# Сканы 4

Лев Переводчик Шкловский

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wan .

Pilar was now standing before the dirty mirror

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NICK CARTER

above my sink, combing those long blond tresses.

She turned her head toward me, waiting for an an-

swer. But when I ignored her sarcasm and re-

mained silent, she turned her eyes back to her own

reflection and continued.

"Well, you'll be disappointed to know that there

is no dirt. Despite their political disagreements,

Juan and my husband continued seeing one anoth-

er over the years. They had their childhood ties,

and the Spanish aristocracy is really a very small

world. After I married Carlos, I naturally oc-

casionally saw Juan too—because of my position

as Carlos's wife, of course, but also because Juan

and I had much in common—music, art—and I

found him sympathetic.

"Then, after Carlos died Juan was very kind and

very attentive. It took me a while to realize that

Juan's interest in me was becoming more than just

friendly. One day, to my enormous surprise, Juan

actually proposed to me. He said he'd been in love

with me for years. I don't know whether he meant

he'd been in love with me while Carlos was alive or

only afterwards. I didn't want to know. Of course,

a marriage between Juan and me was out of the

question. I'd certainly never been attracted to him,

and I told him so. I also told him that if he per-

sisted I wouldn't see him at all any more.

"Juan, unlike some people I can mention, has

always been a perfect gentleman. He agreed to nev-

er bring up the subject of marriage again. For

about six months he didn't call; perhaps he was

more hurt than I'd realized. Then one day I ran

into him at a concert and we talked. Everything

between us was just like it had been before my hus-

band died, and we became friendly again—not in-


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timate, but friendly. I now go to his parties, he

comes to mines and we see each other at concerts

and shows and that sort of thing. And that's the

extent of our 'relationship.' '

Pilar came to the bed, picked up the list of names

she was to visit that afternoon, and looking down

at me asked, "Anymore questions?"

It was a very pretty story she'd told, complete

with hero and heroine, and it may even have been

a true story, but it didn't explain the silver match

and Pilar's activities of the last few days.

"Yes, a few more questions," I answered her.

"They can wait, I'm sure," Pilar said icily as she

headed toward the door.

I leaped out of bed and blocked the doorway.

"I'd like to know more about your activities as a

student," I said. "For example, is it possible that

you knew any members of El Grupo while you

were in college? That perhaps you were a member

of El Grupo yourself?" There it was, I had to ask it,

but it was one of the toughest questions I'd ever

had to ask. Pilar's eyes widened and she stared into

my face for what seemed an eternity. She raised

one arm, and I thought she was going to slap me

again. But then she let her arm drop, and turning

her back on me, she walked back into the center of

the room. I followed her and picked up the silver

match from the ashtray. "And I'd like some more

I said, holding out the

information about this,"

match. Pilar turned to face me. Her eyes were

glistening with tears, her expression was pained

and puzzled.

"How can you .. s" Her voice faltered, and then

she recovered. She angrily brushed the tears from

her eyes. "Of course I don't know any members of

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NICK CARTER

El Grupo, and no, I was never a member of El

Grupo. But it's obvious that you no longer trust

me. Why I don't know, but you'd better call Lorca.

Ask him to assign another Spanish agent to work

with you. I quit. As for that damned match, like I

said, I picked it up at Juan's." Pilar's tears and

then her anger were genuine. I was beginning to

believe that she had been telling me the truth.

"I'm sorry," I said, taking her hand, "but I had

to put you through this, just to make certain you

really are on my side."

"But why, Nick?"

"This," I said, looking down at the match. "It's

exactly like the match I found in the pocket of the

man who tried to kill Maria."

"Oh God!" The surprise on Pilar's face was real.

"But what does it mean?"

"l don't know," I said, taking Pilar in my arms.

I'd been hard on her, for the sake of the case. I'd

had to be absolutely certain I was getting the truth

from her. But now I just wanted to comfort her. I

explained my doubts to her and the reasons for

them. After Pilar had heard the explanation for my

questions, she didn't resent the harshness I'd used.

She was a real pro all right. She clarified the events

of yesterday. Her more detailed account of her

chase of the men at the cabana and at the beach

made clear that she'd really had no alternative but

to shoot them.

The question about why one of the men from El

Grupo had one of El Conde Ruiz's matches was as

much a puzzlement to Pilar as it was to me. How

had he got it?

Suddenly two facts occurred to me, One, Ruiz

had been at Pilar's party when someone tried to kill


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had been at Pilar's party when someone tried to kill

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me; it could very well have been him. Two, last

night I'd called Pilar at Ruiz's mansion; it was then

that I'd told her I was going to Dona Pretiosa's. If

someone, Ruiz for example, had been listening in

on our conversation over an extension, that would

explain how the men who'd kidnapped me knew

where I'd be.

The match, the shooting at Pilar's, the kidnap-

ping last night—all seemed to link El Conde Ruiz

to El Grupo. But the connection was only circum-

stantial and it seemed almost beyond belief. Ruiz

was, and according to Pilar always had been, a

member of the far right; El Grupo, on the other

hand, was as far to the left as you could go. The old

bromide about politics making strange bedfellows

is often true enough, but I'd never encountered any

political bedfellows who were this strange. It was

almost inconceivable that a man of Ruiz's back-

ground and professed politics could be a secret

member of a revolutionary terrorist organization.

Yet how else could we explain the evidence that we

had?

It occurred to me that if Ruiz was somehow con-

nected with El Grupo, it wasn't the safest thing in

the world to have Pilar staying in his house. Ruiz

had known Pilar was in Barcelona. If he also knew

that she was an agent, it could possibly have been

him who'd ransacked our rooms: to lure Pilar into

his house. I wanted Pilar out of that house. Pilar,

however, disagreed.

"Look," she argued, "if Juan is, in fact, con-

nected with El Grupo, the best thing for me to do

now is to pretend that I suspect nothing. If I leave

his place abruptly, he'll know that something's up.

Besides, there's a good possibility—if Juan is in-


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volved—that I can find out why, can pick up some

clues, by checking out the house and observing

him."

I had to hand it to Pilar for courage, and she was

right about staying in the house, despite the danger

involved.

just wish I could observe El Conde Ruiz too,"

I said ruefully, "and be around to help you."

"But you can Nick!" Pilar explained that tonight

Ruiz had invited a number of people to his estate

for a buffet dinner followed by a chamber music

concert. Pilar would tell him that she'd run into me

in a gallery today and ask if she might invite me to

the party. She'd explain what a music buff I was,

and besides I'd want to get a chance to see his mane

sion, one of the famous showplaces of Europe. I'd

be invited, of course, as David Bryan, New York

architect. Even if Ruiz knew my real identity, he

could hardly refuse Pilar's request for an invitation

for me without raising unwelcome questions about

his motives. Pilar would call him this afternoon. In

the meantime, we agreed to set off on our in-

vestigative journeys and to meet later in the after-

noon to compare notes on Dona Pretiosa's men.

That afternoon, as I visited the houses and

apartments of the men Dona Pretiosa had given

me, and talked to the men's landlords, neighbors,

and relatives, some curious new facts came to light.

Patterns began to emerge about El Grupo, but they

were baffling patterns.

First, of the four men on my list, not one of them

was to be found. Two of the men had lived alone in

apartments. From their neighbors and the build-

ings' managers, I learned that both men had disap-

peared suddenly without giving notice; without

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saying so much as a word. Neither man had both-

ered to have his phone or electricity shut off, and

each had left all of his possessions behind. The

evidence indicated that both men had left abruptly

and unexpectedly.

"Place was a mess,"

said one of the apartment

managers, "why Juan even left behind dirty dishes

in the sink, and at least a week's worth of garbage

in the bin. Not like him to go off half-cocked like

that." Except for cleaning up, the manager had left

Juan's apartment untouched, hoping that Juan, a

favorite tenant of his, would return. When I told

him I was from the police, the man allowed me to

inspect the apartment. Juan was a lawyer, and I

found nothing unusual in his modern, rather messy

bachelor flat. Law books and legal briefs were ev-

erywhere, but there was nothing—not even a so-

cialist magazine—to indicate that he was a member

of any kind of revolutionary group. The only items

I found in the apartment that might be of use to us

were a couple of snapshots that the manager identi-

fied as being of Juan. I pocketed them.

The manager of the second man's apartment

building, an older and obviously less expensive

place, said that when his tenant Carlos, hadn't re-

turned after a month, he'd auctioned off the man's

belongings. He didn't have an address of any of

Carlos's relatives and felt that the sale of Carlos's

belongings would make up for the month's rent

that he'd lost. Yet aside from the lurch the man-

ager obviously felt Carlos had left him in, he had

only good things to say about his former tenant,

who was a school teacher.

I, more fortunate than his landlord, did have the

address of Carlos's mother. But about all. I got out

of her was a photograph of her son, and I think


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a ress of Car os's mother. But about all. I got out

of her was a photograph of her son, and I think

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she gave that to me so that I'd stop asking ques-

tions about him. She was transparently nervous

throughout our talk, and she claimed that Carlos

was in the south, taking a vacation because of "his

health." When I pressed her for further details

about just where in the south Carlos was and exact-

ly what was wrong with his health, she became first

vague and then indignant. It was pretty obvious the

whole story was a lie. Whether she was lying out of

fear or because she'd been told to, I couldn't tell.

All I knew was that she was damned worried about

her son, and not just because of my questions.

The third man on my list, Esteban, had lived

with his family. His mother and father told me that

Esteban was "traveling in America," but they

couldn't be specific about his itineary, said they

didn't know. They spoke in the same fearful, ten-

tative tones of Carlos's mother, and they claimed

they didn't even have a photograph of their son!

They were scared all right. They did volunteer the

information that Esteban was also a schoolteacher,

and even gave me the name of the school where

he'd taught.

When I checked with the school, I found out that

Esteban had disappeared on exactly the same day

as Juan and Carlos. That day Esteban simply

hadn't showed up for his classes. He'd given no no-

tice, no warning. When the principal had called on

Esteban's parents they'd told him that Esteban had

gone to Sevilla to care for his sick grandfather and

would be away indefinitely. They'd given the

school a different story from the one they'd given

me: both stories were clearly false. The school sup-

plied me with a photograph of Esteban, taken from

their employee files.


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the fourth man on my list, Miguel. The couple's

two small children, a smiling little boy of three, and

a pale beautiful girl-child of four, played with a top

at our feet as their mother and I discussed their

father. We sat in the living room of their small,

sunny house. The woman, Juanita, was young and

pretty, but she seemed tired and harried, like some-

one unused to raising two small children on her

own. She readily admitted her husband's puzzling

disappearance, and she spoke bitterly of his leaving

her alone with the children. The three of them had

been surviving for the last couple of months on

food and clothing provided by Juanita's in-laws.

When I asked, she forthrightly admitted that her

husband had been a member of El Grupo when he

was a student at the University of Barcelona.

Juanita recounted her husband's disappearance,

with hardly any prompting from me. One night

Miguel hadn't come home from the pharma-

ceutical house where he worked as a chemist. At

first, Juanita simply thought he had been delayed,

but as the hours passed, and she got no answer

when she phoned his company, she began to worry.

By midnight she was frantic and had decided to

phone the police. Then she received a telephone

call. A man, whose voice she didn't recognize, told

Juanita that her husband was now working for a

revolutionary organization, El Grupo Febrero,

and that he would be away for awhile. The man

told her that if she didn't want her husband to die,

she wouldn't call the police or mention this call to

anyone. Juanita immediately went to her in-laws

and told them what had happened. She still wanted

to call the police, but Miguel's parents persuaded

her to wait. The next morning, Juanita heard, over

the radio, about El Grupo's first bloody kidnap-

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NICK CARTER

ping. Again, she thought she should go to the po-

lice, and over the next weeks as the chronicle of El

Grupo's terrorist activities took over the headlines,

she became more and more convinced that she had

to go to the police with her story. For one thing,

she didn't really believe that her husband was tak-

ing part in such unimaginable horrors. And I got

the impression, although Juanita didn't come right

out and say this, that if her husband was part of

such murderous activities, then he deserved to be

turned in. Each time. however, Juanita spoke of

going to the police, his parents dissuaded her. They

threatened to cut off all support to Juanita and her

children if she talked to anyone about their son's

disappearance.

"So you see, I really had no choice," Juanita

said. "My children had to eat." Yet, I got the im-

pression that Juanita was immensely relieved to be

unburdening herself to me after having this gut-

wrenching secret bottled up for so long. She gave

me a photograph of Miguel and begged me to

please find her husband; her children needed their

father back. I promised Juanita I'd do the best I

could. I didn't tell her that if Miguel ever came

back to her, it would probably be in a coffin.

I met Pilar at 3:30 in the vestibule of the church

of La Sacra Familia. La Sacra Familia is an

enormous gothic structure, designed by the great

Barcelonian architect Gaudi over fifty years ago. As

Pilar and I walked through the cathedral's winding

corridors with their bizarrely curved walls and

their outlandish stone carvings, I felt as though we

were in a physical paradigm of this case: twisted

walls stretching out in all directions, with un-


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a IS one carungs,l as thoug we

1

were in a physical paradigm of this case: twisted

walls stretching out in all directions, with un-

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fathomable icons everywhere, and with no exit in

sight.

Pilar's investigations had revealed the same pat-

terns as mine. All the men she'd checked on had

disappeared abruptly shortly before the first at-

tacks of El Grupo; all the men had been students

several years ago at the university here; all had re-

cently been (seemingly) successful young profes-

sionals; the families of all the men had been silent

or had made up unconvincing stories to cover their

sons' going underground. After talking to Juanita,

I was pretty certain that the men's families had all

gotten the same threatening phone call that she

had. If you mention your husband's (or son's, or

brother's) disappearance, he'll die. That explained

the fear I'd seen on the relatives's faces and the

conspiracy of silence. What it didn't explain was

how these men could emotionally blackmail their

own families. In a way the psychological terrorism

the members of El Grupo were practicing on their

families was even more appalling than their public

terrorism. They were an unspeakably evil lot.

Pilar added the set of photographs she'd gath-

ered to my own, and we both agreed that none of

the men in these seven pictures resembled any of

the members of El Grupo we'd so far encountered.

Perhaps these were the masterminds behind the op-

eration and didn't venture out in public. In any

case, I'd take all of the photographs to Barcelona

Intelligence Headquarters so that they could be

copied and relayed on to Lorca.

While I did that Pilar would return to El Conde

Ruiz's. She'd called him this afternoon, and he had

said he'd be "delighted" to see me this evening.

Yeah, I'd be delighted too, especially if we could


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aj see me uns evenl

Yeah, I'd be delighted too, especially if we could

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NICK CARTER

find some further clue to link him to El Grupo.

At Barcelona Intelligence Headquarters, I gave

the men In tne lab the photographs, and placed a

call to Lorca while I waited for them to be copied.

I described the latest developments, and Lorca

once again vouched for Pilar's absolute reliability

and trustworthiness. He didn't know much about

El Conde Ruiz, but he said he'd soon find out all

there was to know. He would open a file on him

immediately, and send his men around to interview

Ruiz's former government associates this after-

noon. The only political link Lorca could see be-

tween El Grupo was that they both hated the gov-

ernment: El Grupo because they were anarchistic

hooligans; Ruiz because he disagreed with the poli-

Cies of and had been dismissed from the present

government.

Lorca liked the idea of Pilar and I being at

Ruiz's together tonight, although he emphasized

that it could be an extremely dangerous situation—

if Ruiz knew that we were both agents,

"Well, most situations in this job are extremely

dangerous," I said.

"That they are," Lorca laughed. "But I'd hate to

lose my top agent. And Hawk would never forgive

me if I lost you. Seriously, Nick, give me a call after

you leave the party. If I don't hear from either you

or Pilar by morning, I'll send a search team to

Ruiz's estate. And remember, this is Thursday, El

Grupo promised to strike as 'high as they can go'

by Saturday. If this doesn't break tonight or

tomorrow, it may be too late."


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Chapter Ten

"Did you see the Picasso?" the tall, shapely

brunette asked me.

"It's from his Blue Period," said her companion,

a tall, thin man wearing glasses.

I was standing with them and with Pilar in the

drawing room of El Conde Ruiz's mansion. I had

arrived about twenty minutes before and had been

greeted graciously by a smiling El Conde Ruiz and

by Pilar. She was serving as his hostess for the eve-

ning, and she looked stunningly beautiful in a long

white tube of a dress that set off her fine shoulders

and breasts. El Conde Ruiz had told me he was

glad I could make it, and he hoped he could get my

opinion of his house, which he described as a blend

of the traditional and the contemporary. The place

was certainly the "showplace" Pilar had described.

Situated on a many-acred estate, the main house

must have been at least five or six hundred years

old. The Moorish influence was predominant, with

red tiles and stucco and elaborately curled gar-

goyles gracing the mansion's front exterior. Inside,

however, Ruiz had completely transformed the

building's centuries-old ambiance. The decor was

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NICK CARTER

glaringly modern with marble floors and chrome

and glass furniture and bright modern paintings

against the austere white walls. The entire back of

the original structure had been knocked out and

replaced by a wall of glass.

Pilar had suggested that she take me on a tour of

the entire house. El Conde had smilingly agreed,

and had then excused himself to check with the

musicians who were now setting up their instru-

ments in the music room for his concert. El Conde

Ruiz was certainly a connoisseur—of music and art

and beautiful women. And of revolutionary

groups?

Pilar had shown me through a spectacular black

leather and chrome library and most of the rooms

on the ground floor. We had been constantly

greeted by the other guests, all of whom seemed to

know Pilar well.

"They're mainly art and music people," she had

whispered to me, "with just the right number of

ssociety' people thrown in for good measure." The

problem was that Pilar was so popular she and I

hadn't had a chance to talk alone since I'd arrived.

The tall couple we were with now, who apparently

fell into the "art" category, were nattering happily

along about El Conde Ruiz's art collection, "the

best modern one in Spain." They seemed reluctant

to let me go until they had recounted the history

and price tag of every painting in the room.

"If you'll excuse us," Pilar said to them, "I want

Mr. Bryan to have a chance to see the upstairs

rooms before the concert begins." And she took

me firmly by the arm and led me out of the drawing

room. She stared straight ahead, avoiding looking

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at the people we passed so we wouldn't have to

Stop and chit-chat with them.

In the main entrance hall we approached a grand

staircase, which was itself a minor work of art—

chrome and marble. At the bottom of the staircase

stood a liveried butler, an enormous man with a

bulging forehead and extremely deep-set eyes. He

asked if he could help us, and Pilar explained that

I was an architect and that she was giving me a tour

Of the house. The man didn't look too pleased; per-

haps he wanted the pleasure of showing off the

house himself. At the top of the stairs Pilar led me

down a glistening marble corridor full of mod-

ernistic sculptures. We went into an upstairs sitting

room, closing the door behind us.

"What gives?" I asked immediately.

"Nice expressions you Americans have," Pilar

laughed. "Actually I can't find anything concrete

here. When I returned home this afternoon, Juan

was, fortunately, out. So I had a chance to search

all the rooms. The servants were around, of course,

but I'm a good sneak and I managed to avoid

them. At least I don't think anyone saw me scurry-

ing in and out of rooms. Anyway, I knew the

downstairs rooms pretty well already and, as I ex-

pected, I didn't find anything unusual there. Ditto

the upstairs guest rooms. My hopes were pinned on

Ruiz's private suite—his bedroom and office."

"Anything there?"

"Not much. did manage to open the safe in his

office, but all I found there were some routine real

estate documents and bonds. I also checked his

locked desk and again everything was routine. I

photographed the pages of his address book," she

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NICK CARTER

said, handing me a roll of film, ' 'but I don't think


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NICK CARTER

said, handing me a roll of film, ' 'but I don't think

that will be very helpful. I recognized most of the

names, including my own. But you might as well

have Lorca develop it and see if anything new

checks out."

' 'A complete washout," I said glumly.

"No, not entirely. As you probably would imag-

ine, the grounds here are extensive, and I went

exploring there too. Come here." Pilar took my

hand and we moved to the glass wall of the room.

It looked down onto a gorgeous vista of sloping

lawns at the bottom of which was a brightly-lighted

swimming pool. In the distance you could see the

ocean and a full moon.

"Now look, Nick, to the left of the pool is the

pool house." It was a large glass and chrome build-

ing. ' 'ICs a very elaborate place," Pilar continued.

'SJuan often entertains there and it has extra guest

quarters. This afternoon I checked it out, when I

was ostensibly showering and changing out of my

swimsuit. Nothing there. Now, look to the right of

the pool, in that clump of trees. There's another

building." I looked and could barely make out a

smaller, stone structure, which somewhat resem-

bled the Moorish front of the main house.

"What is it?" 1 asked.

"An old carriage-house. supposedly. This after-

noon, after I'd checked out the pool house, I wan-

dered over there. It's an old building. I tried the

door, which was locked. Then something strange

happened. One of the gardeners, or anyway some-

one who said he was a gardener, came rushing over

to me. I don't know where he suddenly appeared

from, but he was very alarmed. He told me the

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building wasn't used anymore and not to bother

trying to get in. What was so peculiar was the


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building wasn't used anymore and not to bother

trying to get in. What was so peculiar was the

alarm in his face and voice, alarm amounting

almost to terror. I mean, why did he come running

up to me in such a hurry to prevent me from get-

ting in? Especially since the building was locked

anyway? What was he afraid I'd find? Why was he

so upset?

"Then, I went back up to the house, I looked

back down that way—my bedroom also faces in

this. direction. There Juan was coming up the slope,

although I'd been told he wasn't home. I went

downstairs to the terrace and greeted him when he

reached the house. Casually I asked him where he

was coming from. Juan said he'd been swimming,

except I knew he hadn't been at the pool, because

I'd been there. So I suspect that if there's anything

here that's going to help us, it's in that carriage

house. Where else could Juan have been?"

"When can we check out the carriage house?" I

asked.

"I could do it tonight, after Juan goes to bed."

"No, that may be too late. We'd better do it

while I'm here."

"Okay," Pilar said, "but you'll have to do it

alone. I'm supposed to be Juan's hostess, and I

have to sit with him at the concert and again at

dinner. If you're not at dinner, you'll be missed

too. So the only thing that could work is if you slip

out during the concert and go down there then."

"I'll try," I said, "how long is the concert sup-

posed to last?"

"It's scheduled to be about an hour."

"Doesn't give me much time." At this moment

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we were interrupted by a knock on the door. Pilar

glanced at me and whispered, "You can get to the

lawn by the door in the library." Then she raised


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ow ongts tneconcert su -

ry, sat ,

posed to last?"

"It's scheduled to be about an hour."

"Doesn't give me much time." At this moment

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NICK CARTER

we were interrupted by a knock on the door. Pilar

glanced at me and whispered, "You can get to the

lawn by the door in the library." Then she raised

her voice and said, "Come in."

El Conde Ruiz opened the door and entered the

room. "Ah, there you are," he said, "The butler

told me you two had come up here. I just wanted to

let you know that the musicians are going to begin

in about five mintues."

"We'd better come down then," said Pilar,

was just showing Mr. Bryan the Mondrian." She

indicated a small black and white geometric ab-

stract painting hanging above a sofa near us.

"Very fine," I said.

"Thank you," said Ruiz. I then asked him about

the engineering involved in fitting the back glass

wall into the existing structure of his house. Ap-

parently I'd touched a point of Ruiz's vanity for he

responded enthusiastically and went into a dis-

course about the difficulty and the ultimate satis-

faction of having the glass wall installed.

As we turned to leave the room, Ruiz said to me,

"By the way, Mr. Bryan," (did I detect a faint,

ironic inflection of my name?) "how did you hap-

pen to come to Spain in the midst of our present

troubles?"

"You mean El Grupo?" I looked into his eyes.

They were cold.

"Yes, El Grupo. I've heard that tourism since

they began their campaign has fallen by almost one

hundred percent, but here you are. You must be a

very brave man."

"Well," I said, "perhaps not so brave. I'd

planned my trip here for several months, and I do


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"Well," I said, "perhaps not so brave. I'd

planned my trip here for several months, and I do

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have work to do. I didn't want to delay because of

a group of hooligans. Besides, I have faith that

your country will very soon be out of these people's

clutches."

"Indeed?" Ruiz said. This time the note of irony

in his voice was faint but unmistakable. "You're

very optimistic, Mr. Bryan."

"That's the thing about us Americans," I re

plied. "Haven't you heard about how optimistic we

Ruiz laughed. "That I have heard," he said, "al-

though—and you must not take this personally

Mr. Bryan—sometimes I feel that you Americans

overstep yourselves. That you are, perhaps, too op-

timistic for your own good." There was now the

slightest hint of a threat in Ruiz's tone. "Perhaps,"

he continued, "you should not be so certain that

things will work out as you would like them to

work out."

I said, "but for the good of your

"Perhaps,"

country I hope I'm right."

"Yes. For the good of the country," Ruiz said

dryly. Then he walked out of the room. "Shall we

go listen to some Vivaldi, then," he said in the cor-

ridor, his smile returning.

As the three of us reached the bottom of the

marble and chrome staircase, Ruiz announced to

his guests that the music was ready to begin, and,

with Pilar on his arm, he led them into yet another

stunning room. This one had mirrored walls •and

ceiling and a pink marble floor. The five man

chamber ensemble was sitting at the back of the

room, near the glass wall, and chrome and leather

chairs were arranged in front of them for the


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NICK CARTER

guests. I lingered at the entrance until most of the

people were seated, then took a place at the back of

the room, near the door.

Ruiz gave an elegant little speech, introducing

the muscians, and then the sharp, almost cold

strains of the seventeenth century music began. As

I listened, I plotted my evening's itinerary. I recog-

nized the Vivaldi piece, a piano and violin con-

certo, and I knew that it lasted about twelve min-

utes. At the end of this first piece, I would slip out

of the room, hopefully unnoticed, and head down

to the carriage house. That would give me about

forty mintues to check things out there and make it

back to the music room before the concert ended

and dinner began. If I found anything of interest in

the carriage house, I could return this evening after

the guests had left and Ruiz and household had

gone to sleep.

As the Vivaldi concerto ended, the guests broke

into enthusiastic applause. I rose and headed for

the door. I made it into the hallway unobserved,

but there I ran into the bulging-forehead butler

who had greeted Pilar and me earlier.

"May help you sir?" he asked, eyeing me with

icy disdain.

"The men's room," I said.

"It's on the second floor, sir, follow me." The

library was only a few doors down from the music

room, and that's where I needed to go. But if I

didn't want to raise suspicions and perhaps abort

my sortey into the night completely, I now had to

follow the butler. He led me to the stairs.

"At the top of the stairs and to your right, Sir,"

he said. I began the ascent. Halfway up the stairs,


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I turned and looked back. The butler was still

standing at the bottom of the stairs staring up at

me. I smiled at him and continued up the stairs. At

the top of the stairs I turned left and then moving

quickly to the far wall of the corridor (where the

butler couldn't see me from below) I doubled back

and ducked into the sitting room where?ilar and I

had been earlier. I let myself out of the room's slid-

ing glass doors onto a narrow terrace. I looked

down. It was about a hundred foot jump to the

lawn below, but I figured it was my only chance to

get out of the house. I'd lost too much time already

to try to sneak back down to the library, and be-

sides, I figured the butler was probably still waiting

for me at the bottom of the stairs.

The only real problem I could anticipate con-

cerned the location of my landing. From what I

could calculate of the house's layout, this room

was one flight above, and horizontally somewhere

between the music room and the library. That

meant it was directly above either the dining room

or the drawing room. Chances were that the ser-

vants were now preparing supper in the dining

room and they might also be picking up drinks and

ashtrays in the drawing room. In other words,

someone might see me as I jumped past the glass

windows of the rooms below. It was a chance I had

to take. I climbed over a chrome railing and

leaped.

I landed easily on the grass and let myself roll

down the grassy knoll away from the house. Look-

ing back, I saw that I'd jumped past the glass win-

dows of the large, formal dining room. Two liver-

ied servants were there, but luckily for me, their

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backs were toward the windows. They were fussing

over something in silver platters on sideboards at

the back of the room.

I picked myself up and headed down the slope,

making sure to steer left to avoid the lights coming

from the swimming pool area. The coast looked

clear as I headed toward the grove of trees that sur-

rounded the carriage house. The place had only

one door and no windows. The large arches, where

formerly carriages and horses entered, had been

bricked up. The massive, old-fashioned oak door

to the carriage house fortunately had a cylindrical

modern lock, its shininess indicating that it had

been installed fairly recently. I took out a lock-

breaking device and fitted its parts against the

cylinder. It was then that I heard a voice at my

elbow.

"What the hell are you up to?"

I turned, making sure that my back was to the

door and hiding the lock-breaking device from

view. I faced a man who must have been the "gar-

dener" Pilar had encountered earlier that after-

noon. He wore chinos and a wide-brimmed straw

hat. I noticed a bulge in the pocket of his frayed

cotton jacket that indicated he had a weapon that

most gardeners don't need.

"Sorry, old man," I said, "didn't mean to startle

you. I just came down here to take a leak. I'm at

the party at El Conde Ruiz's, and the one upstairs

was occupied." The man looked me up and down

suspiciously. He could hardly fail to notice that I

wore a tuxedo, and I guess he was afraid of making

a wrong move and offending one of El Conde's

guests.

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Finally he said, begrudgingly, "There's plenty of

places in the pool house."

' 'Would you show me where?" I asked.

He sighed and said, "Come on." The subtext

was: these crazy rich people. As we moved away

from the carriage house, I noted that he didn't lead

the way, he slyly kept to my side. And I also noted

that his hand stayed near the bulge in his jacket. I

knew that the pool area was visible from all the

windows at the back of El Conde's house, and any-

one looking this way would be able to see both of

us as we moved into the light. I didn't want that.

I stumbled and then muttered a curse. Then I

stumbled again, feigning drunkenness. Finally, just

on the edge of the light, I lurched and bent over.

"What's wrong mister?" the man said, bending

over my doubled up body. I came up hard, my fist

against his right jaw. He crumpled to the wet grass,

out cold. I took his gun out of his jacket pocket,

and then pulled the jacket off him. I ripped the

jacket into several long strips. One I rolled up and

stuffed into his mouth. With another I bound his

wrists and with a third I bound his hands. Then I

lifted him and carried him to one of the trees in

back of the carriage house. I didn't want him com-

ing to and yelling or trying to stop my search.

Back at the carriage house, I quickly got the lock

undone and pushed against the big wooden door.

The door made little noise as it swung inward,

which meant that it was used regularly. If it hadn't

been opened for awhile, the door would have

groaned and creaked as it opened. I stepped into

the carriage house, pulling the door behind me. I

was surrounded by total darkness, the air was si-

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NICK CARTER

I stood still for several seconds,

then I


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lent. I stood still for several seconds, then I

switched on my small, powerful flashlight. What I

saw was exactly what the place purported to be: a

deserted carriage house. Shining the light into all

the corners of the room, I saw that the floor was

covered with dirt, the walls and stall partitions

were crumbling, and cobwebs hung from the raft-

ers. My disappointment was immense.

Just as I was ready to turn off my flashlight and

head back to the party, I looked down and changed

my mind. Although the floor all around was cov-

ered with dirt, a narrow path had been made across

the room, so heavily trod the stone floor was

almost shiny. I followed the path of exposed floor,

which lead to the far end of the carriage house.

Here, to the side of, and slightly camouflaged by, a

wooden stall, was another door. I knew. from my

survey of the outside of the building, that this door

didn't lead out, that it had to lead into another

room. Slowly, I opened it. What I saw startled me.

I was looking down a broad stairwell. It was

fluorescently lit, had freshly painted white walls,

and boasted a shiny steel staircase, It appeared that

the carriage house was, like Ruiz's mansion, a

blend of the "traditional" and the "contem-

porary." Silently I crept down the wide staircase,

unpocketing Wilhelmina as I reached the bottom. I

found myself in a sort of reception area. Through

glass panels I could see into a room that looked

like some sort of laboratory. A white-coated man,

who was either a scientist or technician of some

sort, sat at a desk at the far end of the room. An-

other man sat just inside the laboratory, reading a

comic book. He wore a blue work shirt, El Grupo's

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uniform, and there was a high-caliber rifle sitting

beside him. Neither man had seen or heard me


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uniform, and there was a high-caliber rifle sitting

beside him. Neither man had seen or heard me

come into the hall.

I made my way along the glass-paneled wall until

I was a few steps from the door to the laboratory—

and from the blue-shirted guard.

"Don't move,"

I yelled, stepping into the

doorway. The man in white rose and looked in my

direction. The guard whipped around, grabbing his

rifle and aiming it at my chest. I fired and hit him

right between the eyes. His rifle went off with a

loud bang as he hit the floor, then it clattered to the

side of the room. The scientist remained motionless

as he looked down at his dead companion, whose

blood was now running onto the white tile floor of

the laboratory.

"Okay," I said, "hands above your head, and

don't try anything funny or you'll get what your

buddy got." The white-coated man placed his

hands where I wanted them, and he glanced in-

voluntarily toward a lighted control panel a few

feet to his left. I crossed the room, covering the

man with Wilhelmina. I studied the panel. It

looked like some sort of two-way warning system,

designed to alert someone elsewhere in the building

or perhaps in Ruiz's house, if anything went

wrong. I wanted to remove the temptation of

touching the panel from the scientist.

"Where's the off switch?" I said, pointing at the

panel.

"l don't know what you're talking about," the

man said.

I cocked Wilhelmina, and he suddenly knew

what I was talking about. "To the left," he said,

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NICK CARTER

"there's a black lever. Pull it down. That deac-

tivates the system."

"Okay," I said, "if the system doesn't go off


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man said.

I cocked Wilhelmina, and he suddenly knew

what I was talking about. "To the left," he said,

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NICK CARTER

"there's a black lever. Pull it down. That deac-

tivates the system."

"Okay," I said, "if the system doesn't go off

when I pull this lever, you're a dead duck." I

placed my hand on the black lever.

"No," the man yelled. "There's a switch under-

neath the console. Turn that." I reached under the

console and did just that. The lights on the panel

went out.

"Now," I said, looking around at the elab-

orately-equipped laboratory, "you want to tell me

what gives here? What kind of work are you

"Just engineering research for Mr. Ruiz's con-

struction firm," the man said hastily. "Mr. Ruiz is

going to be very upset when he finds out that

you're here."

"Yeah," I said, "I'm sure he will be. But I don't

get you. I thought that engineers worked on con-

struction, but it looks to me like you're working on

destruction here." The blood drained from the

man's face. I'd noticed a large blow-up of a dia-

gram on the counter before me. "What, for exam-

ple," I said, lifting up the gray and white diagram,

"It's a .. the man stuttered, "it's a plan, the

internal plan, for a new bridge."

The blown-up diagram had "TOP SECRET"

stenciled across its side, and "Spanish Department

of Defense" written on its bottom. I was pretty cer-

tain that it was a blow-up of the nuclear plans that

had been stolen from General Rodriguez. I guessed

that the man beside me was either working on

cracking the code or that he'd already done that


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and was now building a bomb from the plan.

' 'So the Spanish government's now in the busi-

ness of building bridges, huh?" I taunted him. He

didn't reply but he didn't need to.

"Where's the original for this plan?" I asked.

Again he was silent, but his involuntary glance to-

ward a corridor leading off the laboratory betrayed

him. I was tired of the man's evasive answers,

didn't have time for them. His glance had given me

what I needed, and I decided I'd deal with him lat-

er, when I had more time. I tied and gagged him,

then locked him in a small coat closet at the side of

the laboratory. I set a match to the copy of the

atomic diagram, then set off down the corridor to

look for the original and check out the rest of

Ruiz's operation.

The first room I entered gave me all the evidence

I needed to convince me that El Conde Ruiz was

indeed the head of, or was at least sheltering, El

Grupo Febrero. The room contained a set of

alphabetically-ordered file cabinets. As I went

rapidly through them, I discovered detailed plots

and itineraries of all the kidnappings that El Grupo

had so far attempted. They contained lists of the

personnel, automobiles, weapons and other equip-

ment used in each operation. Precise logs indicated

the everyday activities of all of the kidnapping and

shooting victims, showing that El Grupo had

monitored each man's habits for months before

striking. The painstaking and detailed planning of

each operation explained the amazing success Of El

Grupo's plots.

I also found floor plans and detailed notes on the

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operation of each building El Grupo had bombed,

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NICK CARTER

along with lists of the kinds and numbers of bombs

they'd used at each sight. There was information

about which personnel had completed each mis-

sion, and each file contained a report explaining

and evaluating the success of each completed

strike.

Also, filed under "KGB" I found a log detailing

El Grupo's conversations with Nozdrev. From

what I could gather, they'd always planned on

tricking him, but their motivation for doing so was

obscure. Indeed, a peculiarity of all of the files was

that the motivations for all their activities were no

where discussed in the reports before me. Only the

physical details of each operation were recorded.

Also missing from the files was an äccount of El

Grupo's future activities. I supposed these must be

kept somewhere else. As were, apparently, the orig-

inal nuclear plans. I stepped back into the corridor.

The next room I entered was obviously El

Grupo's communication center. The place was

dark now, indicating that no operations were going

on this evening. The room was equipped with an

elaborate switchboard, with many microphones. A

computerized map of Spain above the switchboard

was apparently used for monitoring the locations

of El Grupo's various operatives. It was here, no

doubt, that headquarters communicated with their

men in the field. I thought back to the radio in the

truck of the men at Maria's. Also, to one side of

the room, was a glass-enclosed, soundproof record-

ing studio; it was here that El Grupo made their

revolutionary "communiques." I marveled at the

sophistication of the whole operation.

The next room I entered made my eyes widen in


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amazement. Here I found an enormous atomic

stockpile. In an adjoining room was the equipment

necessary to build the collection of bombs. In a

safe here, which I cracked fairly easily, I at last lo-

cated the original atomic diagrams that General

Rodriguez had been carrying and also the plans

concerning the movements of the Spanish army

and airforce that had been stolen from him. Even

more ominous, however, were the other contents of

the safe. It contained many atomic formulas, and

from the stockpiles it was obvious that these had

already been used. El Conde Ruiz and El Grupo

would have had to have worked several years to

build up the weapons in this room, and these plans

indicated that someone, possibly the man I'd just

been with, had already found the secret of nuclear

fission on his own. El Grupo had no doubt been

working to put into effect the plan they'd stolen

from Rodriguez, but they didn't really need it. The

group already had all the weapons they needed to

blow up half the people on the face of the earth.

They certainly could wreak havoc in any country

or countries they chose to attack. This thing was

bigger, much bigger than we'd ever imagined.

Pocketing Rodriguez's and the other nuclear

plans, I stepped back into the corridor. Glancing at

my watch, I saw that I had fifteen minutes to make

it out of here and get back to the mansion. I went

to the final room at the end of the corridor and

opened the door. The room I entered looked like

an extension Of Ruiz's house: white carpet, a white

sofa, elegant chrome and glass tables, even an ex-

pensive abstract painting on the wall. A stereo

played one of Beethoven's quartets, and a man was

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sitting on the white sofa.

He was General Rodriguez, the latest kidnap

victim of El Grupo, the man who had set in motion

my mission to Spain. Rodriguez looked up at me as

I entered, obviously startled. He rose, and momen-

tarily cowered against the wall, apparently fright-

ened of me. Looking down, I realized that I still

had Wilhelmina in my hand, and that the gun

pointed at him. I aimed toward the floor.

The tall, gray-haired man before me was ob-

viously edgy, but he retained his military bearing

and he looked to be in pretty good health, for a

man who'd been locked up for the last week. He

was still wearing the uniform he'd been kidnapped in.

"General Rodriguez," I said.

"Yes. Who are you?"

"I've come to help you, from Spanish In-

telligence."

"l never expected you to make it," he said, in a

low voice. "How did you find me?"

"That's too long a story to go into now," I said.

"The important thing is that I'm here. What we've

got to do now is get you out." Rodriguez nodded.

"Are you all right?" I said, "Physically?"

' 'I'm okay," he said, in a nervous voice. "They

haven't treated me too badly."

"No," I said, glancing around the fancy room.

didn't expect them to keep you in such luxurious

quarters."

"They haven't treated me badly," he repeated.

"They didn't torture you to make that tape?" I

asked, remembering the broken voice I'd heard on

the communique at the beginning of Rodriguez's

"trial."

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He lowered his head. 'SAh, yes, they did torture

me for that," he said tonelessly. "But afterward

they brought me here. I got the feeling that they

were saving me for some spectacular kind of end-

ing, and I shudder to think what that may be."

"Well," I said, "it won't be anything now. Let's

get out of here."

"What about the guards?" Rodriguez asked.

"How did you get in?"

"l shot one guard."

'SAh."

"Are there others?"

"Yes," Rodriguez said, nervously glancing at a

clock on the wall. "A second guard comes on duty

at nine-thirty." The clock read 9:35. "We'll have to

get by him." I cursed.

"What about that door?" I said, indicating a

door at the side of the room. "Is it another exit?"

' 'Yes, but I don't know where it leads. One of the

men sometimes enters there."

"El Conde Ruiz?"

"Yes," Rodriguez said flatly, "El Conde Ruiz."

"He's the head of El Grupo Febrero?"

s€As far as I can figure out, yes. The others take

their orders from him. Why don't you try the door,

Mr. ..

I moved to the door, which was locked. General

Rodriguez was behind me.

'€1 think Ruiz sometimes pushes this button

before he goes out," Rodriguez said, moving his

hand to a lighted knob to the left of the door.

"No, dammit," I yelled, "that's probably a sig-

naling device!" But it was too late. Rodriguez had

already pressed the button.

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"I'm sorry," he said, jumping back, i'l thought it


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NICK CARTER

"I'm sorry," he said, jumping back, i'l thought it

might be used to unlock the door."

I silently cursed, but said aloud, "Well, it can't

be helped now." I jiggled the door. "And it didn't

unlock the door. But I've got a lock breaker, which

should open it up." I pulled the device out of my

pocket and fitted it to the cylindrical lock, which

was just like the lock on the carriage house door. I

swirled the lock.

"Okay, that's enough Mr. Carter," Rodriguez

said. His voice was suddenly strong and author-

itative, and he had a gun jammed into my back. He

took Wilhelmina out of my hand. "Now put your

hands against the wall," he said, "and don't

move."

I should have guessed before: the elegantly

furnished sitting room, the music, the lack of any

evidence of torture and Rodriguez's general fitness

despite his captivity. All pointed to the obvious:

General Rodriguez had engineered his own kid-

napping, no doubt in collaboration with Ruiz.

Now I understood one of the puzzles of the case,

why Rodriguez had notified no one the day he was

kidnapped that he would be transporting top-se-

cret documents. Of course he hadn't, because a su-

perior might have stopped him and foiled his and

El Grupo's clever "kidnap" plan.

"So you kidnapped yourself, huh?" I said.

"You might put it that way."

"Quite a hoax."

"Thank you."

"And I suppose that the button you pressed real-

ly is a signaling device?"

"That's correct, Mr. Carter. El Conde Ruiz will

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be joining us as soon as he can leave his guests. In

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be joining us as soon as he can leave his guests. In

the meantime, some of his boys will be coming

down to help me with you. You've already caused

us too much trouble."

"Can't blame me for trying."

"Ah, but we do blame you, Mr. Carter. You've

interrupted our plans on a number of occasions,

and I'm sure El Conde and I will think of some

appropriate way of dealing with you. Which may

not be very pleasant." Rodriguez laughed, a short

sadistic laugh. I could just imagine what his and

Ruiz's way of dealing withv me would be. Slow

torture and death no doubt. I had to act before

Ruiz's boys arrived, but what was I to do with

Rodriguez's gun jammed into my back? I only

hoped that Pilar could manage to do something

hen I failed to appear at dinner.

The Beethoven quartet ended. I felt the pressure

of the gun in my back let up, and I heard

Rodriguez moving away from me.

"Just going to change the tape," he said. "I

wouldn't want to deprive you of music, would I? El

Conde tells me you're quite fond of culture. But

reinember that my gun is aimed at your spinal

cord. If you make one move you'll be dead. Or per-

haps—and this might even be more amusing than

your actual death—I could paralyze you." Again

he laughed. The man really was a sadistic bastard.

I could well imagine who had thought up the mad

schemes of torture El Grupo had practiced.

I heard the click of a cartridge being removed

from a tape deck. I knew that Rodriguez's eyes, if

only for a couple of seconds, would be on selecting

and putting in a new tape. I hoped that those sec-

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NiCK CARTER

onds were now. I threw myself away from the wall,

and I heard a bullet whiz past me. But Rodriguez's

timing was, as I'd hoped, a fraction of a second


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from a tape deck. I knew that Rodriguez's eyes, if

only for a couple of seconds, would be on selecting

and putting in a new tape. I hoped that those sec-

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NiCK CARTER

onds were now. I threw myself away from the wall,

and I heard a bullet whiz past me. But Rodriguez's

timing was, as I'd hoped, a fraction of a second

late. His bullet sunk into the wall I'd been standing

against. I made my way toward him, deliberately

zig-zagging to throw his aim off balance. His sec-

ond bullet burned a hole in the sleeve of my' tux-

edo, but it just missed my flesh.

I was upon him now, and I threw myself against

his tall, stocky body. With my left hand I grasped

his gun arm. His right arm came down, moving the

gun close to my face. But just as he fired, I man-

aged to jerk both our arms up, and the bullet

blasted into the ceiling above us. Then I jabbed

hard into the side of his ribs with my free hand.

The impact of the blow apparently weakened him

for a second, and I took the opportunity to dig my

fingers as hard into the flesh of Rodriguez's wrist

as I could. The gun flew out of his hand into a

corner of the room.

We loosened our grips on one another and stood

there for a second looking into each others' eyes.

Rodriguez's were dark and small and hard, like

those of a vicious animal unexpectedly crossed. He

came at me, aiming a punch at my mouth. But I

blocked with my left and sunk my right fist into his

exposed gut. He staggered backwards, bellowing.

From a stand at the side of the room, he pulled out

an old-fashioned, military saber.

"I'll kill you, Carter," Rodriguez roared as he

approached me. He swung the saber from left to

right, aiming at my neck. I ducked just in time to

miss the sharp blade by a fraction Of an inch.

Rodriguez swiftly aimed again, this time bringing


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miss the sharp blade by a fraction of an inch.

Rodriguez swiftly aimed again, this time bringing

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the saber up vertically between my legs. I jumped

backwards just in time. Had he hit, he would have

sliced me in two, beginning at my crotch.

Before he had a chance to aim again, I flexed my

right forearm and Hugo slipped into my hand.

Rodriguez swung the saber, going again for my

head. I ducked and could feel the rush of air the

swing created against the back of my neck.

Rodriguez may even have sliced off a hair or two

that time. Still crouched, I sent the stiletto sailing

toward Rodriguez, and it landed where I wanted it:

in the arm that held the saber. Blood jetted from

Rodriguez's forearm as the stiletto hit, and the

saber fell at his feet. I rushed to him and yanked

Hugo out of his arm before he had a chance to grab

the stiletto himself. He howled with pain, then he

stood still, holding his wounded arm with his other

hand. I guess he didn't want another blow from

Hugo. I stood before the General, bringing the

stiletto close to his face.

"All right, Rodriguez," I said, "enough fun and

games. If you don't want your face carved up, tell

me which way Ruiz's boys will be coming from." I

wanted to try to get out the other exit. But

Rodriguez hesitated. Blood had drained from his

face and his eyes were frightened holes, but he re-

mained silent.

I said, inching the stiletto closer to his

"Tell,"

face. Then I felt a blow like that ofa sledgehammer

against the back of my head. The impact of the

blow sent me lurching forward and sent the tip of

the stiletto into Rodriguez's face, from just below

his eye to his jaw. The trail of cut flesh and blood

was the last thing I saw before I passed out.


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was the last thing I saw before I passed out.

Chapter Eleven

I felt something cold and hard beneath my body.

My head ached. In the distance I could hear muf-

fled voices, but I couldn't make out their words.

Slowly, I opened my eyes. I was staring up at an

enormous domed ceiling, maybe five hundred feet

above me. Fluorescent tubing hung down from

steel grids near its top. I lifted my head. Several feet

in front of me I saw a group of men in blue work-

shirts talking. To my left there was another group.

I lowered my head and closed my eyes.

"He's awake," I heard one of the men say.

"I saw him move," said another. Footsteps

moved toward me.

"Hey, Mister," a voice said. "Wake up." I de-

cided it wasn't going to do me any good to play

possum, Might as well face the music now as later.

I felt for Wilhelmina and Hugo, but of course, they

were both gone. I opened my eyes. I was looking

up into the dark faces of a group Of maybe a dozen

or so Spanish men. They stood in a circle now, sur-

rounding me. Other men stood behind them. So

this was how it was going to end.

"You all right?" said one of the men.

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"As well as can be expected, considering the

blow you guys gave me."

"No, no you've got it all wrong, Mister."

1

looked at the speaker. I recognized him as Esteban,

one of the men whose photographs I'd picked up

this afternoon. Looking around at the faces

glowering above me, I also picked out the three

other men whose families I'd talked to earlier that

day.

"Yeah, I've got it all wrong, Esteban," I said

cynically.

"How'd you know my name," Esteban asked

suspiciously.

"That's a long story," I said. SSHow long have

you had me here?" Was it hours, days, a week?

"You've been here about two hours," said a tall

man with long hair and a mustache. "What are you

doing here?"

"You tell me."

"Look," he said, 'Swe didn't have anything to do

with knocking you out. You had that blow on your

head when they sent you down here."

"Who is they?" I asked.

"Ruiz's men."

"And who the hell are you?" The men all

laughed at this question. "And what's so funny?" I

asked irritably.

"We don't have anything to do with Ruiz," said

the man in the mustache, "except that we're his

prisoners."

"What?" I sat up straight. Were they putting me

"Here, let me help you," said one man as I rose

to my feet, weaving a bit. "I'm a doctor." The head

NICK CARTER


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NICK CARTER

wound had made me dizzy.

"You're Ruiz's prisoners?" I asked incredulous-

ly.

"Yeah, man, just like you." It was the tall man

with the mustache. He seemed to be the group's

spokesman. I didn't understand what game was

going on.

"But you are El Grupo," I said.

"No!" It was a shout, with practically every man

in the room joining in, loud and angry. Yet I'd seen

the photographs of some of them and knew that

they were with El Grupo Febrero, or at least had

been at one point. I wondered, briefly, if my head

wound was making me hallucinate.

"We don't have any connection with that gang

of terrorists," said the men's leader.

"So what are you doing here?"

"Like I said, man, we're prisoners. Ruiz kid-

napped us. What are you doing here?"

' 'He kidnapped you?"

"Yeah."

"All of you?" It was hard to believe.

"Yeah, all of us. There are twenty-three of us all

together, not counting one guy Ruiz killed, and

one guy he apparently missed."

"Pedro Salas?" I asked.

"Yes. How did you know about Pedro?"

"Maybe the man's a spy of Ruiz's," came a

shout from the back of the group.

"That it?" asked the man in the mustache. "I

hope not, because if you are, we'll kill you. There

isn't anything Ruiz can do to us in return now, ex-

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cept kill us. And maybe some of us would rather

die than stay cooped up in here for much longer."

"l was a friend of Maria's, Pedro's sister," I said.

"She asked me to look for Pedro. He was in hid-

ing."

"Did you find him?"

"I found him all right. Dead."

"Christ," said Esteban, "he was a friend of mine.

I think somehow Pedro knew they were after us all.

I guess they were trying to hunt him down too, and

they couldn't capture him, like they had us, so they

killed him."

"You mean you boys didn't?" I asked. Esteban

came with his fist toward my face, calling me a

bastard, but the other men restrained him.

"We don't kill innocent people," said the man

with the mustache.

"Tell me about it," I said.

"Why should we trust you? How do we know

you're not on Ruiz's side?"

"Would he have clobbered me over the head and

put me in here with you, who claim to be his pris-

oners, if I was working with him?"

"You've got a point there. Okay, what do we

have to lose?" The man exchanged looks with sev-

eral of his friends and they all nodded for him to go

ahead. The story I then heard, told to me by the

man in the mustache, whose name was Garcia, was

one of the strangest tales I'd ever heard. Yet I be-

lieved it: it somehow seemed to match up with oth-

er stories I'd heard from these men's wives and

familes, from Dona Pretiosa, and above all from

Maria. As Garcia spoke, his friends often inter-

rupted him, adding their own clarifications and ex-

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planations to his words, but basically his story


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NICK CARTER

planations to his words, but basically his story

boiled down to this:

All of the men in the room with me had been, at

one point in their lives, members of a study group

at the University in Barcelona. The university

group was, indeed, called "El Grupo Febrero."

The group had been opposed to the policies of the

former government of Spain, and for that reason

had been secret. Their politics, however, had been

more on a theoretical than on a practical level.

They had worked against the government mainly

by writing and printing pamphlets and leaflets

which criticized the repression and the economic

backwardness of the Franco regime. The group

hadn't even been able to hold public meetings for

fear of being imprisoned.

Several years ago, when democracy had sudden-

ly flowered in Spain, the group had disbanded.

There was no more reason to print El Grupo's

leaflets and pamphlets, and besides, most of the

men, by this time, had graduated from college and

were more concerned with their new careers and

families than with any further radical political ac-

tivities. They now numbered among themselves

three doctors, two lawyers, an actor, two busi-

nessmen, and men who practiced a variety of other

occupations. In short, the men surrounding me

could just about serve as a representative cross-sec-

tion of young, educated professionals.

A few of the men had maintained their friend-

ships over the last few years, but most Of the men

of E) Grupo Febrero had seen each other for the

first time in several years when they'd been brought

together here.

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Slightly less than two months ago, each of the

men here had been abducted by three men, "big,


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Slightly less than two months ago, each of the

men here had been abducted by three men, "big,

rough-looking men in work shirts," Garcia said,

which corresponded to the men I'd encountered

from—well, the other "El Grupo." Some of the

men had been grabbed as they came home from

work, others had been taken from their apartments

(if they lived alone), one man had even been

stopped when he was out bicycling. They had all

been blindfolded, given some kind of drug, and

driven to an unknown destination. When they had

awakened, they had found themselves in the room

where we now were. No one had left the room since

that day.

When the men had first arrived here, they could

make no sense of their predicament. After they'd

talked and pieced together their identical kidnap-

pings and finally realized that what they all had in

common was that they had all once been members

of "El Grupo Febrero" in college, they were still

puzzled about why they had been brought here.

For several days they were in suspense and came

up with every conjecture in the world: that they

had been brought here by a homocidal maniac;

that they were being recruited by the government

secret service; that a fascistic regime had again re-

turned to power. One man, a science-fiction buff,

even argued that, because of the futuristic design of

the chamber we were in, they had been captured by

men from outer space.

I looked around the chamber. It certainly did

look like a space ship or something. I was con-

vinced, however, that it was in fact located deep in

the bowels of Ruiz's estate, probably below the un-

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NICK CARTER

derground rooms I'd been in earlier. It was a large

cylinder-shaped room with steel walls and very

high ceilings. Steel bunk beds, in orderly rows,


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look like a space ship or something. I was con-

vinced, however, that it was in fact located deep in

the bowels of Ruiz's estate, probably below the un-

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NICK CARTER

derground rooms I'd been in earlier. It was a large

cylinder-shaped room with steel walls and very

high ceilings. Steel bunk beds, in orderly rows,

lined one side of the chamber. On the other side

there were rows of sinks and showers and toilets—

like in a prison or a military barracks. In the center

of the room were a number of tables, and chairs,

and two television sets with extra large screens.

There were also a number of exercise machines.

Garcia pointed out to me two large openings in

the ceiling. He said that long cylinders descended

from these. One cylinder, like a modernized ver-

Sion of a dumb waiter, sent the men three hot meals

a day. The men had soon learned that if they

placed their leftovers and dirty dishes in the

cylinder, they would be whisked away as the

cylinder ascended back into the ceiling. The other

cylinder, smaller than the first, sent down clean

and took back soiled laundry: towels, the uniform

clothes the men were wearing (blue work shirts,

jeans, sweat socks). and bedclothes.

For the first few days after the men arrived here,

they saw no one else. They screamed and shouted

for someone to come to them, but no one had.

Then one evening a man appeared on the balcony.

They pointed out a steel balcony, high above our

heads, which was encased in what was no doubt

bullet-proof glass. The man told them that he was

El Conde Ruiz and announced that he had re-

assembled s 'El Grupo Febrero" and was pleased to

have them on his team. Not one of the men had

ever seen Ruiz before, although one man did re.

member that Ruiz had once been a high govern.

ment official. That night Ruiz read to the men an


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member that Ruiz had once been a high govern.

ment official. That night Ruiz read to the men an

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account of the first kidnapping performed by "EI

Grupo Febrero" and ironically congratulated them

on "the good job." The men, of course, had yelled

and cursed at Ruiz, but he hadn't responded to

them. After he left, the two television screens sud-

denly came on, broadcasting television accounts of

El Grupo Febrero's bloody activities.

This pattern continued. The men neither heard

nor saw any people except Ruiz. Every few days he

came in and read to them from newspaper ac-

counts of El Grupo Febrero's activities. At first

they yelled up at him—pleas, questions, threats,

curses—but when they realized that Ruiz was never

going to respond to them they quit trying. The tele-

vision sets were obviously remote-controlled and

came on only to broadcast program and newscasts

about El Grupo Febrero.

As the weeks passed, the men's rage and frustra-

tion grew daily. The worst was, as it was no doubt

intended to be, when they had to listen to the lists

of crimes committed in their names. Many men in

the chamber had periodically thought of commit-

ting suicide, either individually or collectively, but

they had worked out a pact among themselves to

protect one another—both physically and mentally

—and so far they had managed to keep bodies and

souls alive. When they'd arrived their first thoughts

had turned to escape, of course. But when they

checked out the room, they discovered that it was

virtually escape-proof. Once, one of the men had

tried to climb up the cylinder that brought their

food. But after he'd climbed up a certain distance

the cylinder was jerked up into its hole with such

force that the man fell and severely strained his


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necynnaerwasjerxeaup Into nme wun s

force that the man fell and severely strained his

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NICK CARTER

back. This led them to believe that they were

monitored at virtually all times, and they were fair-

ly certain that the many perforations in the domed

ceiling contained microphones and video cameras.

The men, were, at least, well fed, and they spent

their days exercising, inventing all kinds of verbal

and physical games, and talking. The most popular

topics of conversation were their families, their

jobs, and speculations on El Conde Ruiz's motives.

Except for El Conde, I was the first person the

men had seen in almost two months. "And how did

I get down here?" I asked. "There doesn't seem to

be a staircase." Garcia pointed to another hole in

the ceiling, near the balcony. Apparently a chute

opened out of that. I'd come sliding down the

chute; then it had been immediately pulled back

up.

Garcia and the other men were full of specula-

tions about what Ruiz was planning to do with

them: kill them? free them? hold them here forever?

The men were certain of two things, however. One,

Ruiz and company were obviously using the name

of "El Grupo Febrero" as a cover for their own

bloody activities—activities which were not really

"revolutionary" at all. And two, Ruiz was a mad-

man. I had to agree with them on both accounts.

Ruiz was, clearly, in some sense, completely out of

his mind. Yet he was crazy like a fox. Leaving aside

value judgements for a moment, one couldn't help

but be impressed by the cleverness of Ruiz's cover,

and the brilliant organization of his campaign.

Ruiz was, unfortunately for us and for the people

of Spain, some kind of genius. The diabolical kind.

I wondered what his plans were for the men here


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and what his plans for me were. And I wondered

why he was doing what he was doing. Was Ruiz

just power mad or was there something more be-

hind his campaign of terror?

I didn't have to wait long for some answers to

my questions. About an hour after I awoke and

found myself surrounded by the captured men, a

light came on in the balcony. El Conde Ruiz ap-

peared above us. He'd changed out of his tuxedo

into a full-dress Spanish military uniform, heavily

decorated with ribbons and medals. He tapped on

a microphone to announce himself, and we all quit

talking and looked up at him. There was complete

silence in the chamber as he cleared his throat and

began speaking.

"Good evening, gentlemen," he said, flashing his

white teeth. "Tonight I want to thank you all for

working with me all these weeks. You've helped to

make my operation a splendid success merely by

your presence here." There was malicious and

taunting irony in Ruiz's tone and the amplification

of his voice by the microphone system made his

voice eerie—like some larger-than-life phantom.

"I should tell you gentlemen," Ruiz continued,

"that your new companion is Mr. Nick Carter, an

agent of the American government. Mr. Carter has

(and here

been trying—none too successfully—

Ruiz let out a short, dry laugh) "to foil my ac-

tivities. I wouldn't take to kindly to Mr. Carter if I

were you gentlemen. He's not to be trusted." I

turned my head and glanced about me. The men

were looking at me accusingly. I hoped only be-

cause I hadn't told them who I was.

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"Now, gentlemen," Ruiz said, "after tonight I'm

afraid I will no longer require your services." The

men looked at one another questioningly. I was

afraid they had every reason to fear the worst.

"Before you gentlemen, uh, leave, I wish to tell you

what has been happening in Spain these last few

months that you've been confined, and why I

brought you here.

"l want to begin by telling you about my father,

the late El Conde Ruiz, whose title I've proudly

inherited. My father was a great man, a noble and

a patriotic man. He fought bravely and loyally with

Generalissimo Franco during the Spanish Civil

War that tore our country asunder. He fought

against the anarchistic and socialistic elements of

his day. These villains were men who, not unlike

yourselves gentlemen, believed that the old order

had to be torn down. that the old ideals of courage

and power and control should be spit upon. My

father fought for what he believed in, and he was

shot down, in cold blood, and in the back, by a

group of vicious, communistic swine. When my

father died, I said to myself that I would one day

wipe your kind from the earth forever." The men

exchanged nervous glances.

"All through my youth," Ruiz said, "I studied

the teachings of the church and of the Franco state

in order to be a man like my father. I joined the

youth group of Franco's regime and distinguished

myself there. But when I went to university, I was

suddenly confronted with trouble-making students

—and teachers. These people ridiculed men like my

father, who had died a heroic death. These people

felt that men like my father should be replaced in

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power by the poor, the worthless, the ne'er-do-

wells who always want something for nothing. The

students in my day, as in yours, had their sentimen-

tal ideas about 'justice' and 'liberty.' But why, I ask

you, should we have justice for men who contrib-

ute nothing to society and liberty for those who are

tearing down the pillars of society?

"After I left college, I worked my way up in the

government serving the regime I believed in with

all my heart, the regime my father had died for. I

worked hard because I knew that some day I would

have the chance to rule this country myself and

would be able to rid it of all the undesirable ele-

ments. I made my way steadily and rapidly to the

inner circles of the regime, and I gathered around

me a group of influential governmental and army

leaders.

"Then our great leader died, and immediately

the jackals rushed in to pick over his corpse, to

slander him and all he'd done for the country. And

the King entered, at first speaking softly, not quite

betraying his silly 'principles.' But then, publicly,

he turned against the man who had brought him

out of exile, the man who had restored him to his

throne. This King began desecrating the memory

of the leader that I still honored. The King turned

out to be a wolf in sheep's clothing after all. Or

rather, a sheep in wolfs clothing. Pretending to be

a strong leader, the King showed himself weak by

caving in to the demands of the bleeding-heart lib-

erals. He brought with him into government men

who were distinguished only by their weakness,

men who in the former regime would have been

spit upon, or imprisoned. They prattled on about

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NICK CARTER

'democracy.' But I ask you, gentlemen. what is de-

mocracy except the weak will of the lowest and

most stupid members of society?

"This mediocrity is what my father, and later l,

had fought against all our lives. But I decided to

stay within the government. I hoped that I could

push the ideals I believed in, and that the King

would some day be forced to come around. I was

confident I could overpower these weak new gov-

ernment men."

Ruiz's voice had reached a pitch of anger and

shrillness. I recalled a film I'd seen, Triumph of the

Will, about the Nazis, in which Hitler had given a

long speech. In Ruiz, I saw the same self-righteous-

ness, the same wounded fury, the same mad

rhetoric that I'd seen in Hitler. Fortunately for all

of us, Hitler hadn't had any nuclear weapons; un-

fortunately Ruiz did.

"Not only did the government not give me a

chance to put my ideas in action," Ruiz shouted,

"but the King and his weak cohorts ridiculed those

ideas. Then they decided to get rid of me—me, El

Conde Ruiz, whose lineage can be traced back to

the twelfth century and whose family had loyally

served this government during times of crisis for

years. And so they sacked me, the King and his

men, cast me off like an old dog whose time had

passed.

"That was their mistake, gentlemen. I left the

government politely, not giving them the satisfac-

tion of knowing my real feelings about them. I

hated them, and I vowed that I would revenge my-

self on these men. I vowed that I would use their

own methods against them. They wanted 'de-

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mocracy'? Very well. I would show them what hap-


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mocracy'? Very well. I would show them what hap-

pens when you let the weakest and most con-

temptible elements of the populace take part in pol-

ities. They wanted 'freedom' for even the lowliest

Of men. Very well. I would show them what hap-

pens when they let the anarchistic elements have

their freedom. I would show them that their de-

mocracy and the freedom they granted to men like

you would destroy the government and the founda-

tions of our society.

"That's where you come in, gentlemen." Ruiz

looked down on the heads of the men assembled

below him. "l used to work in the information de-

partment in the government. I kept tabs on, and

had under surveillance by government agents, men

like yourselves, organizations like 'El Grupo

Febrero.' The new government ordered my depart-

ment to destroy the records we'd been keeping for

years.

"Only I fooled them. I knew that a time would

come when you people would strike again. J

waited. I built up my own force of men, men who,

like myself, were disillusioned with the King and

his new government. I bided my time. I built up my

arsenal and my information network. And then I

struck. I struck to prove to the government and to

the people of Spain that this silly 'democracy' and

'freedom' could not preserve our country from

harm. I set out to prove that even a small, weak

group like yourselves, El Grupo Febrero, could set

the government into disarray and destroy the

country's morale. You see, gentlemen, I'd taken

your names with me when I left the information

service, knowing that some day I'd need you.

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NICK CARTER

"Now," Ruiz continued, "the seeds of my plan

are bearing fruit, thanks to you, El Grupo

h "All


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t e government intodisarray and destroy the

country's morale. You see, gentlemen, I'd taken

your names with me when I left the information

service, knowing that some day I'd need you.

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NICK CARTER

"Now," Ruiz continued, "the seeds of my plan

are bearing fruit, thanks to you, El Grupo

Febrero." Ruiz laughed a long, mad laugh. "All

over Spain people are growing disenchanted with

the ability of the present government to preserve

order. They realize, more and more, what this 'de-

mocracy' has led to: anarchy, attacks against their

families and loved ones, a reign of terror!"

Ruiz's logic and argument were impeccable ex-

cept for one point: He was himself creating the dis-

order he claimed to be working so fervently

against; the reign of terror was his own.

"And so, gentlemen," Ruiz concluded, "I want

to thank you again. Soon my men and I will rid this

country of its weak King. The people will follow

us, thanks to you. At this point our plan is bound

to succeed; no one can stop us." Ruiz looked down

at me to emphasize this last point. "I will require

your services no more after tonight, gentlemen. I

bid you a final farewell."

Ruiz gave a military salute, then stepped off the

balcony, out of sight. The lights in his glass booth

went out. I shook my head and exchanged looks

with the men whose faces betrayed their deep dis-

may. I think everyone there knew exactly what

Ruiz meant by bidding us a "final farewell." If they

didn't they found out almost immediately. As soon

as Ruiz disappeared, a hissing sound began. The

hissing came from the floor vents of the chamber.

"What's that noise?" asked a man in a fright-

ened voice. I was pretty sure that the hissing meant

that we were being gassed. The hissing increased in

volume as the gas was shot into the chamber under

force of a great deal of pressure.


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a we were Ing gassed.Theh1ss1ng Increase In

volume as the gas was shot into the chamber under

force of a great deal of pressure.

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"Quick," I yelled, "we're being gassed. Strip the

blankets and sheets off the beds and put them over

the air ducts on the floor." We all ran to the side of

the room and ferociously began stripping the beds.

We threw the heavy blankets and also the sheets

over the ducts, trying to impede the flow of the gas.

But it was no use. The pressure forcing the gas into

the room was too great to be stopped. Despite our

best efforts, gas continued seeping into the

chamber. It permeated the air around our heads.

Men were beginning to cough and choke. They

were running every which way in the room, trying

to escape the onslaught of the gas. We were going

to die like trapped rats.

"Cover your faces with wet cloths," yelled one of

the men, a doctor. I knew the gas was too strong

for that, that the wet cloths weren't going to stop

anything, but immediately there was a run on the

sinks and showers and even the toilets, and men

covered their faces with wet towels, washclothes,

shirts. As they wandered about the room, cloths on

heads, the place looked like some ghastly science

fiction set tilled with faceless men. It was a chilling

vision.

And the wet cloths didn't do any good. Men

were now gasping for breath and moaning from

pain. I threw myself to the cold steel floor, hoping

that the gas would rise rapidly to the ceiling of the

chamber. I held my breath for long periods of time,

and then took sharp, small gasps of air into my

lungs.

I saw that some of the men had already collapsed

onto the floor, and I wondered if they were dead.

One of the men sprawled out, motionless, was


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onto the floor, and I wondered if they were dead.

One of the men sprawled out, motionless, was

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Miguel, whose wife and children I'd talked to that

afternoon. I thought of them and remembered bit-

terly predicting that if Miguel ever came home to

his wife and kids it would be in a coffin. Only 1

hadn't guessed that the method would be the same

one used by Hitler against the Jews.

More and more men had fallen to the floor and

were writhing there in pain. They were like the fig-

ures of the damned out of Dante. Their cries

pierced the air. This was really Godderdamurung

time. Then I caught my first whiff of the gas and

felt my body go sick and queasy as it entered my

lungs. I held my breath again. I could tell from the

smell of the gas that it wasn't cyanide, as I'd ex-

pected. But to know it wasn't cyanide wasn't much

of a comfort. There are lots of gasses that can kill

men besides cyanide, and it was a pretty safe bet to

say that Ruiz and his men had used one of them. I

guessed ue all had maybe another ten minutes.

Already, most of the twenty-three men were

sprawled on the floor, motionless. I wasn't so

much concerned for my own life; that's the risk you

run if you're an agent. The odds are, sooner or lat-

er, that you're probably going to get it. Few agents

live to a ripe old age. But these men were different,

merely pamis in Ruiz's game. They were innocent

of any crime except the crime of idealism, which

had apparently become the most heinous crime of

all in Ruiz's twisted imagination. I thought of the

men's families and the pain Ruiz was causing them,

and I thought of all the men he'd killed in bomb-

ings and kidnappings and the people he might well

kill with his nuclear weapons. What made a man

like Ruiz—rich, cultured, handsome, titled—crave


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power so much that he would stop at nothing to get

it? I think I never wanted to kill a man as badly as

I wanted to kill Ruiz.

As I opened my eyes the gas burned them. The

silence of the chamber was total now. All of the

previously writhing and running and clawing bod-

ies were stilled. It was like a freeze frame in a mov-

ie. All motion had been arrested. Apparently I was

the last man in the room still conscious. I'd been

able to hold out against the gas longer than the

others because of my training for situations just

like this. But training can control the human or-

ganism only up to a certain point. I wouldn't be

abie to hold out much longer. It felt like I had dag-

gers stabbing into my lungs, urging me to take in

some air.

I took a breath. I felt the acrid gas enter my

nostrils, and then my lungs. The sensation was that

my body was dissolving. My last thought was of

Pilar: Where was she? Why hadn't she rescued me?

Could I have been right about her after all? Was

she a counter agent?

And then I went under.


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Chapter Twelve

"Nick ... Nick?" I heard Pilar's low voice. Had

she rescued me after all? I opened my eyes and

looked up into her beautiful face, which was now

taut with worry. "Nick, I thought you'd never

wake up," she said. She bent her head down and

kissed my lips. I looked around. We were in an un-

familiar and very strange room. One of the room's

yellow stucco walls was oddly curved, and there

were no windows and only one door. The place was

bare except for a television set in an alcove on one

wall. I was lying on my side on a tile floor, and I

realized that my hands were tied, with thick ropes,

behind my back. Pilar's hands were also bound at

the wrist. A piece of music, which sounded vaguely

familiar, sounded from somewhere in the distance.

"Where are we?" I asked. "What happened?"

s 'l don't know. I woke up i" Pilar shrugged. 8'1

don't know how long ago. It seems like I've been

here for hours and hours, just sitting here."

"That music," I said, "sounds awfully familiar."

I could now make out the symphonic orchestration

and the voice of a soprano singing in German.

"They've been playing it since I woke up.

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They've been playing the same passage over and

over again," Pilar said. Suddenly it came to me.

The music was Isolde's final aria, her lament for

her dead lover, in Wagner's opera, Tristan and

Isolde. I told Pilar.

"Of course, you're right,"

she said, "I should

have recognized it myself. It's beautiful music, but

I wish they'd shut it off. I'm tired of hearing the

same thing again and again."

But the aria kept repeating itself as Pilar and I

exchanged stories. I told her about my exploration

of Ruiz's underground headquarters; about his

atomic stockpile; about General Rodriguez's

treachery; about the men the two were holding

prisoners; and about Ruiz's speech followed by the

nightmarish experience in his torture chamber.

"I guess I was wrong about the gas being

poisoned," I observed. "It was only strong enough

to knock me out for awhile. But there's no doubt

we were meant to think the gas was poisonous—

one of Ruiz's and Rodriguez's sadistic little

games."

guess I got off luckier," Pilar said, "they

drugged me with a needle." She showed me the

mark on her right forearm.

While I had been underground, Pilar had had

her own troubles. When Ruiz's Bach concert had

ended, she'd noticed, of course, that I hadn't re-

turned. She'd tried to decide what to do, whether

to go through dinner and hope that Ruiz didn't

note my absence, or whether to excuse herself from

dinner as convincingly as she could and try to find

me. It turned out, however, that the decision

hadn't been Pilar's to make. As she and Ruiz left

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the music room, the bulging-eyed butler had ap-

proached her and told her she was wanted on the

phone. Thinking the call might be from me, or pos-

sibly from Lorca, Pilar had gone upstairs to take it

in her bedroom. There, however, she'd been

greeted by a group of Ruiz's henchmen. They'd

tied her up and gagged her. They stood guard in

her bedroom. About an hour and a half later, ap-

parently after he'd finished dinner and bid his oth-

er guests goodnight, El Conde Ruiz had come to

Pilar. He'd sent the guards out of the room, and

had removed the gag from her mouth. Ruiz made

it clear to Pilar that he'd suspected she was an

agent for some time, and that he was aware she was

in his house to spy on him. Then Ruiz had treated

her to a political harangue very much like the one

I'd heard in the chamber.

In addition, Ruiz had taunted Pilar about her

"weak-willed, liberal" husband and about her "re-

lationship" with "that interfering swine, Nick

Carter." Ruiz had gone into a diatribe about

Pilar's refusal to marry him, and told her that from

now on she would be completely in his power. At

one point during their interview Pilar had feared

that Ruiz would rape her right then and there—out

of vengeance and because of his long-suppressed

desire for the woman he now held captive. But

Ruiz had spared her that.

"Ruiz always remains a gentleman," Pilar noted

sarcastically.

When Pilar had asked Ruiz what he'd done with

me, he'd merely replied that both of us would get

what was coming to us, and then he'd left the

room. About an hour later a man in a white coat

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had come into Pilar's bedroom (the same white-


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had come into Pilar's bedroom (the same white-

coated man I'd locked up in the closet?), and he'd

given her the shot that had knocked her out. When

she woke up she was here beside me.

I wondered why Ruiz had brought Pilar and me

back together. And I wondered where we were. If

we were still on Ruiz's estate, why hadn't Lorca

sent in a team of men to search the place like he'd

promised? Surely, it must be morning already.

I noticed that the Wagner music in the distance

had stopped. Abruptly the television in the alcove

came on, This t.v., like the ones in the chamber,

was obviously triggered by some remote control

device. The face of General Rodriguez filled the

Lv. screen. Pilar gasped. The General was being in-

terviewed by an international panel of journalists

about his "escape" from El Grupo earlier this

morning. (This at least gave us some idea of the

amount of time we'd passed in captivity.) The dis-

tinguished journalists were obviously awed by the

General; one savant described him as "our latest

national" hero, and the others seemed to agree

with this assessment. Rodriguez described his

stoicism and his refusal to break down during his

"captivity." In answer to a question about what

tortures he'd undergone, Rodriguez pointed to the

long red cut down the side of his face, the cut I'd

given him last night, as an example of El Grupo

Febrero's "sadistic methods."

In the second segment of this "News Special" a

distinguished, gray-haired commentator an-

nounced that we'd now be looking at exclusive

footage, which the station had just received, of the

site of General Rodriguez's "captivity." We'd also

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NICK CARTER

hear about Rodriguez's "amazingly heroic" mis-

Sion of this afternoon. Pilar and I looked at one


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Istlngujshed, gray-haired commentator an-

nounced that we'd now be looking at exclusive

footage, which the station had just received, of the

site of General Rodriguez's "captivity." We'd also

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NICK CARTER

hear about Rodriguez's "amazingly heroic" mis-

Sion of this afternoon. Pilar and I looked at one

another and raised our eyebrows. What could this

amazingly heroic mission possibly be?

The scene switched to a man in a trench coat

holding a microphone. He was standing in a field

near what looked to be a bombed-out hacienda. In

the background men in army uniforms were lifting

charred corpses out of the rubble and placing them

on stretchers. The commentator explained, in an

unctuous voice, that this was the hideaway, to the

south of Barcelona, where General Rodriguez had

spent his agonizing and terror-filled week as a pris-

oner of El Grupo Febrero.

"The bodies you see in the background here,"

the man announced gleefully, "are the remains of

the villains who kidnapped and tried to kill Gener-

al Rodriguez."

The commentator described, in melodramatic

detail, how General Rodriguez, after escaping

from his captors, had then returned to the hacien-

da, leading a battalion of army officers. The ar-

my men had laid siege to the building. When the

revolutionaries inside had refused to surrender,

Rodriguez had ordered his men to bomb the place.

El Grupo's "headquarters" had been destroyed.

Along with the men inside.

I knew who the men inside the hacienda had

been, and I also knew why they hadn't come out of

the building and why they had "refused" to sur.

render. They couldn't surrender because they were

still unconscious from the gas that Ruiz had

pumped into their lungs. I knew that those corpses

belonged to Garcia and Esteban and the other men


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still unconscious from the gas that Ruiz had

pumped into their lungs. I knew that those corpses

belonged to Garcia and Esteban and the other men

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I'd been with in Ruiz's chamber. Ruiz and

Rodriguez had transported the men they'd kid-

napped to this hacienda to make them sitting

ducks. This whole newscast was a total outrage. I

couldn't believe that Ruiz and Rodriguez were get-

ting away with their hypocritical and lying scheme,

but they apparently were. I glanced at Pilar. Tears

were rolling down her cheeks. I took her hand.

"l can't believe I knew Juan Ruiz all those

years," Pilar said softly, "and that I never even sus-

pected the depths of the man's madness."

The t.v. program switched back to the gray-

haired commentator in the studio. He concluded

the broadcast by saying that a major arm of

the terrorist organization had been felled today,

thanks to the heroism of General Rodriguez. But

the government believed that there were still mem-

bers of El Grupo Febrero at large. The government

feared that these anarchists would now strike again

in retaliation for their colleagues' deaths. With that

the television clicked off.

Ah, yes, "El Grupo Febrero" would strike again

all right! Before Pilar and I had a chance to discuss

these horrifying new events, these lies that Ruiz

and Rodriguez had created and that the media was

accepting, the door opened. El Conde Ruiz, wear-

ing white tie and tails, stepped into the room. Ruiz

smiled at us, the sickly-sweet smile of the victor.

Ruiz had come to boast and he was quick and to

the point. First he gloated over the success of pull-

ing off Rodriguez's "escape" and his "heroic re-

turn," as Ruiz mockingly put it. Then Ruiz out-

lined his future plans. The King, whom Ruiz so

hated, and the government's entire cabinet, would


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lined his future plans. The King, whom Ruiz so

hated, and the government's entire cabinet, would

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die tonight, Ruiz assured us. Naturally, a new com-

munique would come from El Grupo Febrero late

tonight, claiming responsibility for the deaths Of

these men.

With the government wiped out, and with the

country in total confusion and disarray, General

Rodriguez would step forward and offer to form a

new government. Ruiz had no doubt that since

General Rodriguez was now the number one na-

tional hero, the whole country would step into line

behind him. Rodriguez*s first act as the Head of

State would be to declare martial law, which would

give him unchecked control. Ruiz, of course,

would be the power behind the throne—or in this

case, the power behind the dictator.

If anyone objected to Rodriguez's and Ruiz's

seizure of power, Ruiz had his stockpiles of weap-

ons to back up their takeover. Ruiz hinted to us

darkly that he was in touch with fascistic leaders in

the other Western democracies, and that he would

do what he could to help them come to power.

Ruiz's fantasies extended far beyond ruling Spain.

He hoped to have all of Western Europe under his

control. It was a mad scheme and one doubted that

it would ever work out, and yet .

look how far

Ruiz had come already in achieving his objectives.

Before he left, Ruiz informed us, with his usual

sarcasm, that Ramon Lorca had been removed as

Head of the Spanish Secret Intelligence. General

Rodriguez had publicly accused Lorca of bungling

the El Grupo case, and Lorca's duties were being

suspended until after an investigation into the mat-

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ter could be concluded.

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Ruiz said it also saddened him to have to tell

Pilar and me that we would become, in about twen-

ty minutes, the latest victims of El Grupo Febrero.

He would particularly miss his old friend La Con-

desa Galdos, Ruiz said. On that cheery note he

turned and left the room.

I knew that Pilar and I had to figure out a way to

get out of here before we became Ruiz's latest

pawns—and corpses. But how? I no longer had my

luger or my stiletto: Ruiz's men had seen to that.

Pilar, however, said that there was a dagger under

her dress, held in place by the garter on her right

thigh. If I could somehow remove the dagger, we

could probably cut the rope that bound our hands.

That would be a start.

We stood up, Pilar in back of me, and I moved

my bound hands along her body until I felt the

metal beneath the silk of her dress. Through the

material, I gripped the handle of the dagger in my

fingers. I began edging the dagger out of the garter

that held it in place, going slowly so I wouldn't jar

loose the dagger's sheath and cut Pilar's leg. After

a minute or so of concentrated effort, I managed to

free the dagger from the garter. I pulled it out from

under Pilar's dress by kneeling down. Then I stood

up again, and Pilar's hands removed the dagger's

sheath.

"Now turn around," I said, "and move your

hands up to the dagger." Pilar did as I'd told her to

and I began sawing the ropes that bound her

hands. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, I felt

the rope around her hands giving, and with one last

stroke, I severed it. Pilar shook her hands free of

the ropes and took the dagger from me. In a few


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minutes she'd freed the ropes around my hands

also.

"Now," I said, "unless they're planning on bomb-

ing us in this room, which I doubt, some of Ruiz's

men are going to be coming for us soon. Ruiz said

twenty mintues and it's probably been about fif-

teen already. I have a way that I think will get us

I unzipped my pants and untaped

out of this."

Hugo, a tiny bomb, from my upper thigh. 'ST his,"

I said, holding up the weapon for Pilar to look at,

s 'is a gas bomb. Unlike the gas in Ruiz's chamber,

the gas in this little thing is lethal. One whiff and

you're gone. Once Ruiz's men come through that

door I'm going to toss the bomb. It will kill them

within seconds. We're going to have to hold our

breaths, and we'll have to run out of here like bats

out of hell."

We didn't have long to wait for Ruiz's men. I

heard footsteps heading toward the room. The

door's lock clicked. Three big bruisers in blue work

shirts came through the door.

"Now," I whispered to Pilar. I threw the bomb

and it exploded against the chest of the tallest of

Ruiz's men. He collapsed, and the other two im-

mediately followed him to the floor. Pilar and I

leaped over the bodies and ran out the door into a

large bedroom, then through a hall and down a

winding staircase,

"Okay," I said at the bottom of the staircase,

"you can breathe now." We both gulped greedily

for oxygen. We stood in an expensively furnished

living room, whose most distinctive features were

the bizarrely curved and ornamented walls. I re-

alized that we were in one of the famous Gaudi-

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designed apartments in downtown Barcelona. A

large window looked out across the city, and

through it I could see that night had already fallen.

On a table in the middle of the room was some

electronic equipment that interested me. It in-

terested me a lot. I recognized the tiny computer,

the metal parts and the wires as equipment used to

make bombs. Also on the table was a record player

and the recording of Tristan and Isolde that Pilar

and I had heard earlier.

"It looks like Ruiz and his men have been mak-

ing an audially-controlled bomb," I said to Pilar.

"It looks like they've made up something that can

be triggered by a certain note in that aria in Tristan

and Isolde, and most likely the highest note."

' 'My God, Nick," Pilar cried, "there's a gala

performance of Tristan and Isolde tonight at the

Madrid National Opera House. The King and

Queen will be attending. That must be what Ruiz

was talking about when he said he'd kill the King

tonight. The entire cabinet will be there, too. Ruiz

was wearing tails tonight because he was headed to

the opera to plant the bomb."

"What time does the opera begin?"

"Eight." I glanced at a clock on the wall. It read

8:30. That meant that it was too late to warn the

King and his ministers beforehand. They would

have long since left for the opera. I couldn't call

Lorca in Madrid and tell him to rush over to the

Opera House, because he'd been sacked today.

And I didn't want to risk talking to someone else in

security about the bomb; Ruiz may have already

moved some of his boys in there. The Lieberstod,

the aria that would trigger the bomb, didn't occur

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until the third act had almost ended. Pilar and I

might be able to make it to Madrid in time to stop

the bomb from going off.

"We've got to get there, Pilar. Do you know

anyone who can fly us there quick?" She said she

did know a man with a helicopter who would prob-

ably do it, and she went down the hall to use the

telephone. When she returned she nodded her head

yes: she'd got the copter.

We commandeered a taxi and arrived at a

nearby skyscraper within minutes. On the roof of

the building, Pilar's friend had the helicopter's en-

gines already running. We hopped aboard and the

plane lifted into the night. As we flew over the

peaceful Spanish countryside, Pilar's friend, a

large. gruff man in his late forties, handed us two

lugers he'd brought us.

"Thought you might need them," he said.

Pilar said simply, "Yes. We will."


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Chapter Thirteen

Three quarters of an hour later we stepped out of

a taxi and rushed up the broad marble stairs of the

National Opera House. In the lobby Pilar smiled at

the attendants, who gave us curious glances,

marveling I guess, that we would chose to arrive so

late for the opera. We may also have looked a little

the worse for wear, but at least we were ap-

propriately dressed for the gala, I still had on my

tuxedo and Pilar her white silk evening gown of the

night before.

"Where are they in the opera?" Pilar asked an

attendant as we made our way across the grand

promenade.

"Toward the end of the second act, Madame,

but you can't go in without tickets."

"I'm La Condesa Galdos," Pilar replied, "and I

keep a box here year round. I intend to use my box

tonight." We hurried up the stairs to the boxes as

the flustered attendant murmured apologies to our

backs. Inside Pilar's box we took out opera glasses

and tried to scan the gala audience, hoping that

we'd be able to spot either Rodriguez or Ruiz. But

we couldn't. The lights were turned off, and the

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NICK CARTER

glow the stage cast was not enough to pick out peo-

ple in the audience. I knew that Rodriguez and


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glow the stage cast was not enough to pick out peo-

ple in the audience. I knew that Rodriguez and

Ruiz had to be here someplace, but we'd have to

wait until the intermission when the second act fin-

ished to find out where. I listened to the magisterial

throbbing of Wagner's music and tried to concen-

trate on the mythical figures, bathed in blue lights,

moving across the stage, but I couldn't.

"Does Ruiz keep a box here?" I asked Pilar.

' 'No, he's usually in Barcelona during the sea-

son."

"Damn. So we'll have to wait and pick him out

of the crowd when the house lights come on."

Finally Tristan and Isolde finished their duet

and the curtain fell. The audience broke into wild

applause, and the singers came out for a curtain

call. Men on the first row tossed up roses to the

woman who had sung Isolde, and when the singers

disappeared behind the curtain, the audience de-

manded another curtain call. The singers returned

to the front of the stage again.

"Oh, my God!" Pilar exclaimed, clutching at my

arm, "look up, Nick." A white spotlight had come

on and was shining into the gold and crimson

draped box of the Royal Family. There stood the

King and Queen of Spain, smiling and waving

down at the singers, who acknowledged the royal

accolade with extra low bows. With the King and

Queen in the large box were a number of dige

nitaries, including, J suppose the cabinet mem-

bers scheduled to attend the gala. And on the

Queen's left was the latest national hero, General

Rodriguez. He was in full-dress uniform, and when

the crowd looked up and saw him, they turned

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their attention from the singers and began applaud-

ing Rodriguez. As he saluted in acknowledgement,

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Queen's left was the latest national hero, General

Rodriguez. He was in full-dress uniform, and when

the crowd looked up and saw him, they turned

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their attention from the singers and began applaud-

ing Rodriguez. As he saluted in acknowledgement,

they gave Rodriguez a long sustained ovation, big-

ger even than the one they'd given to the singers.

My heart sank.

As the houselights came on, I noticed Rodriguez

talking to the Queen. His body was bent toward

her in an apologetic manner. He seemed to be ex-

cusing himself, no doubt pleading illness or fatigue

due to his recent captivity. The bomb would go off

in the next act and Rodriguez, and Ruiz, too, no

doubt, would be long gone from the Opera House

when the bomb exploded. I had to get at Rodriguez

before he left the building. I had to do whatever I

could to make him tell me where he and Ruiz had

planted the bomb.

The Royal Box was almost exactly opposite

Pilar's box in the houseshoe-shaped grand tier.

Pilar and I rushed out into the corridor to make

our way to the other side of the horseshoe. Un-

fortunately, we didn't beat the crowd. As soon as

the houselights came on, groups of elegantly-

dressed men and women had flowed out into the

corridor. There was a genteel stampede toward the

house bar, which was situated midway on the tier

between Pilar's box and that of the Royal Family.

We shouldered our way past men in tuxedos and

women in their finest silks and chiffons.

The reception that we got from these society

people, as we pushed our way past them, wasn't

particularly gracious. One man threatened to

knock me down when I accidentally jostled his

wife, and another man grabbed at Pilar after she'd

knocked him out of her way. She gave him a quick


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wife, and another man grabbed at Pilar after she'd

knocked him out of her way. She gave him a quick

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NICK CARTER

clip to the neck and the man let go of her. A

shocked murmuring traveled through the crowd.

They obviously couldn't figure out why the beau-

tiful lady in the evening gown and the man in the

tuxedo were speeding through the opera as though

they were running a marathon race. Two ushers

tried to restrain us, but we shook them off and pro-

ceeded on our course.

When we reached the corridor off the Royal Box

I checked out the people milling about. For-

tunately I towered over the heads of most Of the

men, and I could see Rodriguez, who stood out in

his uniform, in the distance. He was going through

an exit door at the end of the corridor.

"Where does that door lead?" I asked Pilar. She

said it went to a staircase that led to the upper

levels of the Opera House. That probably meant

that General Rodriguez was going to rnake his es-

cape via the roof.

"You follow him," Pilar said, "and I'll try to

find the King and Queen and convince them to

leave the opera immediately." I elbowed my way

past another group of opera-goers and Pilar set off

to search for the Royal Family. As I opened the

exit door, I discovered that the staircase leading to

the building's upper levels was also swarming with

people. They were all walking down the stairs and it

was heavy-going making my way past them.

Then I saw Rodriguez above me on the stairs,

also wading through the mass of people. He'd been

slowed down by the crowds, and I'd gained on him.

He'd apparently made no effort to hurry, not

knowing that I was following him.

"Alto Rodriguez!" I called up to him. I pulled


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"Alto Rodriguez!" I called up to him. I pulled

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the luger Pilar's friend had given me out of my

jacket. Rodriguez turned and searched the crowd

with his eyes.

"A qui Rodriguez!" I said, aiming my gun. When

he saw me, his jaw hardened, then he turned and

fled up the stairs, doubling his pace and frantically

pushing past the people in his way. I couldn't fire

on Rodriguez. I didn't want to risk hitting an inno-

cent bystander and it wouldn't do anyone any good

if I killed Rodriguez before I got the information j

needed out of him. I'd just wanted to halt him with

the gun. Unfortunately, the gun hadn't persuaded

him. The sight of my gun had, however, set up a

wave of shocked whispers and stricken-looking

faces around me. People, no doubt wanting to hu-

mor a crazy man—me—got out of my way. I sup-

pose I should have pulled out the luger before; I

could have got through the crowds easier.

By the time I reached the last turn of the stair-

case, and the crowd had thinned, I'd again lost

sight of Rodriguez. At the top of the stairs, there

was a door, which had to lead to the roof. I pushed

against it, but it didn't budge. It looked like

Rodriguez had locked it from the outside.

The top landing was fairly narrow, so I didn't

have much room to build up momentum, but I had

to do the best I could and try to break open that

door. I stood as far back from the door as the land-

ing allowed and then rushed forward and heaved

myself against its heavy wooden panels. J felt the

door give slightly outward as a result of my impact,

but it didn't open. I heaved myself against the door

again. Again it stood solid. The third time put

every ounce of strength I had into crashing against


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the door, and this time, as my shoulders hit the

wood, I heard the panels splinter as the door

began to separate from its hinges. But it still didn't

open. The fourth assault did the trick. The door

pulled out from its hinges, and I stepped onto the

domed roof of the opera house. General Rodriguez

was nowhere in sight.

My feet crushed against gravel as I made my way

around the elaborate glass and steel dome that

stood in the center of the roof. I could hear no

voices and no other footsteps on the roof. But

when I'd made my way around the south side of

the dome, I saw General Rodriguez—and El Con-

de Ruiz—standing on the southern edge of the

roof. They were looking out toward the city, and

their backs were toward me. Ruiz had probably

been planting the bomb while Rodriguez was with

the King and Queen and basking in the glory of the

citizens.

Then I saw what the men were looking at in the

south. Approaching the roof, from that direction,

and already flying low, was a four-seater heli-

copter. Its lights had been turned out, so as not to

attract attention. So that was to be their method of

escape! They'd leave behind the bomb, fly off the

roof, and when the singer hit that high note and the

bomb blew up the Opera House and practically the

entire government of Spain, they'd be miles away.

Well, not if I could help it. What I had to do was

to shoot down the copter before it landed to whisk

them away. If Rodriguez and Ruiz saw that they

were going to be stuck at the Opera House, like the

rest Of us, when the bomb went off, they might

break down and tell me where the bomb was


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planted. But getting down that copter wasn't going

to be easy. I knew that I'd have only one shot at it.

Once Ruiz and Rodriguez heard my shot, they'd

fire on me, and then I'd have my hands full just

dodging their bullets and trying to protect myself.

Also, because the pilot of the helicopter had

turned off his lights, it was going to be tough mak-

ing an accurate aim. I'd have to hit the fuel tank in

exactly the right place with one shot, or I might as

well forget it. I inched myself along the south side

of the dome, coming closer to where Rodriguez

and Ruiz stood and closer to the helicopter.

The trick was to wait until the helicopter was

close enough for me to sight along its fuel tank but

not too close to the opera house. If I waited too

long, the plane would crash into the building's roof

and maybe create as much damage as a bomb

itself. Timing was crucial. I moved still closer to the

edge of the roof as the helicopter neared the build-

ing. Now was the time. I sighted the luger, calcu-

lating the exact angle of flight and the speed of the

copter in relation to that angle.

I heard the bullet piercing metal and within sec-

onds the helicopter burst into a billowing cloud of

orange and yellow flames. Pieces of metal fell from

the air, some of them coming within a few feet of

the Opera House. I heard the bulk of the plane

crash to the ground somewhere nearby, but far

enough away to be of no danger to the Opera

House. Rodriguez and Ruiz's reaction was not

what I'd expected. Perhaps they hadn't realized at

first that the crash had been caused by a bullet.

They stood as still as statues, apparently

mesmerized by the sight of the destruction of their

NICK CARTER


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means of excape. Their backs were still toward me.

I yelled at them.

"Hands above your heads,"

"You're covered." Both men jumped at the sound

of my voice. I thought for a second that Rodriguez

was actually going to pitch off the roof. But they

put their hands where I wanted them to.

"Now turn around." The faces they turned to

me were glowering with rage and disappointment.

"You goddamned fool, Carter," Rodriguez

screamed hysterically at me, "now you'll kill us

all."

"Not if you tell me where the bomb is. The third

act of the opera has already begun, and there's not

much time left before it goes off, is there?"

"It's in an empty box on tier one," Rodriguez

began nervously.

"Shut up, you bastard," Ruiz screamed, trying

to stop Rodriguez.

But General Rodriguez was not a brave man.

"It's in box seventeen-right," he said.

Ruiz shouted a string of curses at Rodriguiz, his

voice rising in fury.

"You stupid bastard!" he yelled. "You swine!

You try to ruin the plan I've been working on

for years, you try to prevent me from ruling this

country!" He'd become completely irrational.

Rodriguez stood there dumbstruck by Ruiz's in-

vective, and before I realized what was happening,

Ruiz had pulled out a pistol and fired at Rodriguiz.

I shot the gun out of Ruiz's hand before he had

time to vent his rage anymore, but his first shot had

hit Rodriguez, whose body crumpled to the gravel.

Blood seeped through the front of his uniform and

his breath was coming in short gasps.

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Ruiz took off in a run across the roof. I fired at


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Ruiz took off in a run across the roof. I fired at

him, but he managed to dodge my first bullet. By

the time I fired a second time, he'd disappeared

around the glass dome. I started after him, and I

heard an exchange of gunshots ring out. Glass

shattered as a bullet hit one of the panes of the

dome. Ruiz must have had a second gun, but who

was he firing at?

"Nick!" It was Pilar's voice.

"Over here!" She came rushing around the

dome, gun in hand. She stopped when she saw

General Rodriguez lying there.

"Thank God, Nick. I thought you were dead

when I saw Ruiz running across the roof just as I

came up."

' 'Are you all right?"

"I'm fine. Did you find out where the bomb is?"

"Yes."

"Then you better get down there quick. I

couldn't get past the security guards to the King

and Queen. Apparently Lorca wasn't the only one

that Rodriguez has been spreading tales about. No

one would listen to me."

"Rodriguez won't be spreading tales any more."

I said, looking down at the body that was now a

corpse. "Did you see which way Ruiz headed?"

"Yeah, there's another exit from the roof, which

leads backstage. It looked like that's where he was

going."

"Okay," I said to Pilar. "You try to find him

and I'll go after the bomb. Rodriguez said it was in

one of the boxes."

I rushed to the roof exit and made my way down

the stairs three at a time. As I reached the top tier,

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NICK CARTER

I could hear the dramatic crescendo of the

Lieberstod, the twenty-minute aria that Isolde sings


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I could hear the dramatic crescendo of the

Lieberstod, the twenty-minute aria that Isolde sings

about the death of Tristan. The music had already

begun to build towards its climax, which meant

that I only had a short time, maybe five minutes at

most. to find the bomb and get it out of the build-

ing. When Isolde hit her high note, which was the

peak of the aria, the musically-triggered bomb

would explode.

After what seemed like the largest number of

steps I'd ever descended, I reached the grand tier. I

ran along the corridor following the numbers Of

the boxes until I came to number seventeen-right.

A startled usher, a long-faced man, with thinning

hair and thick glasses, jumped out of the chair

where he was resting as I passed him.

"Hey," he yelled after me.

He was on my heels when I entered the box that

Rodriguez had specified.

"Sir," the usher' said, "this is a private box, you

can't just go in here." I'd already begun searching

the deserted box. I turned over one plush-covered

Louis XIV chair after another, checking under-

neath them for the bomb.

"Sir,"

said the usher, as he watched me hurl

around the furniture, "you can't do this. Do you

know the property you're handling is owned by the

State? Stop that. This is an outrage." Ignoring him,

I ripped back the heavy velvet drapes which

swathed the sides of the box. Nothing was behind

them except walls in need of a paint job.

"Sir .

" the usher began again, his voice get-

ting more and more indignant. He was beginning to

get on my nerves. I pulled out the luger and waved

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it in his direction. His face turned white, and he

muttered something about calling security as he

backed out of the room. I moved to the edge of the


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"Sir .

" the usher began again, his voice get-

ting more and more indignant. He was beginning to

get on my nerves. I pulled out the luger and waved

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it in his direction. His face turned white, and he

muttered something about calling security as he

backed out of the room. I moved to the edge of the

box and checked under the ornate gold railing.

Nothing was there except dust and some hardened

wads of chewing gum. I guess even society folks

have their bad habits. Leaning over the railing, I

saw that the box I was in was only two boxes down

from the King's. Ruiz certainly wasn't taking any

chances in killing the man he so hated. Even if, by

some miracle, the bomb didn't destroy everyone in

the opera house when it went off, if sure as hell was

going to get the King and his ministers.

Isolde's lament for Tristan was becoming louder

and more intense. It seemed very close to its

climax. Where the hell could a bomb be in an opera

box other than under the chairs or railing or be-

hind the drapes? It crossed my mind then to try to

stop the opera. I'd yell down to the singer to stop

her aria, and I'd even threaten her with my luger if

I had to. If she wouldn't stop, I'd have to shoot

her. I didn't like the idea, but politically, and even

statistically, it seemed the only action possible.

One innocent death in exchange for hundreds,

perhaps thousands of deaths, and the destruction

of the entire Spanish government and its head.

I pulled out my luger. Then I saw an ornate

marble column to the side of the box. Except it was

peculiar; it didn't go completely to the top of the

ceiling, it missed by several inches. Up close I could

see that it wasn't real marble at all, but wood

painted to look like marble. With one ferocious

karate kick I split the wood near the column's base.

Another kick made a large opening in the wood. I


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karate kick I split the wood near the columnis base.

Another kick made a large opening in the wood. I

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NiCK CARTER

reached my hand down into the column. My fin-

gers touched something solid, covered with paper.

I worked the package up to the opening I'd made

and pulled it out. I'd found the bomb all right: a

small cube wrapped in brown paper.

But I was afraid I might have found the package

too late. The music was now a pounding swell of

orchestration and the singer's notes were already

piercing: the human voice doesn't stretch many

notes higher.

Package in hand, I rushed out of the box. Right

into the arms of two opera Security Guards. The

long-faced usher stood beside them, a smug look

on his pasty features. "He's the one," the usher

said, and the guards grabbed my arms.

"I've got a bomb in this package!"

I shouted

above the now deafening music. "If you fellows

don't let me go immediately, we're all going to be

blown to hell! It's the work of El Grupo Febrero,

and it's meant to kill the King!" I guess the guards

heard me above the music and I guess they believed

me too. Maybe it was because I'd used the magic

code word: El Grupo Febrero. They took their

hands off my arms. The usher heard me too. He

cowered against the wall. His face was a mixture of

terror and sheepishness.

I rushed to the closest window in sight. It was an

elaborately mullioned affair, and I sent the bomb

crashing through its glass panes just seconds before

Isolde hit her death-signaling note. The package

sailed through the air and landed in the grass of a

small park next to the Opera House, safely out of

audial range. I'd made it. And the soprano had

made her high note.


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karate kick I split the wood near the columnis base.

Another kick made a large opening in the wood. I

218

NiCK CARTER

reached my hand down into the column. My fin-

gers touched something solid, covered with paper.

I worked the package up to the opening I'd made

and pulled it out. I'd found the bomb all right: a

small cube wrapped in brown paper.

But I was afraid I might have found the package

too late. The music was now a pounding swell of

orchestration and the singer's notes were already

piercing: the human voice doesn't stretch many

notes higher.

Package in hand, I rushed out of the box. Right

into the arms of two opera Security Guards. The

long-faced usher stood beside them, a smug look

on his pasty features. "He's the one," the usher

said, and the guards grabbed my arms.

"I've got a bomb in this package!"

I shouted

above the now deafening music. "If you fellows

don't let me go immediately, we're all going to be

blown to hell! It's the work of El Grupo Febrero,

and it's meant to kill the King!" I guess the guards

heard me above the music and I guess they believed

me too. Maybe it was because I'd used the magic

code word: El Grupo Febrero. They took their

hands off my arms. The usher heard me too. He

cowered against the wall. His face was a mixture of

terror and sheepishness.

I rushed to the closest window in sight. It was an

elaborately mullioned affair, and I sent the bomb

crashing through its glass panes just seconds before

Isolde hit her death-signaling note. The package

sailed through the air and landed in the grass of a

small park next to the Opera House, safely out of

audial range. I'd made it. And the soprano had

made her high note.


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