Ник Картер - Agent Counter-Agent

“I’ll be there,” I said.

If you’ve never been to the Nuevo Circo at three-thirty P.M. on a Sunday in festival time, you’ll never know what complete chaos looks like. There are so many aficionados milling around that it’s practically impossible to walk from one point to another without having to fight your way through them. There are scalpers everywhere, selling tickets at twice or three times the normal price. Vendors of all kinds clog the open area in front of the arena, and hundreds of pickpockets are hard at work. I had a hard time finding a scalper with a ticket for the shady barrera section where Ilse had said she would be sitting. Front-row tickets aren’t easy to come by during festival time. But finally I got a ticket and went in.

Inside the atmosphere was completely different. It was still noisy, but there was a land of hushed expectancy in the crowd, very unlike pre-game time at American football games. I found my seat, which was right down by the ring, where you can see everything at close range. Just then a bugle sounded, and a man on a horse rode across the ring and doffed his hat toward the presidential box. He was the official in charge, and he was obtaining permission from the president of the bullring to proceed with the corrida.

I looked around for Ilse, and after a few minutes, I spotted her, sitting just two sections over. She hadn’t seen me. A man renting cushions came down the aisle beside me, and I bought one. Without a cushion those stone bleachers can be pretty uncomfortable. For a few minutes the two seats beside me were empty, but then an English couple came down and took them. The parade of toreros was over, and the band had stopped playing. A silence had fallen over the bullring. I glanced over at Ilse again, and she seemed to be looking around for me.

Then a gate opened, and a big black bull came thundering out of a chute. The bullfighters stood behind the barrier and watched somberly as the bull charged the burladero shield just in front of them, smashing into the wood and splintering it loudly. Ilse’s favorite, Núñez, was one of the men watching. He was the first torero on the bill.

The English lady beside me seemed to be all right through the initial verónicas and rodillazos with the big red cape, because it was all so colorful and pretty. And she actually seemed to enjoy the graceful banderilleros. But she started to get pale when the bull knocked the picador’s horse down and almost gored the picador. Núñez fought the bull, and his capework was good, if a little flashy. Finally he went in for the kill, and the blood flowed. On the first try the sword hit bone, and he had to pull it out. But the second attempt was more successful — the blade went in clean. Núñez’ cuadrilla chased the bull in circles till it fell to its knees, and the matador finished it off with a dagger at the base of the skull. Then a team of mules came out and dragged the crimson-splattered carcass past us on the way out of the ring. By then the English lady had had enough. She was really green as her husband led her away.

Núñez was taking his bows around the ring. He had been awarded an ear more out of respect for his reputation than for his performance. He hadn’t deserved it for that fight. His capework had been pretty good, but he hadn’t killed the bull well. Instead of going in over the horns, which is necessary for a good kill but requires a certain amount of courage on the part of the bullfighter, Núñez had stabbed at the animal like an apprentice butcher.

After the shouting died down a little, I called to Ilse. She turned at the sound of my voice, and I waved to her.

“There are empty seats here if you’d like to join me,” I yelled.

She didn’t wait for a second invitation but immediately started to make her way over to me. Ilse was wearing a short suede skirt and matching vest over a sheer white blouse. As she moved, the skirt revealed her long, tanned thighs.

“I am afraid my favorite torero had a bad day,” she said as she sat down beside me. I gave her my cushion.

“Doesn’t everybody occasionally?” I smiled wryly.

She returned the smile and dazzled me. “Maybe he will do better on his second bull.”

“I’m sure of it,” I said. “I’m sorry to have left so fast last night. But I saw a man I knew, and he was leaving.”

I watched her face for a reaction, but there was none. I was sure she had seen the man, too, and I wondered if she knew him. But if she did, she wasn’t showing it.

“I know that business comes before socializing,” she said. “Unless the socializing is business.”

I smiled. “Well said.”

You can tell when a woman wants to go to bed with you, even if she’s trying to hide it from you. Mostly it’s the way she looks at you and the gestures she makes with her hands and body. Sometimes she comes on strongest when her conversation is anything but seductive. She can be telling you to get lost or explaining the latest theory in thermodynamics. But her body, her chemistry, always gives her away. Ilse kept talking about the fine points of bullfighting, but I could tell that she wanted me as much as I wanted her. Even if she had ulterior motives for wanting to see me, I found myself looking forward to the evening.

The second bullfighter was just coming out to work his bull, a big, fine bull from one of the best ranches. The torero was an unknown, but he was taking chances to please the crowd.

“Olé! Olé!” they yelled.

“He’s good,” Ilse said.

“Yes.” I watched him execute a mariposa, making the cape flutter like a butterfly. “Do you know any of the toreros?”

“Not personally,” she said. “Even though I like to watch them perform, they are not my kind of men, you know. Anyway, Latin men usually do not appeal to me.”

“How long have you been at the embassy,” I asked, changing the subject.

“Since my arrival in Caracas, almost a year ago. I thought I wanted to see the world.”

“And now you don’t?”

She turned those blue eyes on me and then looked back to the ring. “It can be... lonely for a girl in a strange city this size.”

If that wasn’t a green light, I’d never seen one. “You went to the reception last night with a bachelor,” I said.

“Ah, Ludwig.” She laughed. “He is a nice man, but he likes to collect butterflies and read long books on ancient history. I am not even sure he is interested in girls.”

We exchanged smiles. “Do you work for him?” I asked. I knew that Ilse Hoffmann did not.

She did not look at me but kept on watching the torero. “No, not for Ludwig. For a man called Steiner.”

The answer was right, but I still wasn’t satisfied. “I know Hamburg quite well. Where did you live there?”

“In the north of the city. On Friedrichstrasse. There is a park nearby.”

“Oh, yes. I know the area. Did you live there with your parents?”

“My parents were killed in an automobile accident when I was very young,” she said.

That was true, too. The ambassador had mentioned to Collins that Ilse Hoffmann was an orphan.

I m sorry.

We watched the bullfight. I bought two drinks from a vendor, and Ilse seemed to be enjoying herself very much. Núñez appeared again and performed better than on his first try. There were just two bulls to go, and the word was that they were immature calves from a second-rate ranch.

“Why don’t we leave now and have a drink together somewhere?” she offered.

I looked into her blue eyes and saw the invitation there again. “Sounds great,” I said.

We had a drink at a nearby café, and then I took Ilse to dinner at El Jardín, on Avenida Almeda. After we had finished our dinner, she asked me back to her apartment for a drink. Because I still hadn’t figured her out and because the seductive promise in her eyes had really gotten to me, I went.