Микки Спиллейн - The Delta Factor

We let down offshore, circling into the stream of the flare Art had dropped. Less than a mile away the stark white crescent of a beach sparkled in the blazing sunlight, like a shark’s mouth against the somber green of the hills beyond it. Beneath us a small boat waited, its exhaust puffing little ringlets of smoke.

The touchdown was gentle and Art taxied up to the boat, waiting, facing the wind while the swarthy little guy at the wheel pulled up alongside us. I handed out the bag Kim and I shared, then helped her onto the strut and watched while she leaped to the deck as graceful as a cat. Then Art gave me a few final words of caution and advice before I followed her.

Kim had said little during the flight, preferring to study our backs from a seat behind us. Our easy familiarity had made an impression on her. It was evident our association was of long standing and that without hesitation we had fallen into habit patterns formed by long training and longer experience. It was a situation she didn’t like and if I hadn’t taken the precaution of jimmying the phone the night before and locking us both in the room she would have phoned in a report of the unusual occurrence. At least it had made her mad enough so she tumbled into bed with her clothes on, ignoring me in the big chair by the door. Once near dawn I heard the metallic snick of the safety going off on her automatic, so I deliberately thumbed back the hammer of the.45 with an audible click that told the whole story once and for all and she never moved the rest of the night.

Now she watched me wave Art off, her face impassive. The little guy at the wheel grinned and said, “I am José, señor. If there is anything?”

“How long will it take to get ashore?”

“Possibly an hour. Your country’s patrol planes search overhead watching for” — he waved a hand in our direction—” such as this. Ever since Señor Camino escaped your police and came here and when Professor Francisco Hernández was abducted on Señor Ortega’s orders, they search.”

“These aren’t U.S. territorial waters,” I reminded him.

“Neither is Cuba. There are, how you say, overflights for preventive measures. For that we are rather grateful. There are those who wish to flee this cursed place and your search plans have been useful to stopping pursuit and rescuing those attempting to escape.”

“How many get away, José?”

“Very few, señor. It is regrettable. Carlos Ortega has many ways of preventing such democratic action.” Very casually he glanced my way. “You are aware, of course, that he knows the Señor Morgan is coming with his wife.”

“So I hear. He could have made it easier.”

José shook his head with quiet emphasis. “No, señor. He would not wish to antagonize your country if it should be known as such. Not at this point, at least. He has far greater power over you when your entry is illegal. I hope you do not regret your decision to come here.”

“There aren’t many places left to go.”

“True,” José agreed, “but be careful. It is not a friendly place.”

While we were talking, José had crowded the shoreline, skirting the beach until we picked up a narrow inlet that was nearly invisible in the tangled growth. Without hesitation he nosed the boat through the vegetation into a passable channel and wound around its contours for a half mile. At the far end were a dock and a large ramshackle building that had listed under the unrelenting pressure of years of offshore winds.

“It will not be long now, Senor Morgan,” José said. “I have a car waiting to take you inland.”

The city of Nuevo Cádiz raised its magnificence in the midst of squalor, a modern monument to graft, corruption and open gambling that made pre-Castro Havana seem archaic by comparison. Military personnel in flamboyant uniforms were everywhere, officers sporting sidearms in spit-polished leather holsters, the enlisted troops strolling casually, rifles slung over their shoulders, a constant reminder to the populace that control still came down through the chain of command. Police officers were unduly officious, doing little more than directing traffic, knowing how minute their authority really was and resenting it.

Kim and I both spotted a dozen well-known playboy types from two continents and a spattering of Hollywood celebrities, but the big-money people were the ones you ordinarily wouldn’t pick out unless you could recognize the signs. For most, Nuevo Cádiz was an interesting stop on the Monte Carlo — Las Vegas route, one that had potential if the political wheels spun in the right direction.

I signed us in the Hotel Regis as Mr. and Mrs. M. A. Winters, feeling myself get a little tight at the stares Kim was drawing and some of the more audible remarks some of the other guests made, not thinking I caught their language. I played it straight and ignored it, wanting to keep the supposed language barrier an edge on my side if I needed it.

The bellboy took us up to a suite on the fifth floor, accepted the ten-dollar American with a toothy smile and bowed himself out the door. Kim went to say something, but I held up my hand, made a motion toward my ear and pointed to spots around the room. “Nice place,” I said. “Good honeymoon spot. Like it?”

“Beautiful.”

“Told you you would. Wait till you catch the nightlife.”

“I’d rather go shopping. We cut out so fast I didn’t bring a damn thing.”

I grinned at her and nodded. While we were talking we had located two of the bugs planted in the living room and Kim picked up another in the huge bedroom. We didn’t bother to strip them out. They would be a useful decoy if we wanted to plant an idea in their minds. The only place that seemed clean was the bathroom, so if we had anything to discuss we could do it there with the shower going. Nice, in one way of thinking.

“Come here, honey,” I said. My tone had a bridegroom touch and she scowled uneasily until I made an impatient motion with my hand. She came into my arms slowly and I buried my mouth against her ear. “Play it cozy, sugar. They’ll be expecting this so don’t do anything that will make them think differently.”

She nodded, her hair brushing gently against my cheek, smelling of some fine perfume. I tilted her chin up with the tips of my fingers, feeling those big wild eyes engulf me, then suddenly my mouth touched her mouth, and just as suddenly it wasn’t just a touch any longer, but a crazy maelstrom that tried to suck me into its vortex.

With a trembling hand, she pushed me away, her breath caught in her throat for a moment. Soundlessly, but so I could read her lips, she said, “That wasn’t… necessary.”

I didn’t have to be quiet about it. “Wonderful doll. You turn me inside out.” Her face flushed a little and I grinned at her. “How about trying the nightlife here? Maybe we can pick up a few bucks at the tables.”

“Or lose it. But I think… it’s a good idea.”

We took our turns in the shower, changed into clean clothes, then went out to the elevator. I gave Kim enough money to shop for both of us while I got the feel of the city, making arrangements to meet her at the tables downstairs in two hours. Given two people sensitive to the temper of a city, it wouldn’t take too long to get the mood of the place. Kim would probe the locals, the salesclerks, draw them out the way one woman can another, and I’d tackle the tourist angle.

Although Nuevo Cádiz, the capital city of this politically volcanic country, wasn’t especially noted for authentic tourists. The big men at the crap and roulette tables found it relaxing because all the wraps were off; hoods found it a convenient place to cool off if the heat was too much for them back home, provided they could pay the freight; the jet set reveled in the lush spas the government had erected and the Commies played their little games and waited to see which side to cultivate and harvest into their own world.