The Spanish Connection Read online

  The motion picture now showed her on skis, flashing down a slope. I had to admit that she was very good. No wonder she wanted to spend her winter months near a ski slope; she seemed to love the sport.

  Another map came on the screen. It showed the world on a Mercator Projection, with a line running from the Near East to Turkey, and from Turkey to Sicily, and from Sicily to Corsica, up to the Riviera, back to Corsica, and then to Portugal, from there to Cuba, on to Central Mexico, and over to San Diego in California.

  The drug chain.

  "There have been many changes in the basic drug chain over the past few years. Generally, the hard drugs start in the Orient and come west across the Mediterranean, where they are processed. Control of this chain is anchored in Corsica, the stop just before the all-important processing on the Riviera. The drugs then go back to Corsica and on to Cuba, via one of three stops: Portugal, Morocco, or Algeria."

  A new map. It showed Corsica again.

  "From this area the lines of distribution extend back to the Near East and forward to the final destination in the West. The money from the West comes here, where it is then distributed to the links in the chain."

  The lens zeroed in on the map, showing Corelli's estate in the suburbs of Basria circled.

  "Rico Corelli is the man in control of the chain. He takes his orders from Sicily, where the second-in-command of the Mafiosi controls the eastern half of the chain. The Don in the West controls the rest of the chain, plus the distribution."

  The picture faded out and the lights came up.

  We sat there in silence for a moment.

  Hawk cleared his throat "Well?"

  "Interesting," I said.

  "Academic," Juana said.

  "I agree with her," I went on.

  Hawk frowned. "It's just a briefing."

  "What about Corelli?" Juana asked.

  Hawk closed his eyes and swayed back and forth in the comfortable swivel chair.

  "The Mafiosi have become dissatisfied with the profits from the drug program," Hawk said finally. "Six months ago they began to send inside men around to check up on the chain's system. Corelli's take was considerable — too much, according to the U.S. Don. But the Sicily second could devise no way to correct the situation. At a high-level meeting it was decided that Corelli would have to go. One man was sent to hit him, but he vanished from sight You saw what happened to the so-called Trench agent' who tried to infiltrate the estate. That was the man.

  "Then the Mafiosi Capos decided to attack Corelli through Tina Bergson. A detective claiming to be from Switzerland tried to arrest her one day in Basria on an old Swiss charge. But one of Corelli's bodyguards interfered and saved Tina. He then delivered the detective to a nearby beach, tied him up and let him wait for high tide to drown him. The man escaped and left Corsica, never to return."

  I held up a hand.

  "Nick?"

  "How do we know all this?"

  "Corelli told us."

  "Directly?"

  Hawk sighed. "We have a man close to Corelli, although he has never seen him. Corelli let out the information on his own initiative."

  "Why?" Juana asked.

  "He said he wanted to get out for good."

  "To save himself and the girl?" I asked.

  "Exactly. And get a safe house in the States."

  "In return for…?"

  "The whole line of command, the proper chain, and the way it works."

  "How do we know it isn't a trick?" I asked.

  "We don't." Hawk opened his eyes lazily. "That's where you come in." He turned to Juana.

  She nodded.

  "With your expertise, you have to find out if Corelli is giving us the truth — or is leading us down the garden path."

  I sighed. Sometimes Hawk's diction is hopelessly Victorian.

  Juana paid no attention to words. "I'll find out."

  "Has anything been set up?" I asked.

  "There is to be a meeting at Sol y Nieve. A ski resort in Spain. I told you about that?"

  "Briefly"

  Hawk leaned back. "Every year Tina Bergson goes to this particular ski resort, and Corelli goes with her. They spend about a month."

  "He goes there as Rico Corelli?"

  "No. We don't know what name he uses. But we do know they always go. And Corelli wants to meet there."

  "It could be a set-up," I murmured.

  "Certainly," said Hawk. "That's why you're there, Nick. That's why AXE is in the picture."

  "Anticipating a hit."

  He nodded. "Suppose the Mafiosi were aware of Corelli's plans. Wouldn't they love to get our number-one enforcer and our number-one drug expert?"

  I rubbed my chin. "How do we make the contact?"

  Hawk said, "We have a man in Malaga. He has a boy at Sol y Nieve. Corelli's bodyguards will approach him. You meet our man in Malaga and he will set up the meeting with the boy at the resort. Then you will meet Corelli face to face."

  I nodded. "And then?"

  "Then Miss Rivera will take over*

  "Have you prepared our covers?"

  "AXE Identification has the papers. You'll still be George Peabody, but now you're a professional photographer."

  "Sir, I can't even operate a Brownie, much less a Hasselblad!"

  "These cameras today are foolproof! Besides, well teach you the basics. And you, Miss Rivera, are a photographer's model. Your papers are all made up. Burn them after you memorize your backgrounds."

  "Do I pose in the nude?" Juana asked.

  Hawk was shocked. His blue eyes widened. He was the last of the old Puritans, a totally repressed man in a society where sexual freedom is the rule. "My dear girl!"

  "Would you pose in the nude?" I asked quickly.

  "Of course," she replied. "In a professional sense. When I play a part, I play it to the hilt."

  Hawk's face had changed color. It was very red. He was staring down at his hands in an agony of embarrassment "If you're quite through," he interposed.

  I grinned. "Go on."

  "I know you won't mind that we've set up your cover as a husband-and-wife team," he said quickly, his eyes bright.

  "Sir!" That was me exclaiming.

  "Mr. and Mrs. George Peabody, of Millers Falls, Minnesota."

  "I love it!" Juana said softly.

  "I loathe it!" I growled. "It's too contrived! And it causes complications!"

  "But it enables Miss Rivera to operate more easily — if she must." Hawk's face turned red once again.

  "I fail to follow the logic!" I snapped.

  "An unmarried woman, a maiden like Miss Rivera…"

  "I resent that!" Juana interrupted.

  "…would find it much harder to be, oh, pursued, shall we say, than a married woman. You see?"

  I was flat on my face in the sand. I did see the twisted logic.

  Hawk turned to Juana. "Do you approve?"

  "Completely." She smiled charmingly.

  Hawk nodded with satisfaction. Then he glanced at me. "Any flaws?"

  Damn him! "It looks foolproof," I admitted. "We've got to set up some kind of fail-safe signal," I continued. "I mean, in case everything falls apart. I want to be able to save Juana's and my skin no matter what."

  "We have a man in Granada, only a half hour's drive from the resort. Malaga will brief you."

  "Right. That should cover it."

  "You can send out any coded message you want via the Granada drop."

  "Okay," I said. I turned to Juana. "Do you have anything to discuss?"

  She looked at me and then at Hawk.

  "I think not. I'm in your hands until I meet Mr. Corelli. Then I'll take over."

  * * *

  I had just dozed off when there came a sharp rap on the locked door separating my room from Juana's.

  I got up. "Yes?"

  "Nick!" she whispered.

  "What?"

  "The window."

  I turned. "What about it?"

  "Look down into the str
eet."

  I reached for my shoulder holster hanging from the bedpost. I walked over to the window, keeping in the shadows, and hugging the wall. Tipping back the drapes with the barrel of my Luger I peered into the darkened street below.

  There was a Cadillac parked across the way, the only car in the whole block.

  A man sat in it, on the driver's side, which was toward me. Then as I watched, another man hurried across the street toward the Cadillac, spoke briefly to the driver, and climbed into the back seat.

  The Caddy started up and drove rapidly down the street, turning right at the corner.

  I went back to the door separating our rooms.

  "Did you recognize him?" I asked her.

  "Yes. I saw him get out of the car a moment ago. He looked up at my room — or at yours. I saw his face. And then he hurried across to the hotel lobby."

  "Who was he?"

  "I saw him at Dulles Airport this afternoon. When we came in. He was carrying a little leather case. The kind you might put rifle scopes in."

  "Good girl," I said absently.

  There was a pause. "What do we do now?"

  "Go to bed," I said. "At least we know that they know."

  "You're not going out to find him?"

  "In Washington? It's a big city."

  "Nick!"

  "Go to sleep, Juana." I moved away from the door. "Sweet dreams."

  I could hear her grumbling to herself, and then she walked away from the door. A moment or two later I heard the creaking of the bed as she climbed in and settled down.

  Then there was silence.

  I sat by the window, watching, waiting. But nobody came.

  Three

  We came in over the low foothills and landed at the airstrip outside Malaga. A cabby got us to town through the swirl of miniature European cars of all makes and shapes.

  We were staying at one of the main hotels in town, which overlooked Malaga Harbor. There were a number of commercial ships and pleasure boats tied up at or anchored near well-kept marinas.

  Juana was tired. She locked herself in her half of the suite and took a nap and shower. I went out immediately to AXE's safe house.

  It was a small office in a building one block down the street and around the corner.

  "CONSTRUCTION," the sign on the door said. "SRS. RAMIREZ Y KELLY,"

  I knocked.

  "Quién es?"

  "Señor Peabody."

  "Si."

  The door opened. It was Mitch Kelly.

  "Hey, Kelly, I said.

  "Hey, Señor." He grinned and let me in. Then, after a glance up and down the dark, ancient hallway, he carefully locked the door.

  I looked around at the office. It was small, with one battered desk, a bank of old file cabinets, and a door leading to what was obviously a washroom. Behind the desk a window overlooked the harbor and the town of Malaga.

  Kelly slapped me on the back. "Haven't seen you since the Red Oranges business, Nick."

  That had taken place in Greece. "Five years ago, right?"

  "Right. Hawk said you'd be coming."

  He opened a drawer and lifted out a fine pair of Bausch & Lomb 30x binoculars, which he thoughtfully weighed in his hand.

  "I may have news for you."

  "Oh?"

  He fitted the glasses to his eyes and turned to survey the harbor. I realized he had been watching the boats when I had knocked.

  Kelly had been AXE's control in Malaga for at least three years. It was his job to know what and who came in and went out of Malaga.

  I watched over his shoulder. He was studying the pleasure marina in the center of the harbor. He seemed particularly intent on a large yacht that was anchored somewhere near the middle.

  "That s it," he said. "It's the Lysistrata. Corelli's yacht."

  I remembered the picture I'd seen at AXE's headquarters.

  He handed the glasses to me. I focused them. They were excellent; I could see the yacht very clearly. Several crew members were fussing about on deck. Everything was quiet and serene on board. I could see a row of cabins on the main deck, with two rows of portholes that meant there were cabins on two decks below.

  It was a large, beautiful pleasure yacht The flag of France flew from the stern.

  Mitch Kelly sat down at his desk, rustling a paper. I knew he wanted me to pay attention to what he was saying. As I was about to hand back the glasses I saw someone in a sweater and slacks step out of the main cabin onto the deck. It was a woman with long blonde hair. She was very busty and thin-waisted, and the tightly clinging slacks outlining her thighs and hips left nothing to the imagination. She had good legs under those doe-colored slacks. Her skin was fair and smooth, and she had blue eyes. As she came into the sunlight, she put on a pair of dark glasses and tapped them absently into place.

  "Tina Bergson," I said aloud.

  Kelly craned his neck around and peered out the window, squinting against the sunlight on the water. "Yeah."

  "Quite a girl," I observed.

  "Another Nick Carter special," Kelly said with a snort. "How do you manage?"

  "I simply do what the man in Washington says to do," I murmured.

  "This came in yesterday," Kelly said, rattling the paper again.

  I tore my eyes away from Tina Bergson's shapely shoulders and breasts modeled by the sweater and put the binoculars down reluctantly. Kelly lifted them, swiveled the chair and focused them on Tina Bergson while I read the typed paper.

  KELLY. RAMIREZ Y KELLY. 3 PASEO ZAFIO. ARRIVE TUESDAY ABOARD LYSISTRATA. HAVE VISITOR READY. TINA BERGSON WILL BRING HIM TO YACHT. WILL SET UP SKI RENDEZVOUS LATER WITH DRUG EXPERT.

  ROMAN NOSE

  "Roman Nose!" I repeated with a grin.

  "That's Corelli's cover name," said Kelly. "Pretty corny, no?"

  "Pretty corny, yes." Roman Nose was an Indian Chief.

  "Corelli thinks he's an outcast himself. You know — from the Mafiosi."

  I looked at the message again. "The way it's worded, I guess she picks me up, huh?"

  "Right. She knows your hotel. I sent out a note already."

  "When will she be there?"

  "She's to pick you up in the lobby at noon." Kelly glanced at his watch. "That gives you half an hour."

  "What about Juana?"

  "She can wait. This is an initial probe."

  I shrugged. "Why all the rigmarole?"

  "Roman Nose is running scared. I think he wants to find out if he's being tailed."

  "Or if we are," I mused.

  * * *

  I was waiting in the lobby at noon.

  When she came in, every eye in the lobby turned to her, the women glaring with resentment, the men leering with interest. The locals behind the desk suddenly turned into debonair Lotharios.

  I stood and walked toward her. "Miss Bergson," I said, in English.

  "Yes," she responded, with only the slightest of accents. "I am late. So sorry."

  "You're well worth waiting for," I said.

  She stared at me coolly. I thought of icebergs in the fjords. "Shall we go, then?"

  "Yes," I said.

  She turned and led me out of the lobby into the bright Spanish sunshine.

  "It is only across the plaza," she said. "We can walk"

  I nodded, and reached gallantly for her arm. After all, I was in Europe. She gave it to me without comment. Every Spanish eye turned to greet the two of us — her with admiration, me with envy.

  "It's a beautiful day," she said, breathing in deeply.

  "You like Malaga?" I riveted my gaze to her face.

  "Oh, yes," she said. "It is lazy and easy here. I like sunshine. I like warmth."

  She created it, but I did not mention that. "How was your boat trip down?"

  She sighed. "We ran into a squall off the Costa Brava. Otherwise…"

  "And your — your companion?"

  She eyed me thoughtfully. "Mister Roman?"

  "Mister Roman." The charade continued.

&nb
sp; "You will see him in a short time."

  "I understand you ski," I said as we neared the marina.

  "I love it." She smiled. "Do you?"

  "Moderately," I said. "Mostly in the United States. Aspen. Stowe.*

  "I want to go to America some day," said Tina Bergson, her blue eyes warm and intent on mine.

  "Perhaps Mister — uh, Roman — will have something to say about that."

  She laughed. Her teeth were perfect. "Perhaps, indeed." She stared at me intently. "I think you and he will get along fine."

  Then we were on the quay and a young man at the end of it stood at attention, directing his attitude toward Tina Bergson. He was fairly thin, but he looked wiry and strong. He had curly black hair and a fine pencil-line mustache.

  "Señorita," he said. He reached out to help her down into a small sleek powerboat tied to the quay.

  "Thank you, Bertillo," she said sweetly. "This is Mister Peabody," she told him, gesturing to me.

  "Señor," said Bertillo. His eyes were dark and intelligent.

  I jumped down after Tina Bergson and then Bertillo cast off, got the inboard moving, and we made an arc toward the yacht some three hundred yards away.

  The bay sparkled in the sunshine, the gulls picked waste out of the sea, and as we cut through the water, they fluttered into the sky angrily, splashing us with seasuds.

  In minutes we were tied up to the yacht. I could see the name now, Lysistrata. Above us two deckhands looked down and dropped a ladder. We clambered up the side.

  In the cabin on the main deck, which turned out to be the salon, I could see a muscular man seated in a comfortable lounging chair. He was smoking a cigar that had made halos of blue smoke above his head.

  We went in. He rose, his large head moving up into the smoke cloud. Tina!" he greeted her, and she smiled back.

  "This is Mister Peabody, from America," she said. "Mister Peabody, this is Mister — uh — Roman."

  I glanced around. The surroundings were posh.

  He laughed, shook hands. His grip was firm. "Mister Peabody, I believe you ski?"