Ник Картер - The Spanish Connection

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.

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.