Ник Картер: The Spanish Connection

“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.

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!” 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?”