The Spanish Connection

Five

It is not easy to project thought waves from your brain to someone else's. I have tried it for years, with total lack of success. Yet at this moment I knew I had to communicate with Juana Rivera by brain wave only — real ESP stuff.

I directed my gaze at her face, and thought very hard. I thought: Come to her rescue, Juana. You're the good guy; I'm the heavy.

Juana stared back at me, coloring as if she were embarrassed to be scrutinized so thoroughly by a man.

I knew my original thought had not penetrated. Probably my errant thought had, however.

The hell with it, I thought finally. I have a feeling she caught that one.

I turned to Tina and snapped: "No way!" I said again. "It's all over. You've lied to us for the last time. No meeting."

Juana's eyes narrowed, and I could almost follow her thought processes as she traversed the convolutions of play and counterplay.

"Wait a minute," she said quickly. "We can't just leave Spain without seeing Mr. Corelli!"

Tina stopped sobbing and turned to look at me hopefully.

I stared at Juana as if she were some kind of garden worm on a fresh salad. "Oh, yes we can!" I said angrily. "They've lied to us, and that's the end of it."

"But what about the information Corelli is supposed to give us?"

"We don t need it."

"You don't need it," Juana pleaded, "but I do! I'm the one who was sent here to get it. You're only a bodyguard!"

I glanced at Tina to see how she was taking our little dramatic improvisation. She had turned into a spectator at a fast tennis match.

"I'll contact AXE," I growled, doing a kind of late-vintage Bogart. "The mission is scrubbed!"

"Let me talk to them!" Juana said, becoming agitated now. "I've a great deal at stake in this!"

"We shouldn't be talking in front of her," I said grudgingly, waving at Tina.

"I don't care who hears! This is my assignment!"

I considered, pretending to weigh the consequences. Finally I said, "Are you really willing to go on and meet Corelli?"

Juana nodded. "Of course! Just because you fouled up the first encounter…"

"And you?" I interrupted, turning to Tina. "What guarantee can you give us that well be meeting the real Corelli at Sierra Nevada?"

"I've already told you! You'll know when you get the correct information."

I shrugged.

Juana burst in, "We've got to meet Corelli," she said. "It's terribly important to me!"

"Good girl," I thought. Keeping my face impassive I leaned down over Tina. "We'll give it one more try."

She closed her eyes in relief and smiled.

"You'll have to cooperate closely with us, Tina," I told her. "There's no reason to assume that the killer will go home now. He'll want to kill you, too."

Juana frowned. "Why? If he was paid to kill Rico Corelli, he's worked out his contract."

"But he's bound to find out about his mistake. The Mafia knows Corelli isn't dead — or will very soon. Then the hit man will be after Tina — to lead him to Corelli!"

Tina sniffled.

"We'll put a guard on this room," I announced. "I'll tell Mitch Kelly."

"But a trained killer can get in anywhere. How will the guard know who to watch out for?" Juana asked.

I frowned. "We have no idea who the killer is. He'll just have to keep everybody out."

"But we do know," said Tina suddenly, sitting up and wincing with pain at the sudden movement.

Juana and I turned to her with our mouths open. "Do know what?"

"Who the killer is. He's a man called The Mosquito. It must be. He's a professional murderer. His real name is Alfreddo Moscato."

"How do you know?"

"Because a hired killer tried to penetrate Rico's villa in Corsica six months ago. There were a lot of traps and devices along the walls, so he could not get in. But when he tried, he tripped wires that took infrared pictures. Rico had the pictures developed and he found out it was Moscato."

"Does Rico Corelli know Moscato?"

"No. They never saw each other. One of Rico's people recognized Moscato."

"Then you re saying that Moscato does not know Corelli by sight, and he thinks he has killed him."

Tina nodded. "I didn't think of that, but, yes, I'd say so."

"What else do you know about Moscato? Anything that might help us identify him?"

Tina's face turned pink. "He likes girls a lot," she admitted.

"Anything more than that?"

"He likes them in pairs," Tina blurted out, embarrassed.

"In pairs?" I asked with amusement.

"It isn't funny!" snapped Juana.

I turned back to Tina. "He has a habit of triple-decker sex?"

"Yes," said Tina. "It's a thing with him. He does it every time before he goes out on a job. It loosens him up."

"Maybe we can use that knowledge to find him before he finds us."

"Finds us?" Juana repeated blankly.

"He's certainly going to try to pick up the trail to Corelli again. Because he doesn't know him on sight." I stared at the shuttered window. "And the easiest way for him to pick up Corelli is to watch us."

Juana's eyes lit up. "Then we make ourselves obvious in Malaga, and he comes after us."

"No. We go find him first." But there was something else I had to straighten out. "Tina, how am I going to contact the real Corelli?"

She turned away. "You'll have to wait until he calls me."

"But how will he know where you are — I mean, hidden away in this special clinic?"

She shrugged. "He will. I can guarantee it"

"I don't want to go up to the ski resort and sit there waiting for him," I said.

"The doctor says I'll be all right in a few days."

I nodded. "Then we'll wait. Meanwhile, we'll try to swat The Mosquito. I'd like to see him out of circulation while we're working this meet."

I briefed Mitch Kelly quickly, and he was on the phone in a minute conning the Malaga Commandant into assigning a member of the Guardia Civil to watch over Tina Bergson. On the drive to the hotel I filled Kelly in on the direction the operation had taken.

He said he hadn't heard that The Mosquito was in Malaga, but of course he had put out no feelers in that area. He seemed to think I was criticizing him. I assured him I wasn't.

"The underworld," he said. "Why don't you take a look?"

"What underworld?"

"The Malaga stews," he said. "That's where they'd know about The Mosquito. Hell, you and Juana look perfectly legit. You could be a couple of swinging expatriots trying to hire a bodyguard. I've got a contract who knows the stews inside out. His name is Diego Pérez. Look, I'll send him to you this evening. He'll squire you around."

I glanced at Juana, all prim and uptight about my male chauvinism.

"Okay. Let's take a shot at it."

We finished the ride in silence.

As soon as we got back to the hotel I heard my phone ringing.

It was Kelly.

"One. I've set up the deal with Diego."

"Good."

"He's five feet seven, smooth-looking, tiny mustache, and very intelligent. Don't let tie fancy exterior fool you."

"Right"

"Two. I just decoded a signal from Interpol."

"Interpol?"

"I sent them a description of the dead man, along with prints. It's not Corelli. It's Vanessi all right"

I nodded. "Then Tina is telling the truth."

"Yes. Good luck tonight, Nick."

Diego Pérez turned out to be exactly what Mitch Kelly had described — a smooth-looking escort type who wore flashy but right clothes and kept up a steady stream of inconsequential conversation to amuse the ladies, in this case, Juana Rivera.

"I am Diego Pérez," he told me when I let him in.

"How do you do?" I said. "This is my wife Juana."

"A lovely lady," he said bowing. I sneaked a glance at Juana. She was trying to keep her face stiff, but I could see temper flaring inside. She suspected I might be laughing at her.

"Mr. Kelly has told me the object of our evening," Diego said briefly, giving me a significant glance.

"Where do we start?" I asked.

He named a place, and we called a cab and got in. Diego sat with Juana, beaming and making small talk in Spanish and then in English. I stared out the window.

In Malaga you would not really know where the stews began and the clubs ended. We started at a restaurant overlooking the Mediterranean just beside the harbor in a section of the town called La Malagueta. The sun sank over the surface of the Mediterranean, and we ate our sea food and drank our wine and cognac. The waiters lit the candles set up in colored glasses and night settled down.

"I have an idea, Diego," I said.

"An idea?" Diego began to smile. He liked intrigue.

"I am a wealthy American tourist. You can tell by the way I throw my money around. I am out with my wife. But I am bored with my wife. I want not just a simple peasant girl to take to bed. I want two!"

Diego was ecstatic. "But how do you account for the presence of your wife, Señor?"

"She is with you, Diego."

His face broke into a beaming smile. "Ah!"

"And when we find two girls who work in pairs, we find out whether or not they have been asked to perform within the last few days — especially last night."

"I see!" Diego's face was a study in fascination, "Then we go."

"Right. Let's see what develops."

We began hitting the discothèques in Malaga. The European discothèque is essentially a dark place with a low ceiling, and very few windows. Small tables are placed around a platform in the middle. There are various types of decorations hanging from the ceilings — dried moss, belts, ropes, garters, g-strings, bras, whips, almost anything imaginable.

There is always music piped in loudly from a stereo tape set-up somewhere. The speakers blast noise in all directions, from hidden recesses. Strobe lights flash multicolored illumination in all directions. Color slides of nudes and couples in various positions of sexual intercourse are projected on the walls. The noise is fantastic.

Then all the strobe lights cut out, and a group of guitar players stroll onto the stage. A flamenco dancer — male or female — appears.

We hit half a dozen places before midnight, with negative results.

"Well?" I asked Diego after awhile.

"Nothing, Señor," he said. "Plenty of women available — singles, doubles, even triples — but nobody has performed a triple recently."

"So we try again."

"We have run out of places." Diego's eyes squinted. "I think we should try Torremolinos."

"Where is that?"

"A little way to the south. On the Costa del Sol."

"More discothèques?"

"The best. Lively. Bestial. Depraved."

I nodded. "Sounds good. Let's go."

At about one-thirty we went into a place halfway down the main street of Torremolinos. It was a gloomy place. Caged animals paced back and forth in cages hanging from the ceiling near the bar at the entryway.

Luminescent painted chairs and tables gleamed in the darkness. A male flamenco dancer sweated through the customary steps on a small stage in the center of the room. A slide of two lesbians in ecstasy was projected onto a wall. The amplified guitar music competed with a female singer's wild lament in an apparent attempt to deafen all patrons.

We sank down, ordered sangría, and watched.

Diego disappeared.

Juana and I looked at each other in exhaustion.

A hand gripped my shoulder. I jerked around, startled at the unexpected human contact.

"I have them," said Diego in my ear.

I touched Juana's hand, cautioned her to stay there, and followed Diego out through the darkness. At the side of the discothèque there was a small doorway. Diego guided me through it, and we walked down a dark corridor to a room at the end. A woman of indeterminate age sat at a table in a dirty, torn flamenco costume. A feeble electric light glowed in the wall over her head. She had black hair, black eyes, and black bags under them.

"Bianca," said Diego. "This is the man."

Bianca smiled a tired smile. "I like you," she said.

I smiled. "Your companion?"

"She is not as good as me, but she will be there."

"Her name?"

"Carla." She shrugged.

"Bianca," I said. "You've got to be good. I don't want to waste my money."

"You don't waste your money with Bianca and Carla!" the woman snorted. "We are good. Very good."

"I don't want amateurs!" I said. "I want to know if you've worked together before."

"Sure, we work together," said Bianca, waving her hand at me reassuringly. "Don t you worry about that. We split the money."

"How much?"

"Seven thousand pesetas apiece."

"That's a lot! I've got to know if you're good!"

"Listen, you ask anybody…"

Diego said, "Who, Bianca? You got references?"

"Sure, I got references! There's that Frenchman lives in Marbella."

I shook my head. "I don't trust any Frenchman!"

She laughed. "That is good. Neither do I!"

Diego and I shrugged.

"Hey," she said. "There was one we did just last night! Carla and I. A real bastard that one was! He wanted everything! All at once! Oh, I tell you…"

"Who was he?"

She frowned. "I don't know. He don't give us his name. He's a dark fellow. You know. Looks Italian or something. Didn't talk good Spanish."

I glanced at Diego and he lowered the lid of one eye.

"Where does he live?" I asked.

"We went to a villa right here in Torremolinos."

I fished in my wallet and brought out ten thousand pesetas. "You give me the address," I said, "and you can keep the ten thousand."

Her eyes widened and I could see sweat glistening on her forehead. Her lips were wet with saliva. She was torn between greed and caution. Now she suspected I might be more than just a customer with strange sex desires. But she was more interested in money than scruples.

She reached for the cash.

"The address?"

"I don't know the address. I… I take you there."

I pulled the money back and peeled off five thousand. "The rest when we get there, Bianca."

Diego looked puzzled. "Señor. What about the — the other señora? Your…?"

"You go back there, Diego, and take her home in half an hour."

I figured if anyone was watching Diego, he would follow him and Juana back to the hotel.

I grabbed Bianca's arm, and we went out the rear door of the discothèque.

It was very dark outside. Neon lights glared at the front of the building, but in the rear, it was almost pitch black.

Bianca said, "You wait here."

She left and within half a minute a cab pulled up beside the building, and she waved me in.

I climbed in beside her, smelling the musty scent of her make-up, her sweat, and her clothing.

She talked to the cab driver, a sad-eyed viejo wearing a beret, and he started up, winding through the narrow side streets that led up toward the foothills in back of town. We emerged from the business section of Torremolinos and entered a suburban residential section.

After ten minutes, Bianca leaned forward and slammed the taxi driver on the shoulder.

"Aquí! Here."

He stopped the cab.

"That one?" I asked Bianca, identifying the villa she was pointing to.

She nodded.

"The man — does he live there alone?" I asked.

"That is right. No one else there."

I handed her the five thousand pesetas and stepped out of the cab, paid the driver off, and waved them both on their way.

The cab disappeared.

I checked my shoulder holster. The Luger was waiting.

The villa that Bianca had identified was a small stucco place surrounded by a well-landscaped yard. There was an open gate in front of the house.

I stepped through.

The house was dark.

I made my way around the side. It was obvious that the occupant of the house was either out or in bed asleep.

I peered through a window and saw the kitchen and dining room.

The second window looked in on the bedroom, and someone was asleep in one bed.

I glanced around to make sure no one was watching me. Then, making as little noise as I could, I moved around to the kitchen window and tried to pry it open.

To my surprise, it was unlatched and swung right out.

I crawled through.

The floor of the villa was tile and made no sound as I lowered myself onto it. I drew out my Luger and started for the door to the hallway at the rear of the kitchen.

The bedroom door was ajar. I moved quickly through it into the bedroom, and spotted the light switch near the door. I leveled my piece at the bed, and snapped the light on.

"Freeze," I said, thinking he might have a weapon close at hand.

There was no movement. Nothing. I stared. The light flooding the room showed me what had happened and I felt sick. The man who had been in the bed was no longer there. A pillow and some bedclothes had been humped up to resemble the form of a sleeping person.

Feeling a moment of sheer panic, I reached for the light to flick it off.

The sound behind me came too quickly. Although I wheeled as fast as I could, swinging the Luger around to catch whoever it was, I never completed the movement. I went down into blackness the moment the hard metal object caught me in the skull.

The first thing I realized upon regaining consciousness was that I couldn't breathe. And then I discovered that my head hurt, too. The third thing I felt was the constricted position in which my body has been twisted. I was in a very tight space, with barely enough room for my aching bones.

I was gasping for breath, trying to breathe in pure air through the fog of noxious fumes that surrounded me.

I opened my eyes and could see nothing at first. My eyes stung, blurred, and refocused. Suddenly I realized that I could not move my hands or feet.

Struggling to sit upright, I saw in the faint light that I was wedged in the front seat of a very small Volkswagen. The engine was going, but the car wasn't moving.

I coughed and tried to clear my throat, but I could not.

Exhaust fumes! The thought flashed into my mind and I sat bolt upright, staring about me, noticing for the first time the hose thrust in through the almost-closed window.

Exhaust poured through the hose into the Volks. I knew enough about these cars to realize they are practically air- and water-tight inside. And with that carbon monoxide coming in, I didn't have much time left.

My wrists and ankles were bound with tight ropes, tied together so that I resembled a bull-dogged steer. I reached over, trying to grab the key in the ignition to twist it off, but I couldn't maneuver my ankles high enough in the confines of the car to get at the key.

I lay there panting in desperate frustration. I knew there was no way I could get any fresh air into my lungs.

Outside, I knew, The Mosquito waited, and in five or ten minutes he would come into the garage, open the car door, turn off the engine, and take me out for delivery somewhere. He had outsmarted me completely!

I could reach my ankles with my right hand, but I couldn't get them high enough to touch the steel blade taped to the back of my ankle. I slid off the seat and smashed against the gearshift, almost bending it out of shape.

And then I touched the steel blade.

I blacked out momentarily, my entire body racked with agonized coughing. I didn't have much time at all.

The blade came out, and I tried to saw through the ropes holding my ankles. After a minute the rope shredded. I couldn't breathe anymore, and I held my breath. Blackness was beginning to come in on me from all sides. I could hardly move my fingers now.

The carbon monoxide continued to pour into the car.

Then, miraculously, my feet were free. I kicked them away from my wrists and jammed one foot on the gas pedal. The Volks jumped, but the brake held.

I twisted the gearshift to the side and down, into reverse, and jammed my foot on the gas pedal again.

The Volks shot backward into the closed garage door and crashed into it.

But the door did not break open, though I could hear the splintering of wood.

I drove the Volks forward.

My vision was fading again, and I couldn't see much of anything. My lungs were convulsing from the poisonous air.

Again — back, smash.

The doors parted.

I could see night outside. Forward.

I slammed the Volks into reverse again and sailed through the wide-open doors into the driveway. I braked in the open and came to a stop. Fresh air poured in through the window.

On my right I saw a sudden stab of orange flame, preceding the sound of a gunshot.

I hacked at my wrist ropes and freed my wrists. I tore open the door, and rolled down the window, coughing in fresh air. In a minute I had the wheel in my hands. I twisted the Volks, flicked the lights on, and aimed it at the point where the gunshot had originated.

Someone screamed. Another shot sounded. I drove across the driveway and onto lawn, headed for the shrubbery that grew by the garage. I saw the form of a man jump out of the bushes and run across the lawn. I kept the Volks aimed at him.

He turned once, his terrified face highlighted in the bright headlights of the car. He was a small, dark-haired, round-faced man, with thick eyebrows, long sideburns, and a very bluebearded jaw — The Mosquito.

He shot once again but missed, and I stepped hard on the gas. The Volks jumped forward.

Moscato zigzagged now, trying to find cover in the small yard. I jammed on the gas pedal and kept the Volks driving hard. I saw him jump up onto the brick wall and vault over it.

I lifted my foot from the gas pedal and stepped down hard on the brakes. The Volks slewed sideways, dug up grass, and smashed against the brick wall, the lights immediately going out.

I got the wheel in my stomach, but I had not been going fast enough to really hurt myself.

I climbed from the car and jumped up onto the wall, looking into a tangle of vegetation and shrubbery in the adjoining yard.

There was no sight of anyone.

I walked back to the house and went inside. In the bedroom I could see where I had stood and where The Mosquito had hidden before he hit me. I found my Luger on the floor, right where I had dropped it.

I picked it up and started to leave the bedroom, planning to set a trap for Moscato. He would have to come back sooner or later.

Suddenly I realized I wasn't alone in the house.

A man stood in the hallway, smiling at me.

The first thing I saw was the Webley Mark VI, a very lethal weapon. Almost immediately I focused on the man holding the gun.

He was a big, imposing man in a belted raincoat He gripped the Webley almost casually, as if it were nothing more important than a calling card, aiming it straight at my stomach.