Ник Картер - The Spanish Connection

“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.