The Death’s Head Conspiracy

Sixteen

I woke up at dawn feeling as if all the old parts had been replaced with brand-new, teflon-coated permanent-press components. The sound of splashing water and a woman’s voice singing in Spanish came from the bathroom. I swung out of bed, padded over to the door, and pushed it open.

Billows of steam rolled out into the room. Behind the transluscent shower curtain, I could see the silhouette of Pilar’s beautiful body as she soaped herself and sang something from the days of Pancho Villa. Now and then the curtain would cling to her skin, displaying the glistening surface like the cellophane window in a box of candy.

I stood there for a minute, enjoying the sight, then grabbed the curtain and pulled it aside.

Pilar gasped with surprise, and moved to cover herself with her hands in the instinctive female gesture. Then she dropped her arms and stood smiling under the shower jets while the water sluicing down over the mounds and dips of her body made her glisten like a seal.

“Good morning, querido,” she said. “I hope I didn’t wake you.” Her eyes moved down my body. “Do you always wake up in this condition?”

“It all depends on who’s taking a shower in the next room.”

“I trust you slept well.”

“Like a log. If the world ever learns about that in-somnia cure of yours, we’ll see the last of barbitur-ates.”

“Flatterer. Get in and I’ll soap your back.”

I stepped into the shower and Pilar turned me around. She lathered up her hands, but the area of my anatomy she soaped was definitely not my back. I turned and stood facing her, water splashing off both of us. For the first time I realized what a tall girl she was.

“It occurs to me,” I said, “that I’ve been taking an awful lot of orders from you. It’s about time I took over.”

“What did you have in mind, querido?” she breathed, leaning forward, those magnificent breasts swinging toward me.

Placing my hands under her arms, I lifted Pilar and brought her toward me. Then I lowered her, a fraction of an inch at a time.

She made a little sound of delight as her arms encircled my chest and she pulled us together, squashing her breasts against me. We began a slow, undulating, stationary dance there in the shower, gradually stepping up the rhythm until Pilar twisted and flailed like a woman possessed. Suddenly, she cried out, her voice piercing the monotonous drone of the water.

Afterward, we stood together, letting the water wash over our bodies.

We dressed quickly, then went to the caf£ next door for a delicious breakfast of huevos rancheros. We washed it down with Mexican beer, which even at breakfast time is better than the bitter Mexican cof-fee.

A taxi took us to the Aeropuerto Nacional, where we boarded a small jet. We took off at six-thirty. With the two-hour time differential, we would land in Curasao at about noon.

As we flew over the peaceful green of Yucatan and the deep blue of the Caribbean, I couldn’t help remembering that not many hours before, I’d been fighting for my life down there.

As if by mutual consent, Pilar and I didn’t speak during the trip. Earlier that morning we’d been just a man and a woman enjoying life and each other as if our biggest problem was deciding what to have for breakfast. But now we were two professionals, heading into unknown dangers, knowing that we might never return. It wasn’t the time for small talk. We sat quietly, lost in our private thoughts.

The voice of the pilot broke the silence. “Those of you on the starboard side can now see the island of Aruba up ahead. Aruba is the smallest of the three islands that make up the Netherlands Antilles. Curasao another fifty miles to the east. We are beginning our descent and will be landing in approximately fifteen minutes.”

As the pilot went on to tell us about the weather conditions in Curasao (ideal, as always), I watched Aruba slide past below us. The straits between Aruba and Curasao were speckled with white sailboats and a number of tiny brown islets with no permanent population, though they were used occasionally by fishermen.

Our plane put down at Plesman Airport, and we found a taxi for the five-mile ride into the capital city of Willemstad. The cab was an old Hudson, with the top removed to make it an open-air vehicle.

The driver was a talkative little man who seemed determined to fill us in on all the local gossip during our short ride. I didn’t pay much attention to what the man was saying till one phrase stabbed my consciousness like an icepick.

“Wait a minute,” I barked at the driver. “What was that you said about a blonde woman pulled from the sea?”

He turned in his seat with a wide grin, pleased at having aroused my interest. “Oh, yes, senor. Much excitement at the fishing docks two days ago. One of the boats returned with the yellow-haired lady. She wore a life jacket that kept her afloat, though she was not conscious when they brought her in. Very strange, as no boat has been reported in trouble.”

“Where is she now?” I cut in,

“When word went out from the fishing docks, the lady’s husband soon arrived and took her away with him.”

“Her husband?” I repeated.

“Oh, yes. He is the big man, like a bear, who sails sometimes with the Goviota.”

Gorodin! He must have returned to Curasao when he was unable to find me or Rona in the water. No doubt he’d been there waiting when word came from the docks that she had been brought in by fishermen. That was two days ago. I calculated the odds that Rona was still alive. It was a long shot “Do you know where the man… her husband… took the woman?” I asked.

“No, senor, but maybe my friend Saba the fisherman can tell you. He is the one who pulled the lady from the sea.”

“Can you take me to Saba?”

“Now, senor?”

“Now.” I slipped a ten-guilder note out of my bulging wallet and handed it to the driver. “And make it fast.”

“Five minutes,” he said, pocketing the money.

In five minutes, almost to the second, we had twisted our way through a maze of narrow streets to the fishing docks outside Willemstad, clearing the way with a horn that the driver leaned on constantly. We jerked to a stop on a waterfront street in front of a frame building with one large smoke-stained window and a sign with weathered paint spelling “Vanvoort’s Hideaway.”

As I stepped out of the car, I felt a tug at my sleeve and realized that I had almost forgotten about Pilar.

“Nick, the blonde woman… is it your Rona?”

“It must be.”

“And what are you going to do?”

“Find her if I can.”

“But we have a mission.”

If it weren’t for Rona, there wouldn’t be any mission. She’s the one who gave us our key clue, and now she can lead us to Gorodin. Besides, she wasn’t trained for dangerous work as we were. If she’s in Gorodin’s hands now, she could be paying a terrible price. I have to try to find her. I owe her that much.”

“You don’t owe her anything,” Pilar said. “You didn’t force her to take the assignment. And the time… you know what day this is?”

“Yes, I know. Tomorrow is the deadline.”

“Forget about her, Nick. Come with me, and I will take you to Torio. We will find him on the waterfront not far from here.”

I stopped walking in front of the door of Vanvoort’s Hideaway and looked down into Pilars face. When I spoke, my voice was cold. “The decision is mine, and I have made it. Are you coming in with me?”

She met my gaze for a moment, then looked away. She reached out and touched my hand. “I’m sorry, Nick. You must act according to your conscience. I will help you in any way you ask.”

I gave her hand a squeeze and pushed on in through the door.