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mine and smell her slightly musky perfume. I bent
my head down toward hers, and her mouth opened
for me. My tongue grazed her beautiful red lips,
and then moved inside her mouth, exploring it. Her
tongue met mine.
"You may come in," she said softly when we
broke our embrace. I moved into the room, closed
the door behind me, and took Maria in my arms.
We kissed again, and I began exploring her firm,
young body: the delicate arch of her back, her per-
fectly formed hips, her welcoming thighs. I un-
zipped her black sheath from the back and let my
hands slide along the soft skin of her shoulders.
Her dress fell to the floor, and she looked up at me
with those huge, dark eyes, now gleaming with an-
ticipation. I gazed, almost breathless, at her in-
credibly beautiful body, now naked except for a
pair of black lace panties. Her long dark hair fell
across breasts which were white as ivory and as in-
viting as any I'd ever seen. Her large rosy nipples
strained out, already erect with excitement. I bent
and took first one and then the other nipple into
my mouth, kissing and licking them, and Maria let
out a soft whimper like a little animal. I moved my
hand to the jewel-like darkness beneath her belly
and Maria moaned loudly. I lifted her to the bed
and quickly undressed, then lay down beside her.
I moved my large body onto her small, delicate
frame, and entered her with a slow, gliding move-
ment. Slowly, slowly our rhythm built, until
Maria grabbed frantically at my back and thrust
her legs around my hips. We moved together creat-
ing a crescendo of passion. Then she let out one
final, long groan of ecstasy.
We both lay breathing deeply for many minutes.

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mine and smell her slightly musky perfume. I bent
my head down toward hers, and her mouth opened
for me. My tongue grazed her beautiful red lips,
and then moved inside her mouth, exploring it. Her
tongue met mine.
"You may come in," she said softly when we
broke our embrace. I moved into the room, closed
the door behind me, and took Maria in my arms.
We kissed again, and I began exploring her firm,
young body: the delicate arch of her back, her per-
fectly formed hips, her welcoming thighs. I un-
zipped her black sheath from the back and let my
hands slide along the soft skin of her shoulders.
Her dress fell to the floor, and she looked up at me
with those huge, dark eyes, now gleaming with an-
ticipation. I gazed, almost breathless, at her in-
credibly beautiful body, now naked except for a
pair of black lace panties. Her long dark hair fell
across breasts which were white as ivory and as in-
viting as any I'd ever seen. Her large rosy nipples
strained out, already erect with excitement. I bent
and took first one and then the other nipple into
my mouth, kissing and licking them, and Maria let
out a soft whimper like a little animal. I moved my
hand to the jewel-like darkness beneath her belly
and Maria moaned loudly. I lifted her to the bed
and quickly undressed, then lay down beside her.
I moved my large body onto her small, delicate
frame, and entered her with a slow, gliding move-
ment. Slowly, slowly our rhythm built, until
Maria grabbed frantically at my back and thrust
her legs around my hips. We moved together creat-
ing a crescendo of passion. Then she let out one
final, long groan of ecstasy.
We both lay breathing deeply for many minutes.

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mine and smell her slightly musky perfume. I bent
my head down toward hers, and her mouth opened
for me. My tongue grazed her beautiful red lips,
and then moved inside her mouth, exploring it. Her
tongue met mine.
"You may come in," she said softly when we
broke our embrace. I moved into the room, closed
the door behind me, and took Maria in my arms.
We kissed again, and I began exploring her firm,
young body: the delicate arch of her back, her per-
fectly formed hips, her welcoming thighs. I un-
zipped her black sheath from the back and let my
hands slide along the soft skin of her shoulders.
Her dress fell to the floor, and she looked up at me
with those huge, dark eyes, now gleaming with an-
ticipation. I gazed, almost breathless, at her in-
credibly beautiful body, now naked except for a
pair of black lace panties. Her long dark hair fell
across breasts which were white as ivory and as in-
viting as any I'd ever seen. Her large rosy nipples
strained out, already erect with excitement. I bent
and took first one and then the other nipple into
my mouth, kissing and licking them, and Maria let
out a soft whimper like a little animal. I moved my
hand to the jewel-like darkness beneath her belly
and Maria moaned loudly. I lifted her to the bed
and quickly undressed, then lay down beside her.
I moved my large body onto her small, delicate
frame, and entered her with a slow, gliding move-
ment. Slowly, slowly our rhythm built, until
Maria grabbed frantically at my back and thrust
her legs around my hips. We moved together creat-
ing a crescendo of passion. Then she let out one
final, long groan of ecstasy.
We both lay breathing deeply for many minutes.



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Then Maria gently stroked my forehead and said,
"And to think that I was so afraid of you at first."
She kissed my eyelids before snuggling into my
arms, and we both drifted into a deep, satisfied
sleep.
Lorca's pretty secretary was again bent over her
fashion magazine when I arrived at Spanish In-
telligence Headquarters the next morning.
"Good morning, Mr. Bryan," she said, smiling
mockingly and, as she had yesterday, inflecting my
cover name with a note of irony. She buzzed me
through the steel doors, and Lorca rose from be-
hind his enormous desk to greet me. He was cor-
dial but unsmiling. He seemed worried.
"Before you give me your news of last night,
Nick," he said, "let me give you mine. I hope yours
is better—or, God help us, no worse, than mine."
Lorca's whole face showed the strain of his job and
of this whole bloody business. "Early this morn-
ing," he continued, "EI Grupo Febrero sent out its
latest communique. They left a tape—which is
their usual method of relaying information, and, I
might add, of taunting the police—outside a radio
station near Seville. They must have left the tape
there in the dead of night; no one saw it delivered.
The station manager found it when he went to
work this morning at six a.m."
"What do they say?"
"Listen for yoursell I have a recording of it
here," and Lorca went behind his desk and pushed
a button.
After a moment of static I heard the recorded
voice of a fairly young man—probably somewhere
between twenty-five and thirty years old—-denounc-
50
ing the
NICK CARTER
"imperialist, fascistic"
government of



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NICK CARTER
ing the "imperialist, fascistic" government of
Spain. Then, in the name of El Grupo Febrero, he
claimed responsibility for the kidnapping of Gen-
eral Rodriguez, the "capitalist lackey" responsible
for many "crimes against the people of Spain."
Rodriguez would be tried for these crimes, the man
announced, at a special revolutionary tribune,
which would commence tomorrow. Rodriguez's
crimes, as the voice on the tape outlined them, in•
cluded causing unemployment, favoring the "dirty
rich," bilking the poor of their money to support
the army, withholding government secrets from the
"suppressing" civil revolution—that is,
citizens,
keeping order and plotting with the United States
and other corrupt Western powers to keep the peo-
ple of the world from having the revolutionary
governments they desired. The man explained, in a
cool reasonable voice which belied his wild accusa-
tions, that if found guilty of these crimes, General
Rodriguez would be sentenced to death and ex-
ecuted by El Grupo Febrero's "people's army."
"Not much doubt that he'll be found guilty, is
there?" Lorca remarked bitterly.
Then the man on the tape announced that he had
with him the man who was accused of these crimes,
and asked if the man had anything to say for him-
self. After a several second pause, an older man's
frightened voice spoke, saying over and over again
e 'No, no, I'm not guilty of what you accuse me of."
It was pathetic to listen to him forced to deny such
trash.
"That's definitely Rodriguez on the tape?" I
asked Lorca.
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morning, it's him all right."
51
The "revolutionary's" voice finally interrupted
Rodriguez's feeble protests. "The people, not you,
lackey, will decide upon your guilt." Then there
was another pause on the tape (apparently
Rodriguez was being led away) before the spokes-
man of El Grupo began another harangue. The
man promised that El Grupo Febrero would strike
again by the end of the week. The band would not
sleep until it had eliminated all of the enemies of
the revolution. And this time they would strike "as
high up as we can go."
"That's it," Lorca said, switching off the tape.
"It seems El Grupo is getting more and more
bloodthirsty. What does 'as high up as we can go'
sound like to you, Nick?"
"They must mean the King."
"That's what I'm afraid of. I've already sent over
an extra squad to the Palace, and I have extra
guards assigned to the King at all times. I sug-
gested that he cancel all his public appointments
until this thing is cleared up. but he is a very
courageous man. He wants to set an example to his
people by carrying on as usual, and, of course, he's
right to do so. It will show El Grupo Febrero that
the government can't be bullied no matter how
harsh the threats against it. Still, his safety worries
me. We've got to get some lead on El Grupo soon."
"The tape itself offers no new clues," I asked.
"No, it's like all the rest of El Grupo's communi-
ques. They're delivered in the middle of the night
to some provincial radio or t.v. station or news-
paper, when there's no one around who could see
them. Each time it's a different place in a different




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part of the country—otherwise we could place
guards. But we never know where they'll strike
next. The tapes themselves, of course, never have
any fingerprints, and they're on the kind of cheap
cassettes you can buy in any record shop or drug-
store in Spain."
"At least the tape didn't mention anything about
the nuclear secrets. Maybe that's some comfort."
"Maybe, but then maybe not," Lorca said
gloomily. "Perhaps they don't know yet what they
have, perhaps they know and aren't mentioning it
for reasons of their own. If they don't know yet,
we'd better find Rodriguez before the trial and
before they torture the information out of him."
Then Lorca abruptly changed the subject, as
though speaking of it was too painful. "So give me
all the details of your adventure last night, Nick."
I described to him the events of the day before
and I handed him the match I'd found on the dead
man. Lorca said he'd immediately run a check on
all the top restaurants and clubs of Madrid to see if
he could trace the silver match.
"Try Barcelona too," I said. I told Lorca about
Maria's conversations with her brother and about
Pedro's disappearance. I handed Lorca the
snapshot of Pedro that Maria had given me. It
showed a pleasant-looking man in his late twenties
who had Maria's pale skin and her large, dark eyes.
Pedro was standing in a park, holding a balloon,
hardly anyone's idea of a fearful terrorist.
"I'll have this blown up and sent across the
country," Lorca said. ' 'I'll put out an all-points
alert for him. Even if he's not one of the terrorists,
it sounds like he might be able to lead us to them."
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Then I explained my plan to Lorca for having
Maria accompany me to Barcelona to look for her
brother and for Dona Pretiosa.
For the first time today a smile flickered across
Lorca's face. "Your reputation with the ladies is
legendary, but this is quick work indeed. In any
case, it sound to me like a good idea for you to take
Maria with you. I'll have my department check out
the owners of all the coffee houses and bars in Bar-
celona and see if we can find one listed to Dona
Pretiosa." Lorca paused and stared at me for a mo-
ment before going on. "By the way, Nick, I'd al-
ready made plans for you to go to Barcelona any-
way."
My surprise must have been evident in my face,
for Lorca laughed a short, bitter laugh.
"Nozdrev," he said, 'Swas spotted in Barcelona
yesterday. I presume you recognize the name."
I recognized the name, all right. Mihail Nozdrev
was my KGB counterpart. He was one of Russia's
top agents, perhaps their best. For him to be in
Barcelona forbode nothing but evil. It could well
mean that the Russians already had a clue to what
General Rodriguez was carrying on him. Already a
deal might be brewing between the terrorists and
the KGB. Even if the terrorists hadn't already con-
tacted the KGB, it was more than an even bet that
Nozdrev had arrived in Barcelona to convince
them to play ball.
"You'll leave for Barcelona early tomorrow
morning," Lorca continued. ' 'I'm assigning a
Spanish agent to assist you. You're to meet up to-
night at a party given by Condesa Galdos. The
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NICK CARTER
check with the photography unit and photo-
archives to see if they'd had any luck identifying
the men who'd attacked me last night.
"And good luck, Nick. Time is moving quicker
than we want. Stay in Barcelona as long as you
need to, but let me emphasize how grateful I'd be if
you can come up with something before this new
'trial' begins."
It was a tough order, but I'd do my best.
On the eighth floor I was greeted by Dr. Michez,
who showed me morgue photographs taken of the
men I'd killed last night. So far, he reported, the
photos didn't match up with any they kept in their
extensive archives—mainly photographs of con-
victed criminals and known menbers of subversive
organizations. He promised, however, to take the
men's photographs to the enormous archives of the
Army, where all of the men who had ever served in
the Spanish Army would have photographs and
other documents on file. Since most of the adult
men in Spain had, at one point or another, been in
the army, this looked like a promising avenue. The
only problem was the enormity of the archives. Dr.
Michez was taking along a bevy of researchers
with him, but it would still take a very long time to
comb through all of the back files. He promised to
work as rapidly as possible, including having a
team on twenty-four hours, and I thanked him.
I was discouraged though, that the researchers
hadn't already come up with something. In fact,
about the only good news so far today was that
Lorca had wholeheartedly agreed with me about
having Maria accompany me to Barcelona. On the
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Maria a present to celebrate our journey. I picked
a deluxe French jewelry shop near our hotel. Inside
I found just what I was looking for: a gold bracelet,
simple yet elegant, that I knew would appeal to
Maria's fastidious good taste. On the back of the
bracelet I had them engrave:
"To Maria, thanks—for a number of things.
N.C."
At the hotel desk I had a telegram from Hawk,
which read,
Congratulations on latest contract. STOP.
Check out underground construction in Bar-
celona. STOP. Make sure to note height
which translated meant that Hawk had already
found out about Maria from Lorca (for some rea-
son he often referred to my women as "contracts"),
that he wanted me to try my damndest to penetrate
the secret (i.e., "underground") organization of El
Grupo, and that he wanted to remind me that we
were now playing for the highest stakes—possibly
nuclear blackmail. Sometimes I felt that David
Hawk knew more about my actions than I knew
my;elt
Upstairs I took Maria's bracelet out of its case.
I wanted to surprise her by slipping it on her arm as
I embraced her. .1 knocked. She didn't answer,
which was strange, as I'd told her not to go out of
the hotel under any circumstances. I knocked
again. Still no answer. I turned the knob to her
bedroom and the door opened. Then I felt as
though a bomb had exploded in my brain, my
heart, my groin. For Maria lay in bed, still naked
from the night before. Blood seeped onto the white
pillows, turning them pink, and formed a pool
56
NICK CARTER




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around the beautiful black hair. Maria's throat had
been slit from ear to ear.
I looked down at the gold bracelet hanging limp-
ly in my hand.




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Chapter Four
I quizzed the floor maid, the desk manager, the
elevator operator, eventually the entire hotel staff
that was on duty that morning. No one had seen
anyone enter or leave Maria's room, and no one
had noticed any suspicious-looking characters
hanging around the hotel. Apparently El Grupo—
if they were Maria's murderers—had changed their
uniform for this assignment: anyone wearing jeans
and a work shirt would have been noted im-
mediately in the posh hotel where we were staying.
Assuming that El Grupo had murdered Maria,
and I did assume this, I became less and less certain
that her brother Pedro was taking part in their
present bloody activities. There was no doubt that
the present members of El Grupo were homicidal
maniacs, but from what Maria had told me, and
from what I learned about Pedro that day when I
checked out his activities with some of his col-
leagues at the Madrid Library, Pedro just didn't
seem to be the type.
Pedro had worked in the history division at the
library. The head of this department, Dr. Diego
Marquez, a scholarly-looking man in his late fif-
58
NICK CARTER
ties, told me that Pedro had always been reliable
al emolovee. Pedro had



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ties, told me that Pedro had always been reliable
and hardworking, an ideal employee. Pedro had
moved up rapidly in the library hierarchy since
coming there two years ago, and Dr. Marquez told
me that recently he had recommended that Pedro
be promoted to his assistant. Dr. Marquez had
been upset when Pedro hadn't shown up for work
two weeks ago, and had been even more upset
when he had called Maria and she had told him
that Pedro would be away from work for a few
days. But she couldn't offer any explanation. Sev-
eral days later when he called Maria again, she had
said that Pedro was away and wouldn't be return-
ing to work at all.
"I'm glad you're investigating this," Dr. Mar-
quez told me. "You seem like a capable man to me.
I thought something was fishy, and I even thought
of calling the police. But I decided it was none of
my business, since Pedro's sister told me that he
was all right. I just hope we get Pedro back."
Pedro's immediate co-workers confirmed Dr.
Marquez's high opinion of him, and added the in-
formation that he was exceedingly kind and helpful
to people under him in his division. One young
man told about the time Pedro had stayed after
hours for a week, and until midnight on the last
day of the week, to help complete an indexing
project.
"Without Pedro's help," he said, "l wouldn't
have completed the indexing and would probably
have lost my job. Pedro is a real friend."
It turned out, however, that neither this young
man, nor Dr. Marquez, nor any of Pedro's co-
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had never—despite his friendliness and generosity
—confided in anyone at the library about his per-
sonal life. He had discussed his leaving with no
one. And no one at the library was in a position to
either confirm or deny any political activities Pedro
might have been taking part in, or even to com-
ment on his political beliefs: no one could ever re-
member his having discussed them.
To all appearances, Pedro was an ideal worker
and citizen—except for a youthful, and perhaps
understandable flirtation with radical politics. He
was a loving brother and a highly-valued colleague.
And yet it seemed obvious that he had some con-
nection with a group of bloodthirsty madmen, in-
tent upon the destruction of the Spanish govern-
ment, and possibly capable of international nuclear
blackmail. Could Pedro be one of those men in
whom the seeds of destruction are sown early,
seeds which grow—despite an apparently normal
outward development—until they surface at last
and are released in unexpected and bloody ven-
geance? Or was Pedro one of those revolutionaries
—by no means rare—who cultivate the demeanor
of good citizenship in order to better carry out
their secret bloody plots? A classic wolf in lamb's
clothing?
Or was it possible that Pedro, an ex-member of
El Grupo, was trying to halt their present activities?
If so, why hadn't he gone to the police with any
information he had on El Grupo? Could there be
two branches of El Grupo, both opposed to the
state, but who were fighting one another for con-
trol of the organization? Would that explain
Maria's untimely and unnecessary death?




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When I returned to the hotel later that afternoon
to change clothes for the evening, I immediately
had the sensation on entering my room, that some-
one had been in there. Then I noticed a set of
architectural drawings which I'd brought to Ma-
drid as part of my cover. I'd left them lying on a
desk across the room from the bed. The drawings
were still there, but I could tell they'd been moved
a fraction of an inch. Someone had been here. It
wouldn't have been the maid, for she'd already
come that morning to clean.
Whoeverc it was had been searching my room.
That in itself didn't disturb me, for I had no se-
crets, nothing here to reveal my identity except as
David Bryan, New York architect.
What did worry me was that my visitors were
probably the same ones who'd visited Maria,
who'd murdered her in the room next door. What
did they have in mind for me? I began checking out
the room. I went through all of the drawers. I
looked under tables, under the bed, in the closet
and in the shower in the bathroom. I sighted along
the woodwork to see if there were any cracks or
loose moldings. I found nothing unusual, and I'd
almost given up the search when my eyes lighted on
a small console table beside a lounge chair.
I knocked against the side of the table. It was not
solid wood, but was hollow inside. I took a knife
and traced its blade along the edges of the table's
side panel. Then I put pressure on the panel and it
unwedged easily, falling onto the floor. I shined a
flashlight into the whole, and looked into the
table's hollow base. I found what I was afraid I
might: at the bottom of the table's hollow base sat
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a foot-long, rectangular package wrapped in
brown paper.
I slowly lifted the package out of the table, being
careful not to make any abrupt movements. I gin-
gerly cut around the wrapping paper. My suspi-
cions were confirmed. Inside was a black metal
box. A faint ticking coming from the box was
almost imperceptible to the ear. It was a bomb all
right. I shuddered.
I would have liked to have called Lorca and had
him send over a squad of detonation experts, but I
knew there probably wasn't time for that. The
bomb had the kind of sophisticated triggering sys-
tem in which you couldn't tell from the outside
what time the explosion was set to go off. By the
time Lorca got the experts here, I, and the people
in the hotel rooms above and below and to the side
of me, might already be blown to smithereens.
I went to the windows and looked out, hoping I
could toss the bomb out that way. My room over-
looked a shaded courtyard and fountain at the
back of the hotel. Normally the courtyard was
deserted, but today a group of people, who looked
like English tourists; had decided to have cocktails
out there by the fountain. Why had they picked
this particular day to enjoy the courtyard's shaded
recesses?
I now had two choices. could make a run for it
and maybe save my own skin. But that wasn't
going to save the people in the hotel rooms around
me. My second choice was to try to detonate the
bomb myself, even though I knew it could blow up
in my face at any second.
I made my choice. I got the appropriate tools



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NICK CARTER
from my bag and steeled myself. I'm not a detona-
tion expert, but I have some training, and this was
my only hope of preventing another large-scale
massacre by El Grupo. First I unscrewed the black
metal base and removed it. Inside, next to the in-
nards of the bomb, was the timer itself. My heart
leaped against my chest: the timer was set to go off
in less than one minute.
I studied the bomb itself. At first it looked com-
pletely unfamiliar, but then gradually, working
back in my memory, I was able to find the various
parts that corresponded to the parts of the bombs
I'd already worked on. The structure of the bomb
became comprehensible, and I decided the trigger-
ing device must be the tiny steel lever sticking out
toward the timer.
Only a few seconds were left. If I pressed the
lever in the wrong direction, everything would be
all over. If I waited any longer, though, everything
would be all over anyway. It was a question of do
or die. I moved a pair of metal clippers to the lever
and gritted my teeth. One quick motion jammed
the lever to the left.
The ticking stopped. I smiled down at the clip-
pers in my hand. I'd foiled their plot to have me
follow Maria to the grave.
Spain has over 1,500 castles, and the Castle
Galdos had to be one of the most spectacular. Sit-
ting in park-like grounds along the Manzanares
River, it was an enormous Romanesque structure
of beige marble and red tiles. Lights glittered from
four stories of windows as I pulled the Mercedes
into the circular driveway and stopped the car




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beside a large, round fountain in front of the main
entrance.
A man in black and gold livery helped me from
my car, and inside the house a butler checked my
name against a large guest list. I'd been invited here
ostensibly because of my interest in Spanish
architecture, and because Castle Galdos was one of
the outstanding structures in Spain of its particular
period. In fact, Lorca had told me that a number of
high government officials would be attending the
party here, given by La Condesa Galdos, the
widow of a government minister. He wanted me
here in case any trouble developed and because it
was a convenient place for me to meet up with my
Spanish contact. Lorca had told me he was taking
extra security precautions because of the distin-
guished guest list, and I noted four Spanish officers
in full dress flanking the castle's ballroom en-
trance.
"Mr. David Bryan of New York City," another
liveried attendant announced as I descended the
steps into the enormous gold and white ballroom.
Heads turned briefly to look as I moved down
the marble stairs, then turned back to their com-
panions to chatter. A few people, mainly women,
followed my entire descent. I smiled at a shapely
redhead who was staring at me from across the
room, and caught the eye of a statuesque brunette.
Reaching the bottom of the stairs, I surveyed the
crowd. They were a glittering lot, all right, a com-
bination of la creme de la creme of Madrid society
and the highest officers of the Spanish government.
The men were, for the most part, a distinguished-
looking lot and carried themselves with that air of
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authority and complacency of the very powerful.
All of the women were beautifully dressed, and
many of them were, simply. beautiful, exquisite in
that way that only wealthy women with the means
and the leisure to pamper themselves endlessly are.
It was difficult to believe, as I watched these people
dancing and chattering gaily, that they were a
group under siege, that the lives of who knew
whom among them were in danger. And who in the
crowd, I wondered, was the Spanish agent I was to
contact?
I felt a hand on my right elbow.
g€Mr. Bryan, I presume?" said a tantalizingly
feminine voice.
I turned to my right.
There's a myth that all Spanish women—and
particularly the most beautiful ones—are dark and
diminutive, with brown eyes and black hair. The
woman before me proved that the myth was totally
wrong. Her hair, drawn back sleekly from her face,
was ash-blond, and her complexion was tawny,
roses and beiges mixed together in a delicious
blend. Her eyes were of a cool but intense green.
And she wasn't small. She was cast in the heroic
mold, only four or five inches shorter than me. Her
statuesque curves were accentuated by the tight-fit-
ting, low-bodiced evening gown she was wearing.
Could she be my Spanish contact? I smiled at her,
delighted at the prospect.
"l am your hostess," the woman said. "La Con-
desa Galdos."
I was dismayed that I wouldn't be working with
this beauty, and I was surprised that this was "the
widow of an ex-government official" Lorca had de-
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with a heaving bosom, and weighted down with
jewels.
These two reactions must have both played
momentarily on my face, for La Condesa smiled
mischievously and asked, "Is anything wrong, Mr.
Bryan?" Her voice was low, throaty, and incredibly
sexy. "Perhaps,"
she continued before I had a
chance to answer her, "you were expecting some
other type of person. People often do. My late hus-
band was twenty-five years older than I. People
sometimes expect me to be of his generation." La
Condesa had read my thoughts all right.
"Perhaps," I said.
"Well, no cause for dismay, I hope?" Again she
smiled at me mischievously.
I smiled, looking at the
"No cause whatever."
large emerald necklace, hanging against the soft,
tawny skin of her voluptuous breasts.
At this point La Condesa and I were interrupted
by some of her other guests, an older, very thin,
gray-haired woman, the Princess of Sedula, and a
small, fiercely elegant, extremely handsome man of
middle-age, El Conde Ruiz. La Condesa responded
charmingly to the Princess's effusive greetings, and
smiled—cordially, but also with a hint of irony—at
El Conde Ruiz. The social chatter between El Con-
de—who explained to me that he was a former gov-
ernment official and ex-officer of the army—and
La Condesa was pleasant and affectionate, but I
sensed a tension beneath the surface pleasantries,
as though they were really speaking to one another
about something completely different from their
ostensible subjects. As they chatted with the Prin-
cess about the latest art shows and parties of Eu-
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for me. Besides, I needed to be alone if my Spanish
agent was to approach me with any kind of discre-
tion.
"Perhaps you would care to stay later," La Con-
desa whispered to me, "so that I can show you the
various other parts of the castle. The Minister of
Culture tells me you're here surveying Spanish
architecture." Did I detect a scowl, quickly covered
by a smile, pass across Ruiz's face as she said this?
I told La Condesa that I'd like very much indeed
for her to "show me the castle," and went off to
look for my Spanish agent.
I was heading toward the bar on the other side of
the room, when a great murmuring went up among
the people surrounding me. They were all turning
toward the ballroom's entrance. As I turned to see
what was happening, I heard the blast of a
trumpet. At the top of the staircase I saw what ev-
eryone was excited about. There stood an attrac-
tive young couple. As the liveried servant an-
nounced, "The King and Queen," the couple
began descending the staircase. Suddenly everyone
was silent, and I noticed La Condesa move to the
bottom of the stairs to greet her new guests. She
embraced the King and Queen as though they were
old and close friends, and then the three of them
and half a dozen others in the royal party moved to
the side of the ballroom and formed a reception
line. Guests began filing past them. I figured this
was one ceremony I could skip. I was more in-
terested in saving the King's government than in
making small talk with him.
During the next hour a number of people ap-
proached me, mostly women, and I talked
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amicably with them about my architectural re-
search in Spain and satisfied their curiosity about
current happenings in New York and Washington.
Nearly everyone I spoke with mentioned her anxie-
ty about El Grupo; contrary to appearances, the
subject was on everyone's mind. But no one identi-
fied himself or herself as my co-worker.
I was talking with Manuel Ricardo, the current
Minister of the Treasury of the Spanish Govern-
ment, about a mutual interest, Moorish architec-
ture, when I happened to glance toward the win-
dows near us, which faced onto a terrace overlook-
ing the Manzanares River. What I saw shocked the
hell out of me. Standing behind a French window
was a figure I couldn't make out. But what I could
make out was the XM pistol the figure was hold-
ing. The metal of the gun reflected the light of a
candelabra. Whoever was holding the pistol out
there in the dark must have seen me looking, for a
slight jerk of the pointed barrel indicated that the
pistol was being cocked. Without thinking, with
only a visceral reaction, I threw myself toward
Manuel Ricardo, plunging my head into his stom-
ach, attempting to throw both of us to the floor.
But it was too late, the bullet came whizzing to-
ward us, missing my head by a fraction of an inch,
but plunging straight into Ricardo's heart. A tiny
jet of blood spurted onto my forehead, and a small,
gurgling sound came from the Minister of the
Treasury's throat. By the time we hit the floor I
knew that he was dead.
Whoever fired the gun had used a silencer, so at
first the other guests didn't know what had hap-
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saw the blood on my head and then the red seeping
through Ricardo's white shirt, pandemonium
broke out. At first a few, then many women's
shrieks burst out across the room as the news
spread, and men and women were both scurrying
across the room like rats trapped in a lethal cage,
unsure of which direction to turn in. It was rough
going shouldering my way past the pushing and
shoving crowd to reach the terrace from which the
shot had come. It was a waste of all too precious
seconds.
I unpocketed Wilhelmina as I opened the French
doors and stepped into the cool of the night. As I'd
expected, the tile terrace was deserted. I looked
over the marble balustrades—below was a straight
drop of about a hundred feet to the Manzanares
River. The terrace was closed to the left by a wing
of the castle. To the right, marble steps led to a side
garden. I went down these into the dark.
"Stop," a voice cried out, and I froze. "The po-
lice," the voice said a minute later. "Drop your gun
and put your hands above your head." I did as I
was told, and through the darkness three uni-
formed men came running toward me.
"I'm from the Special Security Force," I said
and reached toward my pocket for my identi-
fication.
"Keep your hands above your head," said the
man who was apparently the leader, as he fired a
warning shot in the air. I put my hands back above
my head. It's dangerous to mess around with cops
who don't know what they're doing and have a gun
pointed at you. The leader motioned one of the
other men to search me. The man did so, murmur-



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ing "assassin" under his breath. I heard his intake
of breath, however, when he found my identi-
fication. He immediately scurried to his superior,
who, after glancing at the identity card, broke into
loquacious apologies.
These were beside the point. It was now too late
to look for anyone in the garden. If the assassin
had come through the garden, he would have long
since escaped under cover of my "capture."
"Wasn't anyone guarding this terrace?" I asked.
"Weren't all entrances and exits supposed to be
covered?" I heard the cold fury in my voice.
One of the guards looked down at his shoes and
finally admitted sheepishly that he'd been stationed
on the terrace steps, but had gone around the
house—briefly, he assured us—to get a cigarette.
When he heard the confusion inside, he'd been on
the other side of the building. When he'd returned
to this side of the building—with his buddies in tow
—they'd found me coming down the steps. The
man's superior now let loose with a torrent of
abuse and obscenities, and I turned to go back into
the castle. Heads would certainly be rolling at po-
lice headquarters tonight.
In the ballroom, the pandemonium had quieted
down. La Condesa was moving among the guests,
calmly reassuring them, apparently in complete
charge of the situation. Now everyone was as silent
as though they were at a funeral, which I suppose
they were, in a way. A police officer informed me
that the King and Queen had been surrounded by
their private security force when the panic broke
out, and had been whisked out of the castle im-
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away at the body of Ricardo on the floor, as the
guests filed rapidly but quietly toward the entrance
to leave.
I answered a few of the police's questions about
what I'd seen, and then I moved to the entrance
hall to watch the guests file out. Perhaps my
Spanish contact would greet me as he or she left.
No such luck. At the end of another half an
hour, all the guests had filed past La Condesa,
an ambulance crew had arrived and removed
Ricardo's body, and even the investigating officers
had departed. But my agent hadn't made contact.
La Condesa Galdos, still calm as could be, ap-
proached me.
"So you are staying for your tour, after all," she
said. "I'm afraid I must apologize. Usually my
guests are not treated so badly. At least when they
first visit."
"You were a pillar of strength," I said to her
admiringly. Her sober countenance broke into a
grin, and she laughed a deep, throaty laugh. I guess
I looked puzzled again for she explained, "You
have made, without knowing it, Mr. Bryan, a pun.
A bilingual pun. My Christian name is Pilar, please
call me that. Now come, your tour."
' 'Perhaps another time would be more conve-
nient for you," I said. There was no reason for me
to stay here now. I needed to get back to Lorca and
find out what had happened to the Spanish agent.
Much as I would have liked to spend more time
with La Condesa.
' 'I think you had better let me give you the
tour," she said. She took my hand. g 'Come along,
Mr. Bryan, the dimensions of the castle are shrink-


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ing." That was it, "the dimensions of the castle are
Shrinking," the code phrase Lorca had given me.
So I had been right after all. looked at her, shak-
ing my head in joy and disbelief: La Condesa, Se-
cret Agent.
Over coffee in the Castle Galdos's library, I con-
fided to Pilar that I was fairly certain the shot in
her ballroom had been aimed at me, and not at
Minister Ricardo. Although the guests, of course,
and even the police had taken this as another of El
Grupo's assassinations, it didn't look like El
Grupo's style to me: no dramatics, no torture, so
far no threats.
What neither Pilar nor I could figure out was how
anyone could have got past the tight security force
Lorca and the police had set up. The party hadn't
been catered, but served by Pilar's own staff,
which, she assured me, consisted, for the most part,
of old family retainers, all of whom were infinitely
trustworthy.
It was possible, of course, that the assassin had
gotten wind of the party and entered the grounds
of the estate by boating down the river and climb-
ing up the steep bank and over the walls. The po-
lice had already put out a checkpoint for the boats
along the river. But that approach would have
taken a lot of planning, and if the assassin were
after me, he couldn't possibly have had time to hire
a boat and get there that quickly.
The other possibility was that the killing had
been an inside job, either by one of the guests or by
one of the security men. The latter possibility
seemed extremely unlikely. So Pilar produced her
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guest list and we went over it, hoping that we could
find some clue there. All of the people on the guest
list, though, were eminent, most of the men high
government officials, the women their wives,
daughters, or themselves in positions of govern-
ment trust and responsibility. Of course, there
were, as Pilar pointed out, a number of people who
could have been political enemies of Minister
Ricardo. That is, people who opposed his policies.
But hardly, one would think, opposed them
enough to assassinate the man. The police had a
guest list in their possession and would be in-
vestigating all this, but it seemed unlikely to me
that the gunman really had been aiming at Ricardo
and not me. And yet, supposedly, no one at the
party had known who I really was except Pilar. It
was a puzzle.
"And how did you get into this line of work," I
asked Pilar.
She hesitated.
"Complicated explanation?" I asked her.
"No, not so complicated," she replied. She ex-
plained that she had been married—ten years ago,
while still a student—to El Conde Galdos. El Con-
de came from one of the oldest and richest of
Spanish noble families, but when Pilar met him he
had been a professor of social sciences at the Uni-
versity of Madrid. She had been his student. De-
spite the difference in their ages, Pilar and El Con-
de had fallen deeply in love. Pilar came from a long
line of anti-fascists. Two of her uncles had died
fighting on the loyalist side in the civil war. And
the Galdos family also, despite their wealth and
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one of the bonds between Pilar and the man who
became her husband. Together the two of them
had fought, as discreetly as possible to bring de-
mocracy to Spain. Shortly after the King came to
power, he had asked El Conde Galdos, an old
friend, to join his government, and El Conde had
given up his professorship to become the Minister
of Social Services.
"My husband was an idealist," Pilar said proud.
ly, "and he was on fire with the idea of using his
position to help the people—the poor, the
peasants, the political outcasts like ourselves—who
had suffered so long."
Galdos had died of cancer only a few months
after taking office. At first Pilar had been almost
inconsolable with grief, but soon she pulled herself
together and realized that the best way to serve her
husband's memory was by helping the regime they
both had so many hopes for. But what could she
The idea of being an agent had occurred to her
one day when Pilar was lunching with my boss,
Lorca, who was an old school friend of hers. When
she first proposed it, Lorca had scoffed.
"But I am persistent," Pilar said smiling, "Final-
ly, I won him over. After all," she laughed, ' 'who
could have a more perfect cover? Who would sus-
pect a rich, frivolous society lady of being a gov-
ernment agent?"
Pilar was mocking herself, but I knew she had to
be damn good. She'd only been with the agency for
two years. Yet for Lorca to assign her to an impor-
tant case like this meant that she was already one
of his top agents.



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The phone rang in the room next to the library,
and Pilar excused herself to answer it. When she
returned to the library, her face was grim.
"That was Lorca," she said, •gwe are to proceed
to Barcelona tomorrow as planned. Half an hour
ago, a radio station in Catalonia received a new
communique from El Grupo Febrero. They claim
responsibility for the political assassination of
Minister Manuel Ricardo."




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Chapter Five
Naturally, all the newspapers the next morning
played up the assassination of Minister Ricardo.
They dwelt at length on the fact that the King and
Queen had been in attendance at the party where
he had been killed, some even going so far as to
speculate that the bullet had been aimed at the
King (despite the fact that the King and Queen had
been completely across the room from Ricardo
when the shot was fired). Ricardo's death was a
gigantic propaganda coup for El Grupo, and a ma-
jor embarrassment to the police and government.
You could sense an electric wave of shock and pan-
ic sweeping through the Spanish populace.
Pilar and I set off for Barcelona that morning in
the Mercedes and arrived in the city in mid-
afternoon. After checking into a hotel off the
Ramblas, we immediately set off for the Barrio
Chino to search for Dona Pretiosa.
The Barrio Chino is an ugly, decadent part of
Barcelona, not the kind of neighborhood where
you'd be likely to stroll at night. Even during the
day the place is dark because of the shadows the
crowded buildings cast on the narrow, angular
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streets. Pickpockets and thieves lurk here, under
cover of darkness, and even in mid-afternoon
whores stand on doorsteps and lean out of win-
dows, calling out raucous propositions. Drug
dealers and peddlers of blackmarket goods hawk
their wares on corners and stoops. From the open
doors of bars and brothels, the sounds of cheap
music and tired, argumentative voices waft onto
the streets.
Lorca's agents had located one Don Santillana
for us. Santillana ran a saloon called La
Cuchuracha, one of the Barrio Chino's lowest
dives, sort of a center for neighborhood crime.
Santillana would know most of what was going
down in the Barrio's streets and backrooms, and
with luck he'd also know where we could find
Dona Pretiosa.
La Cuchuracha was located in a large, dark base-
ment room that we entered through a narrow alley.
Already, although it was not yet nightfall, the
room was filled with rough-looking types, and the
air was heavy with the smells of alcohol, tobacco,
marijuana, and opium. Tough and jaded-looking
faces turned toward Pilar and me as we entered.
Men's eyes drank in Pilar's beauty greedily, eyes
that were used, I knew, to seeing only the most bat-
tered and hardened kinds of women. I couldn't
help noticing that the only other woman in the bar
was a slatternly barmaid, heavily made-up, and
vulgarly dressed, who was serving drinks to a
group of men at a table across the room. One of the
men at the table whispered something in the
barmaid's ear, and with a large lascivious grin on
her face the woman made her way across the




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crowded room toward Pilar and me.
77
"I am Rosa," the woman said. She grinned,
showing badly cared for teeth. "One of my friends
wishes to buy you a drink," she said to Pilar. "And
he asked me to ask your price." There was con-
tempt in her voice, mockery in her flashing eyes.
"Tell your friend," Pilar said, not batting an eye,
"that my price is much too high for him and that I
do not drink with swine." Then Pilar fixed Rosa
with such a cold, withering glance that the mockery
drained from the woman's face and she immediate-
ly scurried back across the room, like a badly
frightened hen. had to hand it to Pilar. She might
have been high born, but she certainly knew how to
handle herself in places like this.
Pilar smiled at the man across the room, as the
barmaid bent to tell him what Pilar had said. Then
the big bruiser, who looked to be in his mid-twen-
ties and already a seasoned criminal, rose and
lurched toward us. I tensed as he made his way
across the room, and took Pilar's hand in my own
as he approached. The man swayed above us, ob-
viously stoned on drugs or booze, and, ignoring
me, went to Pilar and put his hand on her bare
shoulder (she was wearing a tank top). I started
toward him, but Pilar's reaction was even swifter.
As cool and efficient as a machine, she removed the
man's hand from her shoulder, then dealt him a
blow on the chin with the back of her hand that
sent him reeling toward the bar. The other people
in the bar, who had been watching all this avidly,
gasped at her effrontery and her strength.
I knew that a fight was on, for the man's four
buddies had already risen from their table and were
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running toward us. For a moment I thought the
whole La Cuchuracha crowd might join in the
fray; they collectively shifted in their chairs as
though getting ready to leap up. But they must
have decided, at least until they knew what direc-
tion the fight would take, to sit back and see what
would happen. They must have figured the five
men would pretty quickly beat me to a bloody
pulp, then have their way with Pilar.
"Pimp," yelled the first of the quintet as he came
lunging toward me. I caught the weight of his body
as he barrelled into me and with one motion threw
him over my head. He flew through the air briefly
then landed with a thunderous whack as he hit the
ground; he was out. A second man rammed his fist
into my stomach as the first went over, but my
stomach is in pretty good condition, like steel, and
I knocked this one out cold with a single punch
against his jaw. Meanwhile Pilar had already
jumped up as the original tough approached her
again, and with a quick karate kick sent him whirl-
ing once again toward the bar. This time Pilar used
such force that the man hit the steel covered bar
with a bang and crumpled to the floor.
Already another man had grabbed Pilar's long
blonde hair and was violently pulling on it, as
though trying to wrench it from her scalp. He
reached toward her breasts with his other hand,
leering and growling "prostitute" as he did so. But
before the hand could caress her breast Pilar kneed
the man in the groin hard, and he involuntarily let
go of her and howled with pain. While he was still
stunned from this blow, Pilar picked up a chair and
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and neck. The chair splintered as it struck, and the
lecher collapsed beneath its impact.
While this was going on, the last man had come
up on me from behind, pinioning my arms to my
side and clinging to my back like a monkey. Then
he moved one of his hands from my arms to my
throat and began squeezing hard. That was his mis-
take. I swiveled to my right, and with my now free
elbow I jabbed him just below his ribs. I heard the
whoosh of air as I knocked the breath out of him
and felt his grip on my throat loosen. With him still
clinging, now precariously, to my back, I propelled
us both backward with all my force. I heard the
crack of bone against wood as his head hit the wall
behind us, then he went completely limp and
slipped down my back like water.
The other customers in La Cucharacha, who had
been following this melee in attentive silence, now
unexpectedly let out a chorus of loud whoops and
whistles for Pilar and me. I guess they'd enjoyed
the fight and decided not to take us on themselves.
This ovation was still going on when I heard the
sound of shattering glass. Turning around, I saw
the barmaid Rosa weaving toward Pilar. The
jagged edge of the broken whiskey bottle in Rosa'a
hand was aimed right at the back of La Condesa's
neck. I yelled and Pilar turned just in time to avoid
the bottle coming toward her. Suddenly the crowd
was silent again.
I decided not to interfere. Rosa, unlike her
drunken cohorts, had a weapon that was, or could
be, lethal. She was armed and Pilar wasn't. But I
could see by now that Pilar could more than take
care of herself. The two women stood facing one
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another. Then Rosa swung with her bottle again,
this time aiming at Pilar's throat. Pilar sidestepped
the blow, and as Rosa's arm came down, Pilar
grabbed it at the wrist. Pilar's grip must have been
strong, because the woman whimpered and let go
of the bottle, which crashed to the floor. With her
free hand, the barmaid grabbed at Pilar's waist,
knocking them both off balance. They fell to the
floor in a heap, and then they struggled with one
another as they rolled around on the floor, now
Rosa, now Pilar on top. Pilar soon, however, had
the frowsy barmaid beneath her.
"Not a very nice thing to do," Pilar said coldly,
looking down into the woman's furious face.
"Dirty whore," Rosa said as she went for Pilar's
eyes with her long red fingernails. But Pilar
checked the barmaid, dealing a swift, clean blow to
the side of Rosa's neck that put the barmaid out of
commission, at least temporarily.
Pilar rose, as cool as could be, smoothed her
clothes, and reached toward her purse. From this
she took a comb and straightened out her long
blonde hair. This gesture sent La Cucharacha's pa-
trons into an ovation that topped the first one. Ap-
parently the men enjoyed a cat fight even more
than a fist-swinging free-for-all. A faint, ironical
smile played on Pilar's beautiful face.
"Drinks for all!" I turned to see that the boom-
ing voice came from an enormously fat, completely
bald man who stood beside the bar. The man
nodded at a couple of attendants who quickly
moved toward two of the recumbent figures on the
floor. As they hoisted the limp bodies over their
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the bar, the fat man moved toward Pilar and me,
beaming. This had to be Don Santillana, and I was
glad La Cucharacha's manager had apparently en-
joyed the fight as much as his customers.
"You begin fights in my bar?" Don Santillana
said with mock severity. Then his face broke into a
broad grin, and his huge belly shook as he laughed.
With a wave of his hand, Santillana shooed away
the group at the nearest table and invited Pilar and
me to sit down with him. A bartender appeared
immediately with drinks for all of us, and Pilar and
I introduced ourselves, using false names. We told
Santillana that we hoped he could help us locate
Dona Pretiosa. The smile faded from Santillana's
face and was replaced by the shrewd, calculating
frown of a businessman. He said he didn't know a
Dona Pretiosa in the neighborhood, but he might
be able to have his men inquire about her where-
abouts. Of course there would be a small fee. I
pulled out my wallet and handed Santillana the
Spanish equivalent of two hundred dollars.
s 'I will have my men begin making inquiries."
Then he beckoned one of his lackeys toward the
table. "Locating her will probably cost, however,
more than this," he said, pocketing the two hun-
dred dollars.
I motioned away Santillana's lackey as he came
up to our table. I had a feeling Santillana already
knew where we could find Dona Pretiosa. I didn't
mind giving him and his men more money, but we
didn't have time to play these elaborate games with
him.
"Cut the crap," I said, and I explained that we
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the bar, the fat man moved toward Pilar and me,
beaming. This had to be Don Santillana, and I was
glad La Cucharacha's manager had apparently en-
joyed the fight as much as his customers.
"You begin fights in my bar?" Don Santillana
said with mock severity. Then his face broke into a
broad grin, and his huge belly shook as he laughed.
With a wave of his hand, Santillana shooed away
the group at the nearest table and invited Pilar and
me to sit down with him. A bartender appeared
immediately with drinks for all of us, and Pilar and
I introduced ourselves, using false names. We told
Santillana that we hoped he could help us locate
Dona Pretiosa. The smile faded from Santillana's
face and was replaced by the shrewd, calculating
frown of a businessman. He said he didn't know a
Dona Pretiosa in the neighborhood, but he might
be able to have his men inquire about her where-
abouts. Of course there would be a small fee. I
pulled out my wallet and handed Santillana the
Spanish equivalent of two hundred dollars.
s 'I will have my men begin making inquiries."
Then he beckoned one of his lackeys toward the
table. "Locating her will probably cost, however,
more than this," he said, pocketing the two hun-
dred dollars.
I motioned away Santillana's lackey as he came
up to our table. I had a feeling Santillana already
knew where we could find Dona Pretiosa. I didn't
mind giving him and his men more money, but we
didn't have time to play these elaborate games with
him.
"Cut the crap," I said, and I explained that we
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head. "l should have suspected something was up,
all those dirty students and puny young men
always in and out of her coffeehouse. They're not
real men. I should have known they were filthy an-
archists. We've been harboring them in our midst.
We'll demolish the place," he said angrily.
Pilar and I had to persuade Santillana that it
was extremely unlikely that Dona Pretiosa's cof-
feehouse was the headquarters of El Grupo, and
that we merely wanted to question her because we
thought she might offer us a few clues to the case.
We explained that Dona Pretiosa herself was prob-
ably not involved. I didn't know whether this was
true or not, but J certainly didn't want Don San.
tillana and crew barging in on her, and finally he
agreed to leave Dona Pretiosa to us. He wrote
down the address of her coffeehouse, and Pilar and
I rose to leave.
"Destroy them, destroy them," he shouted as we
left La Cucharacha.
Dona Pretiosa's small, candlelit coffeehouse was
almost deserted. At the front of the cafe, a young
girl with long dark hair was playing a guitar and
singing a Spanish folk song. A couple sat at a table
near her, sipping coffee, smoking cigarettes, and
listening. Pilar and I were the only other cus-
tomers. We sat down at a small, wooden table, sev-•
eral feet from the singer and were approached by a
large, dark woman of middle years. We ordered
cafe cortado, and the woman asked us if we were
tourists. Pilar said that we were from Madrid.
When the woman returned with our cafe cortado
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"Yes." She smiled. Her eyes were warm and
friendly. "Have friends in Madrid sent you to look
me up?" she asked. Her voice was solicitous, that
of a gracious hostess.
"We are friends of Maria Salas," I said, carefully
watching Dona Pretiosa's face in the candlelight to
see what effect the name had on her. Her smile did
not fade, but her eyes seemed to cloud over with
anxiety.
"I'm afraid I don't recognize the name," she
said.
"She is the sister of Pedro Salas," I said. ' 'We're
here in Barcelona looking for him. He's been miss-
ing for over two months."
"And why do you come to me?" she asked.
Dona Pretiosa's smile hadn't faded, but it now
seemed pasted on, no longer natural.
"Don't you know him?" Pilar asked. "It's im-
portant that we find him: His sister felt you might
be able to help us."
"I'm afraid I can't." Dona Pretiosa's smile had
completely faded. She was speaking now in a soft
voice, very slowly, as though weighing each word.
"I remember the name," she continued. "He used
to come to my cafe many years ago. He was a stu-
dent then, I think. But I haven't seen him recent-
ly."
I sensed that she was lying. "Maria, Pedro's sis.
ter, has been killed," I said.
I wanted to shock Dona Pretiosa, and I did. She
buried her face in her hands and moaned, "No,
poor, poor Pedro!"
"We must find Pedro," Pilar said gently. "We
think his life may be in danger. If he has committed
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giving himself up now might help him."
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Dona Pretiosa uncovered her face. Tears now
ran down the flat planes of her cheeks. "Pedro has
commited no crimes," she said softly. "Why can't
you people just leave him alone? Don't you think I
know he's in danger?"
"Why do you think he's in danger?" I asked.
Dona Pretiosa didn't answer. She looked away
from us toward the folk singer. Tears were still roll-
ing down her face.
"El Grupo Febrero used to meet here," I said.
"Would you know how we could get in touch with
any of the members other than Pedro?"
Dona Pretiosa turned back to us. s 'No," she
said. "They have all disappeared."
"Within the last two months?"
She nodded.
"So Pedro is with them?"
"No," she said vehemently almost shouting.
Then she caught herself. "I mean, I'm not sure
where he is, but I don't think he's with the others."
Abruptly she turned away from us. She moved
to the coffeebar and began busying herself, wiping
the wooden surface of the bar. I followed her.
"Please go away," she said. "You are from the
police, no? I already told the men from the police
that I don't know where Pedro is. Please leave me
alone."
Pilar had followed me to the bar. We exchanged
glances. No other police had been sent to talk to
Dona Pretiosa. Lorca would have told us.
"When did you speak to these men?" I asked.
"Why, yesterday."
"Look, Dona Pretiosa, those men were not from
the police. If they were from the police we would
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have known about it. You must tell us where Pedro
is. If those men do find him, it could be a matter of
life and death for him."
"Those men were from El Grupo?"
"Quite possibly."
Dona Pretiosa let out a long moan. "He knew
they would find him eventually." She described the
three men to us, one very tall, cleanly shaven man,
the other two shorter, with dark beards. All of
them had been wearing dark business suits.
"Pedro is so afraid of them," she said.
"I cannot tell you. I do not know."
"But you do know where Pedro is?" Pilar asked.
"Please tell us. For his sake."
Dona Pretiosa did not speak for many seconds.
The only sound in the cafe was the singer's wailing
voice. Finally, she cleared her throat, and almost in
a whisper said, "He has been hiding in a deserted
cottage I own in Felipe, along the coast from the
city. He came to me three weeks ago in a panic. He
wouldn't tell me why, but eventually I figured out
that he was terribly afraid of being caught by mem-
bers of El Grupo. Once a week I go there and take
him food." She then broke down in tears. Pilar
took the woman in her arms and comforted her.
When she finally ceased crying, Dona Pretiosa
gave us directions to the cottage where Pedro was
hiding. We promised her we wouldn't hurt him. I
only hoped we could keep that promise.
A glorious red and pink sunset accompanied us
as we drove along the coastal highway. By the time
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pletely set and a full moon had appeared in the sky.
Its light shone down on the rocky terrain and
showed us a countryside that was almost like a
lunar landscape. The village was named after
Felipe II, a Spanish king of the sixteenth century,
but there was nothing regal about the town. Its
rocky stone streets were dotted with small houses
made from the same beige stone, and at this hour
the streets were almost deserted. Because it was set
in from the coastal highway and was perched high
above the ocean, it had apparently not been
touched by the booming tourist industry that had
transformed the surrounding towns. Finally we
spotted an old man on one of the streets, walking a
mongrel almost as skinny as his master. I stopped
the car and asked for directions to the Giralda
Place. He pointed us down a rocky road that he
said would eventually lead us there.
"You won't find anyone there, though," he said.
"The place has been deserted for two years now,
ever since Old Man Giralda died."
We explained that we had been sent by Dona
Pretiosa, who was Giralda's daughter, and that we
were thinking of buying the Giralda cottage.
"Can't imagine what you'd want with it," the
old man said, "but I guess it's in demand."
"Some other men were here, earlier this after-
noon, looking for the place. I guess Dona Pretiosa
has several people looking at the place."
"l guess so," I said. 'S Too bad we didn't get here
first. Thanks."
I steered the Mercedes onto the rocky road the
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too bad that we hadn't got here first. If the men
who had asked about the place earlier in the day
were from El Grupo, chances are Pedro would al-
ready be gone.
The rocky road wound up through steep jagged
mountains and eventually turned to dirt. About
two hundred yards along the dirt road, I pulled the
car to the side of the road.
"We're almost at the top of the hill,"
I said.
"The cottage can't be far. We'd better walk the rest
of the way." I didn't want Pedro to hear our ap-
proach if he was still here, just in case he was
armed or decided to flee.
A coyote called out from the hills as we made
our way up the steep dirt road. After climbing a
couple of dozen yards, we reached the top of the
hill, and the Giraldo cottage came into sight.
"That must be it," Pilar whispered.
The cottage, like the ones in the village of Felipe,
was small and made of beige stone. It stood on the
flat top of the hill, the ground surrounding it bar-
ren except for a couple of low bushes beneath the
front windows. Jagged rock formations edged the
place in a circle.
No light showed from the cottage's windows.
The night air was silent. I was afraid we were too
late.
I touched Pilar's arm, indicating that we should
bear to our left, keeping close to the rock for-
mations that would give us a cover of shadowy
darkness. The rocks were closer to the house's
back, and would afford us more protection if we
went around that way.
"Look," Pilar whispered as we neared the back
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of the house. My eyes turned in the direction she
indicated. Standing between the back of the house
and the rock formation was a black sedan, gleam-
ing in the moonlight. So someone was here still.
As we moved toward the car as a cover, the si-
lence of the night was suddenly punctuated by two
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Chapter Six
Both Pilar and I froze at the sound of the gun-
shots. It took us a second to realize that the shots
had clearly come from inside the house, and that
they hadn't been fired outward, aimed at us. We
edged toward the back of the house. From here we
could hear voices coming from the windows, and
then the sound of a low, guttural laugh. I stood
next to the window nearest me. Pilar took up a post
at the other window at the back of the house. Be-
cause the window was high and narrow, she picked
up a metal bucket lying in the yard and stood on it,
placing her head against the window.
Up against the window I could see why we'd
seen no light coming from the cottage. The win-
dows had been covered with heavy dark cloth from
the inside. Even standing right next to them, one
could barely see the light that appeared around the
windows' edges.
I listened, and my heart gave an extra beat when
I realized that the voices were speaking in Russian.
"Now Nozdrev can get the plans," a man's voice
said.
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"Now that we've got rid of this one," said anoth-



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"Now that we've got rid of this one," said anoth-
er man.
'S He's supposed to pick up the plans tomorrow?"
"That's what the deal was."
"And then Spain will be in our hands."
At this they both gave a hoarse laugh, then con-
tinued talking.
"Too bad this one didn't give us the information
we wanted."
At this point I heard a crash to my left. I turned
to see Pilar sprawled on the ground, the bucket
beside her. The men inside must have also heard
her fall, because suddenly all conversation among
them stopped. I moved to help Pilar. She was hold-
ing her ankle, wincing in pain.
"Damn," she whispered, as I bent down to help
her up. 'ST he bucket just gave way beneath me, it
must have been rusting."
"Couldn't be helped," I said. I pulled Wil-
helmina out of my pockets Just in time. For at
that moment a man of middle height, with a care-
fully cropped, dark beard, came around the cot-
tage. The gun in his hand was pointed at us. For-
tunately his eyes were taking awhile to adjust to the
darkness. He squinted toward where we were, then
spotted us.
I aimed and fired. The luger's shot echoed loudly
against the surrounding rocks. The bullet entered
the man's chest as he let out a curse in Russian.
Then he fell to the ground, and his gun flew out of
his hand and hit the side of the cottage. The man
lay motionless, as his blood, now simply a dark
shape in the moonlight, flowed onto the light col-
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"Are you okay?" I asked Pilar.
She nodded.
"You stay here then and guard the car." She had
already taken a Mercury RR8 from her pocket.
She hobbled over to the car and crouched behind
it.
I rushed around the corner to the front of the
house. The primitive wooden door was closed. I
kicked at it with all my might until it splintered and
opened inward. As I entered the cottage, one of the
Russians, another with a shortly cropped beard,
came toward me holding a high-powered pistol. He
fired at me, but I ducked the shot and his bullet
whistled into the empty night air. I aimed
Wilhelmina at him, but he came running at me,
knocking my aim off track as he shoved into my
stomach. I hit him against the side of the head.
Blood ran down his face as he staggered backward.
He tried to aim his pistol at me again, but my shot
was ahead of his. It went straight into his gut, and
he slumped against a primitive wooden table,
knocking it over.
A lighted kerosene lamp fell from the table ignit-
ing a pile of rubbish lying near it. As the kerosene
flowed along the floor the leaping flames followed
it. There was water in a large pitcher beside the
door, which I tipped onto the flames, but to no
avail. I started toward a cot in a dark corner of the
one-room cottage, hoping to find a blanket. As I
approached I realized with a start, that there was a
man lying there in the shadows. But he didn't get
up off the cot and rush me. He didn't raise a pistol
at me. He had two bullets in his head, one through
his left eye, the other through his forehead. And
he'd been badly beaten by the Russians before they