear, then something went wrong at our end. If it was Corelli playing some kind of game, then Treasury was conned.”

“You’re sure he’s dead?” Hawk asked crisply. His tone of voice meant he had recovered from his original shock.

“Half a head gone? Oh, yes. He’s dead, sir.”

“And his companion?”

“She’s alive, but hurt.”

“I think it was straight,” said Hawk. “Rome Control checked out Corelli.”

“Rome Control may be on the payroll of the Mafia!”

“Nicholas—” he chided me.

“Consider the mission scrubbed at this end, sir.”

“Calm down, Nick. I’ll get back to you as soon as I make a few calls.”

“Miss Rivera and I will not be available for further instructions.”

“You stay there! I want to get this cleared up.”

“It’s already cleared up, Hawk. Or mopped up is perhaps a more accurate term. Goodbye.”

“Nick!”

I signed off.

Kelly was stunned at the conversation between Hawk and me. He did not go in for deliberate disobedience. That was the reason he had been talking about inconsequentialities. He walked behind his desk and sat down. He was studying me carefully, and waiting for the roof to fall in on me.

“You think AXE was used?” he finally asked.

“I think so, but I don’t know.”

“A leak?”

I looked down at my hands. “Maybe.”

“What about the girl?”

“Juana? I don’t know about her, really. If she was in on it, she’ll be long gone.”

“Where are you headed?”

I turned at the door. “Back to the hotel. I wonder if she’ll be there.”

She was. I could hear her rummaging around in her room as soon as I let myself in my half of the suite. At least it sounded like her. Just to be sure I got my Luger out and moved to the connecting door.

“Juana?” I said in a low voice.

“Oh. Nick?”

“Mr. Peabody.”

“How did it go?”

It was Juana, all right. I could tell by the voice. I holstered the Luger, deciding that if she had been in with the hit man, she would have left Malaga by now since her part in the charade would have been finished.

I opened the door and walked in. She was dressed in a very austere but cool-looking costume that hinted at taste and expense without really being costly. She was smiling, which meant that she did not know anything at all about Corelli.

“You look tired, Nick.”

“I am. Fresh out of energy.”

“Why?”

I sat on the edge of the bed and looked up at her. I wanted the full benefit of the light when I read her face. She turned toward me, the strong Malaga sunlight streaming in, illuminating every detail of her features.

“Rico Corelli is dead.”

Her face went pale. If she was acting, she had excellent control over her arterial system. Any physiologist will tell you that the arterial system is an involuntary one.

“Killed? On the yacht?”

I nodded. “By a character in a wet suit.”

“What about the woman who was with him?”

“Tina Bergson was hit, but she is still alive. It looked like a set-up, Juana.”

“What do we do now?”

“We wait,” I said. “For word from Hawk. I’ve already reported in.”

She watched me. “Could you see the man who killed Corelli?”

“Only a silhouette of him.”

“Did he resemble the one who sniped at us in Ensenada?”

I shrugged. “I never really saw him either.”

“He may have been the man in the car in Washington.”

“This time he was in a wet suit. He could be the one. Also, he could be Senator Barry Goldwater.”

Juana ignored that. “He picked us up in Ensenada, and followed us to Malaga by way of Washington.” She was positive now, and was facing me squarely.

“Perhaps.”

“It’s got to be!”

“If you say so.”

She moved toward me until she stood six inches from me. “They said you are one of the best. How did you let this happen?”

I watched her carefully, letting no expression at all show on my face. But there was so much anger churning in me that the waves of emotion must have reached out to touch her, for she shrank back, almost as if she expected me to hit her.

“I’ll forget you ever said that.”

She drew herself together and shook her head grimly. “I won’t.”

The phone rang.

“Kelly here,” the voice said. “I’m in contact with Tina Bergson.”

“Oh?”

“She was taken by the Guardia Civil to a private clinic not far from us down from the Alcazába. Her doctor is in our pay.”

“How convenient.”

“She’s conscious. She wants to see you.”

I thought rapidly. “All right. Give me the address.”

“I’ve got to take you there.”

“Right. I’ll check with you in fifteen minutes. Kelly, how did the Guardia Civil know where to take her?”

Kelly chuckled. “We own a couple of them, too.” Grinning, I hung up.

“What was that all about?” Juana asked me. She was still visibly shaken by the news of Corelli’s death. I decided at that moment that she was innocent of involvement.

“Tina Bergson. She’s recuperating. I’m going over to talk to her.”

“And me?”

I wanted Juana in sight at all times for a bit. “You’re coming along.”

She relaxed. “Oh. Good.” A smile. “I wondered what you planned to do with me.”

“As always, I take you with me. You’re a very pretty girl, and I like pretty girls.” I grinned.

She actually blushed. “Damn you.” I guess she was worried about her mind again.

Mitch Kelly spent most of the ride to the office and the clinic showing off for Juana Rivera. He was playing the role of the very cool, sophisticated special agent. Actually, he could be charming with women, even when he was not playing a role. Juana seemed in the mood to accept his act, obviously using her interest in Kelly to goad me.

But I wasn’t paying much attention. I was too busy thinking.

First, I was furious with myself for not having anticipated the set-up. With that sniper operating in Ensenada and the weird crew watching us in Washington, I should have been primed for trouble in Malaga. Yet I had thought before that the hit men were after Juana and me — not after Corelli. How stupid!

That was as far as I got in my mental convolutions. The honking horns outside the car finally roused me from my torpor, and I began to watch the narrow streets of Malaga go by me.

The car pulled over to the curb, and we climbed out. The clinic was located on a narrow street shaded from the direct sun by the buildings around it. The buildings were clean and well kept up. It was definitely not part of the Malaga slums.

Kelly led the way in through the main entrance. We trooped up the curving marble stairway after a woman in a white uniform with a rather formidable backside who had chatted briefly with Mitch Kelly when we entered. As we walked down the corridor of the second floor, a thin man in a business suit and a black tie greeted Kelly with a broad smile.

He was Doctor Hernández, the physician in charge of Tina Bergson, Kelly said. I could tell by the brilliance of Hernández’s smile that AXE money paid his bills and fanned his élan into a total ebullience as he greeted the slaves of his employers.

“How is she?” Kelly asked.

Hernández clasped his hands in front of him, took a deep breath, and worried a long moment.

“It is a bullet wound, you understand. Such a wound does sometimes cause sepsis in the blood stream. Sepsis is poison,” he said to me, as if I appeared to be the chief moron of the group. “I do think she will come out of it all right. With the help of God — she will!”

“How soon?” I asked.

“Several days,” said Hernández after thinking for a minute.

“Ah,” I said. “Then it is not too serious at all.”

His black eyes flashed a moment. Then he was smiling a worried, concerned smile. “Serious enough, Señor Peabody,” he intoned. That meant that he would not release her right away. I had to accept that fact that his reluctance might be medically sound. A bullet wound can be a nasty trifle. “But it was a good thing she was brought here immediately,” Hernández went on. “She was almost in shock. Shock is the thing one must worry about where bullet wounds are concerned.”

I nodded. “Can we get in to see her?”

“Of course, of course!” beamed Hernández, turning to Kelly and waving him toward a door down the corridor. “Please to enter.”

Kelly opened the door and walked into a large spacious room with a hospital bed in the middle of it. The blinds had been drawn, and a lamp burned beside the bed on a night stand.

Tina Bergson was beautiful even bandaged up in a very elaborate swathe of white linen and covered up to her chest in hospital blankets. Her hair was fluffed out over the pillow — a halo of spun gold.

She had her eyes closed when we came in, but she opened them as we stared down at her.

Her glance sought me out. “Mr. Peabody,” she said.

I nodded. “I’m glad to see you looking so well.”

She tried to smile. “It was... it was—” And tears came to her eyes.

I moved over toward her. “Tina, it was a terrifying thing. Did you want to tell me something?”

Her voice was a whisper. “I am so ashamed. I—” She looked around at us pleadingly.

I turned. “All right. Clear the room. She wants to talk to me alone.”

Juana straightened. “And me.”

Our glances locked. “You stay, Juana. The rest of you — out!”

Hernández and Kelly obediently left the room with the white-uniformed woman.

I took Tina’s hand. “What is it, Tina? What are you ashamed of?”

She tinned her face away from mine. “The trickery,” she said. “The game we played.”

“Game?” I heard Juana’s voice harsh and flat.

“Yes,” said Tina nervously.

“Tell us about the game,” I ordered her.

“It was Rico’s idea. I mean, he was frightened and he knew that someone might be trying to kill him.”

“How did he know?”

“It has been tried before.”

“All right. He suspected someone was trying to kill him. Because of his arrangement with us?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“If he knew someone was out to hit him, why did he walk right into a trap?”

“He did not,” said Tina. “He did not walk into a trap. That is the point.”

I turned and stared at Juana. A bizarre thought was taking form in my mind. I gripped Tina’s hand hard.

“Go on,” I urged her.

“It was not Rico on the yacht,” said Tina finally, her eyes rolling at me pleadingly.

So! No wonder it had all been so quick!

“No?”

“No. The man you talked to was not Rico Corelli. He was a man Rico knew for years. His name was Basillio di Vanessi. A Sicilian.”

“What about Rico? Was he on the yacht?”

“No. Rico is at Sierra Nevada. As soon as the meeting on the yacht ended, we were to notify him — and then you and he would meet at the ski resort. This preliminary rendezvous was a test. In the test Rico used a gemini.”

“A gemini?”

“Yes. A — how is it? — a twin!”

“A double,” said Juana.

“Yes! You know, to see if anyone was trying to kill Rico. You see?”

“Or to kill me,” I mused.

“That is right.”

“Then it’s Vanessi who’s dead, and not Corelli?”

She said, “Yes. That is the truth.”

Juana pushed me aside and stood by the bed. “You’re lying,” she snapped. “I can tell.”

Tina half sat up in bed, her eyes wild. “Why do you talk to me like that?”

“You’re not telling the truth! Corelli is dead! And you’re trying to set us up with a phony!”

“It is not true! I swear it!” Tina’s face was covered with perspiration.

“I don’t believe it!” Juana was bearing down hard. “Rico is in the Sierra Nevada now. We let him off the yacht at Valencia. I can prove it!”

“How?”

“I... I—” Tina broke down. She began sniffling.

“How?” cried Juana, reaching down and shaking her hard.

Tina winced and groaned in pain. Her tears flowed. “It’s the truth!” she sobbed. “Corelli is alive!” She was weeping openly now. “In Valencia there are records of his departure from the yacht!”

Juana straightened, her eyes narrowed but satisfied. “We can check that out.”

I pushed Juana gently aside, giving her a significant and understanding glance. Juana had guts, and I liked that. Now we knew that Corelli was alive.

“Where is he?” I asked Tina.

“I told you. At Sierra Nevada.” Her eyes rolled in terror.

“But—”

“He will tell me where he will meet you.”

“He is incognito at the resort?”

Tina nodded desperately. “Yes, yes! Oh, Mr. Peabody, I am so sorry everything went wrong.”

“You should be!” I snapped.

“You will go up there to meet him?”

“No way!”

“No?” Her face fell apart.

“No!” I was emphatic.

“Why... why not?” She burst into tears once again. “He will... he will... kill me!”

“Yes,” I said quietly. “I believe he will.”

Five

It is not easy to project thought waves from your brain to someone else’s. I have tried it for years, with total lack of success. Yet at this moment I knew I had to communicate with Juana Rivera by brain wave only — real ESP stuff.

I directed my gaze at her face, and thought very hard. I thought: Come to her rescue, Juana. You’re the good guy; I’m the heavy.

Juana stared back at me, coloring as if she were embarrassed to be scrutinized so thoroughly by a man.

I knew my original thought had not penetrated. Probably my errant thought had, however.

The hell with it, I thought finally. I have a feeling she caught that one.

I turned to Tina and snapped: “No way!” I said again. “It’s all over. You’ve lied to us for the last time. No meeting.”

Juana’s eyes narrowed, and I could almost follow her thought processes as she traversed the convolutions of play and counterplay.

“Wait a minute,” she said quickly. “We can’t just leave Spain without seeing Mr. Corelli!”

Tina stopped sobbing and turned to look at me hopefully.

I stared at Juana as if she were some kind of garden worm on a fresh salad. “Oh, yes we can!” I said angrily. “They’ve lied to us, and that’s the end of it.”

“But what about the information Corelli is supposed to give us?”

“We don’t need it.”

“You don’t need it,” Juana pleaded, “but I do! I’m the one who was sent here to get it. You’re only a bodyguard!”

I glanced at Tina to see how she was taking our little dramatic improvisation. She had turned into a spectator at a fast tennis match.

“I’ll contact AXE,” I growled, doing a kind of late-vintage Bogart. “The mission is scrubbed!”

“Let me talk to them!” Juana said, becoming agitated now. “I’ve a great deal at stake in this!”

“We shouldn’t be talking in front of her,” I said grudgingly, waving at Tina.

“I don’t care who hears! This is my assignment!”

I considered, pretending to weigh the consequences. Finally I said, “Are you really willing to go on and meet Corelli?”

Juana nodded. “Of course! Just because you fouled up the first encounter—”

“And you?” I interrupted, turning to Tina. “What guarantee can you give us that we’ll be meeting the real Corelli at Sierra Nevada?”

“I’ve already told you! You’ll know when you get the correct information.”

I shrugged.

Juana burst in, “We’ve got to meet Corelli,” she said. “It’s terribly important to me!”

“Good girl,” I thought. Keeping my face impassive I leaned down over Tina. “We’ll give it one more try.”

She closed her eyes in relief and smiled.

“You’ll have to cooperate closely with us, Tina,” I told her. “There’s no reason to assume that the killer will go home now. He’ll want to kill you, too.”

Juana frowned. “Why? If he was paid to kill Rico Corelli, he’s worked out his contract.”

“But he’s bound to find out about his mistake. The Mafia knows Corelli isn’t dead — or will very soon. Then the hit man will be after Tina — to lead him to Corelli!”

Tina sniffled.

“We’ll put a guard on this room,” I announced “I’ll tell Mitch Kelly.”

“But a trained killer can get in anywhere. How will the guard know who to watch out for?” Juana asked.

I frowned. “We have no idea who the killer is. He’ll just have to keep everybody out.”

“But we do know,” said Tina suddenly, sitting up and wincing with pain at the sudden movement.

Juana and I turned to her with our mouths open. “Do know what?”

“Who the killer is. He’s a man called The Mosquito, j It must be. He’s a professional murderer. His real name is Alfreddo Moscato.”

“How do you know?”

“Because a hired killer tried to penetrate Rico’s villa in Corsica six months ago. There were a lot of I traps and devices along the walls, so he could not get in. But when he tried, he tripped wires that took j infrared pictures. Rico had the pictures developed and he found out it was Moscato.”

“Does Rico Corelli know Moscato?”

“No. They never saw each other. One of Rico’s people recognized Moscato.”

“Then you’re saying that Moscato does not know Corelli by sight, and he thinks he has killed him.”

Tina nodded. “I didn’t think of that, but, yes, I’d say so.”

“What else do you know about Moscato? Anything that might help us identify him?”

Tina’s face turned pink. “He likes girls a lot,” she admitted.

“Anything more than that?”

“He likes them in pairs,” Tina blurted out, embarrassed.

“In pairs?” I asked with amusement.

“It isn’t funny!” snapped Juana.

I turned back to Tina. “He has a habit of tripledecker sex?”

“Yes,” said Tina. “It’s a thing with him. He does it every time before he goes out on a job. It loosens him up.”

“Maybe we can use that knowledge to find him before he finds us.”

“Finds us?” Juana repeated blankly.

“He’s certainly going to try to pick up the trail to Corelli again. Because he doesn’t know him on sight.” I stared at the shuttered window. “And the easiest way for him to pick up Corelli is to watch us.”

Juana’s eyes lit up. “Then we make ourselves obvious in Malaga, and he comes after us.”

“No. We go find him first.” But there was something else I had to straighten out. “Tina, how am I going to contact the real Corelli?”

She turned away. “You’ll have to wait until he calls me.”

“But how will he know where you are — I mean, hidden away in this special clinic?”

She shrugged. “He will. I can guarantee it.”

“I don’t want to go up to the ski resort and sit there waiting for him,” I said.

“The doctor says I’ll be all right in a few days.”

I nodded. “Then we’ll wait. Meanwhile, we’ll try to swat The Mosquito. I’d like to see him out of circulation while we’re working this meet.”

I briefed Mitch Kelly quickly, and he was on the phone in a minute conning the Malaga Commandant into assigning a member of the Guardia Civil to watch over Tina Bergson. On the drive to the hotel I filled Kelly in on the direction the operation had taken.

He said he hadn’t heard that The Mosquito was in Malaga, but of course he had put out no feelers in that area. He seemed to think I was criticizing him. I assured him I wasn’t.

“The underworld,” he said. “Why don’t you take a look?”

“What underworld?”

“The Malaga stews,” he said. “That’s where they’d know about The Mosquito. Hell, you and Juana look perfectly legit. You could be a couple of swinging expatriots trying to hire a bodyguard. I’ve got a contract who knows the stews inside out. His name is Diego Pérez. Look, I’ll send him to you this evening. He’ll squire you around.”

I glanced at Juana, all prim and uptight about my male chauvinism.

“Okay. Let’s take a shot at it.”

We finished the ride in silence.

As soon as we got back to the hotel I heard my phone ringing.

It was Kelly.

“One. I’ve set up the deal with Diego.”

“Good.”

“He’s five feet seven, smooth-looking, tiny mustache, and very intelligent. Don’t let the fancy exterior fool you.”

“Right.”

“Two. I just decoded a signal from Interpol.”

“Interpol?”

“I sent them a description of the dead man, along with prints. It’s not Corelli. It’s Vanessi all right.”

I nodded. “Then Tina is telling the truth.”

“Yes. Good luck tonight, Nick.”

Diego Pérez turned out to be exactly what Mitch Kelly had described — a smooth-looking escort type who wore flashy but right clothes and kept up a steady stream of inconsequential conversation to amuse the ladies, in this case, Juana Rivera.

“I am Diego Pérez,” he told me when I let him in.

“How do you do?” I said. “This is my wife Juana.”

“A lovely lady,” he said bowing. I sneaked a glance at Juana. She was trying to keep her face stiff, but I could see temper flaring inside. She suspected I might be laughing at her.

“Mr. Kelly has told me the object of our evening,” Diego said briefly, giving me a significant glance. “Where do we start?” I asked.

He named a place, and we called a cab and got in. Diego sat with Juana, beaming and making small talk in Spanish and then in English. I stared out the window.

In Malaga you would not really know where the stews began and the clubs ended. We started at a restaurant overlooking the Mediterranean just beside the harbor in a section of the town called La Malagueta. The sun sank over the surface of the Mediterranean, and we ate our sea food and drank our wine and cognac. The waiters lit the candles set up in colored glasses and night settled down.

“I have an idea, Diego,” I said.

“An idea?” Diego began to smile. He liked intrigue.

“I am a wealthy American tourist. You can tell by the way I throw my money around. I am out with my wife. But I am bored with my wife. I want not just a simple peasant girl to take to bed. I want two!”

Diego was ecstatic. “But how do you account for the presence of your wife, Señor?”

“She is with you, Diego.”

His face broke into a beaming smile. “Ah!”

“And when we find two girls who work in pairs, we find out whether or not they have been asked to perform within the last few days — especially last night.”

“I see!” Diego’s face was a study in fascination. “Then we go.”

“Right. Let’s see what develops.”

We began hitting the discothèques in Malaga. The European discothèque is essentially a dark place with a low ceiling, and very few windows. Small tables are placed around a platform in the middle. There are various types of decorations hanging from the ceilings — dried moss, belts, ropes, garters, g-strings, bras, whips, almost anything imaginable.

There is always music piped in loudly from a stereo tape set-up somewhere. The speakers blast noise in all directions, from hidden recesses. Strobe lights flash multicolored illumination in all directions. Color slides of nudes and couples in various positions of sexual intercourse are projected on the walls. The noise is fantastic.

Then all the strobe lights cut out, and a group of guitar players stroll onto the stage. A flamenco dancer — male or female — appears.

We hit half a dozen places before midnight, with negative results.

“Well?” I asked Diego after awhile.

“Nothing, Señor,” he said. “Plenty of women available — singles, doubles, even triples — but nobody has performed a triple recently.”

“So we try again.”

“We have run out of places.” Diego’s eyes squinted. “I think we should try Torremolinos.”

“Where is that?”

“A little way to the south. On the Costa del Sol.”

“More discothèques?”

“The best. Lively. Bestial. Depraved.”

I nodded. “Sounds good. Let’s go.”

At about one-thirty we went into a place halfway down the main street of Torremolinos. It was a gloomy place. Caged animals paced back and forth in cages hanging from the ceiling near the bar at the entryway.

Luminescent painted chairs and tables gleamed in the darkness. A male flamenco dancer sweated through the customary steps on a small stage in the center of the room. A slide of two lesbians in ecstasy was projected onto a wall. The amplified guitar music competed with a female singer’s wild lament in an apparent attempt to deafen all patrons.

We sank down, ordered sangría and watched.

Diego disappeared.

Juana and I looked at each other in exhaustion.

A hand gripped my shoulder. I jerked around, startled at the unexpected human contact.

“I have them,” said Diego in my ear.

I touched Juana’s hand, cautioned her to stay there, and followed Diego out through the darkness. At the side of the discothèque there was a small doorway. Diego guided me through it, and we walked down a dark corridor to a room at the end. A woman of indeterminate age sat at a table in a dirty, tom flamenco costume. A feeble electric light glowed in the wall over her head. She had black hair, black eyes, and black bags under them.

“Bianca,” said Diego. “This is the man.”

Bianca smiled a tired smile. “I like you,” she said.

I smiled. “Your companion?”

“She is not as good as me, but she will be there.”

“Her name?”

“Carla.” She shrugged.

“Bianca,” I said. “You’ve got to be good. I don’t want to waste my money.”

“You don’t waste your money with Bianca and Carla!” the woman snorted. “We are good. Very good.”

“I don’t want amateurs!” I said. “I want to know if you’ve worked together before.”

“Sure, we work together,” said Bianca, waving her hand at me reassuringly. “Don’t you worry about that. We split the money.”

“How much?”

“Seven thousand pesetas apiece.”

“That’s a lot! I’ve got to know if you’re good!”

“Listen, you ask anybody—”

Diego said, “Who, Bianca? You got references?”

“Sure, I got references! There’s that Frenchman lives in Marbella.”

I shook my head. “I don’t trust any Frenchman!”

She laughed. “That is good. Neither do I!”

Diego and I shrugged.

“Hey,” she said. “There was one we did just last night! Carla and I. A real bastard that one was! He wanted everything! All at once! Oh, I tell you—”

“Who was he?”

She frowned. “I don’t know. He don’t give us his name. He’s a dark fellow. You know. Looks Italian or something. Didn’t talk good Spanish.”

I glanced at Diego and he lowered the lid of one eye.

“Where does he live?” I asked.

“We went to a villa right here in Torremolinos.”

I fished in my wallet and brought out ten thousand pesetas. “You give me the address,” I said, “and you can keep the ten thousand.”

Her eyes widened and I could see sweat glistening on her forehead. Her lips were wet with saliva. She was torn between greed and caution. Now she suspected I might be more than just a customer with strange sex desires. But she was more interested in money than scruples.

She reached for the cash.

“The address?”

“I don’t know the address. I... I take you there.”

I pulled the money back and peeled off five thousand. “The rest when we get there, Bianca.”

Diego looked puzzled. “Señor. What about the... the other Señora? Your—?”

“You go back there, Diego, and take her home in half an hour.”

I figured if anyone was watching Diego, he would follow him and Juana back to the hotel.

I grabbed Bianca’s arm, and we went out the rear door of the discothèque.

It was very dark outside. Neon lights glared at the front of the building, but in the rear, it was almost pitch black.

Bianca said, “You wait here.”

She left and within half a minute a cab pulled up beside the building, and she waved me in.

I climbed in beside her, smelling the musty scent of her make-up, her sweat, and her clothing.

She talked to the cab driver, a sad-eyed viejo wearing a beret, and he started up, winding through the narrow side streets that led up toward the foothills in back of town. We emerged from the business section of Torremolinos and entered a suburban residential section.

After ten minutes, Bianca leaned forward and slammed the taxi driver on the shoulder.

“Aqui! Here.”

He stopped the cab.

“That one?” I asked Bianca, identifying the villa she was pointing to.

She nodded.

“The man — does he live there alone?” I asked.

“That is right. No one else there.”

I handed her the five thousand pesetas and stepped out of the cab, paid the driver off, and waved them both on their way.

The cab disappeared.

I checked my shoulder holster. The Luger was waiting.

The villa that Bianca had identified was a small stucco place surrounded by a well-landscaped yard. There was an open gate in front of the house.

I stepped through.

The house was dark.

I made my way around the side. It was obvious that the occupant of the house was either out or in bed asleep.

I peered through a window and saw the kitchen and dining room.

The second window looked in on the bedroom, and someone was asleep in one bed.

I glanced around to make sure no one was watching me. Then, making as little noise as I could, I moved around to the kitchen window and tried to pry it open.

To my surprise, it was unlatched and swung right out.

I crawled through.

The floor of the villa was tile and made no sound as I lowered myself onto it. I drew out my Luger and started for the door to the hallway at the rear of the kitchen.

The bedroom door was ajar. I moved quickly through it into the bedroom, and spotted the light switch near the door. I leveled my piece at the bed, and snapped the light on.

“Freeze,” I said, thinking he might have a weapon close at hand.

There was no movement. Nothing. I stared. The light flooding the room showed me what had happened and I felt sick. The man who had been in the bed was no longer there. A pillow and some bedclothes had been humped up to resemble the form of a sleeping person.

Feeling a moment of sheer panic, I reached for the light to flick it off.

The sound behind me came too quickly. Although I wheeled as fast as I could, swinging the Luger around to catch whoever it was, I never completed the movement. I went down into blackness the moment the hard metal object caught me in the skull.

The first thing I realized upon regaining consciousness was that I couldn’t breathe. And then I discovered that my head hurt, too. The third thing I felt was the constricted position in which my body has been twisted. I was in a very tight space, with barely enough room for my aching bones.

I was gasping for breath, trying to breathe in pure air through the fog of noxious fumes that surrounded me.

I opened my eyes and could see nothing at first. My eyes stung, blurred, and refocused. Suddenly I realized that I could not move my hands or feet.

Struggling to sit upright, I saw in the faint light that I was wedged in the front seat of a very small Volkswagen. The engine was going, but the car wasn’t moving.

I coughed and tried to clear my throat, but I could not.

Exhaust fumes! The thought flashed into my mind and I sat bolt upright, staring about me, noticing for the first time the hose thrust in through the almost-closed window.

Exhaust poured through the hose into the Volks. I knew enough about these cars to realize they are practically air- and water-tight inside. And with that carbon monoxide coming in, I didn’t have much time left.

My wrists and ankles were bound with tight ropes, tied together so that I resembled a bull-dogged steer. I reached over, trying to grab the key in the ignition to twist it off, but I couldn’t maneuver my ankles high enough in the confines of the car to get at the key.

I lay there panting in desperate frustration. I knew there was no way I could get any fresh air into my lungs.

Outside, I knew, The Mosquito waited, and in five or ten minutes he would come into the garage, open the car door, turn off the engine, and take me out for delivery somewhere. He had outsmarted me completely!

I could reach my ankles with my right hand, but I couldn’t get them high enough to touch the steel blade taped to the back of my ankle. I slid off the seat and smashed against the gearshift, almost bending it out of shape.

And then I touched the steel blade.

I blacked out momentarily, my entire body racked with agonized coughing. I didn’t have much time at all.

The blade came out, and I tried to saw through the ropes holding my ankles. After a minute the rope shredded. I couldn’t breathe anymore, and I held my breath. Blackness was beginning to come in on me from all sides. I could hardly move my fingers now.

The carbon monoxide continued to pour into the car.

Then, miraculously, my feet were free. I kicked them away from my wrists and jammed one foot on the gas pedal. The Volks jumped, but the brake held.

I twisted the gearshift to the side and down, into reverse, and jammed my foot on the gas pedal again.

The Volks shot backward into the closed garage door and crashed into it.

But the door did not break open, though I could hear the splintering of wood.

I drove the Volks forward.

My vision was fading again, and I couldn’t see much of anything. My lungs were convulsing from the poisonous air.

Again — back, smash.

The doors parted.

I could see night outside. Forward.

I slammed the Volks into reverse again and sailed through the wide-open doors into the driveway. I braked in the open and came to a stop. Fresh air poured in through the window.

On my right I saw a sudden stab of orange flame, preceding the sound of a gunshot

I hacked at my wrist ropes and freed my wrists. I tore open the door, and rolled down the window, coughing in fresh air. In a minute I had the wheel in my hands. I twisted the Volks, flicked the lights on, and aimed it at the point where the gunshot had originated.

Someone screamed. Another shot sounded. I drove across the driveway and onto lawn, headed for the shrubbery that grew by the garage. I saw the form of a man jump out of the bushes and run across the lawn. I kept the Volks aimed at him.

He turned once, his terrified face highlighted in the bright headlights of the car. He was a small, dark-haired, round-faced man, with thick eyebrows, long sideburns, and a very bluebearded jaw — The Mosquito.

He shot once again but missed, and I stepped hard on the gas. The Volks jumped forward.

Moscato zigzagged now, trying to find cover in the small yard. I jammed on the gas pedal and kept the Volks driving hard. I saw him jump up onto the brick wall and vault over it

I lifted my foot from the gas pedal and stepped down hard on the brakes. The Volks slewed sideways, dug up grass, and smashed against the brick wall, the lights immediately going out.

I got the wheel in my stomach, but I had not been going fast enough to really hurt myself.

I climbed from the car and jumped up onto the wall, looking into a tangle of vegetation and shrubbery in the adjoining yard.

There was no sight of anyone.

I walked back to the house and went inside. In the bedroom I could see where I had stood and where The Mosquito had hidden before he hit me. I found my Luger on the floor, right where I had dropped it.

I picked it up and started to leave the bedroom, planning to set a trap for Moscato. He would have to come back sooner or later.

Suddenly I realized I wasn’t alone in the house.

A man stood in the hallway, smiling at me.

The first thing I saw was the Webley Mark VI, a very lethal weapon. Almost immediately I focused on the man holding the gun.

He was a big, imposing man in a belted raincoat. He gripped the Webley almost casually, as if it were nothing more important than a calling card, aiming it straight at my stomach.

Six

He had a long, almost lean face, with dark eyes and wavy hair that fell in a careless lock over his forehead. And at the same time, although his features were immobilized in an expressionless mask of impartiality, his lips were slanted in a flat smile.

“He has flown,” he said sadly in very British English. “Now that was most stupid of you to let him escape.”

I waved at his gun, carefully not aiming mine at him. “Will you kindly remove that muzzle from my stomach?”

“What? Oh!” He smiled. The Webley slid into a side pocket of the belted raincoat and vanished. “You’re an American, aren’t you?” He seemed saddened by the idea.

“Yes. And there’s no sense blaming me for the escape. If you hadn’t come barging down that hallway like the Q E II I’d have had him dead to rights!”

He shrugged. “Oh well, that’s the way it sometimes goes, isn’t it?” He smiled broadly. “What do you think? Shall we go after him? Any chance?”

“He’s miles away by now,” I said. “I’m afraid we may as well forget him.”

He was studying me closely. “I don’t recognize you, old chap. CIA? Military Intelligence?”

I said calmly, “I’m an American tourist What are you talking about?”

He laughed. His adam’s apple bobbed up and down as his head went back. He was a big, handsome man in a typically tweedy British way. “You don’t have the foggiest notion, do you?”

He sighed. “Damn it all. I’m Parson. Barry Parson. British subject. On holiday in Spain. And you?”

“George Peabody. Likewise, I am sure.”

He chuckled irritatingly. “Bullshit.”

“Indeed, yes,” I responded, also chuckling. “It’s dark in here. Do you want to stake him out?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Stake him out. You know. Wait here for him.”

“Oh. Maintain surveillance? Affirmative. I agree with you completely, old chap.”

“Call me George.”

He snorted. “George, then.”

I shrugged. “We’ll wait.” I walked over to the bed and sat on the edge of it.

He strolled past me and sank onto the pillow, his back propped against the headboard. I could hear him fumbling in his pocket. He pulled out a pack of Spanish cigarettes, put one in his mouth, and lighted it quickly with a long wax match. “Oh. Sorry. Smoke?”

I shook my head. “Gave it up.”

“How did you ever get onto him?” He asked suddenly.

“Who?” I grimaced because I knew how foolish it all sounded. But there was always security.

“The Mosquito,” said Parson, as if I were totally incompetent.

“Oh. Well.” I was trying to see my way clear to the proper cover story. “There is this woman in Malaga,” I said. “She is properly married to a businessman of my acquaintance. However, when her husband began playing around in Switzerland with his mistress, the woman decided to have a fling with the man you call The Mosquito. Now he is blackmailing her, threatening to tell about their affair to the husband. I am acting on behalf of the Señora to force The Mosquito to cease and desist his blackmail scheme.”

Cigarette smoke rose into the air. It was dark, but I could see that Parson was grinning there, bemusedly. He chuckled again, very softly, very contemptuously.

“You have a knack for the cliché,” he said conversationally. “George? George, is it necessary?”

“You asked for the true story. That is the true story.” I turned to him. “And you?”

“Ah. Me.” He took a deep breath. “Well, The Mosquito is known to me in many capacities, but not as a great lover.”

“Well,” I began diffidently.

“Mainly he is known to me as a pistola prezzolata. That’s fractured Latin for ‛hit man.’ His real name is Alfreddo Moscato, hence The Mosquito. He has been sent in from Rome to do a job here in Spain, but I do not know what job. The Mosquito is of Neapolitan origin.”

“But why are you hunting for him?”

“It was primarily a nonmilitary matter at first, but it has become a paramilitary matter. The Mosquito ran across one of our people in Rome six months ago and killed him.”

“One of your people?”

“Military Intelligence,” said Parson stiffly. “We have been concerned over the drug traffic along the Mediterranean. The armed forces are full of it. We’re been trying to break it up since the end of the Second World War. And we were onto the real pipe line, when Justin was killed by Moscato.” Parson paused thoughtfully.

I nodded. “I see. Sorry.”

“I was in Spain last week when we had word that The Mosquito was here. I tried to search him out, but failed. Then, just this evening, I was running out a lead and found you talking with a prostitute I was supposed to interrogate. I simply questioned her after she returned to the discothèque and came here on the double.

“Military Intelligence?” I mused. “MI-6?”

“Five, actually.” He smiled. “That’s very perceptive of you to think MI-6. Six is espionage, of course. And five is counterespionage. Right? Now I won’t bother you about your particular identification tag, because I know you Yanks are terribly sensitive about security and all that. It shouldn’t make our relationship complicated, however. I propose we work in tandem and try to get our man Moscato.”

“What are your orders re Moscato?” I asked.

“I beg your pardon? Oh. Actually, The Mosquito is a most bothersome player. I have been told to total him.”

“Total him?”

“Yes. Eliminate him.”

“Who do you think is behind him?” I asked.

“The Mafiosi, undoubtedly. He has done jobs for the Fathers many times before.”

“I’m sorry about Justin.”

“Justin?” He presented a blank face to me.

“The man who was killed. Your—”

“Oh. Justin Delaney. Yes. Poor Justin.” Parson sighed. “Oh well, he knew what he was getting into when he joined up, didn’t he?”

I stared at him in the darkness. That was just like the British, I thought. Stiff upper lip and all that.

“What do you get from your patron?” he asked me sardonically.

“Patron?”

“The errant wife?” He paused. “Have you taken The Mosquito’s place in her, uh, affections?”

Oh. My cover story. “It is strictly a matter of chivalry,” I said with a smile.

“You Yanks do have an excessive streak of old-fashioned gallantry in you. Good chap!”

We lapsed into silence.

An hour later we decided Moscato would not return.

Two hours later we were having drinks in my hotel room. It was “Barry” and “George” then. I was still suspicious, but decided that he might lead to information.

Juana stood in the open doorway in her robe, hair hanging down around her shoulders, eyes full of sleep, and a frown on her lovely face.

“What vision of pulchritude is this?” Parson cried out, waving a glass of cognac about.

“It’s Juana,” I said. “Greetings, Juana.”

“Is this the Señora you mentioned to me?” Parson asked with elaborate gestures. He was almost as drunk as I was.

“No, indeed,” I said. “This is — is my wife!”

Parson turned to me to stare. Then he looked round to gape at Juana.

“I say, now! You have excellent taste, old man! Excellent taste!”

I stood up and bowed. “Thank you, Barry. Oh, Juana. Come in, please. I am sorry to be so late. I ran into an old buddy of mine.”

Parson leered. “Yes indeed, my dear. Barry Parson is the name.”

“This is Juana Peabody,” I said.

Juana was awake now. She came into the room glowering at me. “What happened?”

“I’ll fill you in later, wife,” I said, reminding her of her status in front of Parson. “Suffice to say, I ran into my old pal Barry Parson from Six.”

“Five,” said Parson.

“Five and one is six, like I said.” I smiled. “Join us, Juana?”

“It’s late, and I’m tired.”

“You don’t look tired,” Parson said, walking over to her and looking down at her closely. “You look very wide awake.” He reached down and tipped her chin up and gave her a quick kiss on the lips. “You see?”

I closed my eyes, waiting for the explosion. It never came. When I opened my eyes again I saw her smiling up at Parson, smoking a cigarette that had magically gotten into her mouth. Spanish smoke rose from the glowing tip of it.

I sank back on the couch, stunned. What had happened to Liberated Juana?

Juana was looking up into Parson’s eyes now, her body loose and curved toward him. “You’re British, aren’t you?”

“The Shaggy Old Lion in Parson!” he said with a laugh. He put his arm around her. “You Yank types provide a superbreed of female.”

She did not shake him off. “Five?” Juana repeated. “What does five mean?”

“Military Intelligence,” I said. “Counterespionage, eh, Barry?”

Parson nodded. “Precisely, old man. I say, don’t you two want to come over to my digs for a little drink?”

Juana smiled brightly. “Love to.”

I looked up weakly. “Okay.”

“You can come too, George.”

“I say,” I said as heartily as I could. I was beginning to sound like David Niven.

I had to hand it to Juana. She played him as skillfully as he played her.

There was a light burning in the front room of Barry Parson’s villa. It was a nicely furnished place, decorated in the usual Spanish seacoast style — throw rugs, tapestries, thick wooden chairs, couches, and tables.

I was still playing it drunk as we entered the room. Because it was the closest thing, I made for the couch and sank into the end of it, throwing my head back and yawning prodigiously.

Juana looked at me, and then turned to smile at Parson. He glanced my way, grinned, and took Juana into his arms. They kissed long and deep. I watched them through the slits of my eyes and thought again what a consummate artist Juana Rivera was.

“Que bruto! En nuestra casa! Mil rayos te parten.”

I lifted my head. A woman stood in the doorway, arms folded across her chest, staring at Parson and Juana. She was a lovely young woman, with brown hair, dark hazel eyes, and a creamy complexion.

Parson held Juana from him, and turned to the woman in the doorway. “Elena,” he said. “This is George, and this is Juana.”

“Humph!” snorted Elena.

Juana glanced at Parson, and then back at the woman. “Who are you?” she asked quietly.

“It’s my—” Parson turned to me and seemed to wink “—wife.”

I nodded. “How do you do, Elena?”

“Elena Morales,” she said, and smiled. She turned to Parson, lifted her chin, looked down her nose at him, and came across to plump herself down next to me on the couch.

Juana’s face clouded for an instant, but then cleared magically as Parson squeezed her and took her out of the room by way of the door through which Elena had entered. A moment later I heard him rattling glasses and bottles. More drinks!

Elena’s robe had fallen away from her shoulders. She was wearing a thin nightgown under the robe, and I could see the contour of her breast clearly. She had a full build, and was exquisitely shaped from her head to her ankles.

“You really married to Parson?” I asked.

She grinned impishly. “Why you want to know?”

“Because I’m curious.”

“I will keep you curious.”

“You won’t say?”

“I don’t think it matters much.” She reached up and tweaked my nose. “I suspect you know that.”

I reached out and gripped her shoulders.

“Hey, that wife of yours,” she said. “She’s pretty, I think Barry likes her.”

“You come on strong, lady,” I said as she leaned against me, the robe opening conveniently.

“I don’t understand what you say,” she laughed.

“There is always too much talk, anyway,” she observed judiciously. “Don’t you think so, George?” She pronounced it “Hor-hay.”

“Yeah.”

We came together like some kind of thunderclap, and I remembered hearing the bottles and the glasses clanking in the next room. But that was about all. Whatever Parson was mixing in there never got into any glasses for Elena and me. I did not see Parson and Juana after that.

Elena made no comment about the lack of liquor, either. She was too busy showing me how much I had missed all my life without her.

She got a big kick out of my shoulder holster and my .38 Luger. She tried to unstrap it and everything got all mixed up. It was the last thing I had on, and more than she had on. Somehow she got the holster off me and threw it on the tile floor.

I felt — defenseless — without it. I almost said “naked.”

She reached out for the lamp switch and killed the light.

I noticed the rattle of bottles had ceased in the next room.

Seven

To get to the Sol y Nieve ski resort, you take a winding road out of Malaga and up the southern slopes of the Sierra Nevada. The Hotel Sierra Nevada, where we were registered, lay at the bottom of the Prado Llano, and the suit Juana and I shared looked out onto the ski run.

The white slope of the Borreguilas divides the ski run about midway between the Picacho de Veleta and the Prado Llano. The lower cable-car from the Prado Llano ends and the upper cable-car begins at the Borreguilas. The engine room is nearby.

Two parallel barrancas contain the lower ski runs from the Borreguilas to the Prado Llano. They are separated by a knife-edge ridge of granite and mica, where only small patches of snow are visible even after the heaviest snowfall.

The cable car running from the Prado Llano to the Borreguilas is suspended over the main barranca where the easy runs are located. The more difficult runs are to the east in the neighboring gulley.

I sat out on the balcony that ran all the way around the hotel, watching the skiers, but I soon decided I would rather ski than watch. But just to enforce my cover, I took half a dozen pictures with the Rolleiflex I had brought along — gratuitously supplied by AXE’s Prop Section — making sure the patrons below saw me.

It had been a tiring drive, and soon I went inside, kicked off my shoes and lay back on the bed with a weary sigh. But I couldn’t sleep. My mind was racing over the events of the past couple of days.

It was now two days after the killing of Rico Corelli’s gemini — his stand-in — by The Mosquito. Absolutely nothing had happened in the two days following my meeting with Barry Parson and Elena Morales. But I had kept in touch with Mitch Kelly, and several communications had come in from Hawk:

ITEM: Under no circumstances try to communicate directly with Rico Corelli. AXE’s agreement with him stands firm. No trace of double-dealing from his end. Wait until you hear from him by way of Tina Bergson.

ITEM: Our information shows that Moscato is not now in Malaga or Torremolinos. Do not — repeat, do not — try to follow him. Keep a watchful eye out for him.

ITEM: The meeting at Sol y Nieve is still in the go stage.

ITEM: Information requested on Barry Parson is nonexistent. MI-5 will not divulge whether or not there is such a person. Obviously the name is a pseudonym; MI-6 will probably not divulge his identity until his current mission is over. Sorry but there is neither confirmation nor denial on him or on his role in this scheme.

ITEM: Moscato is a hired killer who has been employed by the Mafia for years. He also makes free-lance hits.

ITEM: Elena Morales — not much can be found out about her. She has no record of prior involvement in espionage, counterespionage, or undercover work of any kind for the Spanish Government. However, she might not be Spanish at all, but French or Italian. No leads.

ITEM: Confirmation on Moscato’s presence in Mexico at the time the sniper attacked you in Ensenada. Also, there is a record of his having made a flight to Europe at the same time you did, although not via Iberia.

That was it from Hawk.

On the second morning after the killing of Rico Corelli’s stand-in I had gotten the phone call during breakfast with Juana.

“Kelly,” said the voice. “Tina has heard from Roman Nose. You’re to go to Sol y Nieve today.”

“Right.”

“Don’t look for him. Wait till the first night. At midnight, go to the cable-car engine room and meet his contact there. The contact’s name is Arturo. He will set up a meeting between you and Roman Nose, at which time you are to arrange for Juana to meet with him. But you must go alone to the first two meetings.”

“Got it.”

“That’s it, then,” said Kelly. “Good luck.”

“Hold on. How’s Tina?”

“Coining along.”

“When will she be going to the resort?”

“No telling. Hernández hasn’t released her yet, nor has he said when he would.”

“Anything on Parson?”

“Negative.”

“Elena Morales?”

“Likewise.”

“You guys sure work hard for a living, don’t you?”

“Aw, Nick!”

About four in the afternoon I rolled off the bed and got into my ski pants, shirt, and sweater. I could see red-Skiers were still on the slopes. I could see red-jacketed men, green-jacketed girls, jacketed figures of both sexes, coming down the lanes of the lowest level. Past the engine house for the lowest slope of cable cars I could see the second slope rising past the Borreguilas in the big sweep all the way to the top of the highest run — on the Veleta.

The cable cars were still operating, going up and down simultaneously, passing each other, going up full, coming down empty. I glanced up at the engine house speculatively.

Rico Corelli. If only I knew what he really looked like. The hotel was small — I could take up my station in the lobby and meet him without all this ridiculous cloak and dagger stuff so dearly loved by Hawk and his minions.

Still. One man had already been killed. Rico Corelli was a big man on a dangerous mission. Security was important.

I knocked on the door to Juana’s half of the suite.

“Yes?”

“Let’s go down, Juana.”

We went out together like husband and wife — an old married couple in whom the fires of sex and love had long ago died. The bachelor husband and the virgin wife.

The air was cold but bracing. The snow appeared perfect for skiing, just a light layer of powder in the right places. No storm was predicted. Yet I could sense that there might be some snow that night

We sat at one of the last tables in the Prado and drank some hot chocolate with cognac. A party of four people came down from the slopes and parked their skis and poles against the wall of the snack bar and looked for a table and chairs.

They were speaking German. I know some German, so I offered them half of our table. They took one look at Juana and hastily accepted. The party consisted of four men. One was in his forties and obviously the leader of the group; the other three were probably in their late thirties. The leader spoke German but was actually Swiss. The other three were mixed — one Dane and two Germans.

They could not take their eyes off Juana, even after the muchacho brought them four steaming mugs of chocolate.

“Herr Bruno Hauptli,” said the big man, reaching out to shake my hand.

“George Peabody. From the States.”

“Ah, yes! Of course. I did recognize something of an American accent in your German.”

“I apologize,” I grinned. “This is Juana, my wife.”

“Such a lucky man!” exclaimed Bruno Hauptli, turning to his companions and explaining in German that she was married to me.

“Ya, ya,” said the two Germans as they stared at Juana. The Dane drooled into his chocolate.

“You people ski tomorrow?” Herr Hauptli asked.

Juana nodded. “We intend to.”

“Ah! I am not on the slopes tomorrow, but perhaps the next day — or the next!” Herr Hauptli slapped his thigh excitedly. “Why do we not make a duet of it — I mean, a trio,” he said, remembering me.

Juana sparkled. “I’d love it!”

“Herr Peabody?”

“Oh, love it, love it!”

Everybody laughed because it was obvious that I would not love it.

The talk churned on. Hauptli suddenly had Juana by the arm, was leading her off from the table and leaning down with her over his skis and poles. They were deep in some technical discussion about the lock device he had on his skis. Juana was bubbling and effervescent.

“Herr Hauptli,” I said in German to one of the younger men. “He is a businessman, ya?”

The German next to me was classically blue-eyed and blond-haired. “Ya! Herr Hauptli is one of the most successful businessmen in the Common Market,” he said. “He has a great deal of responsibility.”

“He is on vacation?” I asked.

“A big meeting is to be held in Paris in a week. For now, Herr Hauptli is relaxing, enjoying the sunlight, and the snow and the—”

A pause.

The Germans both laughed and the not-entirely-melancholy Dane slapped the table with his open palm.

“The girls!”

Much laughter.

It reminded me of one of those old comic operas I used to see on the late late show — old nineteen thirties’ movies. Something struck me as not just quite right about it. But I couldn’t put my finger on it.

The restaurant was set up like a typical ski resort refectory, with one long table all the way down the middle of the room, trestle-fashion, and smaller tables along the walls of the room.

Our party — Juana and I had joined Herr Hauptli and his friends — was right in the center of the entire gathering. Herr Hauptli kept up a running line of Teutonic chatter that was ear-shattering and mind-blowing all at the same time. Even those who could not understand German or English seemed totally hypnotized by his charisma.

I took my time during the long meal and scrutinized the rest of the patrons of the hotel.

I was looking for Roman Nose, trying to spot the real Rico Corelli in the sea of faces about me. There seemed to be no possibilities.

I It was eleven-thirty before I was even aware of the time. The brandy came and I sat sipping it. When Herr Hauptli paused for breath I turned to Juana and said: “I’m going out for a breath of fresh air before bed. Are you coming, dear?”

She smiled at me calmly. “No, darling. Sorry. It’s much too cold. Don’t be late.”

I smiled and finished my brandy.

“Herr Hauptli, it’s been a real pleasure. See you tomorrow, or whenever — right?”

“Ya,” said Herr Hauptli, his face red with the wine and brandy and the stimulation of eating. “Auf weidersehen.”

I pushed back my chair, bowed to the two Germans and the Dane and made my way through the crowded restaurant.

It was extremely cold outside. The air was nippy. I poked my head out, and then went back upstairs to our suite and got myself some ear muffs and a stocking cap. I also put on my windbreaker after checking the loads in my shoulder holster and making sure the knife was strapped to my ankle.

I made it to the top of the winding trail without incident. Away from the protection of the buildings I felt colder than I had felt since I had come to the Sierra Nevadas. The wind cut through my clothes until I felt half naked.

There were no lights on in the engine house. Nor was there a sound on the mountainside. I looked back over my shoulder. The yellow beams of light from the hotel rooms and from the windows overlooking the Prado made golden patterns in the white snow.

The building where the chair lift machinery was sited was surrounded by banks of snow. I could see the main entrance facing out into the valley. The door to the engine room was closed, but it was unlocked. I turned the knob and pushed it open. Inside the building it was very dark, although the reflection of the stars on the snow brought in some light. It was surprising how bright the sky was even in the dead of night.

I could see past the wheel to the turnaround where the cable cars swung around in a semi-circle, reversing direction. A cable car stood in the middle of the semi-circle, holding there until the machinery started up in the morning.

I was just about to go forward when I saw someone moving past the cable car. Whoever it was had either been inside the building when I entered, or had come in from some other entrance. I thought he must have been there waiting for me. Then he, of course, would be my contact man.

Arturo.

I gripped my piece, drew it out, and tensed to move forward, opening my mouth to whisper “Arturo.”

I never got the word out

Someone else did!

“Arturo!”

The sound seemed to come from behind the cable car. I lifted the piece and aimed it at the silhouette there. If he was calling for Arturo, he was not Arturo. And since I was supposed to be calling for Arturo, I knew that the man there would be someone else also trying to find Arturo before I did, someone not on my side.

“Sí?” a voice asked in the other half of the big engine room.

Instantly there was a loud, echoing gunshot — a report that bounced back and forth in that small room like the pounding of a hundred drums. A blaze of orange flame appeared and disappeared instantly. I heard a scream to my left.

Immediately I crouched and let go a shot at the figure behind the cable car.

Someone cursed in Spanish. There was the sound of a body falling off to my left, and a groan. I fired once again, trying to see the man behind the cable car. I could not make out any part of him.

The door reopened then, and I knew the figure had made his escape. I fired once again in the direction of the door sound, and then ran through the darkness toward the spot.

No one was there.

There was a door — a second entrance to the engine house. I opened it and looked out. There was no sign of anyone. I moved quickly outside and looked up and down the snowy slope. No one.

Back inside the building I could hear someone gasping and wheezing. I found the boy and knelt down over him on the concrete floor. I could not see him at all.

“Arturo?” I asked.

“Sí.” He shuddered.

“Where do I meet the man I came to see?”

“Top of Veleta — Picacho de Veleta. Twelve o’clock. Tomorrow night.”

“Okay,” I whispered. I leaned down. I could hear his labored, ragged breathing. Then, before I had a chance to say anything more, I heard that familiar bubbling rasp that is so much like a rattle, but is not really a rattle at all.

Something else.

Life leaving the body.

Arturo was dead.

Quickly I rose and left the engine house, skirting around the outcrops with my piece drawn and ready until I had made the Prado Llano and run to the hotel.

I looked back only once, and I could see a light on in the engine house now, and shadowy figures milling about inside.

The shots had been loud enough to alert the entire constabulary of Sol y Nieve. The Guardia Civil was there.

Shaken, I climbed the stairs and passed through the lobby, turning left to the bar, trying to get my breath back with a stiff jolt of cognac.

That helped.

Some.

But not much.

Eight

The muted excitement which had increased to a peak of intensity just after the shooting of Arturo and the subsequent investigation of the killing had died down completely within a half hour. The Guardia Civil stationed at the ski resort had taken care of the corpse and had begun the long tedious process of questioning patrons and attendants at the resort.

I did not envy the police their job. It was backbreaking, unrewarding, and particularly uncomfortable work in these altitudes at this time of the year. They were good men.

I was lucky. Nothing led them to me.

The cognac had succeeded in calming me somewhat. I kept my eyes on the lobby of the hotel, watching everyone who came in and went out. I was looking for anyone who resembled the man I had found in the bed of the villa in Torremolinos, the man I had come to believe was The Mosquito.

Finally I got up and went into the lobby and peered out at the Prado Llano. No one at all seemed to be abroad now.

I crossed the lobby and took the stairs to the second floor where our suite was. As I inserted the key in my door I heard laughter in the room adjoining mine. Juana’s laughter.

Smiling, I pushed open my door and snapped on the light. So she had brought Herr Hauptli up to her room. At least he seemed entertaining, even in his boorish Teutonic way. There was one consolation — few hidden wrinkles existed in a man as extroverted as that.

I crossed to the door and put my ear to it.

Giggling. Juana’s amusement fizzed out of her like the bubbles out of a champagne glass. Herr Hauptli must be better in bed than in the drawing room, I thought idly. I didn’t trust the man.

“Please,” Juana said. “And put ice in it, would you please, Barry?”

Barry!

I drew away from the door, frowning.

Barry Parson?

I could hear his voice then, muted, but quite clearly recognizable — British accent, submerged hilarity, and subdued effervescence unmistakable.

“Right, Sweetheart. One glass of scotch, coming up!”

We had last seen Parson in Malaga. He and Elena had joined Juana and me for a lazy shopping and dining spree the day after the killing of Rico Corelli’s double. We had gone to dinner with them the night before leaving for Sol y Nieve. But we had not told either of them where we were coming — because we had not known until early the next morning. How had Parson found out where we were? And why had he followed us? Had he discovered that The Mosquito was after us, too? Quite possibly. The Mosquito was here — I suspected that he had killed Arturo. At least, that was the most obvious possibility.

But why was Parson not out there to stop The Mosquito, if he had followed him? And why...?

Thought of The Mosquito halted me. I did a quick mental reconsideration, and shuffled the cards into a completely new deal. I saw then that it was possible that Barry Parson might not be the innocent British MI-5 officer he claimed to be.

Thus:

I had been led to the villa where The Mosquito was hiding in Torremolinos by a prostitute who had helped service him the night before.

I had found a man in the bedroom, had tried to take him, but had been interrupted. The man had fled. Another man calling himself Barry Parson had entered the bedroom, claiming to be a secret British agent after The Mosquito.

Suppose Parson was not an agent at all. Suppose the man in the bed was simply a John Doe. Suppose The Mosquito had put the John Doe there, and had then interrupted me to let the false Mosquito vanish. And then suppose he had succeeded in conning me into believing that The Mosquito had vanished.

Then he was The Mosquito! Barry Parson!

And he had simply followed me to Sol y Nieve, had followed me to the engine house, had killed Arturo, probably assuming Arturo was me, and had run off. Now he was in bed with Juana, hoping to be led to the real Rico Corelli!

I broke into a cold sweat.

Hastily I moved to the phone. There was one in each room of the suite. I picked it up and the desk answered immediately — not too many calls in the dead of night.

“Mrs. Peabody, please.”

After a moment I heard the phone ring in the next room.

“Hello?” It was Juana.

“Don’t say a word. This is Nick. I hear Parson in there. Pretend this is a wrong number.”

“I’m sorry. I believe you’ve got—”

“Keep him there. I’m meeting Corelli tomorrow night, midnight. The Veleta. The contact is dead. Keep Parson there all night if you can. He may be the man who killed Corelli’s double.”

“You’re bothering me, please, and I don’t have to put up with this.”

“Don’t tell him anything. Keep him on the string. If you understand all this and can comply, say ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but I can’t help you.’ Then hang up.”

“I don’t mean to be rude, but I can’t help you.”

I hung up. I could hear Parson’s voice calling from the other end of the room.

“Who was that, Juana?”

“Wrong number. Some drunken Englishman.”

Parson laughed. “Sure he wasn’t an American?”

“He had an accent just like you,” Juana retorted.

Good girl! She was as cool as powdered snow.

I checked my stiletto blade, my Luger, and changed into my turtleneck sweater, and jacket. I was going into the bar again. I wanted to think. And I did not want to be in that room the rest of the night. Perhaps I could pay the bar boy to let me sack out in the lounge next to the bar.

I turned off the light and walked out quietly.

The bar was exactly the same as I had left it. I glanced around. It was not likely that everyone was in bed already.

I tried the desk. “Where is everyone?”

“The discothèque,” said the clerk, surprised. “In the basement.”

“I don’t hear any noise.”

“It is soundproof, Señor.”

I shrugged and went down the stairs that I had thought led to the lower level of the hotel where the supply rooms were located.

Three doors led off the landing below, and one said: DISCOTHÈQUE.

I crossed to the bar on my right and ordered a drink. The barkeep, dressed like a flamenco dancer and sprouting long sideburns sleeked down against his skull, made the drink quickly.

Now I let my eyes roam carefully over the patrons of the discothèque. I had overlooked this one place: it might possibly be the spot where The Mosquito had hidden after the killing, if indeed The Mosquito was not Barry Parson.

But I did not see the man I had first seen in the bedroom of the villa at Torremolinos.

I was about to sit down when I did see someone I knew.

She was seated in a far corner, all alone, under an overhanging piece of structure that simulated a large flat rock. The light hit her full in the face in one of those illuminated moments, and she blinked and turned away.

She was obviously Elena Morales.

What was her role in this charade? Did she know why Barry Parson had come to Sol y Nieve? Was she part of it? Or was she simply an innocent bystander, part of the window-dressing set up by Parson to keep his own part shielded?

Or was I wrong about Parson?

I strolled over, looming suddenly out of the gloom over her and smiling broadly.

“Hello, Elena.”

“George! What a pleasant surprise!”

“When did you get here?”

“Oh, Barry and I got here at about eleven. We both took showers, changed our clothes, and went right down to the dining room, but of course it was past time for eating. And we saw your wife. She said you had gone on out.” Her eyes sparkling. “On business.”

“But here you are — alone!”

“Well, we came down here, the three of us. There was another fascinating man here. A German. Barry had to go upstairs to straighten out something about the baggage. He came back about a half hour later. The German man had to leave. Then we danced and—”

“How long did the German stay?”

Elena smiled. “Is this what you call a cross-examination, George?”

I laughed. “Of course not. What happened after Barry came back from the baggage?”

“The German man left, as I said, and then about twelve-thirty Barry said he would take Juana to her room. Juana was tired. He told me to wait here.” She frowned, glowering. “I am still here.”

I ordered drinks.

“What happens if Barry doesn’t call you?” I asked, remembering what I had instructed Juana.

She chuckled. “I go to bed by myself.”

“Maybe not.”

Her eyes focused on my face. “You are telling me something?”

“Perhaps.”

“Okay,” she said, turning to me and putting her hand on my thigh. “I tell you what. Why don’t you get a bottle and come up to my room? We’ll wait for Barry to return up there.”

I got a bottle of cognac and we went up the stairs together. Elena was weaving a little, but she was very capable of holding liquor.

Their room was on the third floor. Elena took her key from her bag and gave it to me. I opened the door and let her in. She turned on the light and I closed the door behind us.

She got out some paper cups and I opened the bottle, poured some cognac and started drinking as I sat on the edge of the bed.

“Your wife is very pretty,” said Elena.

I nodded.

“Do you have marital problems?”

“No more than anyone else.”

“But it seems your wife likes other men.”

“Like Barry?”

“Yes.”

“Barry is your husband?” I asked.

She shook her head. “We pretend.” She smiled.

“How long have you known him?”

“Oh. A month maybe.”

“Where did you meet him?”

She raised an eyebrow. “In Malaga.”

“What does Barry do for a living?”

She laughed. “He makes love.”

“No. I mean, what is his business?”

“I do not pry into a man’s affairs.”

I nodded. Of course. She would not. She was a Spaniard. A Spanish woman does not pry into her husband’s “other” life — ever.

“And you,” she said with a smile. “What do you do?”

“I’m a photographer,” I said, trying to remember what my cover was after an instant’s total amnesia. “I sell pictures.”

“Ah.” Elena looked at me carefully. “You know, I have never seen you with a camera.”

“We are on vacation,” I said lamely.

“Well, it is true of the British too,” she murmured softly.

“Barry never works either?”

She shook her head. “He says he is a representative of a company in Britain. A sales representative.”

That was a new one. It was obviously Parson’s cover story. I decided to find out some more about him.

“What does he sell?”

“I don’t really know. I do not ask.”

“Does he ever correspond with Britain?”

“I do not think so. I never see him writing a letter. But he makes a lot of telephone calls.”

“Ah.”

“He has a secretary, I think. He is always talking to her.”

“I see.” I frowned. “Where is she?”

“I do not know. He gets on the phone and I do not know where he is calling to because I am not in the room when he starts. Or when she calls to him, I have to give him the phone, and he waits for me to leave the room.”

I nodded. “You Spanish women are wonderful,” I said. “An American woman would listen at the door. Or put a wire tap on him.”

“But it takes a special discipline not to eavesdrop.”

She nodded. Then she smiled. “Too much for me.”

“You do listen?”

“I do.”

I grinned. “Good girl.”

“He’s never talking about business, though. He is always talking about people. People I don’t understand about. He calls them, ‘that one,’ or ‘himself,’ or ‘the man,’ or ‘the woman.’ ”

That sounded like good chatter for an agent.

“Have you ever talked to his secretary?”

“Yes. I put on the accent a little for her, to make her think I am stupid.” She grinned at me with a sudden pixy-like flash of humor.

I squeezed her thigh. “You’re not stupid at all, Elena.”

“But she believes I am stupid.”

“Who?”

“Chris. The woman to whom Barry talks.”

“Do you know her other name?”

Elena shook her head.

“Has he talked to her as long as you’ve known him?” I asked, really not understanding where we were going, but simply continuing on the normal road of information-gathering.

“Oh yes. He has always been in touch with her. He used to make long distance calls to straighten out some of his business affairs.”

“In England?”

“Oh no, not always. Sometimes France.”

“Are you sure it was France?”

She frowned. “I think so. I do not always listen so closely, George. I do not always have the proper chance. Why are you so interested?”

“I like Barry.” I smiled. “I just wondered what kind of business he was in.”

“I like Barry, too.”

“You know the night Barry and I came home to the villa with Juana?”

“Yes.”

“Where was he that day?”

“He was home all day. I think.”

Then he had not shot Corelli — The Mosquito or some unknown party had. Barry was not the Mosquito — no chance of it.

“And did he talk to Chris that day?”

“Chris?”

“The girl. The secretary.”

“Oh. No. I don’t think so. He stayed around the villa. We went to the beach.”

“The beach? In the winter?”

“We sat on the sand in the sun.” She giggled. “It was fun.”

“How about the day after that? Any calls to England?”

“No. Nothing that day.”

“Later?”

“Well, I think she calls this morning. You know, early today.”

“The girl Chris?”

“Sí. She is a nice girl. Very efficient. I have a picture of her in my mind. You know? Sitting at the desk in that office. Very official.”

I nodded.

“I see her on the phone. I see her talking to Barry. She is thinking about me and she is not liking me.” Elena showed her teeth.

“She knows about you and Barry?”

“Oh, sure. Christine and I—”

I reached out and gripped her arm. I almost spilled her drink. “What is?” She lapsed into an accent.

“Christine? You said — Chris.”

“Is the same name. Something is wrong?”

Something was not wrong. Something was very right. Now it all fell into place. Chris was Christine. Christine was Christina. Christina cut off at the middle with the front missing was Tina.

Elena sighed. “You are going away?”

I shook my head. “What ever gave you that idea?”

“Your mind has gone somewhere else already.”

I reached out and took her in my arms. “Not any more. Look. The cognac is all gone. You got any ideas?”

“I think about it,” said Elena, extricating herself from my arms. “I put on something more comfortable.”

She got up and went into the bathroom.

When she came out she was much more comfortable in almost nothing.

And I was completely comfortable.

Nine

I was halfway through my breakfast in the morning when Juana came into the hotel dining room and walked over to me. She was freshly showered and smiling.

“Good morning, Mrs. Peabody,” I said with a half rise and mock bow at the waist.

“Good morning, Mr. Peabody,” she said stiffly.

She sat down.

“You look cross,” I observed, buttering a hard croissant. “Rocks in your bed?”

She looked around to make sure no one was eavesdropping. Only six other patrons were in the dining room at the moment.

“I kept him there all night, just for you!” she stormed at me under her breath.

“Thank you,” I said. “I’m sure you enjoyed it.”

She blushed furiously. “Now what’s this all about?”

“I told you. I’m not sure even yet that Barry Parson is all he claims to be.”

She glanced around. The waiter hovered over us. With a smile she ordered and the waiter hurried off. She turned back to me. “Neither am I,” she confided.

I glanced up. “Oh?”

“You said he might be the man who killed Corelli’s double.”

“I take it back. He can’t have done it. He has an alibi.”

“But he seems to know a lot about the Mafia.”

I shrugged. “He claims he’s an agent. And that British Military Intelligence is working to try to dismantle the Mafia drug chain.”

“I know all that. But he doesn’t seem to ring true.”

“Interesting,” I mused. I had always had the same thought.

“Where were you all night?” she asked suddenly.

The waiter brought her a tray filled with a Continental breakfast and a steaming coffee pot.

“I stayed with a friend.”

One eyebrow rose as she broke open a roll and buttered it. “Oh?”

“Mrs. Parson.”

“If there is a Mrs. Parson,” she scoffed. “I thought you might stumble over her in the discothèque.”

“So I did.”

“What really happened to the contact who was killed?”

I glanced around. “The Mosquito followed me to the engine house and killed him. I learned the rendezvous point, however. I’m meeting Corelli tonight at midnight.”

“Had you better talk so freely here?”

“A bug in the coffee pot?” I grinned. “I doubt it. But don’t say anything in your room that you want kept confidential. I’m convinced the damned thing is bugged. I think that’s how Corelli’s would-be killer got onto me. Juana, did Parson say anything about Corelli?”

“Corelli?” She shook her head. “No, why?”

“I think he knows Tina Bergson.”

Juana froze. “Can you be sure of that?”

“Not really.” I leaned back. “Why?”

“He speaks Italian, you know. Very well.”

“What’s that got to do with Tina Bergson?”

“Nothing at all. I was thinking of Corelli.”

“You think Parson is Italian and knows Corelli?”

Juana shook her head. “I don’t think anything. I just said that he surprised me when he came out with an Italian phrase.”

“What phrase?”

She colored. “I don’t remember.”

“But you know it was Italian?”

“He admitted it. Very cool he was, too.”

“And it was accidental?”

“Very much so.” Juana looked down at her plate. She had suddenly become prim and precise. I did not smile, although I was laughing inwardly. Something inadvertent in the midst of love-making, I knew that much. And he had come out with a good rich Italian phrase. Interesting. Very interesting.

“Does he ski?” I asked.

“I don’t know. I mean, should I know?”

“I just wondered. Were going up on the slopes today, Juana. I’ve got to put in an appearance for the cover story. And I’d better take some pictures.”

“Good. I’m sick and tired of all this boudoir work.”

“You seem to be bearing up under it very well,” I said casually, looking her over. “In fact, I’ve never seen you look so — oh, satisfied, if you grasp my meaning.”

She fumed. “I’ll grasp your—”

“Now, now,” I cautioned, gulping the remainder of my café con leche down.

“When are you skiing?”

“I’ve got to get up to my room and clean up first.”

She nodded. “I’ll be ready at nine-thirty.”

“Nine-thirty then. We’ll go to the top. Veleta. You game?”

“Sure!” Her chin came up. She was defying me. I felt better. She was still fighting for her mind and her equality. Good girl.

We lugged our equipment out onto the Prado Llano and got in one of the cable cars to take the first run up to Borreguilas.

It was a bracing day, with the sun high in the sky, and the wind carrying a bit of moisture. It would snow that night, I thought. I remembered I had smelled a bit of snow in the air the evening before. Now it would come, I was sure of that.

The cable car bounced and jerked and we sat there riding up and up into the heights of the Sierra Nevadas. You could see everywhere from there. It was getting colder and colder — rapidly. I turned around and looked down and it was the same as looking out over the edge of the world. In the vast distance the whole plain of Granada was laid out before me, although there was some haze down there, enough to kill a full panoramic view of everything.

We jumped off the cable car while the attendant held it for us, and walked across the flats outside. It felt very high here, the air thin, the cold enveloping us from all sides, and sneaking into our skins through the clothes.

We walked to the head of the ski run in silence. It was desolate country — all mica schist and snow — without a tree or bit of growth anywhere. Just snow and rock and sky. Silently I buckled on my Austrians and watched Juana as she struggled with her Canadians.

We stood there a few minutes, looking down the slope, and then I slid the goggles down from my cap, tugged the cap over my ears, and waved to her.

“You first!”

She nodded, pushed herself forward with her knees bent, and started to traverse along the steep part of the first drop.

I followed, taking it easy, and enjoying the crisp bite of the snow on the ski edges. We were in the very best of weather conditions.

We rested once and she brought out a pair of sandwiches she had brought along for their surprise value. We ate them and did not say a word between us. We just basked in the sunshine and the delight of the loneliness and the beauty of the mountainside.

We finished the sandwiches and continued on down.

It was a wonderful run.

Wonderful.

After making the lesser run down from Borreguilas, we sat around all afternoon in the hotel lounge swapping stories with Barry Parson and Elena Morales while the fire crackled and the tourists came and went. We could see the lower run — Borreguilas to the Prado Llano — outside the window, and spent our time commenting on the forms of the various skiers.

Finally I went up for a rest and shower. Dinner was a muted affair, with the usual large number of courses, and I was beginning to get a little on edge at eleven-thirty. We were still sitting around and drinking at that point.

I excused myself, went upstairs to my room and checked my Luger and stiletto. Then I got out the map of the area and checked off the route to the Veleta monument which I had seen that morning from the top of the ski run. As I said then, the government road from Granada to Motril on the Costa Del Sol ran right by the concrete structure.

The road from the Prado Llano joined the regular highway about three miles from the Prado. I marked my route north to the fork, and then southeast toward the Veleta on the highway. I put the map in my pocket, got the keys to the rented Renault and went downstairs to the lobby.

In the dining room I could see Juana still sitting there with Elena. I wondered where Parson had gone. As I stood there I looked out through the window toward the front of the hotel where the Renault was parked. Several figures were moving in from the Prado, probably from the Bar Esquí out there. One of them was Herr Hauptli.

I stepped through the front doors of the hotel into the darkness outside and he saw me, waving:

“Don’t forget, were taking that run sometime!”

“I’d prefer it in daylight,” I said in German.

He laughed big and pushed in through the doors into the lobby.

I climbed in the Renault. There was a cold wind blowing down from the slopes. It was cold in the car, but snug. The heat of the engine would warm it up in no time flat.

A light snow had begun falling. It was too early for it to stick, but it was falling on the icy snowy patches that were already there in the roadway. Alongside the edge of the pavement, drifts were beginning to pile up.

The Renault hummed along like a contented bird. I drove slowly and watched the bright white line in the center of the road carefully. The double lane was a narrow squeeze for two cars passing. I had watched a bus and a car have some trouble jockeying past each other during the drive up from Granada, reminding me of an elephant mating with an uncooperative antelope.

I met two cars coming toward the Prado Llano, and then came to the main road, where I turned up to follow it along the curves and switchback toward the Veleta. The snow was increasing in intensity now. It cut across the beams of light and formed a curtain in front of me. I could barely see the highway, and even though it was wider than the access road, it was not made for passing or trick driving of any kind.

The Renault took the curved road easily, but I could see that the snow was beginning to catch onto the pavement just a bit. Sometimes I could not make out the edge of the highway at all.

The slope ascended steeply now, and I had to give the Renault all the gas I had. I downshifted to the lowest gear in the ratio and moved slowly and carefully through the increasing surface of snow.

Finally I saw the sign: VELETA. And beyond the sign a dirt road curved off the main road up toward the familiar concrete monument at the top of the rock outcrop.

I pushed the Renault up into the dirt road and slewed around over rocks and ice until I had come up to a level parking place apparently blasted out of solid rock. There was no car in sight.

My watch said five past twelve. I wondered what had happened to Rico Corelli. Then another thought occurred to me: had Corelli decided not to keep the rendezvous when he learned that Arturo was dead? Was Corelli even now hiding somewhere behind a rock, waiting for me to step out into the open to gun me down?

I switched off the ignition key and the Renault died. There were tire tracks all around in the refrozen slush, but they meant nothing. I shivered. It was lonely up here, the loneliest place in the mountains. It was just Corelli and I... and he had set it up that way. To kill me for Arturo’s death? For Basillio di Vanessi’s death?

Cautiously, I switched off the headlights. For a moment I sat there, weighing the possibilities. Then I reached inside my windbreaker and got the Luger out. There was the pocket flashlight in the dashboard compartment that I usually have with me, and I took it out and switched it on.

Then I opened the door of the Renault. The wind cut into me with chilling effect. I pulled the wind-breaker closer to me and stood by the Renault, closing the door with a solid thump. I pointed the beam of the flashlight into the night, and could see only the snow swirling toward me, lashing about in all directions at the top of the peak where the wind was hurtling in from all points of the compass.

The monument hulked there dark and silent, and I walked all the way around it before I found the blue Simca, drawn up out of sight in the rear. I had no idea how its driver had coaxed it up through the ice and frozen slush, but there it stood. I touched the hood. It was still warm.

There was a pile of building materials in the back of the monument, left by the original workmen who had completed the monument. I stood there a moment by the Simca, trying to get out of the wind, and it was there that I heard the sudden noise not far from me.

I held the Luger steadily in my hand and turned to face the direction from which the sound had come. With the wind hurtling about, tearing sound and throwing it in every direction, I was not really sure if I was facing the movement or not.

Then I heard a footstep.

I held the Luger in my hand, aimed and ready to squeeze.

“Ah, Peabody,” a voice said, as if spoken through a scarf.

I did not recognize it.

But when he moved into the spot of light cast by the flashlight, I knew him instantly.

It was Barry Parson.

But now he did not have his British accent at all. He was speaking with an indeterminate kind of speech pattern that led me to believe he had after all only been acting the part of the British secret agent up to that moment.

Now who was he?

He stepped forward from behind the pile of building material and extended his hand to shake mine.

I froze.

“Relax,” said Barry Parson. “It’s all right. I’m Corelli. Rico Corelli.”

Ten

The snow swirled about us for a long moment and neither of us moved a muscle. It was getting colder and colder.

“Well?” he said, leaning closer, trying to see my face.

I gripped the Luger under my windbreaker, just in case. “How can I be sure?” I asked him. “First you tell me you’re Barry Parson, and now you say you’re Rico Corelli.”

He laughed. “Come on. It must be obvious! here, and who would be here but Rico Corelli?”

“Anybody could be here, to answer your question. Anybody who knew about the meeting.”

“Who but Rico Corelli and the kid who was killed?” he asked.

“The Mosquito. He might know.”

“You think I’m The Mosquito?” Parson asked with a laugh.

“He’d be the only one who could know Corelli was meeting me here.”

“Be sensible! I’m not the Mosquito!”

“You say so, but I don’t know.”

“If I were The Mosquito, what would I be doing here?”

“Trying to locate Corelli and kill him.”

“But I’m Corelli.”

It was getting to be a comedy routine. I shook my head resignedly. “Let’s assume you are Corelli. I’m cold as hell. Let’s get in my car and talk.”

He smiled. “Okay.” I led him around the front to the Renault.

“Nice little job,” he said.

“Runs good,” I said. “When you rent you can get the very best.”

I opened the door with my key and got in, then reached over and opened the passenger door for him. He climbed in and slammed the door shut. The car rocked. It was still warm inside.

“Let me tell you about Basillio di Vanessi,” he said after a moment of silence. “The substitution. They’ve been trying to get me for months.”

“They?”

“Someone in the top rank of the Mafiosi,” Parson said. I could not help it; I still thought of him as Barry Parson, and not as Rico Corelli.

“But how do you know that for sure?”

“I have friends there, too. In the top. The Capo of Capos wanted me out of the chain. He wanted me totaled.”

“What’s his name?”

He smiled. “Forget it. Just believe me.”

“All right. So the Capo of Capos wanted you out.”

“Wanted me dead. Tried to kill me twice already. Once in Corsica. Once in Naples. I was down there on a delivery.”

“Naples? That’s where The Mosquito comes from.”

He looked at me sharply. “You get around.”

“I was told.”

“By whom?”

“Never mind.”

“When the second hit failed—”

“The one at your villa in Corsica?”

He frowned at me. “Yes.” He waited. Then: “When that one failed, I decided to get out of the business. That’s when I came to you people.”

I nodded. “I know all about that.” I did not. But there was no use listening to his story. I would have no way of knowing whether it was true or false.

“Good. When we started from Corsica on the yacht, I brought along Vanessi.”

“To take your place?”

“Yes. When we got to Valencia, we stayed in port for a day, and I stayed ashore when they left.”

“The Lysistrata sailed on without you?”

“Exactly. Vanessi played Rico Corelli.”

“And when they landed at Malaga, Vanessi was still playing Corelli?”

“Yes.” He paused. “With the help of Tina Bergson.”

“Did Vanessi go into Malaga?”

“No. He stayed on the yacht. We thought it would be better that way. Then there would be no slip-up. I mean, in case someone recognized him.”

“Could anyone in Malaga identify you?”

“Not a chance,” laughed Parson.

“Then?”

“Then you got in touch with Tina and she came in to meet you.”

“Right.”

“I figure somebody picked up your trail, followed you out to the yacht, got into the scuba gear, and made the hit.”

“Who?”

“Moscato, of course. Who else? He knows all about me. And he must have had his eye on the yacht when it came in. He merely timed it while you were near the craft, to implicate you.”

“Why didn’t Moscato recognize you?”

“He knows about the yacht, about Tina, about the meeting with you people—”

“I see. But he didn’t really recognize you.”

“Right”

“And he made the hit and injured Tina.”

“Thank God she wasn’t killed!”

I watched him. He reached into his pocket and brought out a pack of American cigarettes. He lit one and waved out the match. Last time he had brought out a Spanish cigarette. But then, of course, he was playing the British secret agent, Barry Parson. He was a consummate actor, and knew how effective the right props were.

“How is she now?” I asked.

“You mean, what is the word from the clinic?”

“Yes.” He knew.

“She’s coming along.”

“When will she be able to join you?”

He hesitated. “Soon.”

“After we’ve had the meeting with my partner?”

“Right.” He smiled. “Listen, Tina is part of the deal. You know that, don’t you?”

“I do,” I said. “But first, we want to meet and then we can discuss details.”

He nodded. “That’s all that matters now.”

“One thing puzzles me.”

“What?” The smoke drifted up in front of his face. In the windshield of the Renault I could see the reflection of his features as he puffed on the cigarette.

“How did you ever get on The Mosquito’s trail in Torremolinos?”

He laughed. “Neat, huh?”

“Very neat.” I paused. “Too neat.”

His eyes slid to mine. “What’re you saying?”

“I’m saying I can’t buy your story all the way, Corelli. You break into a deal when I have The Mosquito cold, and then you play Barry Parson, secret agent. What gives?”

“Let’s back up,” Parson said seriously. “Look. I knew you were after The Mosquito. Granted?”

I nodded. “You could guess that, certainly. But why were you in Malaga in the first place? I mean, you, Rico Corelli. You were hiding out in Valencia. Why come down to Malaga to expose yourself unnecessarily?”

“Insurance,” he said slowly.

“Insurance?”

“I was safe from the time I left the yacht in Valencia. You understand?”

I nodded.

“Okay. The heat was on the yacht till the minute the hit was made by The Mosquito. Right again?”

I considered. “All right. Let’s assume that. You were supposed to be at Sol y Nieve at that point.”

“That’s what I told Tina.”

“I guessed as much. I mean, why did it help to come to Malaga? That was my question.”

“I wanted to find out more about you.” He shrugged. “I mean, my life is wrapped up in a pretty little package. I’m going to the States. And you and that girl you’ve got there are my keepers. Right?”

“Right.”

“So I wanted to see how you shape up.”

There was a long silence. I stared at him coldly. He was watching me just as coldly.

“Where did you pick me up?” I asked.

He sighed. “All right. Look. You were on the prowl. I knew you were going to try to locate Moscato. Right?”

“I suppose so.”

“I just waited around until I found you.”

“Had you identified me before?”

“Oh, sure. I watched where Tina went.”

“And then you followed Juana and me that night?”

“Sure, sure.”

“To the villa.”

“Right. By the time you hit that prostitute — the one that did the threesome with Moscato and the other broad — I knew we were in business. I just followed you.”

“But why did you break in through that back way when I had Moscato dead to rights?”

His eyes held mine. “We all make mistakes, don’t we?”

I shrugged. “Okay. But why the cover story, then?”

“The Barry Parson jazz? I just dusted that one off the shelf,” he said, lapsing into Barry Parson’s British accent. “And it seemed the thing to do at the moment. What am I going to do, come on strong and say, ‘Well here I am, good old Rico Corelli!’ Now that doesn’t make much sense, does it?”

I laughed. “I still don’t like all this doubling up and tripling up. You could have made the contact right then and there with Juana. You slept with her there, and once again here. Why didn’t you just give her the information, and have her check it out?”

He nipped the cigarette a moment and looked out through the windshield. The snow was falling, but more lightly now. I looked up and saw the reflection of our two faces peering out at the gloomy night.

His eyes were watching me.

“I never trust a bedroom,” he said with a frown. “I mean, not even my own. That place I rented in Torremolinos. How do I know Moscato hadn’t taped me even before I followed you to his place? After all, he thought he had killed me on the yacht. But maybe that was a trick. Right? Maybe it wasn’t Moscato there, maybe Moscato had me figured all the time and was waiting for me. How could I know?”

I sat there.

“And this hotel. I don’t trust anything. Not a thing. I think there are bugs in every room. I had to go through with the future meeting, because it was part of the initial plan. I do not like to deviate from initial plans, because it leaves too much to chance. Because we already knew each other, I simply played it cool and went right on from there. I’m sorry if it offended your sense of order.”

It made sense.

“Now what?” I asked.

“We set up the meeting between the girl and me,” said Parson, all business-like again. “To deliver the microfilm.”

“Where?”

“Well, you know what I think about the hotel. That lets out any room there. And I don’t like to mingle with the people at the Prado Llano. Look, what about the ski run?”

I considered. “It’s plenty deserted there, all right — at times. No bugs in the snow, either.” I laughed, wondering how true that was.

“The hell with the snow. You can shoot a person a mile away with a telescopic lens.” He shivered. “I don’t like that at all.”

“But if no one knows you’re Corelli—”

“Who says? Also, there’s another bad point. If Moscato is still around — and I’m sure he is after Arturo bought it — he’s going to be keeping his eyes on you and on your broad, right?”

“On Juana?”

“Of course! So, I’ve got to see her somewhere that’s conspicuous, and protected at the same time.”

I shrugged. “That’s not an easy bill to fill.”

“No? What about one of those cable cars? When you’re in one of them you’re isolated, alone, and safe!”

I thought about it. “A gondola? I see what you mean. Get on it with her and travel up together. While you’re there, locked in the cable car, you can make the delivery in a controlled environment, and nobody will be the wiser. Is everything on film?”

“Right.”

I sat there thinking. “But someone could still take a pot shot at you from the slope.”

“That’s where you come in, old man,” Parson said, lapsing back into British U. “You get on your skis and stand at the Borreguilas station and cover us as we come up.”

I thought about it. I liked it. The more I thought about it, the better I liked it.

“I’ll buy it,” I said.

“What time?”

I said, “Ten a.m. tomorrow?”

“Right,” said Parson. “I’ll stay away from Juana. I don’t want any complications when we’re so near to closing the deal.”

“Good luck,” I said.

He stood in the snow, tightening up his wind-breaker. I could feel the cold whipping in through the open door, even though the snow had let up almost completely.

“You start,” Parson said. “I’ll follow you down.”

I nodded.

He slammed the door on me and hurried around the monument where he vanished from sight.

The Renault started up without any trouble. I let it warm up for a few moments, then waited until I saw the Simca appear around the corner of the monument, its headlights slanting down toward the makeshift roadway. Then I drove off, crawling along the short access road to the highway. I waved to Parson in the rearview mirror.

I saw the Simca following me, its headlights shimmering in the falling snow.

The twists and turns were quite sharp, requiring constant braking and downshifting. I was beginning to enjoy the challenge of the roadway when I felt the first sogginess in the brake system.

I was coming down through a valley of black mica upthrust where the road had been blasted in a V groove. At the end of it I could see the pavement make a quick sharp right turn.

In the middle of the straightaway I started to brake and felt slippage. I thought I had inadvertently come across a frozen spot in the road, and tried again. But it was not a frozen spot at all.

Once again I applied the brake to get some traction for a downshift, but the brake did not seem to transmit any power to the wheels.

I pushed frantically on the shift stick but I was traveling too fast now to engage, and I could not get down into the lower gear.

I had the brakes down to the floorboard as I went into the graded curve, but it was much too fast a speed. Luckily the curve was very well graded. I made the turn. But immediately I was faced with a quick S-turn to the left, in the opposite direction, and I pushed on the brakes again, hoping that the roadway would give me traction here. But I could feel nothing but soggy ineffectiveness.

Nothing.

I thrust the wheel over hard and made the turn. The roadway straightened, but pitched downward as the highway went into a long flat traverse across the face of a high cliff-like slope. At the end of the traverse I could see a hard-angled switchback with a large highway sign of warning ahead of it.

I pushed down the brakes again, but got no response at all. I shoved on the gear stick, but could not get it down a notch. I began to twist the wheel back and forth, trying to get a snow-plowing type of friction to reduce the speed of the Renault so I could get the damned thing down into a lower gear.

No luck.

I saw Parson’s lights behind me, and I wondered if he was watching me in the S and puzzling over my unaccountably bad driving.

I flashed the lights two times as a kind of signal for help.

The curve came closer and closer, and I was doing absolutely no good at controlling the Renault’s speed. I thought of going across the inner drainage ditch, but decided that the chance of smashing the axles and tearing the wheels off was too great to risk. Besides that, I might wind up smashed flat against the schist cutbank that rose from the ditch with the steering wheel growing out of my back.

The tires screaming, I thrust the wheel around to the left to take the turn too fast. I smashed into the rising cutbank on my right. The Renault caromed off the cutbank and went directly toward the outer rim of the road, which had about a foot of rock piled below a white-painted wooden guard rail that continued for twenty feet or so.

I slammed sideways into the guard rail, tore off something from the side of the Renault, and then caromed back toward the cutbank. But I pulled hard and straightened out the car again.

Ahead of me the roadway continued to descend rapidly. A hundred yards away I could see the roadway turning sharp right, with another wooden guard rail protecting the turn, and a very large sign in front of the turn.

I could never make that turn.

I heard the thunder of an engine next to my ear and I turned quickly.

It was Parson.

He was gunning the Simca past me, and shooting down the roadway ahead.

I wondered what in hell he was trying to do. I thought of yelling out to him, but did not.

He cut in front of me and I almost screamed at him to get out of my way or be hit.

I was pushing on the stick shift again, trying frantically to get down a notch, but it was useless.

Parson was directly in front of me. I almost closed my eyes, waiting for the crash.

It never came.

Suddenly my front bumper was tapping Parson’s back bumper. I saw the red brake lights of Parson’s Simca blink on and off and on and off again.

I was slowing up.

It was an old trick, all right — stopping a runaway car by braking the car in front of it to slow down the car behind.

I held the wheel tightly, because I knew that one rock in the wrong place in the roadway would throw the Renault off the Simca bumper, and send me hurtling either to the left or the right, after which I would slide off the slowing car and go either into the cut-bank or over the edge of the cliff into thin air.

Parson’s brakes kept winking and blinking, and by the time we came to the turn, he had brought me to a stop. I thrust the shift into reverse and sat in the car, shaking.

The door opened and Parson got out of the Simca. He walked back to my side of the car, the snow blowing down around him.

My lights blazed outside, lighting up the back of the Simca, and showing Parson standing there in the night.

“I won’t ask what happened,” Parson said slowly. “Somebody got to your Renault.”

I nodded. “Thanks for the help. It was a good driving trick.”

We hit the Bar Esqul on the Prado before I got the car to the garage man. I had three lumumbas and a cup of coffee, and I still did not feel quite right.

Eleven

I had returned to my room after a short stay in the Bar Esqui with Parson. The rum and chocolate in the lumumba helped steady me somewhat, but I was still shaky when I inserted the key in my door and pushed inside.

After snapping the lights on I heard a rustle on the other side of the suite, and then the connecting door burst open and Juana stood there, eyes wide. It seemed as if she had just awakened from a deep sleep.

“Did you meet him?”

“Yes,” I said. Quickly I moved to the bureau and picked up a pad of paper there. I scribbled “bug” on it quickly and showed it to her.

She nodded that she understood.

“How did it go?” she asked me.

“Nothing to report. I’ll have to see him again.” I was busy writing on the pad. “You meet him tomorrow ten o clock in gondola. Details later.”

She nodded.

“Now I’m going to bed and get some rest.”

“Okay,” she said.

I pointed to the hall door, indicating that I would meet her outside in a moment.

“Good night, George,” she said, and went back into her room.

I got out of my clothes, changed into clean ones, and went into the hallway. Juana was standing there smoking a cigarette.

“Are you sure the rooms are bugged?” she asked.

“Positive.”

“Did you meet Corelli?”

“Yes. We know him as Barry Parson.”

She studied me. “I almost guessed that.”

“So did I.”

“Can you be sure?”

“How can I be completely sure? But he’s meeting you in the cable car where he’ll give you the material.”

“What is it?”

“I’ll handle it,” she said with confidence.

“Good. I’ll cover you from the ski slopes. Corelli wants it that way.”

“But how could The Mosquito find out about the meeting between him and you?”

“He’s been following us all the time.”

“I’ll try to keep a lookout for him.”

“Don’t you bother. I’ll take care of that. You just meet Corelli and find out if he’s jiving us or not.”

She looked at me. “Why didn’t he give me the information before?”

“He said he wanted to be sure.”

She shrugged. “I suppose that makes sense.”

“Get in the cable car with him, and ski down from the Borreguilas. I’ll meet you in the bar downstairs after it’s all over. Then we’ll rush down and have the stuff authenticated.”

“Malaga?”

“Granada. AXE has a transmitter there.”

“Good”

I went back in the room and went to bed.

I could see everything along the rocky spine now. The sunlight was pure white. The glare of the snow was blinding, but I was using a filter on the Zeiss 60x glasses.

The cable car moved upward and I could see Juana’s yellow sweater clearly. She and Parson were the only ones inside. The gondola usually took four, and I knew Parson had been forced to tip the attendant for a private ride, but I did not worry. He had the money for it.

I swept the field again with the glasses and then I saw him.

He was lying flat on his stomach on a ledge of granite about halfway between the Borreguilas and the Prado Llano. He had put on gray clothes so that he blended in exactly with the mica and granite schist. But I could see that he was a man after all, and I could see that he held a long rifle in his arms along the rock. There was a scope sight attached to the rifle.

I could not identify the type of rifle with the glasses.

He was lying there very quietly, waiting. And he was watching the gondola with Juana and Parson in it. How had he known they were taking it? How could he have found out?

Parson? Was Parson a substitute? Was someone setting up Juana? How had the information been leaked again? No one had said a word in our rooms. Nobody but Parson and I knew the time and the place.

And yet there lay the killer, waiting.

Moscato? Quite probably.

I opened my windbreaker and got out the Luger. I checked it and then slid it into my windbreaker pocket. I’d have to traverse the slope and anchor myself on the rock spine to get him. Then I would have to crawl over the rocks and kill him before he was able to make the hit

There was no other way. If I left Moscato alive, he would try again to get Rico Corelli — try until he succeeded!

Judging from the speed of the cable car and the location of the man on the rocks, I had about a minute and a half to make my move.

I checked my descent slightly to avoid a dangerous mogul and passed just below it. As I hit the lower part of the hump, something happened to the rest of the snow above, and I suddenly found myself buried to the knees in a slide. I pushed and flailed, and the snow flew off me. I was lucky. The big ball of rolling snow continued away from me, and smashed against some rocks nearby.

I had lost precious seconds.

The rocks were ahead of me, but I could not see the man lying below me. I had to get out the glasses and slowly pan across the ridge.

Then I saw him.

I had been thrown off course by about a hundred feet! I was far too high.

Quickly I started down the hill again, traversing back the other way, christieing out of that course and traversing back to a point well within reach of the man on the rocks.

I released my clamps and stowed the skis in the rocks so they would not slide away. Then I got out my glasses and peered over the edge of the rocks.

I could see the cable car moving slowly up between the second and third steel poles. And I could see the man with the rifle gripping it hard, and leading the gondola carefully as it moved up along the spidery steel cables.

I aimed the Luger at the man’s head and fired.

The slug hit a rock and spun off somewhere. I could hear the singing of the ricochet.

The man turned quickly. I could see the blur of his white face. Quickly he arched his back, twisted, and aimed the rifle at me — scope sight and all.

A slug hit in the snow behind me — too close for comfort.

I fired again. But he had ducked out of sight right after his shot. I could not see him.

Crouching there, I tried vainly to find him.

Another shot broke rock by my hand.

I ducked down.

The gondola was moving slowly up the cable, and I could see Juana’s yellow sweater and that was all I paid any attention to.

The rifleman stood and turned away from me, aiming at the gondola. I fired again.

He went down, ducking behind a rock, not hit at all. I saw him steady himself against the crag and aim at the gondola.

I started across the rocks, but knew I could not reach him in time.

Snapping on the cable clamps, I got onto the skis and started down the slope, two poles in one hand, the Luger in the other. It was not the most comfortable skiing position I could imagine.

As I moved along, I realized I could not shoot as I skied, and thus was wasting more valuable time.

I got down to the level at which he was crouched, and jerked out of the bindings and crossed the rocks at a crouch.

There he was!

I fired.

He was aiming at the gondola and he fired just as I fired — or perhaps a split second after I did. Whatever happened, my own shot apparently caused him to misfire, and his charge went harmlessly into the base of the gondola rather than through the window and into Parson s heart.

I hit the rifleman.

He went down, face first in the rocks, and then in a reflex movement, he came around and whirled the rifle until it was pointing right at me.

I jumped back and onto the snow, sliding downhill. The bullets scattered about me, but none hit I climbed onto the rock again, clinging there for purchase.

The rock was slippery, but I crawled over it and when another slug exploded near my ear I lifted up my own head, saw him clearly, and shot him in the neck.

He went down instantly. Blood exploded in the air about him in a red cloud.

Then he was lying in a pool of frozen redness as I came up to him.

It was Alfreddo Moscato.

The Mosquito.

Swat!

The rifle that had shot at me and that was intended to kill Rico Corelli in the gondola was a Winchester Model 70 Super Grade calibrated for 30–06 Springfield cartridges and mounted with a Bausch & Lomb Balvar variable power Lee dot telescopic sight. It was a beautiful rig.

A 30–06 Springfield Hi-Speed bronze point cartridge can deliver a 2960 feet-per-second muzzle velocity and a 2260 feet-per-second velocity at 300 yards, with a hitting power of 2920 foot-pounds muzzle energy and 1700 foot-pounds at 300 yards. The Bausch & Lomb variable power scope is adjustable from 2M power to 4 power with windage and elevation controllable by only two moving parts.

If anything could do the job of killing a man from a remote firing site, that combination could.

I leaned down over the dead man. He carried a wallet and papers, but they were obviously fraudulent. The name said Natalio Di Caesura, and the papers said he came from Bari, Italy.

He had a swarthy complexion, dark hair, and a closely-shaven blue chin and cheeks. His sideburns were lower than ordinary, but did not seem too long.

He was dressed in a good windbreaker and tight-fitting ski pants.

I turned at the sound of sudden footsteps on the rocks. One of the Guardia Civil had skied down to the spot, taken off his skis, and was walking toward me, holding a notebook in his hand. I noticed he had the holster of his gunbelt unbuttoned.

Glancing at me, he said nothing, and then he walked over to the rock where the dead man lay. He bent down, glanced at the body, then studied him carefully and made a few notes.

He touched the corpse’s neck and felt for a pulse. I could have told him it would not be there. He reached in and removed the papers, studied them, and then considered the Winchester 70 and the scope sight.

He stood and turned to me.

“Excuse the intrusion, Señor,” he said in English.

I smiled. “How did you know I am English?”

“I know you are American,” he corrected me with a smile. “By your skis.”

They were Austrians, but I had bought them in Sun Valley. And it was stamped on them.

“You were a witness to this — trouble?” he asked, phrasing it delicately but obviously.

I shrugged.

“Perhaps you are more than a witness. Perhaps you were involved in the man’s death?”

I said nothing. When was he going to read me my rights? But of course, in Spain they did not read you your rights at all.

I started to unbutton my windbreaker to get out my wallet.

The Guardia’s weapon, a .45 Colt American, was instantly in his hand and covering my stomach.

“I very much beg your pardon, Señor, but please do not take anything out of your pockets.”

“I merely wish to hand over my identification,” I smiled. “I come recommended to you by Señor Mitch Kelly of Malaga.”

There was a flicker of recognition on his face. “Ah. So I see. You have his card here. Also one of your own.” He stared at it and slowly put it back in the plastic folder. He handed back the wallet, flipping it shut with a smart smack.

I took it and put it away.

“I beg your pardon, Señor. I do not need you for any questioning at all. If you wish to depart?”

Ah, that wonderful little AXE emblem in the corner of Mitch Kelly’s card that everyone in authority seemed to know and love.

I turned and indicated the dead man. “Is he known to you?”

The Guardia shook his head. “I do not think so. But I will soon find out.”

“A polite tip,” I said. “This man may be wanted for a crime in Malaga, too. A homicide.”

“Ah.”

“And for the murder of a boy last night right here on the Prado Llano.”

The Guardia’s eyes narrowed. “You know a great many things, Señor.”

“That is my business. Knowing many things. And photographing them,” I added with a smile.

He saluted. “Accept my apologies for detaining you. I think it would be well if you were not here when my colleague arrives. He is a bit young and impulsive.” .

I looked up the slope. Another Guardia was on skis and coming down the run.

“Thank you.”

He bowed at the waist and saluted. “I shall tell Señor Kelly that we have met.”

I slipped into the clamps, picked up my poles, and went down the rest of the run to the Prado Llano in a quick schuss.

Within a half hour I was back in the hotel. Juana was waiting for me in the lounge by the big fire.

We were alone.

Her face was glowing with excitement. “I have it,” she whispered to me.

I nodded.

“What was all that commotion?” she wondered.

“I flushed out Moscato and killed him.”

Her face went pale. “How did he know we were meeting in the cable car?” she asked. “Nobody knew but you and me — and Parson.”

“Do you think Parson’s really Corelli?” I asked.

She shrugged. “He certainly knows a lot about the drug chain. And he’s willing to give it to us on a silver platter. I’m very encouraged.”

“Were you ever discouraged?” I asked with amusement.

“Very much so! As soon as we began playing games with that first substitute Corelli.”

“We’ll get the stuff down to Granada this afternoon.”

“I can’t really be sure that the information is authentic, Nick,” she said, as if she had been thinking about it for some time and had finally made up her mind. “It seems unfortunate that I was brought this far and am not able to say Corelli is authentic or not.”

“Don’t worry. AXE’s memory bank will know.”

“But I wonder why I was sent here, really.” She was pouting now.

“Forget it It’s all part of the job.”

The mechanic at the Prado Llano garage was apologetic. “I’ll have it by two o’clock. Is this soon enough for you, Señor?”

I shrugged. “It’ll have to be. What was the matter?”

“The fluid in the brake drained out, Señor.”

“For what reason?”

“A break in the pipe line.” He was reluctant to talk much.

“A break?”

“Very strange, Señor,” he admitted. “It is not often that the line for the fluid wears out that way. In fact, it is not possible.”

“Then what did happen?”

“The line is severed.”

“Cut?”

“It looks like, Señor.” He was uneasy now. This type of thing was not comprehensible to him.

“Someone cut it deliberately?” I asked.

“I do not know. I would not like to say. It is a serious charge to make.”

“But there is no one to charge, so why not let’s say it?”

He saw me smiling. “Okay. I say that someone did cut that line, Señor. Snip! Does that make sense?”

“Oh, yes,” I said. “It does make sense.”

The boy looked serious. “You have some enemy then, Señor. The husband, perhaps, of some woman?” Spaniards are such incurable romantics!

“Yes,” I said. “I have a feeling it may be. But she is worth it, you know?”

He beamed. “Good, then. Good!”

“I’ll be by at two.”

“Oh, there is one other little thing” he said.

“What?”

He was hesitating again, looking around to see if anyone might be listening.

“Do you know what this is?” he drew something out of his pocket and held it in his hand.

I picked it out of his palm. It was a beautiful bug. A magnetic transmitter combined with a direction finder. Beautiful model! Thoroughly professional. Probably Japanese or German.

I stared at it. “I have no idea what it is.”

“Nor do I, Señor.”

“Where did you find this... this gadget?”

“It was attached to the underside of the Renault, Señor.”

“How interesting. I suppose it is something that just flew up from the highway when I was driving along.”

“It is magnetic, you know, Señor? I thought you might be interested to see it.”

“I am — most interested.”

I put the bug-direction finder in my pocket and pulled out a few hundred pesetas. I handed them to the boy. “This is for you,” I said. “For your interest. And for your silence.”

“I understand, Señor.”

I was sure he did.

Now I knew how Moscato had found out about the cable car meeting.

I had told him myself!

Twelve

As Juana and I sat in the garden of the Alhambra we were approached by a short, dark, black-eyed, curly-headed gypsy, named Gervasio Albanez. He was conducting our tour, which had gone on ahead. By design Juana and I had stayed behind.

“It is warm for the Andalusia,” he said in a very good English accent.

“But not for Morocco,” I said in response, embarrassed again for Hawk and the totally puerile Recognition System AXE had set up.

He nodded and glanced about. There was a concrete bench under a pepper tree, and he took us there. We sat together looking out over the reflecting pool and the big Moorish arch opposite.

“I have news for you,” he said in a whisper. “We must meet directly after the tour is over.”

“News?” I asked.

He put his finger to his lips. “Afterward. On the hill opposite.” He gestured past the Alhambra toward a hillside to the northeast. We had been told earlier that there were a number of caves on the hillside, caves in which a large gypsy population still lived. In fact, Gervasio himself had told us that.

I nodded. “After the tour. At the entrance to the Alhambra.”

The crowd around the Alhambra entrance was thinning as we came out. Gervasio walked us over to the parking lot.

“You have a car?”

“Alas, no,” Gervasio smiled. He was pouring on the charm in Juana’s direction. “I have nothing but a very small Lambretta...”

“Don’t bleed all over the footpath,” I said. “Come with us. We’ll drive you back here later and you can pick up the Lambretta.”

“You are so kind.”

“Negative. We’re simply practical. We can’t spend time driving back and forth waiting for you to make it up the big hills. Where do we go?”

“I live in a cave, Señor,” he said tragically, giving Juana more juice with his eyes.

She stared at him. He was getting to her.

“Forget it, Gervasio. I’ll bet you’ve got a fourteen-liter jug full of solid gold coins in the bottom of that cave. Come now, haven’t you?”

His eyes gleamed. “You are a humorous man, Señor.”

Gervasio and Juana climbed in the back seat. He was watching her guardedly, but I could see his eyes occasionally viewing me in the mirror.

“Go down here, Señor, then to the right,” he told me, and kept up a running patter until, a short time later, we pulled up in front of a hole in the mountain. There were other cars parked around, along with a pile of motorbikes. There were Seats and Peugeots, mostly. It was one large parking lot in the dirt.

“We sit here.”

I nodded. I was watching him in the rearview mirror. “Now that news, Gervasio.”

“Sí. Señor Mitch Kelly wishes you to call him immediately in Malaga.”

“Did he give any reason why?”

“He certainly did not, Señor. But he was insistent.”

“Where can I call him?”

“I have a line inside the house.”

He gestured to the cave mouth.

I glanced at Juana. “Well, let’s go in.”

We got out and followed Gervasio into the cave. Inside it was furnished exactly like any house, with heavy Spanish furniture, and carpets on the pounded dirt floor. There were light bulbs and lamps plugged into piped-in electric sockets. The smell of cooking was very heavy in the main room.

Gervasio went to the bookcase at the end of the room and brought out a leather-covered case that reminded me of Mitch Kelly’s R/T in the Malaga safe house.

He plugged it in and let it warm up. I sat watching him. Juana got up and walked around, looking in awe at the hangings on the walls, the expertly woven tapestries, the lace covering the tables, the paintings.

Gervasio gave the code letters and answered Kelly’s request for identification.

“Kelly?” I said after a moment. “Why the hot line?”

“It’s the girl here. She’s headed for Sol y Nieve.”

“Right. So?”

“You’ve been having trouble?”

I paused, looking at Gervasio. “Trouble?”

“Well, you haven’t raised Roman Nose. Right?”

“As a matter of fact, we have.”

There was silence. “Listen,” said Kelly. “The girl here received a call from Roman Nose yesterday, informing her of the death of a young man, and then this morning of the death of another man!”

“It’s true.”

“Roman Nose refused to meet with you or N.X. Right?” N.X. Narcotics Expert. Very nice. Juana Rivera.

I waited. “Negative. What reason would he have?”

“Roman Nose says he wants to call the whole thing off. He is sure it’s a set-up. He’s sure his organization is trying to kill him. Do you read me?”

“Loud and clear.”

“Girl is driving up now in a red Jaguar. A red Jaguar. Understood?”

“Understood. Question. Why is she coming?”

“She says she wants to talk Roman Nose into meeting with you.”

“Hold it a moment. We have both met Roman Nose. Repeat. We have both met Roman Nose. Do you read me?”

Pause. “I read you.”

“I do not understand why she thinks we have not met Roman Nose?”

“Perhaps you have not.”

“There is that possibility. Roman Nose was not really unequivocally identified. But he did give us material.”

“The girl insists you did not meet Roman Nose. Roman Nose wants to return to Corsica without risk of identification by his enemies. So, no meet with you.”

“Then you think our Roman Nose is not the Roman Nose.”

“A repeat performance of the show in Malaga Harbor. Yes. Quite possible.”

“It’s fairly clear to me,” I admitted. “Two possibilities: Roman Nose is Roman Nose, or Roman Nose is not. Kelly. Get in your car and join us at Sol y Nieve.”

Pause. “Why?”

“I need your help. We’ve got to make sure Roman Nose is who he says he is.”

“How can I help?”

“It’s a complicated story. But I know what to do now.”

“I wish I could say the same!”

“Sol y Nieve. Sierra Nevada Hotel. Tonight. Right?”

“Right.”

“Over and out.”

I sat there a long time staring into the set. Then I turned around and saw Juana watching me.

“Well?”

I glanced around. Gervasio was watching us too, with wide eyes. I spoke to Juana. “Have you got that microfilm?”

“Yes,” she said, reaching in her bag.

“Good. Give it to Gervasio.”

She did so. He looked down at the small packet of film in his hand. Then his eyes questioningly to me.

“Blow up that roll, and send it character by character to AXE.”

The gypsy nodded.

“Juana, you take the Renault back to Sol y Nieve.”

“Without you?” Her eyes narrowed.

“Yes. I’m going to intercept Tina Bergson.”

“But why?”

“The minute she appears at the resort and talks to the real Corelli, he’ll immediately be identified.”

“But—?”

“I mean, someone is trying to kill him.”

“Who?”

“The man who calls himself Barry Parson.”

Juana’s eyes widened. “But why must it be Parson?”

“It’s got to be.”

“Then there were two people out to kill Corelli?” Juana asked with a frown.

“Quite probably the Mafiosi laid out two contracts on him just in case one didn’t work out.”

“It’s complicated.”

“You bet your life it is. Look. Let’s analyze it. Suppose Parson wants to kill Corelli. Right? And Parson, like us, doesn’t know Corelli by sight. But he does know I’m trying to set up a meet with Corelli. Not only I — but you and I. So he gets close to us. As close as possible.”

In bed was what I meant. The allusion was not lost on Juana. She flushed.

“Now. Let’s assume Parson was present as well as Moscato when Arturo was killed. Parson was following me, of course. Then he must have heard the instructions I got from Arturo as he was dying. Right so far?”

“All right”

“Then Parson goes to the meeting to hide out and wait for Corelli to appear. But who appears? Me. Not Corelli. There’s Parson standing there, and I come barging up, and there’s egg all over his face.”

“But why didn’t Corelli go to the meet?”

“You heard what Kelly just said. He said Corelli was frightened off when Arturo was shot. I have to assume he just copped out on the whole thing and let it happen without him.”

“Why didn’t The Mosquito go there to kill Corelli?” Juana asked innocently.

“I’ve been wondering about that,” I admitted. “Let’s suppose that he was in such haste to get away after killing Arturo that he didn’t hear what Arturo said to me.”

She frowned.

“Okay,” I said, going on quickly, “there’s Parson there, and I’m there. What does Parson say? The only thing he can say, really. He knows I’m not Corelli. And he knows the meet is set. So he says, ‛I’m Corelli!’ And he plays it out, setting up the meet with you.”

“But what about the microfilm? He gave me the film.”

“We’re checking that out. But it’s an easy thing to substitute information of that type: names, places, and dates.”

“Well...”

“He fakes the film, sets up the meet with you. He makes the meet, playing Corelli. He hands over the fake film to you, and meanwhile Moscato tries to kill him and I kill Moscato.”

“But how did Moscato know about the meet?”

“The bug in the Renault,” I told her.

“What is Parson waiting for now?” she wondered.

“He’s waiting for Tina to show up. He knows about her, even if he may not know her personally. I think he must have been faking those ‘telephone calls’ to Tina in order to confuse Elena. But he knows Tina will eventually show up at Sol y Nieve. He’ll wait for her and let her lead him to Corelli, and bingo! You see?”

“And what good will intercepting Tina do?”

“I want to warn her what her appearance at Sol y Nieve will do to Corelli.”

She nodded. “And then?”

“Let me work it out,” I suggested softly. “I haven’t got the punch line yet.”

Juana Rivera drove Gervasio and me to a car rental in Granada where I selected a Seat mini with a stick shift. Then Juana took Gervasio back to the Alhambra where his minibike was parked.

I took off in the Seat on the Malaga-Granada highway, headed for Malaga. It was pretty late in the afternoon, but the sun was still out. I kept my eyes open for a red Jaguar — an easy car to distinguish.

It must have been no more than twenty minutes later that I saw it, braking on a fast descent across the valley from me. I pulled around quickly, backing out into a burned-over wheat field to make a quick three-corner turn. I was in front of the Jaguar and headed back toward Malaga when I saw it come up on me in the rearview mirror.

I stuck out my hand and waved it down a few times, signaling her to stop.

She saw the arm, and then she saw the car, and finally she saw me. She was surprised, but not overcome. I pointed to the side of the highway and we both pulled off together.

I got out of the Seat and walked over to the Jag. She was sitting there looking cool and chic in that very Scandinavian way she had, profiled smashingly in a bright green sweater and gray skirt.

“I talked to Kelly,” I said, when I could get my voice going.

“Yes. You know why I am here?”

“Of course. But there’s been a change in plans.” Her face fell. “Rico has gone home already?”

“Possibly so. Possibly no. But there is a problem. Another man is pretending to be Rico.”

“How do you—?” She blinked. “I see. Yes. Someone is pretending to be Rico.”

“Unless Rico changed his mind after talking to you.”

“No. He was positive.” Her eyes shifted slightly. “Listen. You do not believe me? On my word of honor—?”

“I believe you,” I said. “The problem is, we have another gemini, another substitute, another Rico Corelli.”

“Then I must warn the real Rico—”

I shook my head. “Someone is trying to kill him. The minute you go up there and meet him, the killer will know who Rico is. You see?”

Her face changed. “Yes, yes, I see!” She looked at me seriously. “What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to stay in Granada.”

She bit her lip. “It is so lonely.”

“But you’ve been in the clinic alone.”

“It was maddening!”

“How is your shoulder?”

“Very good,” she smiled. “You see?” There was only a tiny bandage apparently. It did not even show in the spectacular curves of her sweater.

“Well, will you do it, Tina?”

“Do what?”

“Stay in Granada?”

She sighed. “Well...”

“I’ll take you to dinner,” I said conspiratorially.

Her eyes lighted up. “You will, George?”

I laughed. “I’d love to.”

“Then I’ll do it.”

“Follow me in the Jag. We’ll go to a hotel and check you in.”

She nodded, her eyes sparkling with excitement.

“You think Rico will be mad when he hears?”

“What — that I had dinner with you?”

“Yes.” She shrugged. “Anyway, who cares?”

She had lived dangerously so far with great success. I suppose she figured she could live dangerously forever with the same degree of security.

We had dinner in a marvelous little restaurant not far from the shopping section of Granada. Musicians played Spanish music in one corner, and the waiters hovered over us and went to great effort to spoil us rotten.

It was about ten when we walked out of the restaurant and made for the hotel. Granada is a beautiful town at night. The lights of the shops are on and the people walk the streets at all hours. Ten was pretty late, but there were still some people out. The Guardia Civil seemed to keep the streets free from crime.

We went into the hotel and Tina strolled over to get her key. Every eye in the lobby turned and followed her walk. I heard a few sighs. It was a repeat of her performance in Malaga.

She held her key and turned to me with a wicked look.

“I am so clumsy with keys.”

I nodded. “Good. I am so expert with them.”

“Ahah. Then you come up and put the key in the lock, please.” Her eyes were bright with the food and the wine and the anticipation.

“I’m only human,” I said, and followed her into the elevator. As the doors closed on us I could see every male in the lobby watching me with envious eyes.

We rose in the elevator and I was brushed by the silken tendrils of her hair as she stirred quietly beside me. I turned and looked in her eyes. She smiled.

The elevator doors opened and we stepped out into the corridor. There was a long red velvet rug on the floor. A large ancient settee was standing against the wall. There were flowers in vases hanging from the walls.

I found the room number and made an attempt to insert the key in the lock.

Tina giggled.

I had not realized I was quite so drunk. I tried again.

The door opened magically.

She moved into the room in front of me, turning slightly as she did so, and brushing past me with all of her body. I could feel the contact from head to toe in a kind of AC-DC jolt.

I moved in and the door closed behind me. I am sure no one touched it. Some hotel doors are enchanted.

I stood there and looked at her with a silly grin on my face. I know it was a silly grin because I happened to see my face in a small gilt-edged mirror that hung on one of the walls. And she was looking at me with what could only be described as an expression burdened with primitive lust.

She was in my arms. I pressed her tightly to me. She sighed. It had been such a long time in the clinic, she told me, and there had been such terrible pain.

Sad, sad.

Yes, yes, she told me.

When she saw I was sympathetic to her pain, she showed me the wound on her shoulder. There was no other way to show it to me than to take off her sweater and when she did that I could see that she had nothing on under the sweater at all, that is, nothing but that beautiful golden skin. She was just as nature had made her.

Actually, I even looked at the small bandage on her shoulder and admired the work of Dr. Hernández.

— Was that not terrible? she asked me.

I sympathized.

— I was once scarred on the thigh, she told me. Actually it was because I did not like a vaccination mark on my arm, she continued, and so I had my vaccination mark made on my leg. It swelled terribly.

I sympathized.

She believed me. In a moment she stepped out of her skirt and panties and showed me the scar on her thigh. It looked very well on her. I told her that.

— Surely, she said, you must have some wounds, too.

— I am a battle-scarred veteran of many wars, I assured her, and proceeded to show her the proofs.

We were somehow in the bedroom at this point and Tina drew back the bedclothes carefully and patted the sheets a bit, moving the pillows into a strange position.

When I asked her why she was separating the pillows that way, she informed me that Swedish women have very advanced ideas about love. To prove that Swedish women are good to their husbands and lovers, she cited the current longevity charts made up by the United Nations that proved that the life expectancy among Swedish males is 71.85 years, compared to the life expectancy of American males of 66.6 years.

— I show you why, she told me. We have certain methods of keeping the life juices flowing.

Thirteen

Breakfast in Granada.

“You’ve got to promise me to stay in the hotel here,” I told Tina, looking around at the excellent decor of the dining room.

Tina looked sad. “But I will miss my skiing!”

“If you go to Sol y Nieve, you’ll be responsible for Rico’s death.”

“I understand that.” She pouted.

“And you may be putting yourself on the spot.”

“Okay. Where you go?”

“I’m going back to the resort. I have a job to do.”

It was a pleasant forty-minute drive up the mountainside and into Sol y Nieve. When I got there the skiers were already out on the slopes. It was a bright day with a good light powder from a brief fall the night before.

I strolled into the lobby and saw Mitch Kelly sitting at the bar off the lounge.

I pulled up a stool beside him. “You look like you opened the bar this morning.”

“Right. Just got in.”

“You’re early, aren’t you?”

“Figured I’d get here as soon as I could. What’s the plot?”

“You know what it is. We’ve got our man up here, but he’s afraid to show his hand. And we’ve got a double that wants me to lead him to Roman Nose.”

“So?”

“Here’s what we do.”

We leaned our heads together, and I gave him the scheme — nuts, bolts, hammer, saw, and lumber.

I let myself into my room, banging around while I changed clothes. I got into my ski stuff and waited for Juana to hail me.

She did. From the doorway.

“I see you’re back,” she said in that lofty no-nonsense voice — the wounded puritan.

“Yes,” I said musically. “It was a long drive.”

She sniffed. “What’s on the program for today?”

“We ski.”

“Good!”

“Then tonight we go into action.”

“Action?” Her spirits rallied.

“You’re going to take care of Elena.”

“How?”

“Stay with her all the time. I’m working something with Parson. Kelly and I.”

She nodded. She seemed disappointed. “But Elena seems quite innocent.”

“Innocence or guilt is not the question. We have to isolate Parson. I’ll set that up. But I don’t want any interruptions from Elena.”

“Okay. Now. What about now?”

“It looks like a great day for the slopes.”

She brightened. “Right on!”

We spent the rest of the daylight hours in the snow. It was strictly relaxation and recreation. For a few short hours I forgot all about Corelli, Tina, Elena, Hauptli — forgot about all these troublesome people and about the mission, this Spanish Connection that was proving to be so difficult to make. I had my plans all laid. It was just a matter of waiting to get Parson in the right place at the right time.

Late in the afternoon we ran into Parson and Elena near the Borreguilas. Elena seemed withdrawn and subdued, but Parson was his old ebullient self.

“Had a smashing run this morning, didn’t we, Elena?” He was really so British it almost curdled the blood.

“Oh?”

“I thought it was magnificent! Beautiful conditions! Really a great run!” He grinned at Juana. “And how are you, Lovely Lady?” The capital letters sounded in his voice.

“Fine,” said Juana.

“I think we must have missed you last night. Where were you?”

“Around,” said Juana.

“I was in Granada,” I said.

Parson shrugged. I drew him aside.

“There’s someone you have to meet,” I told him in a low tone of voice.

“Oh?”

“About the trip.”

“Trip? What trip, old chap?”

“To the States.”

“Already? You mean you’ve looked over that material I gave you—?”

“Not yet. But it seems wise to set up the itinerary. There will be a logistics problem, I’m sure.”

Parson cleared his throat. “All right. Where shall we make it?”

“Not our rooms,” I said. “I’m convinced they’re bugged.”

His eyes widened. “You don’t really think so?”

Damned hypocrite! He was the one who had planted the bugs!

“I actually think so,” I said.

“Then where? In the snow?” He was grinning.

“The discothèque.”

“In the basement of the hotel?”

“Right.”

He nodded. “You’re on.”

“Ten o’clock?”

“Good show.”

“I’ve told Juana to meet with Elena. We just don’t want any interference. This is important.”

“Of course, old boy.”

“The four of us will have dinner together, and then Juana will sit with Elena in the lounge.”

“I’ll admit Elena is somewhat of a sticky problem,” Parson frowned. “Sorry about that.”

“Nothing that can’t be handled.”

We ate dinner together, and everything went off just as planned. Juana and Elena drifted off to the lounge, and Parson and I went down to the discothèque to “talk business.”

The floor show had not yet begun. The stereo rig was providing loud music, and dancers were wandering about on the floor doing the monkey and the frug and whatever else was “in” at their particular scene.

Parson and I got a table in a corner. I sat in the V, with two walls angling out from me. Parson sat at my left. I put him there purposely. There was one empty chair at my right.

We ordered some mild wine to start. It did not really take long for the music to increase in volume and the action to speed up out on the dance floor. A few drunks were already being escorted out on the shoulders of their companions.

Then Mitch Kelly appeared, spotted us in the corner, and twisted his way between the tightly-placed tables toward us.

He grinned at me. “George,” he said.

“Kelly,” I said. I turned to Parson. “Barry Parson, this is Mitch Kelly. He’s the man I was telling you about.”

Kelly grinned and sat down. He ordered from the waiter and the kid disappeared in the crowd. It was dark now, with the lights on strobe in the center of the dance floor.

“You don’t really look Italian,” said Kelly with that wide, disarming grin of his.

Parson’s face stiffened. “Well, neither do you.”

“I don’t profess to be,” Kelly rejoined.

Parson’s eyes narrowed. He glanced at me and then, seeing no expression on my face, turned back to Kelly. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It is supposed to mean: How can you prove you’re the man you claim you are?”

Parson relaxed. “Well, now. I think I’ve proved it to your colleague. Isn’t that enough?”

“I’m the man who has to arrange your transportation to the States.” Kelly’s face tightened. “I don’t fancy trying to smuggle in the wrong man!”

“I’m the right man,” Parson said, his accent noticeably diminishing. He began to sound more like the “Corelli” role he had played with me at the Veleta. I sat back enjoying the give-and-take.

“I feel we are talking about two different things, Mr. Parson,” Kelly said politely. “I have authorization to arrange transportation to the United States for the man who is the key figure in the Mediterranean drug chain.”

“I am the man,” snapped Parson.

“The man’s name is Rico Corelli. Are you Rico Corelli?” Kelly wore a vague smile that did not touch his eyes.

“Yes. I am Rico Corelli.” Parson’s lips were white and he had them pressed together very tightly. Tension, tension.

“I am afraid you will have to prove that to my satisfaction, Signor Corelli.”

Parson put his hand to his mouth. “Not so loud! That name is known everywhere!”

“No one can hear with all this noise,” smiled Kelly. “I repeat, you will have to prove your identity to me.”

“But I have already given the material that can prove it to George Peabody.”

I shrugged.

Kelly reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out an envelope. It was letter-size. He opened it and drew out a tiny roll of film. He placed the roll in the middle of the table.

The waiter brought Kelly’s drink.

Parson stared at the roll.

“My microfilm?” he asked in a hushed voice.

“No. Rico Corellis,” said Kelly.

“But I gave the film to Mr. Peabody! The real Rico Corelli film I”

“Negative, Parson. That is impossible.”

“How, impossible?” Parson was running a good bluff, but I could see the tension around his eyes — tiny crow’s feet of nerves fanning out into his flesh.

“I am Rico Corelli, Parson. And I dare you to dispute that fact.”

Parson’s face was like granite. I was reminded of the schist along the ski run. He stared at the roll of microfilm. He picked it up to look at it some more, even went to the trouble of unrolling it.

“No need to try to read it,” Kelly said. “It’s too small to see. And, anyway, it’s a duplicate.”

There was a thin bead of perspiration on Parson’s forehead. “A duplicate?”

“Oh, yes, indeed,” Kelly said with a smile a cobra would have envied.

“And the original?”

“Mr. Peabody has sent it along to Washington for verification with the Narcotics Bureau of his great country.”

Parson stared at Kelly for a long moment. Finally he let his breath out in a long sigh.

“Well,” he said. “Well, well, well.”

“Indeed yes, Barry,” I said with a smile. “Well?”

He turned to me, his lips twisted. “What made you set up this kind of charade? I don’t understand you.”

He was going on the defensive. Mitch Kelly and I had succeeded in our primary intent. We had determined that Parson was not Corelli. If he had been Corelli, he would have scoffed and laughed, and congratulated me on my little game. But he would not have knuckled under. The problem from Parson’s viewpoint was that he did not know who Corelli was at all; he suspected Mitch Kelly might indeed be he. And the microfilm unnerved him. His had been fake. This could be genuine. He simply did not know how to proceed.

“Actually,” I said with a smile, “this meeting was set up at the instigation of Mr. Corelli.” I nodded toward Kelly.

Kelly smiled. “Yes. I wanted to see what the man who had been hired to kill me looked like.”

Parsons face was a mask of old leather goods.

“You’re being very humorous, Mr. Kelly.”

“You can call me Corelli. You hear the similarity, Mr. Parson?”

What a damned coincidence! I thought. There was not an ounce of truth in- what Kelly implied — that he had taken on the name Kelly to sound like Corelli. But it played beautifully.

“All right. Corelli. It’s a cat-and-mouse game.” Parson’s forehead was gleaming with perspiration now. “I don’t like cat-and-mouse games.”

“Nobody does,” said Kelly. “Especially the mouse. A minute ago you were the cat. Now you’ve got red eyes.”

Parson sighed. “Go ahead. What is it you want?”

“I want to know why you tried to play me for a sucker!” I snapped.

Parson smiled thinly. “I’ve been playing you for a sucker from the first minute I met you, George — whatever your name is, Mr. Secret Agent from America — and I do not distinguish which particular moment you refer to.”

“That was unkind,” I said softly. “Most unkind of you, Barry-baby.” I leaned toward him. “I mean when you took on the role of Corelli at Veleta.”

He shrugged, his face fixed in a frozen smile. “Very simple. I’d bugged your car. And I was there when Arturo was killed. I went to Veleta to find Corelli and kill him.”

I glanced at Mitch Kelly, and he ducked his head down and drank his liquor.

“Then you were at the cable car engine room the first night?”

“Of course. I followed you to Sol y Nieve to find Corelli. It was simply a matter of being sure I met everyone you did.”

“So you knew I was meeting Corelli—” I turned to look at Mitch Kelly “—midnight at the Veleta.”

“Right.”

“And you were waiting for me when I got there?”

“Exactly.” Parson smiled faintly. “I could hardly explain away the coincidence, could I? I had to say I was Corelli when you found me. And, besides, I knew I would eventually find Rico Corelli through you.” He turned to Kelly. “As I have.”

“It was a kind of sudden inspiration, wasn’t it?” I suggested.

“That’s right.” Parson was gaining confidence.

“And you figured Corelli would surface to find out why you were impersonating him?”

“Something like that.”

“And you hoped the fake microfilm wouldn’t have been checked by that time?”

“I had to take some chances.”

I leaned back, watching him. “Not quite, Barry. Nice try. But not quite good enough.”

Parson frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“The fact is, you cut that brake fine in the Renault before I left for Veleta. You wanted me completely out of the picture. You wanted to have Corelli all to yourself at the monument so you could kill him and go off scot free. Right?”

Parson took a deep breath. “I deny it. Why would I go to all that trouble to save you afterward, when your car went out of control?”

Kelly looked at me. It was a telling argument.

But I knew the answer to that. “You needed me after Corelli did not show up at the meeting. I was the only one left who could lead you to him. Aside from Juana. But Juana was not authorized to meet with Corelli until I had set it up. You had to have me, Barry. Alive. Why not pretend you were Corelli, until Corelli finally did make himself known to me. Right?”

He sat there stonily.

The lights suddenly went out in the discothèque, and then flared up again. The stereo had been turned off and the dancers had left the postage-stamp floor. Professional Spanish dancers were assembling on the small stage dressed in flamenco costumes. Six guitar players were seated in chairs at the rear of the stage.

In the ensuing moments, the singer — a male — came forward, strumming his guitar, and started to narrate the story of the dance.

“What do you want with me?” Parson asked now, looking across at Kelly.

“Somebody hired you to kill me,” said Kelly, flat-lipped. .

“I deny that,” said Parson.

“Don’t give me that kind of crap,” said Kelly in a low threatening voice. “Somebody hired you. You’re a professional killer. Barry Parson is a cover name. You’ve been on the payrolls of a dozen countries since World War Two. Come on. Interpol knows all about you.”

This was one we had pulled out of the hat.

Parson’s face turned to ice. “I work for hire, that’s true. I work for anyone who pays me.”

I glanced at Kelly. He kept on the pressure. Parson had cracked. He had admitted it. He was up for hire. He would work for Kelly now if Kelly put the price high enough.

But we did not want that at all.

“Who hired you to kill me?” Kelly asked again.

“If I tell you, I’ll be target for tonight,” said Parson with a hollow laugh.

“If you don’t, you’re target right now sitting in this discothèque,” said Kelly, putting plenty of force behind the words.

“I’m dead either way,” Parson reasoned.

“Well get you out of here. Tell me who hired you and well start for the door right away. We’ll get you away from the resort. I have assistants.”

Kelly turned and glanced at the bar. One of the waiters standing there looked at Kelly and nodded. Then Kelly glanced at a table in the far corner of the room. A man in black was seated there. He tipped his beret with his finger when Kelly looked at him.

A little window-dressing to make it look right.

Parson was pale now.

The flamenco music started, and a soloist came out to dance. He was fast and sure-footed. His heels went like machine-gun fire. The dance increased in tempo and volume.

“Tell me who hired you!” Kelly rasped.

“Not that,” Parson snapped. “Anything else, but not that.”

“The Mafiosi?” I asked.

He looked at me scornfully. “That was Moscato’s bosses! Not me.” His eyes widened. He realized he had practically told me who had hired him.

There was only one person left!

“It was her!” I whispered, leaning close to Parson. “Tina!”

He seemed frozen in time and space.

He opened his mouth and closed it again. His head gave a slight nod. That was all.

Then he moved.

He moved with lightning speed. I saw his hand on his lap dart for the belt where he had his big Webley hidden. I had seen the lump it made in his shirt front. He was hoping to get Kelly with the first shot, but I chopped out at his gun hand the instant he drew. That was the reason I had placed him to my left — so I could control his gun hand. The shot blasted loud and clear, but luckily went wild into the floor.

Instantly there was a second shot.

Parson tensed against the rear of the seat, then slumped in the way a puppet droops when its strings are dropped, and let his head pitch forward onto the table top.

I put my foot on the Webley revolver and Kelly rose quickly to move beside Parson’s body. There was so much noise from the music, dancing, and claying, that to our astonishment no one had really noticed the byplay in the darkness of the discothèque.

Kelly grabbed Parson by the shoulder and straightened him in the seat. I reached down and picked up the Webley, stashing it in between my belt and stomach. Then I turned and grasped Parson’s right shoulder and helped Kelly lift him to his feet. Supporting him between us, we wove our way through the packed tables toward the doorway of the discothèque.

“Muy borracho,” Kelly nodded to one of the waiters.

The waiter smiled sympathetically.

The second flamenco dance was continuing, with the machine-gun shots of the dancers’ heels making it impossible to differentiate between the sounds of a real machine pistol and the dancing heels of the local Jose Greco.

“Sometimes I get to hate this job,” Kelly told me as we emerged into the lobby from the stairs.

We pulled the lifeless body of Barry Parson across the lobby — luckily deserted at the moment — to the stairway and then started the slow climb up.

He was very dead when we finally laid him out on his own bed in his own room.

Fourteen

Mitch Kelly had been a detective on the San Francisco police force for several years before he resigned to join AXE’s stable. I had barely closed the door to Barry Parson’s room before he was going quickly through the pockets of Parson’s clothes.

He laid the contents out on the top of the bureau and went into the bathroom to get a towel. There was a great deal of blood on the body and also on Kelly’s hands. Kelly had shot him in the heart, and the force of the blow had killed Parson instantly. Kelly had used his own Colt .38 Detective Special, loaded with those special high-muzzle-velocity and high-depth penetrating cartridges.

When Kelly came out of the bathroom, he was wiping himself thoroughly and glancing at his wrist-watch.

“Wallet,” I said. I was going through the papers. “Barry Parson, it says.”

“Strictly cover,” Kelly murmured, coming over and standing beside me, watching. “Somebody did a good job.”

“The papers? You think it was MI-5?”

Kelly shook his head. “Told you we had contacted the British. They didn’t affirm his identity.”

“Yes, but—”

“When the British do not affirm, the British deny. You see?”

I continued through the credit cards and the passport. I glanced over the passport, but Kelly shook his head. “Forget that. That’s cover, too.”

“It looks like the real thing.”

“You can get a good set of papers made in Portugal if you have the money to pay for it. Including the finest passport counterfeit on the Continent. There are hundreds of fake identity sets roaming around Europe — all Made in Lisbon.”

I sifted through the papers thoughtfully. “Does it smell governmental?”

He shook his head. “I’d say he was a free-lancer. Mercenary for hire. That kind of thing. I told you Interpol had rung up a ‘no sale’ on him. But I’m going to put through his prints, anyway.”

I continued reading the papers, then started in on his luggage. There was nothing there to hint at anything but an affluent Britisher who spent most of his time touring the Continent.

Kelly got out a small kit and began to roll Parson’s prints. When he had finished all ten, he wiped off the ink carefully and put the prints in a glassine bag. Then he got out a small mini-camera, Japanese-made with the name filed off, and took several shots of Parson’s face. In repose Barry Parson looked quite harmless, lacking in the vitality that made him what he was in life.

There was absolutely nothing in his things to tie Parson to a syndicate of any kind. We figured that Parson had not been working for any group Tina was fronting but for her especially.

And that made Tina a number-one question mark. Who was she working for — if, indeed, she was working for anyone?

Kelly kept glancing at his watch.

“Worried about the time?” I asked.

“I’m wondering what we’re going to do with this body.”

I took a deep breath. “Not much we can do. We just go out and leave it here.”

“But Elena Morales?”

“She comes in and finds it. And she blows the whistle. Nothing to tie Parson to us — nothing concrete.”

“We were seen in the discothèque with him.”

“Can you put in a fix?”

Kelly considered. “It’s pretty late. That’s why I was checking the time. Eleven-thirty. I don’t think my contact is on duty now.”

“The tall man with the Fu Manchu mustache?”

Kelly grinned. “Yeah. You know him?”

I sat down and stared at the carpet. “We’ve got another problem to worry about now. Tina doesn’t know her hit man is dead. She thinks he’s going to be waiting for her to arrive at Sol y Nieve to finger Corelli. And that means she’s going to be coming up here. We’ve got to stop her.”

Kelly frowned. “How?”

I thought hard for a long moment. “Look. How about this? We call Tina at the hotel in Granada. We leave a message from The Man. It says he’s leaving Sol y Nieve and wants to know where to meet her. Then we just wait here till she calls the hotel. We find out who she wants to talk to. And that man is Rico Corelli.”

I stared out the window, waiting for Kelly’s response. “It sounds good. What do we have to lose?”

“Suppose she immediately calls Parson to tell him whom to shoot?”

Kelly shrugged. “She finds out Parson is dead, and then she contacts Corelli. Were ahead either way.”

“I’m going down to the lounge to intercept Elena Morales,” I said. “I don’t want her wandering up here and finding the body. She might alert the whole hotel.”

“I’ll join you as soon as I take care of the Bergson woman.”

We left the door unlocked and stepped into the hallway. No one saw us.

Both Juana Rivera and Elena Morales looked up at me as I entered the lounge a few minutes later. I had heard loud laughter and shouts of mirth all the way out in the lobby. Juana and Elena were in the middle of a raucous party with Herr Hauptli, his two Germans, his Dane, and a group of about twenty other skiing couples.

I strolled over and nodded to Juana and Elena. They made a place for me between them. Herr Hauptli saw me, greeted me, and introduced me to the group.

I grinned, waved my hand, and sank back in the couch between the girls, looking into the blazing fire. It was safe and secure in here, far from the sound of gunshots and the sight of blood.

Herr Hauptli was regaling the group with some of his more entertaining sporting exploits — he was a hunting buff, a fishing expert, a yachtsman of great accomplishment, and a great mountain climber — and I scribbled a few lines on a dinner check and passed it to Juana with a warning to keep it out of sight.

She didn’t even acknowledge it, but I knew she was reading it out of sight of everyone. A sharp elbow in my rib told me that she understood.

PARSON DEAD. TINA’S HIT MAN. TAIL ELENA.

I had put that last part in because I didn’t know quite what to do about Elena Morales. If she was seriously involved with Barry Parson, she might have known — or guessed — what he was up to. If not, there was no need to have her hauled in for investigation. For her sake, I didn’t want her to find out about Parson’s death just yet. If Juana couldn’t handle her, I felt that I could.

Mitch Kelly appeared at the doorway of the lounge, grinning broadly and waving at some of the couples he knew. Then he spotted me, and came over quickly, leaned down and said in a low voice, “Lobby. Quick.” No one else had heard. He squeezed my shoulder, kissed Juana on the cheek lavishly, and left the lounge after a nod of apology to Herr Hauptli.

I touched Juana’s thigh and got up to go. Kelly stood by the floor-to-ceiling glass window at the rear of the lobby that overlooked the bottom of the ski run. He was watching my reflection in the glass. The lobby was completely deserted.

He spoke in my ear without moving his lips — an old cop trick picked up from prison inmates.

“She’s left the hotel in Granada. Seems to be headed for Sol y Nieve.”

“When did she leave?”

“This evening. No telling when.”

“That’s bad news.”

Kelly nodded.

In the reflection of the plate-glass window I saw one of the desk clerks put down a telephone and walk across the lobby toward the lounge. After a minute he came out again. Behind him, walking quickly and gracefully, was Elena Morales.

I nudged Kelly. Elena was headed purposefully toward the stairway. That meant that she was going up to her room — the room she shared with Barry Parson!

Kelly and I exchanged startled glances. I could see Juana emerging from the lounge with a worried look. I punched Kelly.

“Hold Juana in the lounge. You join her. I’m going up after Elena.”

“Right.”

I waited till Elena was halfway up the stairs before I started after her. Something had happened. Someone had alerted her. I couldn’t understand who — or why. Yet it was obvious that she was going to her own room.

Third floor. Down the corridor, around the turn. She reached into her bag for her keys. But when she got them out and touched the knob, the door opened. She turned to look up and down the corridor. I had anticipated such a movement and had ducked back around the corner, out of sight.

She didn’t see me.

I heard the door close behind her.

Quickly I moved down the corridor and planted myself outside her door. At first I couldn’t hear anything through the thickness of the paneling. The carpet kept any sounds from drifting through the crack between the door and the frame.

But then I thought I could hear the murmuring of voices inside. I could hear one light, high voice — a woman’s. Elena Morales’ voice, certainly. But who was she talking to?

No one. She was using the phone — of course!

Then the murmuring stopped and I couldn’t hear anything more. I waited for the sound of the receiver being replaced on the base, but I missed it. Then a door opened and squeaked shut. A closet? Was she dressing to go outside?

I moved quickly to the far end of the corridor and went out onto the balcony that surrounded the building on three sides. I pulled back out of sight and crouched there against the outside wall, waiting for Elena to come out into the corridor.

But she didn’t appear.

I glanced at my watch.

Fifteen minutes.

I moved back down the hallway and stopped in front of her door, craning my neck and putting my ear to the paneling.

Nothing.

I drew the Luger and held it against my chest as I stepped forward and turned the knob. The latch was still unlocked, just as Kelly and I had left it.

Quickly I moved inside, placing my back against the door and holding the Luger out in front of me.

There was no one there — alive.

Parson’s body lay exactly where we had left it.

But there was no one else in the room.

Where was Elena Morales?

I glanced at the closet doors, but the closet was too small for anyone to hide there. And yet—

It was a faint sound, and at first I wasn’t even sure that I had heard it. But as I stood there, hardly daring to breathe, I heard it again. It was the unmistakable sound of someone trying to keep very still but shifting his body slightly. I glanced at the closet again, but the sound hadn’t come from that direction.

No. It had come from the bathroom.

I held the Luger tightly and moved over to the bathroom door. It was closed.

“Elena,” I said in a low voice.

There was no response.

Someone was in there, and it was not Elena. Where had she gone? Or was she in there with someone else?

“Elena,” I said, louder this time.

Nothing.

“I’m going to open this door. I have a gun. Come out with your hands above your head,” I snapped, standing just to one side of the door.

Nothing.

I grasped the door knob, still standing pressed against the paneling of the door, and twisted it. The door opened and swung inward. I tensed. There wasn’t a sound.

Through the open crack I could see inside the bathroom. The light was on. And there, pale and tense, stood Tina Bergson — terrified out of her mind.

I moved around, covering her with the Luger. Then I saw the paraphernalia on the basin, spread out for use. A hypodermic, a bottle of fluid, swabs of cotton.

She watched me, her eyes wide.

“Where is Elena?” I asked her, though there were a hundred other questions I could have asked instead.

She shook her head. “I did not see Elena. I saw only Barry. And he — he was dead.” Her voice sank to a whisper. She was on the verge of fainting.

I moved inside the bathroom and gripped her roughly by the elbow. She sagged against me, breathing heavily.

“She killed him?” her voice whispered in my ear.

I said nothing. How could I tell her it was Kelly and me?

“Why did you come back to Sol y Nieve?” I asked her quietly.

Her eyes turned to stare at me. I pushed her around and made her sit down on the edge of the tub. I sank down beside her. I held the Luger on her chest. She was a devious woman, and 1 didn’t trust her at all.

“To see... to see—”

“Barry Parson,” I supplied. “To show him Corelli, so he could kill him.”

There wasn’t a sound.

Her lips trembled, and her eyes moved away from me. “Yes,” she whispered.

“You hired Barry Parson to kill Corelli,” I said flatly. “You can’t deny it. He told us before—”

“I don’t deny it,” she said steadily. Her face was regaining some of its color. My eyes slid to the hypodermic needle.

“Motive?” I asked. “You’re an addict? Is that it?”

She shrugged. “I am all mixed up. I do not know why I want to kill him, except that I hate him more than anyone else in the world.”

“But he’s giving it up, turning in everyone involved in the drug chain,” I said.

She hung her head.

“Why did you come back?” I asked again.

“To find Barry,” Tina said softly. “I came up along the balcony, and I looked in and saw him. Dead. I came in—”

I stared past her shoulder. Of course! The balcony! That was how Elena had left the room without my seeing her. When Elena had found Barry dead she had been frightened out of her wits, and she had fled. She had simply opened the French doors, stepped out onto the balcony, and hurried away. Then, just after that, Tina had come up the back way to meet Barry in his room — perhaps the two of them had planned to meet — and she had found Barry dead. Her need for drugs had taken over, and she had gone into the bathroom for a fix just as I had blundered in.

“I came in and found that he had been shot. I thought at first Elena might have killed him. But perhaps Corelli discovered Barry was after him. Perhaps Corelli knew that I—” Her eyes began to fill with tears. “I’m frightened, Nick!”

I shook her. “You’ve got to take me to Corelli, Tina. It’s the only answer. Too many people have tried to keep us from getting that list of names. Too many. Now it’s up to you, Tina.”

She turned pale. “He’ll know, Nick! He’ll guess I hired someone to kill him! You can’t make me do that. You’ve got to let me go!”

“No way, Tina!” I snapped. “You’re the only answer. You’re taking me to him right now. Just point him out to me, and—”

“He won’t admit it!” she cried. “He’ll deny his identity.”

“Tina—”

She reached around for the hypodermic needle. I guessed what she was going to do the moment she turned her shoulder. I pressed the muzzle of the Luger into the soft part of her neck. “No, no, Tina! Not the needle. Sure, that’ll make things seem fine for a few minutes, but you’ll always have to come back to reality.”

“Nick!” she sobbed, still holding the needle.

I slipped the Luger into my pocket and reached for the needle. Her face changed almost instantaneously. From that placid beautiful mask, it turned into the face of a hellcat — eyes flashing, teeth bared, lips pulled back in an animal snarl.

The needle plunged into my forearm before I could defend myself against the crazy, slashing stab.

She laughed in a low, mirthless howl.

I felt everything drain out of me. I felt like a lump of putty.

She was leading me into the next room, then pushing me down into a chair.

“A little mixture of our very own, Nick,” she was saying with that satanic smile of hers. “You stay there like a nice little boy. I’m going to get out of here.”

No, Tina! I tried to say, but nothing came out.

She seemed to be moving in speeded-up motion — a hundred frames per second — as she ran through the French doors and along the balcony. Then there was silence.

After what seemed like centuries, I heard someone banging on the door. It was Kelly.

“Nick! Are you in there? Nick?”

I opened my mouth. At least it moved. But I had no voice. Was the paralysis wearing off?

The door shot open, and Kelly hurtled into the room, gun drawn. He just stood there gaping at me in astonishment.

“Hey, Nick!”

I moved my lips again. The paralysis was wearing off. I got out a grunt.

Kelly glanced around, checked the bathroom, and smelled the hypodermic needle. Instantly he came back to me, slapped me in the face, lifted me off the chair, and dragged me into the bathroom. He put my head under the shower, and cold water slammed down on my neck.

Kelly was talking to me as he worked.

“It’s some new stuff. We’ve got supplies of it. Knocks you out so you cant move, but you can see everything that’s going on. Temporary paralysis. Comes from curari, also known as ourari, urari, woorali, wourali, and woorara. But it’s been cut with something else. Don’t ask me what. The formularies always disappear the minute we get them.”

I soon revived.

“Quick!” I said. “It’s Tina. She came up from Granada to meet Barry Parson and found his body here. She’s on her way out now. She thinks Corelli killed him. If she escapes now, she can kill him later.”

“Hold it!” snapped Kelly. “I came up here to find you. Tina’s been downstairs in the lobby, you know, creating a scene!”

“Who?” I asked impatiently.

“Tina Bergson.”

“Tina!”

“Exactly. But she’s gone now.”

“Gone? But—?”

“She was in the lobby, but she left,” Kelly told me as we ran out of the room and down the corridor. We started down the stairs, and I could see a crowd of people in the lobby. They were all peering out into the parking lot.

I saw Juana, who turned to wait for us.

“What’s this all about?” I snapped.

“She’s in the red Jaguar,” Juana said, pointing out at the parked cars. I could see the headlights come on in one of them. The light cut through the darkness and illuminated the snow-covered mountainside where the road turned from the Prado Llano and wound up toward the main highway.

“She made a big scene,” Juana said quickly. “It t was very dramatic.”

“Too dramatic!” Kelly said dryly.

“Are you going to tell me what she did?” I asked impatiently.

“She came in here not ten minutes ago, raising hell and asking for Mario Speranza!”

“Who is Mario Speranza?” I asked.

Kelly shook his head. “When they told her that Señor Speranza was not here, she broke down and almost went into hysterics right out here in the lobby.”

I could see the Jaguar start to move. Tina’s blond hair was blowing out behind her.

“It brought all of us out of the lounge on the run,” Juana explained.

“And then she collapsed here and had to be revived by the desk clerk,” Kelly concluded. “I went up to get you.”

I frowned, thinking quickly. “It’s an act — the scene down here. What it’s for, I don’t know. But I’ve got to stop her.”

“Right,” said Kelly. “What do we do?”

“Check out that Mario Speranza,” I said to Kelly. “He probably doesn’t exist. I’m going after Tina!”

I was moving through the crowd toward the revolving doors and I spotted Herr Hauptli there, with his crew of sycophants. He waved and then turned away.

The Renault was cold. It started up fairly well. I pulled out onto the road and skidded twice before I got it under control. There were ice patches in the roadway, the same as two nights before.

The road descended and then made a right turn. I could not see the red Jaguar at all, but I remembered the road turned right, and then began to curve to the left in a long, wide, horseshoe-shaped turn that clung to the rim of the barranca.

I gunned the engine because I did not want to lose sight of the Jag.

The edge of the road showed in my headlamps, and I involuntarily put on the brakes to test the drag. I was relieved to feel the tension in the bands.

I took the Renault around the turn and I could see Tina Bergson’s red Jaguar halfway around the wide horseshoe bend. She was driving slowly, but then she accelerated, just as I caught sight of her.

The car seemed to leap ahead in the darkness, the lights bouncing upward on the road, almost as if they were climbing the sky. And then — as I could hardly believe my eyes — the Jaguar bumped up against the cutbank, almost smashing into the rock wall head-on.

“Turn, Tina!” I yelled involuntarily. “Turn!”

Whether she did or not I do not know, but the next thing I saw was the Jaguar headed not for the cutbank but for the outer rim of the road. “Tina!”

It was a lost cry.

The Jag gained speed and went over the edge, almost as if it had been trained to do a very shallow swan dive into a pool.

The headlamps caught the jagged mica schist below, the patches of snow snuggled in the schist, and lit a tangle of lights and reflections in the snow, then the car burrowed into the rocks, bounced off, turned over and over, the headlamps describing a pinwheel in the night, and smashed with a grinding roar into a segment of sharp rocks near the bottom of the barranca.

There was a moment’s silence.

Then a high flaring blast of fire shot into the sky, and a loud explosion ripped through the air. Smoke billowed up past the orange flames, harsh, choking black smoke.

The fire soared and then fell back into the wreckage of the twisted Jaguar and began eating slowly at the metal. Smoke rose slowly, then, the fire dancing along the edges of the red steel and the clear glass and the colored plastic.

Shaken, I drove carefully along the highway and made the spot where the red Jag had gone over the edge. I looked down. All I could see was a break in the rocks imbedded in the shoulder at the edge of the roadway.

I parked the Renault, pulled the key, and climbed out. It was cold on the highway. I walked over to the edge of the road where the Jag had gone through the rocks. I stood there, staring down at the displaced stones and followed the charred black line on the schist below to the spot where a bright red fire was crackling over the remains of Tina Bergson and the red Jaguar.

In only brief moments the first of the hotel guests came zooming up in a Fiat, parked and joined me at the edge of the roadway. Ogling.

And then more came.

And more.

Thrill-seekers.

They made me sick.

I climbed down the rocky slope, using my pocket flash, and passed the charred section of rock where the red Jag had first hit, and finally reached the section near the car itself.

But the flames were eating at the wreckage and it was impossible to stand any closer without burning myself.

Arm across the top of my head, I stood there and waited.

A fire truck screamed up on the roadway, and soon a big fireman in a ski jacket and loaded with a portable extinguisher came crashing down the slope and began to spray the burning wreck.

I shuddered.

The fireman stood there, staring at the charred wreckage. A Guardia Civil joined him and pointed a flashlight at the burned car. The light’s beam was more powerful than mine.

I came closer.

I saw it, then.

There was a charred body in the front seat. What was left of it was black and smouldering.

Tina.

All that was left of the golden girl with the golden skin.

I turned away, sick.

I must have sunk down on a rock near the wreckage and lapsed into a kind of mental funk. Someone joggled my arm and shoulder. I realized a voice had been speaking to me for some moments.

I stirred.

“Nick.”

It was Kelly.

“She’s dead,” said Kelly. “Damndest thing.”

“I guess she just felt it was all over and she’d better run.” I sighed. “She knew Rico Corelli would be after her for the rest of her life.”

“But Corelli didn’t even know!”

“He would find out. That’s why he left,” I said. That was the way I had it figured.

“I checked out that name, Nick.”

I looked up, frowning. I did not understand what he was getting at.

“There’s no Mario Speranza registered at the hotel.”

I sat there thinking about that. “But that’s the name she gave the clerk.”

He nodded. “The clerk says he told her that. The clerk says that it was then that she went out of her skull.”

I stared at the wreckage below us. “Are you saying that Rico Corelli never was at Sol y Nieve at all?”

“I’m saying that he certainly hasn’t been here — or at any other hotel in the Sol y Nieve — for the past month or so. If his cover name is Mario Speranza.”

“But then—”

“Don’t you see it? Maybe he knew about Tina. Maybe he knew she had hired a hit man to kill him.”

I shook my head to clear it. “And all that jive about the meet was simply to set up Tina Bergson’s death?”

“Not at all. I’m saying that Rico Corelli must have known about Tina Bergson and Barry Parson. And he just didn’t come to the resort at all. Everybody else thought he was here — the hit man the Mafiosi hired, the hit man Tina hired — and us, because we wanted to meet Corelli. Everybody was here but Corelli!”

“Then where is the son of a bitch?”

Kelly shrugged. “I think we’d better put a signal out to Hawk and start all over again.”

We got up to climb the hillside, but I could not leave it alone.

I turned and looked down at the wreck again.

“Why did she go out that way?”

Kelly shook his head. “She was a beautiful woman, Nick. Beautiful women do dumb things. She must have loved Corelli. And hated him, too.”

“Or loved that money,” I said.

“You don’t think much of people do you, Nick?” Kelly sighed.

“Should I? Should I, really?” I calmed down. “I guess she figured it was a better way to go than to run all over the world trying to get away from Rico Corelli’s paid guns.”

“She’d never know when he was going to hit her,” Kelly observed dispassionately. .

“I wonder where the bastard is now?” I mused half aloud.

Fifteen

We were the first ones down for breakfast next morning. In spite of Juana’s glowing look, she was spiritually depressed. I laid it to the fact that we had botched our assignment.

We had a Continental breakfast and sat in the bright light of the sunshine eating it. I suggested a morning of skiing before departing from Spain, but she demurred.

“I just want to pack up.”

I nodded. “I’m going up to the Veleta and do a run or two.”

She nodded, her thoughts far off.

“A penny?”

She failed to respond.

“Two pennies?”

“What?”

“For your thoughts. What’s the matter?”

“I guess I was thinking about the waste of human life. Tina Bergson. Barry Parson. The Mosquito. Rico Corelli’s first double. And even Elena Morales — wherever she is.”

I reached across and gripped her hand. “It’s the way of the world.”

“It’s not a very nice world.”

“Did someone promise you it was?”

She shook her head sadly.

I paid the bill and went out.

It was cool but very still on the Veleta. The sun shone brightly. There was a good covering of powder on the surface of the run. I got my binocs out and scanned the slope. As I explained once before there were two runs from the top of the Veleta.

I decided to take the longer run this time, the one that branched out to the left as you went down. I was just putting my glasses back in their leather case when someone climbed over the rocks from the cable car turn-around and came toward me.

It was Herr Hauptli, and — for once — he was alone.

I waved. “Good morning, Herr Hauptli.”

He smiled. “Good morning, Herr Peabody.”

“I missed you yesterday, or whenever it was we were going to ski together.”

“Pressure of business, no doubt,” he said pleasantly.

“Yes,” I said, glancing quickly at him. But he had turned away to gaze down the slope.

“And where is your lovely wife?”

“Packing.”

“Then you are leaving?”

I nodded.

“Pity. It’s been such a good run of weather.”

“Indeed it has.”

He smiled and sat on a rock outcrop near the top of the run. I joined him while he laced his boots tightly and started to wax his skis with blue wax.

“Where are your friends?” I asked him as I sat down next to him. What the hell, I had nothing else to do at the moment.

“They are at the hotel,” he smiled. “They did not seem too eager to join me today. A late night at the Bar Esquí with lumumbas running out of their ears.”

“You usually are inseparable.”

“That is the way with money. It attracts like a magnet.” He smiled again, the crows’ feet at the corners of his eyes deep and shadowed.

“You are a cynic, Herr Hauptli.”

“I am a realist, Herr Peabody.”

He picked up the first ski and began to apply wax to the bottom carefully. He was a meticulous, methodic worker, exactly what you would expect of a good German.

“Fraulein Peabody reminds me of someone close to me,” he said after a moment.

“Indeed?”

“I had a daughter, you know.” He glanced up. “Of course, you did not know. Sorry.” He continued with his waxing. “She was a most beautiful girl.”

“Was, Herr Hauptli?”

He ignored my interruption. “She was nineteen and away at the University,” he went on. “My wife — her mother — died when she was a small girl of five. I am afraid I was never able to give her the proper guidance in growing up. You understand?” His eyes rose and met mine.

“I have never been a father, so I cannot truly know, Herr Hauptli.”

“An honest answer.” He sighed. “Whatever it was — parental neglect, or misguided lavishment of material possessions on her — when she went away to the University we lost contact.”

“It happens these days.”

“In her case, the very worst things happened. Her companions were very much into the drug scene.” He glanced at me again. “And she became involved with this group to an extent that I could not cope.” He continued waxing. “She became addicted to heroin.”

I stared at Hauptli.

“One year after her addiction she died of an overdose.” He gazed out into the distance over the Vega of Granada. “Self-administered.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“There is no use to waste your sorrow at this late date,” said Hauptli with a harsh sound to his normally pleasant voice.

“It’s the waste of human life I deplore,” I said, thinking of what Juana had said at breakfast.

He shrugged. “In a way, I blame myself. I had evaded the responsibility of a father. I had taken up with other women — not one, but many — and had neglected my daughter.” He thought a moment. “And she suffered my neglect, reacting in the only way she could. By rejecting herself in exactly the same way I had rejected her.”

“A shrink might tell you differently,” I said warningly. “Self-analysis is a dangerous game.”

“It wasn’t only the women I took up with. It was the business I was in.”

“Every man must have a profession,” I said.

“But not the one I had.”

I watched him, knowing what he was going to say.

“The drug business,” he said with a bitter smile. “Yes. I had quite probably supplied the heroin with which my only child had killed herself. How does that sit with your morality, Herr Peabody?”

I shook my head.

“It sat badly with mine. I began to analyze the business I had always been in. I began to think of its effects on the human race. I did not like what I saw.”

He selected another ski and began waxing it.

“I decided that it was time to get out of the business and begin making amends for my years of evildoing.”

There was nothing I could say. I waited.

“They told me what would happen if I left the organization. I would be searched out to the ends of the world. And killed.” He smiled mirthlessly. “You understand that?”

“Yes, Sigñor Corelli.”

“Enrico Corelli,” he said with a half-smile. “Rico Corelli. And you’re Carter. They tell me Nick Carter is the best.”

I nodded. “Usually. Not always. But usually.”

“I tell you, this has been an administrative problem from the beginning. A simple meeting, no? A meeting in the snow — to deal with snow!” He laughed, his strong teeth showing. “A joke, Mr. Carter! A joke.”

“Yes,” I acknowledged.

“It seemed simple enough. I leave Corsica on the Lysistrata and I meet you in the Sierra Nevada.”

“Of course.”

“From the beginning there was trouble. The Capos got wind of my scheme. Someone close to me had guessed the truth. Or had eavesdropped. The Mafiosi put out a contract on me.”

“The Mosquito.”

“Yes. To forestall such a hit, I persuaded my old colleague, Basillio Di Vanessi, to pose as me on my yacht. And the very lovely girl I was sleeping with went with him to make the characterization real.”

“You set your own man up?” I said softly.

“Without knowing there would be a successful hit,” Corelli said. “Essentially, I did what you say I did. But I did not really think The Mosquito would succeed. I had hopes that the meeting between Basillio and you would go off without a hitch and a real meet between you and me could be arranged.”

I sighed.

“But there is more. Just before I left the yacht at Valencia, I discovered that my beautiful Swedish nightingale was scheming, to rid herself of me!”

“Tina Bergson?”

“Yes. She wanted me dead. She had put out a contract herself on me.” Corelli smiled sardonically.

“Was there any reason?”

“I was as curious as you, Mr. Carter. You must understand Tina a little more clearly.”

I understood her quite clearly, but I did not say anything.

“She is a nymphomaniac, Mr. Carter. I think that is no surprise to you. But perhaps her reason for developing into such a Freudian symbol is as interesting as the fact of her obsession.”

I looked at him curiously.

“She was raped at the age of fifteen by a Swedish farmhand. She became pregnant. The abortion was successful, but developed sepsis. She underwent a hysterectomy at the age of fifteen. This sterile, beautiful, intelligent creature then became obsessed with her destroyed womanhood, with her inability to be a mother. Since she was neither woman nor man, she became what she must become — a super-human! With that beauty, and that intelligence — I assure you that her intellect is boundless, Mr. Carter! — she decided that she would take over the little empire of which I was master.”

“The drug chain,” I said.

“Exactly. I am now speaking of her ambitions after I had decided to destroy the chain and reveal its innermost secrets to the United States Narcotics Department.”

I nodded. “And that was the reason she hired Parson to kill you!”

“That is correct. Luckily I interpreted her first shocked reactions to my decision to dismantle the chain as suspicious, and kept my eyes open. Although she promised me she would remain faithful to me and accompany me to America, I guessed that she might be lying. So I put a tap on her phone — our villa in Corsica is a large one and each of us has a great deal of freedom — and finally heard her making a deal with Barry Parson in Malaga. Interesting?”

“Most interesting.”

“My next move was to put my own spy on Parson. I believe, incidentally, that you’ll find Parson listed in Interpol files as Daniel Tussaud, late of the French Underground. He was a child of ten at the time of World War Two, and grew up to a life of espionage and murder.”

“He is dead now.”

“I suspected as much.” Corelli shrugged. “I heard about your exit from the discothèque with your Malaga contact.”

I smiled. “Not much escapes you.”

“Enough,” sighed Corelli. “Well, Elena Morales did keep a close watch on Parson, after letting him pick her up in a bar in Torremolinos. And it was she who warned me that he had come to Sol y Nieve here to find me and kill me. For that reason I did not meet you at the Veleta.”

“I had reasoned that out.”

Corelli nodded. He had finished with his skis. “I hoped that perhaps Tina might be killed on the yacht Lysistrata if anything happened there, but she escaped serious injury, as you know. Even though the Capos had planned the execution nicely. That meant that I must keep a weather eye out for not only the Capo’s assassin, but for Tina’s hired killer as well! The Mosquito. And Parson. So I simply became Herr Hauptli, having hired several out-of-work actors in Valencia to play the part of my supposed sycophants.”

I laughed. “You’re a most resourceful man, Mr. Corelli.”

“I have lived a long life because of my resourcefulness, in a very dangerous profession.” He frowned. “Not profession. That desecrates the very meaning of profession. In a very dangerous racket. A good word. Harsh. Flat. Unromantic. Racket.”

I nodded.

“I have watched you at some length with admiration.” Corelli smiled. “I knew instantly that you had killed The Mosquito. And I predicted that you would kill Parson as well. The death of Tina is a surprise to me. I do not think she committed suicide, as they are saying around the Prado Llano. But I think she must have lost control of that car after quite possibly finding that Parson was dead and figuring that I knew all about her and would kill her.”

I said, “In which case she decided to run away before you found out she was here.”

“Exactly.”

“She’s dead. That’s all there is to it.”

Corelli nodded. He tightened the cable bindings on his skis, fitted his boots to them, then slipped the clamps on. He stood and flexed his knees.

I began to put my own on.

“Care to do the slope with me?”

“Beautiful.”

He grinned. “Before that, Nick, I’d like you to take possession of this.”

I looked down. He was holding out an envelope. It had a bulge in it. I opened the envelope and saw a familiar-looking roll — microfilm.

“It’s just what you think it is. Names. Places. Dates. Everything. All the way from Turkey through Sicily and the Riviera and on to Mexico. You can’t miss a thing or a person if you follow the facts. I want that chain destroyed so it can never be put back together again. For Beatrice’s sake.”

Beatrice. His daughter. And wasn’t that Dante’s dream image of womanhood?

“Okay, Corelli,” I said.

He slapped me on the back. “Let’s go!”

He began a slow traverse against the fall line, and then cut across the slope and schussed down toward a curve in the rim. Then he turned back in a nicely executed christie, and went around a pile of rocks.

I tucked the microfilm into an inside pocket of my ski jacket and began my run behind him. The snow was packed just right. I could feel my skis biting into the powder with a good springy bounce.

There was Corelli below me as I came around the curve of rocks. He executed a few turns, went into a wedeln, and then turned into a very wide traverse across a flat angle of the run.

I came down behind him, making a few turns and shaking the kinks out of my body. It was at the end of my run and just into the traverse that I saw the third skier on the alternate route.

The slopes were such that the alternate runs kept rejoining at intervals, somewhat like two wires that had been twisted loosely together at certain points.

It was a young man in brown togs. He seemed to be a teenager; at least he had that wiry, slender build. Whatever his age, he was an excellent skier. His skis bit into the snow and he was expert in turning and in drifting down the run.

At the portion of the slope where the two runs came together, the young skier cut back into his side, and went down slowly in a series of flat traverses. He was out of sight behind the backbone of rock that separated the two runs as I came up to Corelli.

“Beautiful pack,” I said.

He nodded.

“When you come to the States, I’ll take you up to Alta and Aspen. You’ll love them!”

He laughed. “I may take you up on that!”

“Good deal,” I said. “Go on. I’ll follow you down to the next stop.”

He grinned and started off.

I came a few moments after him. My right ski had been lagging a bit, and I tried to adjust my stance for better bite.

I moved along the steeper drop, slowing down with a snowplow because the neck between the two rock outcrops was too narrow for graceful maneuvering, and then came to a wide glade of snow and ice that looked like a picnic ground for any skier. I saw Corelli at the far end.

I started down, following Corelli to the left, and it was at that moment that I saw the young boy again.

He had gone down faster than the two of us in the alternate run, and was now approaching the cross-lanes of the two runs at the bottom of the wide, sloping field.

For a moment I drew up, cutting into the snow in an ice-hockey stop and just stood there. The powder was good. The snow beneath seemed solid. But I did not like the angle of the field. I mean, it was steep and it was almost flat, but there was a concave slope to it at the top that I did not quite like the looks of.

Yet Corelli was moving along it halfway down without any trouble. He was skiing from my left to right, and as I watched, he went into a kick turn and came back from right to left. Beyond him I saw the young man in the other run nearing the rock spine that separated our run from his.

I was just about to move out when I caught a warning flicker out of the corner of my eye. I lifted my head again, squinting against the glare of the sun. Had my eyes played tricks on me? No!

The kid held something in his right hand, and was clutching both ski poles under his left arm. He held a weapon of some kind— Yes! It was a hand gun!

Now the kid stopped and crouched in the snow. He was behind the rocks now, and I could not see what he was doing, but I knew instinctively that he was aiming the piece at Corelli who was skiing away from him, unaware that he was targeted in the gun-sights.

“Hauptli!” I screamed, using his cover name just in case I was being tricked by some kind of optical illusion.

He turned his head quickly, looking up the slope at me. I waved my arm toward the young man. Corelli turned and could see nothing from his angle. I waved frantically, warningly. Corelli understood something was wrong, and reacted. He tried to change his line of run, but lost his balance and went down in a bad front fall. But he controlled himself and hit on his hip, then started to slide.

I jumped on the skis and slammed down on my poles, schussing straight down toward the rocks behind which the youth was crouched. I tucked both ski poles under my left arm and got out the Luger.

The mogul came up out of nowhere. I was watching the rocks for the kid’s head, but I could see nothing of him. The mogul took me midway between knee and ski clamp and threw me flat on my face in the snow, ripping one ski completely off as the safety grips loosened, and sending it sliding down the powdery field. I slid and finally came to a wrenching stop. The other ski lay next to me. I do not even remember its coming off.

Corelli pushed himself up out of the snow, turning now to look at the rocks.

The first shot came. It missed. Now I could see the youth coming up out of the rocks, moving forward. I aimed the Luger at his head and squeezed the trigger. Too far to the right.

He turned quickly and saw me. His cap fell off. Golden hair flowed out around his throat.

It was Tina Bergson!

I was so stunned I could not think.

But then my brain recapitulated the entire story without any prompting.

Tina!

It was not her body in the red Jaguar.

It had to be Elena Morales’s. I saw it now. I saw Elena go into Parson’s room, and find Parson’s dead body where we had left it. And I saw her inside the room — with Tina Bergson already there! Tina had come up to Sol y Nieve to find Parson and direct him to Corelli to kill him. And she had found Parson dead — before Elena came up to the room. So she had called down to the lounge to bring Elena up. And Elena had come, directed by the message.

Tina had forced Elena out onto the balcony and down to the red Jaguar — because now she knew that Elena was Corelli’s eyes and ears. She put her in the Jaguar and killed her. In the horseshoe turn, out of sight, she placed Elena behind the wheel, started up the Jaguar with a ski boot or something heavy holding down the gas pedal, and jumped free herself.

And escaped in the dark even though I had come along right after her.

And now—

Now she had come to kill Corelli and take over the drug chain herself — as she had always wanted to do!

I saw Corelli rise again and stare at Tina. Tina fired once again at me. I returned her fire. I was too far away to do any good.

She looked at me, and then at Corelli, and then started on foot across the snow toward Corelli. He was frantically trying to get himself out of the snow and down the slope. Like many men involved in extremely dangerous professions, he apparently did not like to carry a weapon on his own person.

She floundered purposefully toward him in her ski boots, holding her weapon poised high in the air.

The snow was frozen hard around the mogul. I could see it crackling with tension at the top of the slope that formed a rounded contour, slanting down toward the bottom of the field.

I moved back and aimed the Luger down into the snow and fired once, twice, three times. The shots echoed in the air. The snow flew in all directions. There was a splitting crack, and the entire slab of snow and ice began to go — parting company with the upper half of the mogul that had grounded me.

It moved fast once it started. Slide!

She saw it coming but she was unable to escape it. She fired at Corelli two times and then started to run toward him, out of the way of the snow slide, but it caught her and carried her on down with it. I saw her yellow hair vanish in the stuff.

Then the snow piled up and began to disintegrate against the rocks of the spine as it came to rest with a smash and a roar.

I got my skis together and moved slowly down to Corelli.

He was lying on his side bleeding in the snow.

I came up to him. His face was white with pain and his eyes were unfocused. He was going into shock.

“Destroy the chain!” he whispered to me.

I lifted his head out of the snow. “I will, Rico.”

It was the first time I had called him by his first name.

He slumped back, a faint smile on his lips.

Sixteen

I pushed his eyelids closed.

I helped the Guardia Civil take care of Corelli’s body and then left on my skis as some men with shovels began digging for Tina Bergson. I drew aside the man with the Fu Manchu mustache and informed him of Barry Parson’s sad end.

It was pleasant under the shower to soak off all the strain and the tension of this Spanish Connection business. I toweled in my room preparatory to dressing and knocking for Juana Rivera. It was time I told her the last chapter of the story and started with her on the road to Malaga.

I checked my Luger in the shoulder holster hung over the bedpost, and reached for my robe. Since my feet were dry I taped on the stiletto and shrugged into the cool terrycloth. The mirror in the bathroom was clouded but I managed to comb my hair. I checked again and found that the strands of gray had not reappeared after I had pulled them out the week before.

I knew I would see more of them, not less, in the future.

My bags were all packed — I had done that before climbing in the shower — and I debated putting on my clothes before knocking for Juana, and then I thought, what the hell, and strode over to the door and tapped with my bare knuckles.

“Come in,” I heard her say in a muffled voice.

“Are you ready?”

There was no answer.

I opened the door and walked in.

The door closed behind me and I turned in surprise to find Juana in a chair facing me. She was completely naked, with a handkerchief tied around her mouth and her hands spliced together behind her back and tied to the chair. Her legs were fastened to the legs of the chair. She was staring at me with mute, imploring eyes.

I reached back for the door knob.

“No, no, Nick!” a voice said softly.

The drapes near the window shimmered and Tina Bergson stepped out from behind them, holding a gun in her hand. It seemed enormous — for her. It was Parsons Webley Mark IV. She was dressed in ski clothes — the same outfit she had worn on the slope. She was wet and cold, but otherwise quite herself. Her eyes were burning with a kind of frenzy.

“Hello, Nick,” she said with an amused laugh.

“Tina,” I said.

“Yes. I did not die in that avalanche you started.”

“So I see.”

I turned and glanced at Juana’s naked body once again. It was then that I saw the cigarette burns on her naked breast. I shuddered. There were sadomasochistic strains in Tina Bergson, possibly the lesbian tendencies that had been channelized into nymphomania.

“You’re sick, Tina,” I said softly. “What good does it do to hurt people like Juana?”

Tina exploded. “Rico was a fool to try to break up the drug chain! He had the best money-making scheme in the world — and he wanted to get rid of it!”

“But it killed his daughter.”

Tina sneered. “That daughter had become a slut just like all women — having every male at that silly college she went to.”

“In your imagination only, Tina,” I said. “You need a shrink.”

She threw back her head and laughed. “You’re a puritan, Nick! You know that? A puritan!”

I thought of the shoulder holster hanging on the bedpost in my room and cursed myself for being a stupid fool. I never go anywhere without it. All because of a silly sentimental interest in Juana Rivera I had exposed myself to death.

“Give me the microfilm, Nick,” said Tina, moving away from the drapes where she had been waiting for me. “I saw you with Rico. You must have it. Give it to me or I’ll kill you.”

“No deal, Tina,” I said. “If I hand over the film, you’ll kill the two of us and go.”

“No,” Tina said, her eyes bright. “I don’t care what you and the bitch do. You can leave and fly back to the States, for all I care. I just want the microfilm and I’ll let you go.”

I shook my head. “No way, baby.”

Her eyes were bright and as blue as glacier ice. I thought of Scandinavian fjords, and grues of ice. And I thought of that beautiful body under those ski clothes.

Tina pointed the heavy British Webley toward Juana. I watched her with a fascination that was almost sickening. Juana’s eyes rolled around fearfully. I could see her trembling. Tears began to slide down her cheeks.

“You’re a monster,” I said calmly. “Do you hear me, Tina? You could have taken me on, and not tormented Juana. What kind of an inhuman thing are you?”

Tina shrugged. “I’ll kill her at the count of three if you don’t deliver those films to me, Nick.”

“I don’t have the film,” I said quickly. Suddenly, out of the blue, I had a plan. I wanted her to think I was protesting too much.

Her eyes narrowed. “I saw you with Rico. You must have gotten the film from him. He needed one meeting with you alone. That was all. And he got it. He must have given it to you. One, Nick.”

I was sweating. “Tina, listen to me! He put the microfilm in the mail. He mailed it to Washington.”

“Rico wouldn’t trust the mails!” snorted Tina. “I know him better than that. Think up a better one, Nick. Two.”

“Tina, it’s the truth!” I moved toward her impulsively. “Now, put that gun down and get Juana out of that chair!”

Tina swung around at me. The muzzle of the heavy hand gun pointed at my chest. “This is a Webley .455 Nick,” she snapped, her face tight. “It’s as powerful as a Frontier Colt. Don’t make me tear you to pieces. At this short range, there wouldn’t be anything left of your chest or your heart. I’d have to hunt all through your things for the film. And I like that big rugged body of yours far too much to destroy it. Give it to me, Nick. The film!”

Juana was crying.

I moved around slightly.

“No!” Tina shouted, then turned the gun toward Juana’s head, the muzzle only inches from her hair. “You give me that film, Nick. Or she dies!”

I stared at her in desperation.

“I’ve said one, and two, Nick! Now — here is the last moment—” She took a breath.

“Hold it!” I cried. “It’s in the other room!”

“I don’t believe it,” Tina said with a small sneer. “No. You’re carrying it on you. A valuable thing like that.”

My face fell. “How can you be so sure?”

She smiled. “I know! That’s all. I know!” She moved toward me. “Give it to me!”

I reached for the pocket of my terrycloth robe. “Tina—”

“Slow!”

She lifted the heavy muzzle and aimed it at my neck.

I backed off. “It’s in... in my pocket.”

She watched me, her eyes pinched, her mind working swiftly.

“Then take off your robe and hand it to me. Slowly.”

I untied the belt, thinking furiously. I did not have the film in the pocket, of course. Yet—

“Off!” she snapped.

She was too far away to catch with the robe as I had hoped to do at first. I shrugged it off my shoulder and removed it from my body. I was standing there naked and exposed. If only she were nearer, I could flick out the robe, snap the Webley out of her hand, and...

“Throw it on the bed!”

With a sigh, I did so.

She moved toward it, keeping the gun centered on my chest and heart. With her left hand she fumbled inside one pocket. Empty. And then the other. Empty.

“Liar!” she screamed. “Where is it? Where is it?”

I saw her eyes all blue fire as she stared at me, running her gaze up and down my body, and over my legs. I moved my foot slightly, flinching and trying to keep her from seeing the adhesive tape where it came around from the back of my ankle.

Involuntarily, my eyes drifted down toward my right leg. She noticed the way my glance had gone, and her eyes narrowed in thought. She looked more carefully at my foot, then my leg, and she saw a tiny piece of adhesive tape coming around from the back of my ankle.

“There it is!” she snapped. “Taped to your ankle! Get it, Nick. Get it and—”

“Tina, I swear to you!”

“Do you want me to kill you and take that tape off myself?”

I knew that she would do it.

Feeling all naked and vulnerable, I bent over, reaching behind my right ankle. The tape was loose from the moisture of the shower when I had put it on, and I pulled the stiletto free instantly.

“Quick!” she called to me, leaning down over me and reaching out her left hand to take it from me.

I pulled the stiletto up and around and came toward her extending my left hand as if it held the microfilm. Her eyes flicked to my bunched-up fist and she reached out in a reflex action.

I pushed my fist toward her. She let her fingers touch it. I grabbed her wrist. At the same moment I drove with my right hand toward her body and slammed the stiletto into her neck just under the ear.

She fired the Webley with a gurgling scream.

The slug blasted itself into the hotel wall, penetrating through to the other side.

My chest burned from the fire of the exploding powder.

I fell back.

She went down and the arterial blood pumped out of her body onto her golden skin.

What a waste.

What a hell of a waste.

Shuddering, I got up and lifted her body and carried her to the bed.

She opened her eyes once.

“Nick,” she whispered, and smiled a funny smile. “I’ll never make it to seventy-seven, will I?”

“You picked the wrong profession,” I said.

She went limp.

I attended to Juana, trying to comfort her as I untied her from the chair, then hustling her to the closet where she slipped into her clothes. Then I went to my room and got into mine.

I strolled back. I was holding my Rolleiflex now, looking exactly the way my cover story said I should look. Dear old Hawk.

Actually, I was happy to be dressed. It is always much easier to talk about mundane things when you have your clothes on.

“Where is that microfilm?” Juana asked me.

I lifted the Rolleiflex. “In here,” I said. “A good cameraman always carries his film in a camera.”

She stuck her tongue out at me.

I caught it on film. After all, I was one of the best photographers from the midwest, wasn’t I? And Juana did not need to know that I had the microfilm in my pants pocket, like a pack of cigarettes or a key chain, did she?

Content

Nick Carter
The Spanish Connection

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