The Delta Factor

5

We let down offshore, circling into the stream of the flare Art had dropped. Less than a mile away the stark white crescent of a beach sparkled in the blazing sunlight, like a shark’s mouth against the somber green of the hills beyond it. Beneath us a small boat waited, its exhaust puffing little ringlets of smoke.

The touchdown was gentle and Art taxied up to the boat, waiting, facing the wind while the swarthy little guy at the wheel pulled up alongside us. I handed out the bag Kim and I shared, then helped her onto the strut and watched while she leaped to the deck as graceful as a cat. Then Art gave me a few final words of caution and advice before I followed her.

Kim had said little during the flight, preferring to study our backs from a seat behind us. Our easy familiarity had made an impression on her. It was evident our association was of long standing and that without hesitation we had fallen into habit patterns formed by long training and longer experience. It was a situation she didn’t like and if I hadn’t taken the precaution of jimmying the phone the night before and locking us both in the room she would have phoned in a report of the unusual occurrence. At least it had made her mad enough so she tumbled into bed with her clothes on, ignoring me in the big chair by the door. Once near dawn I heard the metallic snick of the safety going off on her automatic, so I deliberately thumbed back the hammer of the.45 with an audible click that told the whole story once and for all and she never moved the rest of the night.

Now she watched me wave Art off, her face impassive. The little guy at the wheel grinned and said, “I am José, señor. If there is anything?”

“How long will it take to get ashore?”

“Possibly an hour. Your country’s patrol planes search overhead watching for” — he waved a hand in our direction—” such as this. Ever since Señor Camino escaped your police and came here and when Professor Francisco Hernández was abducted on Señor Ortega’s orders, they search.”

“These aren’t U.S. territorial waters,” I reminded him.

“Neither is Cuba. There are, how you say, overflights for preventive measures. For that we are rather grateful. There are those who wish to flee this cursed place and your search plans have been useful to stopping pursuit and rescuing those attempting to escape.”

“How many get away, José?”

“Very few, señor. It is regrettable. Carlos Ortega has many ways of preventing such democratic action.” Very casually he glanced my way. “You are aware, of course, that he knows the Señor Morgan is coming with his wife.”

“So I hear. He could have made it easier.”

José shook his head with quiet emphasis. “No, señor. He would not wish to antagonize your country if it should be known as such. Not at this point, at least. He has far greater power over you when your entry is illegal. I hope you do not regret your decision to come here.”

“There aren’t many places left to go.”

“True,” José agreed, “but be careful. It is not a friendly place.”

While we were talking, José had crowded the shoreline, skirting the beach until we picked up a narrow inlet that was nearly invisible in the tangled growth. Without hesitation he nosed the boat through the vegetation into a passable channel and wound around its contours for a half mile. At the far end were a dock and a large ramshackle building that had listed under the unrelenting pressure of years of offshore winds.

“It will not be long now, Senor Morgan,” José said. “I have a car waiting to take you inland.”

The city of Nuevo Cádiz raised its magnificence in the midst of squalor, a modern monument to graft, corruption and open gambling that made pre-Castro Havana seem archaic by comparison. Military personnel in flamboyant uniforms were everywhere, officers sporting sidearms in spit-polished leather holsters, the enlisted troops strolling casually, rifles slung over their shoulders, a constant reminder to the populace that control still came down through the chain of command. Police officers were unduly officious, doing little more than directing traffic, knowing how minute their authority really was and resenting it.

Kim and I both spotted a dozen well-known playboy types from two continents and a spattering of Hollywood celebrities, but the big-money people were the ones you ordinarily wouldn’t pick out unless you could recognize the signs. For most, Nuevo Cádiz was an interesting stop on the Monte Carlo — Las Vegas route, one that had potential if the political wheels spun in the right direction.

I signed us in the Hotel Regis as Mr. and Mrs. M. A. Winters, feeling myself get a little tight at the stares Kim was drawing and some of the more audible remarks some of the other guests made, not thinking I caught their language. I played it straight and ignored it, wanting to keep the supposed language barrier an edge on my side if I needed it.

The bellboy took us up to a suite on the fifth floor, accepted the ten-dollar American with a toothy smile and bowed himself out the door. Kim went to say something, but I held up my hand, made a motion toward my ear and pointed to spots around the room. “Nice place,” I said. “Good honeymoon spot. Like it?”

“Beautiful.”

“Told you you would. Wait till you catch the nightlife.”

“I’d rather go shopping. We cut out so fast I didn’t bring a damn thing.”

I grinned at her and nodded. While we were talking we had located two of the bugs planted in the living room and Kim picked up another in the huge bedroom. We didn’t bother to strip them out. They would be a useful decoy if we wanted to plant an idea in their minds. The only place that seemed clean was the bathroom, so if we had anything to discuss we could do it there with the shower going. Nice, in one way of thinking.

“Come here, honey,” I said. My tone had a bridegroom touch and she scowled uneasily until I made an impatient motion with my hand. She came into my arms slowly and I buried my mouth against her ear. “Play it cozy, sugar. They’ll be expecting this so don’t do anything that will make them think differently.”

She nodded, her hair brushing gently against my cheek, smelling of some fine perfume. I tilted her chin up with the tips of my fingers, feeling those big wild eyes engulf me, then suddenly my mouth touched her mouth, and just as suddenly it wasn’t just a touch any longer, but a crazy maelstrom that tried to suck me into its vortex.

With a trembling hand, she pushed me away, her breath caught in her throat for a moment. Soundlessly, but so I could read her lips, she said, “That wasn’t… necessary.”

I didn’t have to be quiet about it. “Wonderful doll. You turn me inside out.” Her face flushed a little and I grinned at her. “How about trying the nightlife here? Maybe we can pick up a few bucks at the tables.”

“Or lose it. But I think… it’s a good idea.”

We took our turns in the shower, changed into clean clothes, then went out to the elevator. I gave Kim enough money to shop for both of us while I got the feel of the city, making arrangements to meet her at the tables downstairs in two hours. Given two people sensitive to the temper of a city, it wouldn’t take too long to get the mood of the place. Kim would probe the locals, the salesclerks, draw them out the way one woman can another, and I’d tackle the tourist angle.

Although Nuevo Cádiz, the capital city of this politically volcanic country, wasn’t especially noted for authentic tourists. The big men at the crap and roulette tables found it relaxing because all the wraps were off; hoods found it a convenient place to cool off if the heat was too much for them back home, provided they could pay the freight; the jet set reveled in the lush spas the government had erected and the Commies played their little games and waited to see which side to cultivate and harvest into their own world.

Looking out at the gaudy runways of the streets flanked by the glistening white façades of the hotels and casinos, it was hard to picture that four miles away on the tip of the peninsula was the graveyard of the living called the Rose Castle and inside was a man named Victor Sable and someplace in there I had to reserve a room for myself.

I tried my luck in four of the places, playing lackadaisically at the crap tables, picking up a couple of hundred bucks behind the shooters. It was still too early for the big action, most of the trade in catching the Las Vegas-style supper shows. But the mental climate was far from Vegas. There was something furtive about this place. It was subtle fear you could almost feel and smell, something in the attitude of the stickmen and croupiers. There were too many hardcases busily engaged in doing nothing except inspecting the crowd, noticeable bulges pulling their tuxedos out of shape, strangely military in their carriage, with hostile eyes their smiles couldn’t conceal.

The most peculiar thing was the absence of the little people. Unlike similar cities, there were no shoeshine boys, no hookers working the bars, nobody trying to shake you down for a few coins on the street. What few I saw went about their business with their heads down and did it quickly. Twice, I deliberately approached them, ostensibly to ask for directions. One said he didn’t speak English and the other simply pointed and held up two fingers for the blocks I had to travel, looked around him nervously, then scurried off.

When it was time to meet Kim I walked to a cabstand and asked the driver to take me to the Regis. When he pulled out from the curb I asked him, “When do things move around here, buddy?”

“Soon, señor. Once the heat of day has passed.”

“Recommend anyplace special?”

His shrug said one place was the same as another.

“How about the games? They straight? I’d hate to drop a bundle on a rigged wheel.”

This time his eyes caught mine in the mirror. “The government sees to it that all things are run honestly.” It was like reciting a well-memorized line.

“Quite a place. What was it like before?”

Once more I met his eyes and they were a little cagy. “Very different, señor. There has been a great improvement.”

“For the better?”

“Oh, si, señor. Much better now. There is no more poor. The government has seen to that.” It was another pat line. I was wondering if he ever drove through the slum area that bordered all this opulence.

The gaming rooms of the Regis avoided the Las Vegas look. The effect was more of early-twentieth-century splendor, the place swathed in heavy draperies and thick velvet carpeting, presided over by huge crystal chandeliers whose prisms threw weird spectrums on the tables below. There was a Diamond Jim Brady atmosphere and you could almost hear the money rustle in the thick wallets of the patrons. Currency from a dozen countries was being changed at the counters into stacks of chips, and multilingual hostesses circulated with bubbling bottles of champagne. Dress was mixed between casual and formal, with money being the only common denominator.

I wasted a half hour losing at stud poker, then hit a streak and added seven hundred to my pot before I moved on. What I wanted to establish was the attitude of a restless newcomer trying on things for size before getting into anything big, not caring one way or another whether I won or lost. Either way, I tipped the dealers a big bite so they’d have me spotted for another go around before I tried another pitch.

Kim came in just before nine o’clock and joined me at the roulette wheel. Once again she got those looks, and murmurs of appreciation ran around the table and the envious eyes sized me up when she took my hand like a loving wife was supposed to. I could pick out a couple of them who would have tried a continental approach to making a play for her, but I was just a little too big and my face was the kind that said I wouldn’t go for that bit at all without crippling somebody, so there were regretful shrugs and they went back to the game.

When I lost out on a dozen turns I took Kim over to the bar, ordered a couple of drinks for us and said, “How’d you make out?”

“Purchasing power buys a lot of things around here. Incidentally, I put everything upstairs.”

“They shake the place down yet?”

“Thoroughly but efficiently. Ordinarily, you’d never notice it. They’re very proficient.”

“I expected that. What did you pick up?”

“A confirmation of our information,” she said. “The government is nominally run by a president and his cabinet who were forced on the people by Carlos Ortega’s machine. They’re merely figureheads who have to do as they’re told. It’s the same old pattern. The people get a look at prosperity and have hopes of sharing in it, but it’s all eyewash. Ortega controls the Army and they control the population. It all happened in a subtle takeover instead of a revolution, but it was just as effective.”

“Then why doesn’t Ortega just assume control?”

“Because he wants world approval, for one thing. He likes money and he likes power, but of the two, he’ll take money first. He’s got a gold mine going for him here and if ever the balance swings in the wrong direction he’ll be able to get out with a fortune the very same way the other dictators did.”

“But enough money and he can swing the power package too,” I stated.

“Exactly. Right now the government funds are depleted because they overextended themselves on their building program. Domestic taxes are murderous and if it weren’t for the hard course the Army takes there might be open rebellion.”

“That won’t work.”

Kim shook her head and sipped at her drink. “I don’t know. There’s a peculiar feeling running through the people I spoke to. They seem to like this figurehead president. Although he can’t do anything, he’s one of them and on their side. He’s bucked Ortega twice and made it stick and my bet is that Ortega would have had him erased if it wouldn’t have put him on the spot. Given one opportunity, or confidence that he’d be backed up by the right governments, and he’d pull the cork.”

“That fits the Commie trend.”

“I don’t know. We backed them down in Cuba and they may not want to jeopardize their present status by going that far out for an inconsequential place like this. The other Latin American countries might toughen up at that. No, I think the Reds are playing it cute and waiting it out. If Ortega makes it on his own they’ll side with him. If he falls, they’ll bypass this situation.”

“And that brings us to Victor Sable.”

“Ortega’s ace in the hole, Morgan. He can bargain with him. Both sides want him badly and Ortega’s waiting until the price is right.”

“Damn, we should have moved in with troops to start with.”

“And risk a global war? Then the Commies would back up Ortega. They’d have the propaganda advantage for one thing and a ready-made secondary government to support him for another. Besides, it would give them the excuse to pull a power play in the other hot spots in Asia where the lines of communication favor them.”

I finished the drink and waved the bartender over for a refill. “And old Morgan gets tapped to be the patsy.”

“Somebody has to do it,” Kim told me. “You were just a natural for the part.”

“Gee, thanks, kid.”

“No trouble at all,” she smiled sweetly. “Consider it an education in global politics and a rebate on your jail sentence.” She let the smile go wider, then suddenly grimaced when I kicked her shin with the side of my shoe.

She didn’t stop smiling, but she did say, “Ow… you bastard.”

“No trouble at all,” I said. “Consider it an education in the art of learning not to push a man.”

She let out a little laugh that was real this time and finished her drink with me. Behind us the crowd had picked up, standing four deep around the tables, and we went over and joined the throng. Had it not been for Kim, we couldn’t have gotten through to the crap tables, but she had the knack and the smile and found us a place, played small bets with me until I got the dice, then stood beside me when I let them roll.

Four times in a row I made my point the hard way and I could sense the sudden interest in the players. The big money started following my lead and the chips were piling up in front of me. The stickman changed the dice, let me inspect them; then I threw two sixes and did the same on the next toss. A four went out and there was a small sigh from the edge of the table and an apprehensive cough from the guy next to Kim who was winning for the first time that night. I rolled a nine and an eight with a dead silence hanging around us; then the four turn up. The excited chatter turned into applause and the other tables started to empty when the word spread that a lucky streak was on.

Once more the stickman called for a pause and spoke hurriedly to his assistant to run in fresh cubes. From behind me a voice with the hoarse quality of somebody who cheered too wildly said, “They’ll do anything to break your luck, buddy.”

I turned around and grinned at him. He was a dark-haired guy with a lopsided smile and a face that had the touch of an old pug. His eyes crinkled humorously so that one seemed higher than the other and he had one hand wrapped around a stack of black chips. The other one he held out to me. “Marty Steele from Yonkers, New York,” he said. “I’m playing right behind you. Keep it up.”

“Morg Winters,” I told him. “I’ll keep trying.”

“Those new dice won’t do them any good. I can smell it.”

“You’re better than I am. It’s all the laws of chance.”

“That’s good enough for me.” He grinned again, his face twisting oddly, and let out a throaty laugh.

I got the new dice, warmed them in my hand, didn’t bother with a shake at all and tossed them out, watched them bounce off the backboard and come up a seven. The total silence erupted into a booming roar of delight as everybody grabbed for their chips and I picked up the dice again.

This time I rolled a three, but nobody was betting against me. The table was loaded, the players watching me expectantly, the stickman eyeing the way I handled the cubes to make sure I wasn’t pulling a switch, and to make it easy for him I held them out in plain sight on the tip of my fingers and made my roll. The first time I drew a five, the second roll came up an eight and the third pass showed the three. It wasn’t a lucky streak anymore. It was damn near a rout and the crowd knew it and yelled for more. Beside me Marty Steele was piling his chips up, his voice breaking with encouraging shouts.

But I had to disappoint them. I passed the dice and crammed the chips in my pocket and Kim’s purse and waved off the others who were imploring me to continue. They thought I was crazy not to stay when the dice were hot, but I had been to the well often enough not to louse up a good thing. We cashed in the chips for twelve American thousand-dollar bills and I took Kim’s arm and headed for the door.

She stopped me as we passed the ladies’ room, told me she wouldn’t be long and I said I’d meet her at the bar.

This time I was thirsty and ordered a beer, having it halfway finished when a softly throaty voice next to me said, “You’re a stinker. I could have killed you.”

She was a tall, sensuous blonde with penetrating brown eyes and a wickedly pretty smile, one manicured hand toying with a jeweled ornament at the bottom of the deeply cut V in the green-sequined evening dress that exposed the amber rise of full breasts. For a second I was too taken in by the daring expanse of skin she flaunted to say anything. She knew what she was like and had been told often and my reaction was expected.

“You should have kept playing,” she said. “I was following you.”

I put the glass down. “Win much?” It was all I could manage.

“Not enough. Not nearly enough,” she laughed. Her voice had a distracting musical quality that could reach right out and shake you. “Are you going to play again?”

“Maybe. Right now I’ve had it.”

“I wish you’d warn me when you’re ready.” She tilted her head and held out her hand. “I’m Lisa Gordot. I’m staying right here at the hotel. Your style of play is fascinating… almost domineering.”

My hand wrapped around hers and twice while she spoke she exerted a gentle, inviting pressure. “Winters,” I said. “What you saw was just fresh luck. It probably won’t happen again.”

Her eyebrows arched above her smile and the tip of her tongue showed between her teeth when she shook her head gravely. “I’m afraid you’re not an inveterate gambler, Mr. Winters. There are some people luck seems to pursue forever. I have a strange feeling that you are one of them. Ergo, I choose to pursue you. I assure you that I will be very relentless.”

“That’s not doing very much for my ego,” I said. “The money or because of me?”

She took her hand away with deliberate slowness, her smile a rich promise of other things. “Let me say… the money and you.” She stood there a few seconds, just looking at me, then smiled again and walked past me with slow, long-legged strides and the gown shimmering around her trim curves from the lights overhead.

I didn’t even realize that Kim had come up beside me until she spoke with a curious bite in her voice. “Who was that?”

When I looked at her I made it as casual as possible. “Lisa Gordot. She was congratulating me on my lucky streak.”

Kim’s eyes narrowed in a frown. “So that’s who she is,” she whispered.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Your friend is a foreign national, a member of the jet set. She’s upset two friendly governments by embroiling their members in sensational scandals, encouraged the death of the Saxton heir by having him duel over her and caused an Albanian diplomat’s suicide when she laughed off his proposal of marriage. Nice people you know.”

“Hell, I just met her,” I said. “What would she want with me anyway?” Then I laughed at the little touch of animal jealousy that showed in her face and when she grinned back, said, “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

Outside, the street was ablaze with lights, the street heavy with traffic as taxis disgorged passengers in front of the casinos. Several blocks away the rectangular structures of the government-building complex were bathed in a pink glow, the fountains spouting multicolored streams of water. Workers on bicycles pedaled homeward wearily, never looking at the wealthy ones they served, completely submerged in their own problems.

Both of us were hungry, so we cut down a side street at the direction of a newsboy and picked out a restaurant nestled in an older row of buildings that catered to the ordinary public, and ordered a steak. By the time we finished, everybody else had left and the tired proprietor was glad to usher us out and lock the door.

That was as far as we almost got. I saw the shadows move across the street, shoved Kim sprawling and dived into the shadows behind her as the shot blasted out and the window behind us shattered into a spiderweb of cracks. I had the.45 in my hand trying to steady on a target, but nothing moved at all. I tapped Kim, pointed to a pile of cartons on the curb, waited until she moved in the lee of their protection, then jumped up and zigzagged across the street and flattened against the wall. Excited voices were beginning to shout inquiries from the windows above and somewhere a woman let out a shrill wail of despair.

I stood there for a full minute, then edged forward when my eyes adjusted to the darkness. But it was too late. An alley cut back and disappeared into the maw of the night and whoever had waited us out from that point had gone. My foot rolled on something by the wall and I picked up an empty.38 shell casing, smelled it, then flipped it into the gutter.

They didn’t come in with sirens screaming. They just hit both ends of the street, turned down with their men hanging out the door, guns leveled, and stopped when they came to us. Before they spotted me I dropped the.45 and the extra clip behind a pile of trash just inside the alley and kicked some papers over it with my foot. We didn’t bother to make a break for it. We simply went over and joined them. The lieutenant in charge gave me crisp instructions on how to stand with my hands up against the car, patted me down until he was certain I had no weapon, returned my wallet and pardoned himself to Kim. If he tried patting her down he was going to get creamed, but his better manners took over when he saw the look of outraged innocence on her face and he coughed into his hand. When he said, “Señor…” I spit almost at his feet and told him, “A hell of a place this is.”

When the restaurant owner was sure everything was under control he came out shaking at the knees, complaining about his broken window and assuring the militia that we had done nothing except eat and immediately upon leaving had been fired upon. But the lieutenant had orders. We were to accompany him to headquarters and make a report, instituting a complaint if we wished and an investigation would follow. I gave the little guy in the white apron a hundred bucks for his window, made a friend, and told the lieutenant, “Let’s go.”

Russo Sabin was Director of Police. He was small and chubby with a moon face that had a built-in smile around a pencil-stripe moustache and glossy black hair that fitted his skull like a cap. He was so overbearingly friendly he rocked in his desk chair with his hands laced in front of his stomach like a happy Buddha. His eyes seemed to dance with the pleasure of being able to accommodate visitors to his country and he almost crooned with the delight of doing so.

But Art Keefer had said he was Carlos Ortega’s hatchet man. I could believe it. Those laughing little eyes held more than pleasure. They had seen and enjoyed death too.

“Ah, yes, Mr. Winters. It is regrettable, of course, but in a way, almost to be expected. You might say, it was your own fault.”

“My fault to be shot at?” I exploded.

He held up one calming hand. “You had an extremely large amount of money on your person. You chose to dine in a rather out-of-the-way place for the usual tourist, therefore making yourself a target for robbery. This was not the first or the last time such unfortunate incidents have occurred.”

“Listen…” I started.

He cut me off again. “The hotels and casinos have accommodations so guests can deposit their winnings in a safe place. There are signs and instructions in several languages to that effect. Instead, you chose to ignore them. Probably some despicable person took note of your winning streak and departure, and followed you hoping to obtain your money. Naturally, we will investigate. If you will sign…”

“Forget it.” I pushed the papers back across his desk. “It’s too late now.”

“Then there is little we can do. That is the law,” he said. “Of course, I would like to caution you against a similar situation.”

“Nice of you.”

“Now, one more official duty.” His smile brightened noticeably. “You have your papers, naturally.”

“At the hotel,” I lied.

“I see.” He rocked back in his chair, still the genial host. “Perhaps you should send for them. Or if that is an inconvenience, my men could accompany you to assure your identification.”

“Look… we’re registered at the hotel…”

“Ah, yes, we have checked that. But regulations being what they are… and certainly we wish to protect American nationals…”

I played the game to its limit. I shrugged and said, “Okay, if you want to louse up our evening.” I reached in my pocket and thumbed off a pair of bills. “But if we can make it a little easier on everybody I’ll be glad to oblige.” I tossed the money down on the desk.

“Very generous, Mr. Winters. Of course we are not interested in discomforting you and your wife. We are here to serve. I’m sure the incident can be forgotten, but I might suggest that in the future your visa be available for inspection.”

“Sure,” I said, “we’ll do that.”

“Then my men will be happy to return you to your hotel.”

“Never mind. I’ll hop a cab.”

“As you wish.”

He was still smiling when he left, but his eyes were looking at the money.

In the cab Kim squeezed my hand. “You didn’t fool him, you know.”

“I didn’t intend to. He’ll just let the rope stretch out as long as he wants to.”

“You think they set that up?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because everybody I’ve seen around who’s armed is carrying a Czech-made automatic that fires a 7.65 millimeter bullet. The one who took a shot at us used a.38, firing standard U.S. ammo.”

“Then it was a robbery attempt.”

“Kid,” I said, “you’ve been out of the field too long. A desk job has warped your thinking. A stickup is pulled at point-blank range, not from across the street. That was an assassination attempt.”

“But… who?”

“I don’t know. I’m even wondering just who he was aiming at. It could have been you.”

She took it calmly, turning her head to look at me evenly. “Possibly.”

Before we reached the hotel I had the driver turn down the street where we were almost nailed, hopped out, retrieved the.45 and got back in the cab. If this kind of thing kept up I didn’t want to be caught without a rod.

I pointed to the hairline of light showing under the door and looked at Kim. She stepped to one side and shook her head, motioning with her hand that she had cut the switch before she left. I nodded, turned the knob and shoved the door open.

There were two of them there, a lean, swarthy character in an immaculate uniform wearing two rows of medals and a holstered gun at his side and lounging comfortably in the big chair, a thickset man in a black Italian silk suit whose soft smile was really no expression at all. His black hair was lightly touched with gray that almost matched eyes of the same color, a betrayal of nationality he must have hated because he deliberately shaded them with their lids to seem almost sleepy.

Danger was there in both of them. Overt in the one standing, impending in the other. But the edge was mine because I encompassed both types and let it show when I pulled Kim in behind me and closed the door with my foot.,

“This is a private suite,” I said.

The one in the chair didn’t change his expression a bit. “Not exactly, Mr. Morgan. It is so only when we wish it to be.”

“And who is that ‘we’ you’re speaking of, Mr. Ortega?”

His eyes opened a fraction. “Ah, you know who I am then?”

“Don’t play games with me,” I said. “I’m no damn amateur.” Kim’s hand tightened on my arm. “What are you doing here?”

“That’s what I came to ask you, Mr. Morgan. You see, I have investigated and find no record of your entry into our country. In fact, you have used an alias on your registration here.”

I looked at him casually and shrugged as unconcernedly as I could. “So throw us out. I couldn’t care less.”

The tall guy behind Ortega frowned and stiffened. Carlos Ortega let his smile go a little wider and shook his head. “Oh, that won’t be necessary. Naturally, an inquiry is in order since your entry is illegal.”

“You have some fine sources of information.”

“Yes, we do have that. My people are trained to recognize… ah, certain important persons.” He waved indolently at the man behind him. “Major Turez here identified you immediately at one of the casinos.”

“Nice of him. I understand you have a ship leaving for Rio tomorrow. We’ll be glad to hop it.”

Carlos Ortega spread his hands in amazement. “But why, Mr. Morgan? That is not the purpose of my visit. If I wished, I could detain you and hand you over to the American authorities. I am sure they would be happy to have you back there.”

“Why, then?” I asked with a grin. My eyes flicked between the both of them and the major looked like a cat had scratched him.

Ortega said, “Our country has welcomed many people seeking… shall we say, political asylum? We are not concerned with your past, only that you are satisfied here and conform to our laws. That is not too much to ask, is it?”

“Suits me, but if you don’t like the situation, I’ll be glad to ship out.”

“Perhaps you would be happier if you stayed. Your, er… wife would enjoy her honeymoon here.”

My grin spread clear across my face and there wasn’t any humor in it at all. The major’s hand went to the gun at his belt and his fingers fumbled for the leather catch. One day all that rigging was going to get him killed. I said, “Ease off, you. You’re looking at my wife, understand. We’re legally married and anybody…”

And this time Carlos Ortega managed an expression. An apologetic one. “Please, Mr. Morgan. I know this, I know this. Georgia, it was, duly registered. I’m surprised you even took the chance, but legality I approve of. I am sorry if I offended, but in the nature of my work—”

I cut him short. “Okay, forget it.”

“Certainly. Now that we’ve had our understanding, I may add that there are certain services this country might be able to offer you…”

“Like converting hot money into clean stuff at a discount?” I put in.

His nod was a generous one. “To be frank, it can be arranged,” he said.

“I’ll think about it.”

Carlos Ortega stood up and I got a good look at him. In the chair his size had been deceptive; now I saw the brutal strength in him and knew the way he had forced himself into power. He wasn’t the type many men could come against and live. He was all raw power with no concern for personal safety, giving himself over to some wild driving force inside himself that even he couldn’t understand.

“Incidentally, Mr. Morgan, my associate, Senor Sabin, informed me you suffered an altercation of sorts recently.”

“Somebody tried to kill me.”

“Regrettable. I have given instructions personally to investigate fully. Would you have any idea who it could have been?”

“Your associate suspected a robbery attempt,” I said.

Something changed in Ortega’s face. “Not from across the street,” he told me.

“That’s what I figured.”

He gave me an odd stare, then turned to the major and motioned for him to leave, then followed him past us with a stiff little bow to Kim. I opened the door, watched them step into the corridor, then turned on my nasty charm and said, “By the way, Mr. Ortega, would it inconvenience your people if I yanked the bugs out of the room? After all, it is our honeymoon.”

It never fazed him at all. It was almost as if he had expected it. “Certainly, Mr. Morgan. I apologize for the clumsy installation.”

So I laid it on a little thicker. “And I’d reprimand whoever shook the room down. They weren’t very good either.”

The major’s face darkened with suppressed fury, but Ortega seemed to enjoy his discomfort. “It is very difficult when you deal with professionals, Mr. Morgan. Good night, sir, and congratulations to the señora.”

I closed the door and looked at Kim. “That was quick.” She watched me carefully, curiosity in her face. “You pushed too hard, Morgan.”

“I don’t like reflections on my marital status, baby… such as it is.”

She had the decency to blush, but her face didn’t change any. “I didn’t mean that. I was referring to the hidden microphones.”

I grunted and went over to the sideboard and poured out a cold beer. “He didn’t mind, kid. He would have thought me pretty stupid if I didn’t spot them. Besides, something has him worried.”

“Oh?”

“That shooting,” I said. “He spotted the catch in it right away. He didn’t kid about it. He wants me alive if he expects to nick my bundle. We got more here to worry about than the Ortega regime.”

Kim took the glass I held out. “But… who else…”

“That’s what I’m going to find out. So far I’ve only been pitched to once.”

She didn’t get the drift of my meaning so I finished my beer, put the glass down and told her I’d be back later.