Гарольд Роббинс - The Raiders

"Sonja," Jonas mused.

"Escalante," said Wallace. "She's married to a guy named Virgilio Diaz Escalante. He's got money from oil."

"Sonja," Jonas murmured. "Jesus Christ! Phil. Get me her address and phone number. Discreetly. Okay?"

Angie licked the last of his fluid off Jonas's penis. She rolled over on her back.

"You're not taking me with you, are you?" she asked. "To Mexico. You're leaving me here. What could be so important — ?"

"There are better things for you in this world," he said.

"Name one," she whispered, on the verge of tears.

"We're forming a new corporation: Cord Hotels, Incorporated. Temporarily, the fifth floor of The Seven Voyages is corporate headquarters. Nevada Smith will be president of the new company. He's staying here to watch things for me. I'm making Morris Chandler a vice president. Nevada may trust Morris too much. I'm not sure, but I think he might. I want you to stay here, keep an eye on things, and report to me. I'll make arrangements for you to have a direct communications channel to me. I'd make you a vice president, too, but I can't. You know why I can't."

She closed her eyes and nodded. "Making me an officer would risk the gaming license. I have a criminal record."

"Right."

"How long have you known?"

He shrugged. "Pretty soon after you came here."

"You could have thrown me out."

"I don't want to throw you out. You can be valuable to me. Besides, I like you. I'll pay you twenty thousand a year."

" Jonas !"

"Plus bonuses. You'll earn it. Anyway, I won't be gone so long. I'll be back. The biggest thing is, I trust you. That's on instinct, mine and Nevada's. You already know more about my business than Monica ever did. I trust you, Angie. Don't let me down."

She bent forward and kissed his penis, then sucked it in between her lips and teeth. "When you trust a woman not to bite you," she muttered, "that's trusting her more than you do when you tell her about your business." She looked up and grinned playfully. Then she was solemn again. "I want to go with you wherever you go. But — " She shrugged. "I know better. I know that can't be. So ... You can trust me, boss. If for no other reason ... because I love you."

JONAS HAD SENT BILL SHAW AHEAD TO MAKE ARRANGEMENTS. Colonel William Shaw had come with Cord Aircraft immediately after his discharge from the Army Air Corps in 1946. He was a useful man to have on a staff. He had proved to be a capable administrator, a man not daunted by details. Besides, he had been a test pilot and was a skillful flyer and navigator. He had picked up a Beech Baron from Intercontinental Airlines in Los Angeles and flown to Mexico. Since there was nothing unusual in a flight by Colonel Shaw from Los Angeles to Mexico City, the subpoena hounds had taken no notice.

Not so the newspaper stories telling that a new corporation, Cord Hotels, Incorporated, had bought The Seven Voyages casino-hotel in Las Vegas. Jonas had known the marshals would arrive with their subpoenas in hand as soon as that word got out. Shaw's mission to Mexico City and Acapulco had not been to afford Jonas a pleasure jaunt but to arrange a new hiding place.

Angie helped him to disguise himself as Al String. He left for the airport in one of the hotel's Cadillac limousines, in the company of a group of Mexican junketeers who had spent three days at The Seven Voyages and had undoubtedly dropped several fortunes. At the airport, the limousines drew up to the De Havilland. The junketeers, plus Jonas, climbed the steps into the sixteen-passenger airplane, and shortly it took off.

When the plane had reached cruising altitude and was flying smooth and level, Jonas went to the head in the rear, waited his turn, and went inside. There he killed off Al String. The wig and the wax went in the trash. He used wet paper towels to scrub the silver-gray from his eyebrows and hair. When he returned to his seat he was not the man who had boarded the plane. He was the man whose name and picture appeared on his passport.

Returning to his seat, all but unnoticed by the Spanish-speaking junketeers, he took time to observe his fellow passengers.

Franklin D. Roosevelt had taught norteamericanos to be embarrassed by conspicuous consumption, but it did not embarrass Mexicans. Mexican businessmen wore gaudy gold jewelry: heavy rings with star sapphires, glittering diamonds, emeralds, also gold wristwatches set with gems, even gold chains hanging just inside their open collars. Their women wore furs, necklaces, bracelets, rings, anklets. They also wore — Jonas had heard this sworn to but could not confirm it — exquisitely jeweled but wholly non-functional chastity belts.

Their party continued on the plane. Two hostesses in short skirts served champagne and caviar to the roistering Mexicans.

It was inconceivable to Jonas that Sonja could have become one of these shallow, talky, befurred, bejeweled women — or that she could have married one of these greasy gambling-junket men.

He shook his head at the oner of champagne. He asked for bourbon instead, and when the young woman brought it he turned and stared out the window. They had crossed the Mexican border by now. In the distance ahead and to the right he could see the Sierra Madre.

In early afternoon the De Havilland settled onto the runway at the Tialpan Airport, a satellite airport for Mexico City. The Mexican officials at this airport recognized the De Havilland and knew who was aboard. None of them would suggest that these wealthy and influential citizens should identify themselves to immigration control or make a customs declaration. Those functions simply disappeared, and the junketeers — Jonas ignored and moving with the crowd — moved directly into the airport terminal building.

Bill Shaw was there waiting to drive him to La Plaza Real, where he would stay for a few days before he moved on to the top floor of a hotel in Acapulco.

Jonas sat down on the couch in the living room of his suite. Though the Mexican government would pretend not to know he was in the country, the hotel knew who he was; the suite was fragrant with fresh flowers, and the bar was equipped with champagne, brandy, and with the liquor it was understood that Señor Cord liked best: Tennessee sour mash bourbon.

"Communication is not all it might be," said Shaw. "When we get to Acapulco — "

"I can make local calls?"

"Oh, sure. It's the taps on the other end, in the States, that I'm worried about."

"We have a directory?" Jonas asked.

Shaw nodded and retrieved a telephone directory from a drawer in the Louis XV writing table where the telephone waited.

"Well, thanks, Bill. Suppose I see you later."

Sitting on the couch, sipping a small shot of whiskey, Jonas flipped through the fat Mexico City telephone directory, half expecting not to find the number he needed and to have to hire someone to locate —

But there it was: Escalante, Virgilio Diaz, listed at the address Phil Wallace had wired him.

He went to the writing table and dialed the number.

"¿Quién habla?"

"Do you speak English?"

"Momenta, señor."

The moment was more than a moment, but eventually another voice came on the line. "I speak English."

"I am calling for Señora Sonja Escalante. I am Jonas Cord, from the States."

"The Señora is not at home at this time. Would you like to leave your number?"

He did. He was not willing to take the shower he wanted, for fear she would call and he would miss her. He drank some more whiskey. He walked around the room. He stared down from the windows at the bustling streets below. He wished he had asked how long she might be out, when he might expect her to call.