Ник Картер - The Spanish Connection

“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.

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?”