Ник Картер - The Spanish Connection

“Right. She knows your hotel. I sent out a note already.”

“When will she be there?”

“She’s to pick you up in the lobby at noon.” Kelly glanced at his watch. “That gives you half an hour.”

“What about Juana?”

“She can wait. This is an initial probe.”

I shrugged. “Why all the rigmarole?”

“Roman Nose is running scared. I think he wants to find out if he’s being tailed.”

“Or if we are,” I mused.

I was waiting in the lobby at noon.

When she came in, every eye in the lobby turned to her, the women glaring with resentment, the men leering with interest. The locals behind the desk suddenly turned into debonair Lotharios.

I stood and walked toward her. “Miss Bergson,” I said, in English.

“Yes,” she responded, with only the slightest of accents. “I am late. So sorry.”

“You’re well worth waiting for,” I said.

She stared at me coolly. I thought of icebergs in the fjords. “Shall we go, then?”

“Yes,” I said.

She turned and led me out of the lobby into the bright Spanish sunshine.

“It is only across the plaza,” she said. “We can walk.”

I nodded, and reached gallantly for her arm. After all, I was in Europe. She gave it to me without comment. Every Spanish eye turned to greet the two of us — her with admiration, me with envy.

“It’s a beautiful day,” she said, breathing in deeply.

“You like Malaga?” I riveted my gaze to her face.

“Oh, yes,” she said. “It is lazy and easy here. I like sunshine. I like warmth.”

She created it, but I did not mention that. “How was your boat trip down?”

She sighed. “We ran into a squall off the Costa Brava. Otherwise—”

“And your — your companion?”

She eyed me thoughtfully. “Mister Roman?”

“Mister Roman.” The charade continued.

“You will see him in a short time.”

“I understand you ski,” I said as we neared the marina.

“I love it.” She smiled. “Do you?”

“Moderately,” I said. “Mostly in the United States. Aspen. Stowe.”

“I want to go to America some day,” said Tina Bergson, her blue eyes warm and intent on mine.

“Perhaps Mister — uh, Roman — will have something to say about that.”

She laughed. Her teeth were perfect. “Perhaps, indeed.” She stared at me intently. “I think you and he will get along fine.”

Then we were on the quay and a young man at the end of it stood at attention, directing his attitude toward Tina Bergson. He was fairly thin, but he looked wiry and strong. He had curly black hair and a fine pencil-line mustache.

“Señorita,” he said. He reached out to help her down into a small sleek powerboat tied to the quay.

“Thank you, Bertillo,” she said sweetly. “This is Mister Peabody,” she told him, gesturing to me.

“Señor,” said Bertillo. His eyes were dark and intelligent.

I jumped down after Tina Bergson and then Bertillo cast off, got the inboard moving, and we made an arc toward the yacht some three hundred yards away.

The bay sparkled in the sunshine, the gulls picked waste out of the sea, and as we cut through the water, they fluttered into the sky angrily, splashing us with seasuds.

In minutes we were tied up to the yacht. I could see the name now, Lysistrata. Above us two deckhands looked down and dropped a ladder. We clambered up the side.

In the cabin on the main deck, which turned out to be the salon, I could see a muscular man seated in a comfortable lounging chair. He was smoking a cigar that had made halos of blue smoke above his head.

We went in. He rose, his large head moving up into the smoke cloud. “Tina!” he greeted her, and she smiled back.

“This is Mister Peabody, from America,” she said. “Mister Peabody, this is Mister — uh — Roman.”

I glanced around. The surroundings were posh.

He laughed, shook hands. His grip was firm. “Mister Peabody, I believe you ski?”

I nodded. “I do.”

“So does Tina. And I do, but only a little. We are spending some time at Sol y Nieve. I understand you are going to be there?”

“I am.”

“With a companion of yours?”

“Yes.”

“This companion. He understands the nature of the rendezvous?”

“He is a she.”

“Pardon?”

“My companion is a woman. She understands the nature of the rendezvous.”

I was studying Roman Nose. From the picture I had seen I realized that he could easily be Rico Corelli. In fact, I was sure he was Rico Corelli. He was the right age, although he did not show his age as much as most men in his business.

“I have always had good relations with Americans,” Corelli said.

Tina smiled. “Always.”

“We are looking forward to your presence in our country,” I said. “At least, I understand that you—”

Corelli held up his hand. “I hope to be making the trip. If we can make a deal.”

“It will take only one meeting,” I said. “At the ski resort.”

He nodded.

“What is the reason for this preliminary meet?” I asked abruptly.

“Security,” he snapped, puffing at his cigar. The heavy smoke had begun to wander all over the salon.

“You seem reasonably secure.” I leaned forward and spoke evenly and significantly. “I assure you, there will be no trouble with security while I am around.”

A faint smile flickered across his mouth. “Perhaps not.”

A steward brought in drinks. I leaned back. The meeting had been discussed and agreed to. It would simply be a matter of contacting him at the resort hotel and bringing Juana along with me.

We drank.

We talked of other things. Fifteen minutes passed. Finally Tina rose.

“I suppose Mister Peabody is anxious to get back to his hotel.”

I nodded. “Thank you for your time, Mister Roman. I look forward to a fuller discussion in the snow country.”

We looked at each other and I turned to leave. Tina came up to me and took my arm.

“I am sorry that I cannot return to the shore with you. But Bertillo will take you back.”

I shook hands slowly. “Thank you — both — for your charming hospitality.”

We were on deck now, and I climbed down into the powerboat. She waved at me from the deck as the inboard started to swing around and head for the marina.

We had proceeded only fifty yards when there was a sudden scream from the yacht. The startling sound traveled speedily and uninterruptedly along the surface of the water.

I turned quickly. “Stop, Bertillo!”

I saw Tina come out of the salon where she had just gone. She was stumbling.

A series of orange flashes blazed inside the salon, then the rattle of automatic riflefire chopped across the water.

I heard a shout.

There was another scorching burst of gunfire, and I saw Tina Bergson fall to the deck, her voice cut off in mid-scream.

A figure in a dark wetsuit moved quickly across the deck in strides like a panther’s, and jumped off over the rail on the far side into the water. I had drawn my gun, but could not get a clear shot of him.

“Circle the yacht!” I snapped to Bertillo.

Astonished, frightened, but able, he gunned the powerboat, and we swept around from the right hand side, past the bow of the yacht.

Only bubbles showed where the man in the wetsuit had gone. He had left scuba gear hanging there, that much was obvious. He was gone for good.

We circled about for a full minute, but he did not emerge.

I climbed the ladder to the deck where four crewmen surrounded Tina, who was breathing, but moaning softly. The shoulder of her sweater was drenched in rapidly drying blood.

I ran into the salon.