Carter crossed the frontier into Andorra on the French side at Pas-de-la-Casa. Here he secured a detailed map of the country and sat down over lunch to study it.
The principality was incredibly tiny, 188 square miles, with no airport and no railway system, and on the one main highway that led from the French to the Spanish frontier, the whole country could be crossed in less than an hour.
But that did not tell the whole story, at least as far as Carter was concerned.
Every inch of Andorra was valleys or mountains. There were hundreds, perhaps thousands, of places where the ground could be excavated and silos constructed to house the missiles.
By one o'clock he was back in the car and climbing toward the center of the country via a mountain road that was constantly turning left or right and, often it seemed, both ways at once.
The scenery was magnificent, even after he passed the snow line and a cloudy haze obscured everything beyond a half mile. From the tiny ski village of Soldeu, the terrain flattened out through a place called Ronsol. There he descended downward out of the snow and shut the heater off after only a few miles.
By the time he passed the third largest village. Encamp, and was nearing the capital of Andorra-la-Vella, Carter had gained one very solid impression of the country.
Andorra might once have been a mountain paradise for a small population of farmers and sheep herders, a simple alpine aerie remote from the rest of the world and its troubles.
But no more. Word of its tax-free status had obviously spread, and the world was now beating a track to this tiny country.
The whole face of Andorra was changing, almost hourly. There were workmen, cranes, bulldozers, huge earthmovers, and piles of building materials everywhere.
With all this as cover, it would be no trick at all to build a structure or structures to house eight missiles right under anyone's nose.
In the center of the capital he paused to study the map that Pallmar had given him in Paris as a guide to the villa.
"Pardon, monsieur. May I be of help?" a perky female voice asked in French.
She was cute, in a blue and white uniform with a beret perched saucily on a well-coiffed mane of red hair. Above a very prominent left breast was a badge, and in one hand she carried a traffic baton.
"Yes," Carter replied with a jaunty air in his voice. "You can tell me how I can find this villa and then tell me your name."
"The villa, monsieur, is easy. Take the road to your right, there, where it says Engordany. The first road you come to, turn right again and go to the end. There you will find the villa. It is a very beautiful house overlooking all of the city. You are a guest of the Englishman, Harris-White?"
"No, I'm leasing the villa for a while. You know the gentleman?"
"No, but it is a small country," she said with a pretty smile. "A person as rich as Monsieur Harris-White who lives in so grand a villa is known by everyone. Enjoy your stay in my country, monsieur."
"Wait. You haven't answered my second question."
"Your second question?"
"Your name."
"Marie."
"I am Nicholas Carstocus," he announced. "Now that we have been formally introduced, you can have dinner with me tonight."
"I cannot discuss such things while I am on duty."
"Then what time do you get off duty?"
She glanced quickly to her right and left, and when she spoke again it was with a pixyish grin and a low voice.
"I usually have a glass of wine at the Hotel Roc Blanc lounge on my way home from work at five."
"Five it is, mademoiselle," Carter said and waved as he whirled the powerful little car up the street she had indicated.
Harris-White's villa had been built right into the side of a mountain. It was surrounded on three sides by trees, and a gatehouse abutted the dead-end road.
The gate was open. Carter sailed through it and stopped at the steps leading up to a massive, copper-studded oak door.
Almost before he had switched off the ignition, a white-gloved hand was opening the door.
"Señor Carstocus?"
"Si," Carter replied, uncoiling from the sports car.
"I am Robere, the houseboy."
He was a full two feet shorter than Carter, with an almost feminine body, but his smile seemed to go from ear to ear when he grinned.
"The bags are in the trunk. Can you handle them?"
"Of course," Robere said with a shrug, then flashed another grin. "I only look like a girl."
Carter was just reaching for the front door when it opened wide. A small, dark-haired woman with a gnarled face and flat, expressionless eyes faced him.
"Señor Carstocus?"
"Si."
"I am Estrellita, the housekeeper and cook. I do not work on Saturdays or Sundays, or beyond six o'clock unless I am paid extra and am warned the previous day. The master suite is the second door beyond the head of the stairs. What do you wish for supper?"
"I'll be dining out."
"Good. Welcome to the casa."
She turned and stomped away on stumpy heels.
Truly, Carter thought, a woman of few words, and one who knows her own mind.
He used the time until four o'clock to unpack and familiarize himself with the house and grounds.
At four he showered and changed into a light short-sleeved shirt, beige trousers to match, and a cardigan with a designer's name discreetly stitched onto the left breast.
It was a pity, he thought, climbing into the Mercedes, that Carstocus's taste did not match his own. The wardrobe he had purchased to match the identity was high-quality stuff. He could have used it when the mission was over, but as Nick Carter he hated to be a walking billboard for someone else.
The Hotel Roc Blanc was easy to find. It was located in the center of the village of Les Escaldes and constructed almost entirely of white stone quarried from the mountain behind it.
At five after five he walked into the hotel lounge.
Marie sat at a window table sipping a glass of wine. She had changed into a pair of white wool slacks, a sheer blouse, and a very form-fitting white sleeveless sweater.
"You don't look anything like a policeperson."
"I'm not a policeperson… after five."
"What are you then?"
"My own person."
Carter grinned. "You started without me," he said, nodding toward the wine.
"Yes, but I didn't pay the check."
He laughed and slipped into the chair opposite her. "I think I'm going to like you, Marie…"
"Follett."
"Spanish or French?"
"Neither… Andorran."
"Good! You should prove to be the perfect guide! I want to see all of Andorra, every mountaintop, every valley. I want to see every building being built and I want to know who is building it."
"Why?"
"I'm thinking of moving here. I like to know my neighbors."
"That could take some time…"
"I have a lot of it," Carter replied.
"I have to work in the daytime, I'm afraid."
"Don't you have any vacation time coming?"
"Yes, but…"
"I pay my guides quite well."
The following days were spent with Marie, either in the Mercedes or a rented jeep. Carter explored every inch of the country, making his own maps and compiling a long list of the contractors and builders on every piece of construction.
By night he pub-crawled, giving everyone he met the impression that he was a very rich, oversexed roué.
There was an English schoolteacher on vacation and there was a young Spanish widow who had moved to Andorra because she could do things there she could not do in her small provincial hometown. There was the daughter of a French restaurateur who adored handsome, wealthy Greeks, and there was the bored wife of an American banker who lived in Andorra, had most of his business interests in Andorra, but traveled ninety percent of the time.
At the end of a week Carter had enough information to clog a computer, and he had gone through enough women that to seduce one more would hardly be noticed.
It was time to make contact with Louisa Juaneda.
Cabaret Amour was the kind of place that used the silhouette of a nude female for its advertising logo. Alongside the nude, the signs made big promises: DELIGHTFUL LADY COMPANIONS, AMBIANCE AS YOU LIKE IT, SEX ATTRACTIONS NUDE.
And in the Bar Americain there was dancing and the vocal stylings of Louisa Juaneda.
As in any cabaret, the action began after dark… long after dark. After yet another hard day of tramping the hills with Marie, taking pictures of almost-finished, half-finished, and barely started houses and buildings, Carter slept until nine.
After a shower and a fresh shave, he dressed in gray slacks, a navy jacket, a pale shirt, and a bright red ascot. He had a light supper in one of the better hotel restaurants and walked into the Cabaret Amour at eleven o'clock.
Things were just getting under way.
There was an old woman with the white face of a robot collecting a cover charge and a burly bouncer at the door who informed everyone that at the first inkling of a fight he would break bones no matter who was the instigator.
Carter went down a flight of steps to a cement corridor that smelled of damp concrete. This led through a beaded curtain to the club itself.
Like all European late-night spots, it had the atmosphere of a cave. There were dim lights positioned over tiny tables crowded close together and couples dancing to a disco beat on a small dance floor with rainbow lights bouncing up their pants legs and skirts.
A tall, languorous-looking brunette with most of her anatomy spilling out of a halter top ambled toward him. She would have almost looked erotic if her eyes could focus and she hadn't been chewing gum.
"Just you, monsieur?"
"Oui."
"A table or the bar? A table is a two-drink minimum."
"I'll take a table. I might scare up some company."
She smiled flatly. "That won't be any trouble in here. Follow me!"
Carter ordered scotch, lit a cigarette, and let his eyes adjust to the gloom.
They made it by the time the scotch arrived.
"What time does the first show start in the Bar Americain?"
"The nude lesbian show or the singer?"
"Uh, the singer, "Carter replied, trying to keep a straight face.
"Midnight. It's a two-drink minimum in there, too, but don't worry about it. You'll never get drunk on this stuff."
She was right. The scotch was lousy.
So was the decor, now that Carter could see it. The walls and ceiling were poor rip-offs of the sleazy decor you see in Pigalle clubs in Paris. It was a fair try but lacked the smoky, sultry aura of sin that seemed so much a part of Pigalle.
Here the sin seemed make-believe, even if the customers were trying hard to make it real.
At the table beside Carter, a man of about twenty was sitting hunched across the table, his forehead pressed hard against the forehead of his date. She was a pretty, plump blonde who kept her eyes closed and her fingers curling through his thick black hair.
The man had his hands under the blonde's blouse, kneading with almost dreamlike slowness the full roundness of her breasts where they rested on the table.
At the table beyond them were three girls, all about twenty, and all looking fearfully around the room. Carter guessed the fear was twofold. One, would they be asked to dance or would anyone buy them a drink? Two, what the hell would they do if someone did?
Behind him Carter heard a high-pitched male laugh, and he turned casually.
The table was full of nubile teenage girls and barely bearded boys. One of the girls was wearing an off-the-shoulder dress that had been pulled down low enough to expose a starkly white, darkly nippled breast.
The boy beside her — a hairy cross between modern punk and early Elvis in black leather — was having one hell of a time autographing the breast with a marking pencil.
Everybody at the table — including the girl being autographed — thought the whole thing was a laugh riot.
Suddenly Carter felt very old and oddly puritan.
"Want your other drink?"
"No, thanks. I think I'll hit the other room. Is the crowd any older in there?"
"Yeah, they come to see the singer strip and the lesbians."
That, thought Carter had not been in Louisa Juaneda's resume.
It took several minutes to wind his way to the blinking sign that announced the Bar Americain. Beneath it was another beaded curtain, and beyond that another burly bouncer.
"Fifty francs cover."
Carter passed over the money.
"There's also a two-drink minimum."
"I heard. Are you sure I'm not in New York?"
"Huh?"
"Nothing."
He found a table right on top of the tiny stage and blinked several times when the waitress arrived. She was a clone of the brunette in the other room.
"Whiskey… no water. Make it a double."
She was back in two minutes. The room was not very crowded.
He didn't have long to wait. Three musicians dressed like poorer class bullfighters came through a curtain at the rear of the stage and tuned up.
It didn't take long.
Then a woman's voice, made raspy by too many cigarettes and too much booze, slid through the speakers over the stage.
"Monsieurs et mesdames, the Cabaret Amour is proud to present, directly from Madrid, Barcelona, and Paris, recording star Louisa Juaneda…"
There was a smattering of applause as the lights dimmed. An amber spot flickered on and danced around the room until it found the curtain at the rear of the stage.
When it did, a vision in silver sequins stepped through and glided like a cat to a stool before the microphone. Once there, she draped herself over the stool and lifted the mike from its cradle.
The outfit, a floor-length skirt and tiny halter, was something to behold. What it held was breathtaking.
Louisa Juaneda was breathtaking.
The band, muted and surprisingly good, came in behind her in perfect synchronization to her low, throaty, almost raspy voice. She literally oozed through three slow ballads, each greeted with perfunctory applause.
Carter could see why. She was no singer. Her voice, while sultry and somewhat alluring, was weak and almost void of range.
But somehow she seemed to pull it off. As he watched and listened, he began to understand why. It was a combination of her eyes, deep and almond-shaped, the satin black sheen of her carefully coiffed hair arranged in a long swirl over her right shoulder, her tanned skin, and her voluptuous figure compressed just so in the sequined costume.
Then the tempo of the music changed. It was still low-key with an aura of smoldering sex, but now the beat seemed to take over and the rhythm became more driving.
And Louisa Juaneda began to move.
It did not take Carter long to realize that this was what made her act a success.
The voice became more strident, matching the movements of her perfectly coordinated body. All at the same time, she had that rarest of qualities: the beauty and effervescence of youth plus the experience of age. She was, Carter knew, around thirty. But now, as she slithered back and forth across the tiny stage, she seemed barely twenty: young, tender, and sexy.
The lights narrowed down to just the spot on her. The orchestra was little more than a driving bass beat.
Slowly, sensually, she leaned far back, her upper torso disappearing beneath hips that arched upward toward the ceiling. Her thighs corded tautly, and suddenly she was upright again, moving like a cat.
The halter was gone, and her large, coned breasts jutted their darkly coraled nipples toward the light.
This time there was real applause and gasps of approval from the crowd.
Her free hand did things to her hair and suddenly it became uncoiled. It billowed down her back, over her shoulders, and caressed her dancing breasts without obscuring them.
As the song reached a crescendo, her eyes narrowed to slits. The words of the song from her throat became little more than orgasmic groans.
Suddenly, with only a wriggle of her hips, the skirt fell away to puddle on the floor at her feet.
Completely naked, she hit the last note and the spotlight blinked out.
Applause rolled to the stage, and the light came back on. Incredibly, in those few seconds, she had somehow managed to get the skirt and halter back in place.
She took two quick bows and was gone.
"Merci, merci, monsieurs et mesdames," said the whiskey-voiced woman over the speakers. "The next show will be in one hour… the Daughters of Aphrodite!"
Carter lifted his glass above his head and waved it until the brunette waitress noticed him. While he waited for the drink, he jotted a message in his notebook, ripped out the page, and wrapped it in a twenty-franc note.
"Would you give this to Señorita Juaneda, por favor!"
"Si, señor."
Carter watched her amble away, her hips imitating a metronome.
Five minutes later he placed a cigarette between his lips and a lighter flared in front of its tip. A slim brown hand moved the lighter to the cigarette. Carter inhaled and plumed the smoke from his nostrils as he turned toward her.
The hair now hung in sleek lines framing her face. She wore a baggy turtleneck minidress that came just below her hips and black mesh stockings on her legs.
She looked very Parisian, and, if Carter hadn't known better, he would have taken her for just another teenager in the bar.
"Señor Carstocus?"
"I adored your act… especially the ending."
"Thank you. You wish to buy me a drink?"
"A great many drinks. Please sit down."
She sat and lit her own cigarette. It was barely going before the brunette waitress set a glass of wine beside her hand.
"You are Greek?"
"No, American, but I have been living in Paris."
"Your Spanish is very good."
"Thank you."
"How long have you been in Andorra?" she asked, her face sporting a wide smile that revealed perfect white teeth.
"Just a week," he replied, ignoring the beautiful bones of her face, the sleek hair, and the fleshy perfection of her body that even the baggy dress failed to hide.
Instead he concentrated on those dark, almond eyes. They were intense, penetrating, and very communicative.
"On holiday?"
"No, I'm looking for a building site. I may decide to move here."
It was almost imperceptible, but Carter noticed the tenseness leave her shoulders now that the contact had been firmly established.
They chatted inanely until the headline show was announced, and Carter suggested they taste the delights of a few of the other late-night spots.
"You're sure you don't want to see the Daughters of Aphrodite in action?" she asked with a sly smile.
Carter shrugged and returned her smile. "I think you are much more interesting."
Just as they were going through the beaded curtain, he saw the brunette who had waited on him mount the stage. And then he saw her clone from the other room get up beside her.
My God, he thought, they were clones: twins.
"You mean they really…?"
"Yes," Louisa said, nodding. "Isn't it amazing what people will pay to watch?"
She was good.
They hit four spots, had a drink in each one, and at no time was business ever mentioned. Indeed, the conversation never got above the level of inane chatter, mainly directed toward feeling each other out concerning where they would eventually spend the night together.
In each place, they got more cozy. Little touches and looks got more intimate. When they left the last club, they walked arm in arm to the Mercedes.
Carter opened the passenger side door. He was about to hand Louisa in, when she turned into his arms.
"Kiss me!"
As their lips met she slid his hands around her waist and then pushed them down to the supple arcs of her buttocks. At the same time, she moved against him. Once there, she started grinding.
At last, with sweat trickling down Carter's back, she broke the embrace and moved her lips to his ear.
"That should assure them that all you've done tonight is make another conquest."
"Yeah, I would think so," he rasped, closing the door behind her and moving to the driver's side.
They were through Andorra-la-Vella and making the turn up toward the villa before she relaxed and spoke.
"They've made you."
They were supposed to," he replied, skillfully maneuvering the little car on the upward curves without braking. "The question is, which side. How much do you know?"
"Everything I had to, prior to your leaving Paris."
Her demeanor had changed completely now. She was still sexy, but without the come-hither coquettishness. The sexiness now just came naturally with her, and the rest was all business.
Carter briefed her about Marseille, about Marc LeClerc, and explained in detail what he had meant about the two sides.
That's a twist. Then the ones who have been watching you could be on Armanda de Nerro's side, or LeClerc's."
"If LeClerc is more than just a banker. I don't think so."
"Then there's someone — a rival leader in the ETA — who wants to get rid of de Nerro and take over."
Carter nodded. "And I think whoever it is wants to take the whole scam over, missiles and all."
"What about the try on this moderate, Julio Mendez, in Pakolo?"
"My guess is that de Nerro was behind that as well. She wants all her opposition in the movement, moderate and radical, out of the way. What have you found out about her since you've been here?"
"Not much," Louisa replied with a slight shake of her head. "She's very social, worked her way into what society there is here. She has a suite in Andorra's deluxe hotel. The Park, with her mother. She rarely goes out in public, usually only attends very private parties given by the very wealthy."
"Have you made the party or parties that have been watching me?"
"A few of them, but I couldn't tell you if they were hers or not. Also, I haven't been keeping tabs on her too closely. I was only set up here to help you and back you up if you needed it."
"That's okay. I've got a list of every building under construction and every excavation being made in the country. Can you get the list to Madrid for me and check out everyone connected?"
Louisa nodded. "I'll go to Barcelona in the morning for new costumes. It's routine, once a week. I'll get it to Madrid from there."
"Good. Have them put a rush on it! Here we are."
Carter stopped at the villa's steps, cut the lights and motor, and moved around to open the door for her.
"Get loving," she whispered as they moved to the steps.
He did, squeezing her with one arm while he fumbled for the right key with the hand of the other.
"Have you checked the house for bugs?" she asked.
"Only the upstairs. It's clean."
"Which bedroom are you using?"
"Master suite, second door on the right, head of the stairs."
"I'll go on up," she said, then raised her voice as the door swung inward. "What a beautiful villa! I so adore wealth and the good life, señor. Don't be long!"
Carter watched her bouncy bottom go up the stairs until it was out of sight. Then he went through the house, checking door locks and killing lights.
In the den he grabbed a bottle of calvados and two glasses.
"I thought you might like a glass of bran…"
Louisa stood, bathed in light, directly in front of the three bay windows that faced down the mountain to the road and Andorra-la-Vella beyond.
Slowly, sensuously, she was pulling the baggy dress up her body.
Carter rocked to a halt and finally settled on his heels.
"If they're watching, which I'm sure they are," she said, "we had better keep your reputation — and my cover — intact."
"Yeah," Carter gulped. "Good idea."
He watched, fascinated, as the dress rose an inch at a time.
As the hem climbed. Carter's interest and fascination soared with it. He had already seen her nude once that night, but now there was an added erotic stimulus: they were alone, together, in a bedroom.
She was turned just so, the main thrust of the strip being directed to the unseen viewer outside the window. But there was enough front — and more than enough profile — so that Carter also got the full effect of the show.
The dress was halfway off now, revealing lushly flared hips, insolently arched buttocks. Her belly was sleek, faintly rounded, punctuated saucily by the dimple of her navel. On up over the slim column of her waist the dress went. It was a tiny waist that accentuated the spectacular curve of her hips.
Then Carter felt a vein begin to throb in his temple as the fleshy spheres of her breasts came into view. As heavy as they were, they sat high on her chest. They were ripely rounded, and in this light Carter could see that the areolas were almost brown.
Casually, Louisa dropped the dress and deftly slithered out of the black panties Carter had barely noticed.
Then, completely nude, she shook her hair loose over her shoulders the way television models do to demonstrate their newly shampooed manes.
Carter almost dropped the bottle and glasses.
"There, that should do it."
"Yeah," he replied hoarsely, "it sure as hell should."
Pertly she waltzed to the bed, threw back the covers, and slid between them. When she was covered to her chin, she looked up at him questioningly.
"Well?"
"I'm not sure."
"I mean," she chuckled, "you can turn out the light now and come to bed. I'm sure they've seen enough to convince them that I'm just another of your dalliances."
"Yeah," he replied dryly, hitting the wall switch and plunging the room into darkness, "I'm sure they have."
Awkwardly he managed to divest himself of his clothing, then he slid into the bed beside her.
"Did you bring the brandy?"
"What?… Oh, sure."
He poured two glasses and found her groping hand with one of them in the darkness.
He did not know what he had expected, but it turned out to still be business.
"I'll take the list to Barcelona tomorrow," she said matter-of-factly. "What else can I be working on for you until we get the feedback?"
Her scent was assaulting his nostrils, and her warmth had already invaded the bed. It was a hard task, but he finally managed to formulate and voice an answer.
"Do you have any contacts in town who would know when de Nerro will be attending the next society bash?"
"Two, maybe three. Her maid has the apartment across from mine. We sometimes have tea together. I've also gotten to know Jock Loran. He comes to the club. He's usually her escort to the parties. Also, we have our hair done at the same place. De Nerro is a regular. It's a good chance that her hairdresser would know if she's having a hairdo for a special occasion."
"Perfect. Also, the chances are pretty good that the missiles have already entered the country. But wherever they are to be housed is probably under construction. That means the architect, Adam Greenspan, and the engineer, Lorenzo Montegra, will already be here getting things set up. The two of them will have to be housed under guard somewhere."
"It could be anywhere."
"Yeah, it could," Carter replied. "But the domestic underground — waiters, drivers, bartenders, etc. — get wind of things like that."
"I'll see what I can do." There was a pause. Carter heard her sip the brandy and then set the glass on the floor beside the bed. "If de Nerro knows you are the one LeClerc sent, she might try for you first."
"She hasn't in the week I've been here, but you're right… she might."
"What will you do?"
"Get them before they get me."
"I see." Another pause. "Anything else?"
"That's it."
"All right. Good night."
"Good night?"
"You said that was it."
"Yeah," Carter replied, downing the remains in the brandy glass. "Yeah, I did, didn't I?"
He heard her turn on her side, and almost at once her breathing was even.
He thought of the recent night in the Marseille hotel room with Lily, and sighed.
Odd, he thought, this overpowering attraction I have for sexless one-night stands…