# Сканы 2

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mine and smell her slightly musky perfume. I bent

my head down toward hers, and her mouth opened

for me. My tongue grazed her beautiful red lips,

and then moved inside her mouth, exploring it. Her

tongue met mine.

"You may come in," she said softly when we

broke our embrace. I moved into the room, closed

the door behind me, and took Maria in my arms.

We kissed again, and I began exploring her firm,

young body: the delicate arch of her back, her per-

fectly formed hips, her welcoming thighs. I un-

zipped her black sheath from the back and let my

hands slide along the soft skin of her shoulders.

Her dress fell to the floor, and she looked up at me

with those huge, dark eyes, now gleaming with an-

ticipation. I gazed, almost breathless, at her in-

credibly beautiful body, now naked except for a

pair of black lace panties. Her long dark hair fell

across breasts which were white as ivory and as in-

viting as any I'd ever seen. Her large rosy nipples

strained out, already erect with excitement. I bent

and took first one and then the other nipple into

my mouth, kissing and licking them, and Maria let

out a soft whimper like a little animal. I moved my

hand to the jewel-like darkness beneath her belly

and Maria moaned loudly. I lifted her to the bed

and quickly undressed, then lay down beside her.

I moved my large body onto her small, delicate

frame, and entered her with a slow, gliding move-

ment. Slowly, slowly our rhythm built, until

Maria grabbed frantically at my back and thrust

her legs around my hips. We moved together creat-

ing a crescendo of passion. Then she let out one

final, long groan of ecstasy.

We both lay breathing deeply for many minutes.


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mine and smell her slightly musky perfume. I bent

my head down toward hers, and her mouth opened

for me. My tongue grazed her beautiful red lips,

and then moved inside her mouth, exploring it. Her

tongue met mine.

"You may come in," she said softly when we

broke our embrace. I moved into the room, closed

the door behind me, and took Maria in my arms.

We kissed again, and I began exploring her firm,

young body: the delicate arch of her back, her per-

fectly formed hips, her welcoming thighs. I un-

zipped her black sheath from the back and let my

hands slide along the soft skin of her shoulders.

Her dress fell to the floor, and she looked up at me

with those huge, dark eyes, now gleaming with an-

ticipation. I gazed, almost breathless, at her in-

credibly beautiful body, now naked except for a

pair of black lace panties. Her long dark hair fell

across breasts which were white as ivory and as in-

viting as any I'd ever seen. Her large rosy nipples

strained out, already erect with excitement. I bent

and took first one and then the other nipple into

my mouth, kissing and licking them, and Maria let

out a soft whimper like a little animal. I moved my

hand to the jewel-like darkness beneath her belly

and Maria moaned loudly. I lifted her to the bed

and quickly undressed, then lay down beside her.

I moved my large body onto her small, delicate

frame, and entered her with a slow, gliding move-

ment. Slowly, slowly our rhythm built, until

Maria grabbed frantically at my back and thrust

her legs around my hips. We moved together creat-

ing a crescendo of passion. Then she let out one

final, long groan of ecstasy.

We both lay breathing deeply for many minutes.


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NICK CARTER

mine and smell her slightly musky perfume. I bent

my head down toward hers, and her mouth opened

for me. My tongue grazed her beautiful red lips,

and then moved inside her mouth, exploring it. Her

tongue met mine.

"You may come in," she said softly when we

broke our embrace. I moved into the room, closed

the door behind me, and took Maria in my arms.

We kissed again, and I began exploring her firm,

young body: the delicate arch of her back, her per-

fectly formed hips, her welcoming thighs. I un-

zipped her black sheath from the back and let my

hands slide along the soft skin of her shoulders.

Her dress fell to the floor, and she looked up at me

with those huge, dark eyes, now gleaming with an-

ticipation. I gazed, almost breathless, at her in-

credibly beautiful body, now naked except for a

pair of black lace panties. Her long dark hair fell

across breasts which were white as ivory and as in-

viting as any I'd ever seen. Her large rosy nipples

strained out, already erect with excitement. I bent

and took first one and then the other nipple into

my mouth, kissing and licking them, and Maria let

out a soft whimper like a little animal. I moved my

hand to the jewel-like darkness beneath her belly

and Maria moaned loudly. I lifted her to the bed

and quickly undressed, then lay down beside her.

I moved my large body onto her small, delicate

frame, and entered her with a slow, gliding move-

ment. Slowly, slowly our rhythm built, until

Maria grabbed frantically at my back and thrust

her legs around my hips. We moved together creat-

ing a crescendo of passion. Then she let out one

final, long groan of ecstasy.

We both lay breathing deeply for many minutes.


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Then Maria gently stroked my forehead and said,

"And to think that I was so afraid of you at first."

She kissed my eyelids before snuggling into my

arms, and we both drifted into a deep, satisfied

sleep.

Lorca's pretty secretary was again bent over her

fashion magazine when I arrived at Spanish In-

telligence Headquarters the next morning.

"Good morning, Mr. Bryan," she said, smiling

mockingly and, as she had yesterday, inflecting my

cover name with a note of irony. She buzzed me

through the steel doors, and Lorca rose from be-

hind his enormous desk to greet me. He was cor-

dial but unsmiling. He seemed worried.

"Before you give me your news of last night,

Nick," he said, "let me give you mine. I hope yours

is better—or, God help us, no worse, than mine."

Lorca's whole face showed the strain of his job and

of this whole bloody business. "Early this morn-

ing," he continued, "EI Grupo Febrero sent out its

latest communique. They left a tape—which is

their usual method of relaying information, and, I

might add, of taunting the police—outside a radio

station near Seville. They must have left the tape

there in the dead of night; no one saw it delivered.

The station manager found it when he went to

work this morning at six a.m."

"What do they say?"

"Listen for yoursell I have a recording of it

here," and Lorca went behind his desk and pushed

a button.

After a moment of static I heard the recorded

voice of a fairly young man—probably somewhere

between twenty-five and thirty years old—-denounc-

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ing the

NICK CARTER

"imperialist, fascistic"

government of


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ing the "imperialist, fascistic" government of

Spain. Then, in the name of El Grupo Febrero, he

claimed responsibility for the kidnapping of Gen-

eral Rodriguez, the "capitalist lackey" responsible

for many "crimes against the people of Spain."

Rodriguez would be tried for these crimes, the man

announced, at a special revolutionary tribune,

which would commence tomorrow. Rodriguez's

crimes, as the voice on the tape outlined them, in•

cluded causing unemployment, favoring the "dirty

rich," bilking the poor of their money to support

the army, withholding government secrets from the

"suppressing" civil revolution—that is,

citizens,

keeping order and plotting with the United States

and other corrupt Western powers to keep the peo-

ple of the world from having the revolutionary

governments they desired. The man explained, in a

cool reasonable voice which belied his wild accusa-

tions, that if found guilty of these crimes, General

Rodriguez would be sentenced to death and ex-

ecuted by El Grupo Febrero's "people's army."

"Not much doubt that he'll be found guilty, is

there?" Lorca remarked bitterly.

Then the man on the tape announced that he had

with him the man who was accused of these crimes,

and asked if the man had anything to say for him-

self. After a several second pause, an older man's

frightened voice spoke, saying over and over again

e 'No, no, I'm not guilty of what you accuse me of."

It was pathetic to listen to him forced to deny such

trash.

"That's definitely Rodriguez on the tape?" I

asked Lorca.

"Yes, I had my men at Army listen to it this


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The "revolutionary's" voice finally interrupted

Rodriguez's feeble protests. "The people, not you,

lackey, will decide upon your guilt." Then there

was another pause on the tape (apparently

Rodriguez was being led away) before the spokes-

man of El Grupo began another harangue. The

man promised that El Grupo Febrero would strike

again by the end of the week. The band would not

sleep until it had eliminated all of the enemies of

the revolution. And this time they would strike "as

high up as we can go."

"That's it," Lorca said, switching off the tape.

"It seems El Grupo is getting more and more

bloodthirsty. What does 'as high up as we can go'

sound like to you, Nick?"

"They must mean the King."

"That's what I'm afraid of. I've already sent over

an extra squad to the Palace, and I have extra

guards assigned to the King at all times. I sug-

gested that he cancel all his public appointments

until this thing is cleared up. but he is a very

courageous man. He wants to set an example to his

people by carrying on as usual, and, of course, he's

right to do so. It will show El Grupo Febrero that

the government can't be bullied no matter how

harsh the threats against it. Still, his safety worries

me. We've got to get some lead on El Grupo soon."

"The tape itself offers no new clues," I asked.

"No, it's like all the rest of El Grupo's communi-

ques. They're delivered in the middle of the night

to some provincial radio or t.v. station or news-

paper, when there's no one around who could see

them. Each time it's a different place in a different


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part of the country—otherwise we could place

guards. But we never know where they'll strike

next. The tapes themselves, of course, never have

any fingerprints, and they're on the kind of cheap

cassettes you can buy in any record shop or drug-

store in Spain."

"At least the tape didn't mention anything about

the nuclear secrets. Maybe that's some comfort."

"Maybe, but then maybe not," Lorca said

gloomily. "Perhaps they don't know yet what they

have, perhaps they know and aren't mentioning it

for reasons of their own. If they don't know yet,

we'd better find Rodriguez before the trial and

before they torture the information out of him."

Then Lorca abruptly changed the subject, as

though speaking of it was too painful. "So give me

all the details of your adventure last night, Nick."

I described to him the events of the day before

and I handed him the match I'd found on the dead

man. Lorca said he'd immediately run a check on

all the top restaurants and clubs of Madrid to see if

he could trace the silver match.

"Try Barcelona too," I said. I told Lorca about

Maria's conversations with her brother and about

Pedro's disappearance. I handed Lorca the

snapshot of Pedro that Maria had given me. It

showed a pleasant-looking man in his late twenties

who had Maria's pale skin and her large, dark eyes.

Pedro was standing in a park, holding a balloon,

hardly anyone's idea of a fearful terrorist.

"I'll have this blown up and sent across the

country," Lorca said. ' 'I'll put out an all-points

alert for him. Even if he's not one of the terrorists,

it sounds like he might be able to lead us to them."

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Then I explained my plan to Lorca for having

Maria accompany me to Barcelona to look for her

brother and for Dona Pretiosa.

For the first time today a smile flickered across

Lorca's face. "Your reputation with the ladies is

legendary, but this is quick work indeed. In any

case, it sound to me like a good idea for you to take

Maria with you. I'll have my department check out

the owners of all the coffee houses and bars in Bar-

celona and see if we can find one listed to Dona

Pretiosa." Lorca paused and stared at me for a mo-

ment before going on. "By the way, Nick, I'd al-

ready made plans for you to go to Barcelona any-

way."

My surprise must have been evident in my face,

for Lorca laughed a short, bitter laugh.

"Nozdrev," he said, 'Swas spotted in Barcelona

yesterday. I presume you recognize the name."

I recognized the name, all right. Mihail Nozdrev

was my KGB counterpart. He was one of Russia's

top agents, perhaps their best. For him to be in

Barcelona forbode nothing but evil. It could well

mean that the Russians already had a clue to what

General Rodriguez was carrying on him. Already a

deal might be brewing between the terrorists and

the KGB. Even if the terrorists hadn't already con-

tacted the KGB, it was more than an even bet that

Nozdrev had arrived in Barcelona to convince

them to play ball.

"You'll leave for Barcelona early tomorrow

morning," Lorca continued. ' 'I'm assigning a

Spanish agent to assist you. You're to meet up to-

night at a party given by Condesa Galdos. The

agent will make contact." Lorca asked me now to


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NICK CARTER

check with the photography unit and photo-

archives to see if they'd had any luck identifying

the men who'd attacked me last night.

"And good luck, Nick. Time is moving quicker

than we want. Stay in Barcelona as long as you

need to, but let me emphasize how grateful I'd be if

you can come up with something before this new

'trial' begins."

It was a tough order, but I'd do my best.

On the eighth floor I was greeted by Dr. Michez,

who showed me morgue photographs taken of the

men I'd killed last night. So far, he reported, the

photos didn't match up with any they kept in their

extensive archives—mainly photographs of con-

victed criminals and known menbers of subversive

organizations. He promised, however, to take the

men's photographs to the enormous archives of the

Army, where all of the men who had ever served in

the Spanish Army would have photographs and

other documents on file. Since most of the adult

men in Spain had, at one point or another, been in

the army, this looked like a promising avenue. The

only problem was the enormity of the archives. Dr.

Michez was taking along a bevy of researchers

with him, but it would still take a very long time to

comb through all of the back files. He promised to

work as rapidly as possible, including having a

team on twenty-four hours, and I thanked him.

I was discouraged though, that the researchers

hadn't already come up with something. In fact,

about the only good news so far today was that

Lorca had wholeheartedly agreed with me about

having Maria accompany me to Barcelona. On the

way back to the hotel I decided to stop and buy


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Maria a present to celebrate our journey. I picked

a deluxe French jewelry shop near our hotel. Inside

I found just what I was looking for: a gold bracelet,

simple yet elegant, that I knew would appeal to

Maria's fastidious good taste. On the back of the

bracelet I had them engrave:

"To Maria, thanks—for a number of things.

N.C."

At the hotel desk I had a telegram from Hawk,

which read,

Congratulations on latest contract. STOP.

Check out underground construction in Bar-

celona. STOP. Make sure to note height

which translated meant that Hawk had already

found out about Maria from Lorca (for some rea-

son he often referred to my women as "contracts"),

that he wanted me to try my damndest to penetrate

the secret (i.e., "underground") organization of El

Grupo, and that he wanted to remind me that we

were now playing for the highest stakes—possibly

nuclear blackmail. Sometimes I felt that David

Hawk knew more about my actions than I knew

my;elt

Upstairs I took Maria's bracelet out of its case.

I wanted to surprise her by slipping it on her arm as

I embraced her. .1 knocked. She didn't answer,

which was strange, as I'd told her not to go out of

the hotel under any circumstances. I knocked

again. Still no answer. I turned the knob to her

bedroom and the door opened. Then I felt as

though a bomb had exploded in my brain, my

heart, my groin. For Maria lay in bed, still naked

from the night before. Blood seeped onto the white

pillows, turning them pink, and formed a pool

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around the beautiful black hair. Maria's throat had

been slit from ear to ear.

I looked down at the gold bracelet hanging limp-

ly in my hand.


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Chapter Four

I quizzed the floor maid, the desk manager, the

elevator operator, eventually the entire hotel staff

that was on duty that morning. No one had seen

anyone enter or leave Maria's room, and no one

had noticed any suspicious-looking characters

hanging around the hotel. Apparently El Grupo—

if they were Maria's murderers—had changed their

uniform for this assignment: anyone wearing jeans

and a work shirt would have been noted im-

mediately in the posh hotel where we were staying.

Assuming that El Grupo had murdered Maria,

and I did assume this, I became less and less certain

that her brother Pedro was taking part in their

present bloody activities. There was no doubt that

the present members of El Grupo were homicidal

maniacs, but from what Maria had told me, and

from what I learned about Pedro that day when I

checked out his activities with some of his col-

leagues at the Madrid Library, Pedro just didn't

seem to be the type.

Pedro had worked in the history division at the

library. The head of this department, Dr. Diego

Marquez, a scholarly-looking man in his late fif-

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NICK CARTER

ties, told me that Pedro had always been reliable

al emolovee. Pedro had


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ties, told me that Pedro had always been reliable

and hardworking, an ideal employee. Pedro had

moved up rapidly in the library hierarchy since

coming there two years ago, and Dr. Marquez told

me that recently he had recommended that Pedro

be promoted to his assistant. Dr. Marquez had

been upset when Pedro hadn't shown up for work

two weeks ago, and had been even more upset

when he had called Maria and she had told him

that Pedro would be away from work for a few

days. But she couldn't offer any explanation. Sev-

eral days later when he called Maria again, she had

said that Pedro was away and wouldn't be return-

ing to work at all.

"I'm glad you're investigating this," Dr. Mar-

quez told me. "You seem like a capable man to me.

I thought something was fishy, and I even thought

of calling the police. But I decided it was none of

my business, since Pedro's sister told me that he

was all right. I just hope we get Pedro back."

Pedro's immediate co-workers confirmed Dr.

Marquez's high opinion of him, and added the in-

formation that he was exceedingly kind and helpful

to people under him in his division. One young

man told about the time Pedro had stayed after

hours for a week, and until midnight on the last

day of the week, to help complete an indexing

project.

"Without Pedro's help," he said, "l wouldn't

have completed the indexing and would probably

have lost my job. Pedro is a real friend."

It turned out, however, that neither this young

man, nor Dr. Marquez, nor any of Pedro's co-

workers were his friends outside of the library. He


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had never—despite his friendliness and generosity

—confided in anyone at the library about his per-

sonal life. He had discussed his leaving with no

one. And no one at the library was in a position to

either confirm or deny any political activities Pedro

might have been taking part in, or even to com-

ment on his political beliefs: no one could ever re-

member his having discussed them.

To all appearances, Pedro was an ideal worker

and citizen—except for a youthful, and perhaps

understandable flirtation with radical politics. He

was a loving brother and a highly-valued colleague.

And yet it seemed obvious that he had some con-

nection with a group of bloodthirsty madmen, in-

tent upon the destruction of the Spanish govern-

ment, and possibly capable of international nuclear

blackmail. Could Pedro be one of those men in

whom the seeds of destruction are sown early,

seeds which grow—despite an apparently normal

outward development—until they surface at last

and are released in unexpected and bloody ven-

geance? Or was Pedro one of those revolutionaries

—by no means rare—who cultivate the demeanor

of good citizenship in order to better carry out

their secret bloody plots? A classic wolf in lamb's

clothing?

Or was it possible that Pedro, an ex-member of

El Grupo, was trying to halt their present activities?

If so, why hadn't he gone to the police with any

information he had on El Grupo? Could there be

two branches of El Grupo, both opposed to the

state, but who were fighting one another for con-

trol of the organization? Would that explain

Maria's untimely and unnecessary death?


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When I returned to the hotel later that afternoon

to change clothes for the evening, I immediately

had the sensation on entering my room, that some-

one had been in there. Then I noticed a set of

architectural drawings which I'd brought to Ma-

drid as part of my cover. I'd left them lying on a

desk across the room from the bed. The drawings

were still there, but I could tell they'd been moved

a fraction of an inch. Someone had been here. It

wouldn't have been the maid, for she'd already

come that morning to clean.

Whoeverc it was had been searching my room.

That in itself didn't disturb me, for I had no se-

crets, nothing here to reveal my identity except as

David Bryan, New York architect.

What did worry me was that my visitors were

probably the same ones who'd visited Maria,

who'd murdered her in the room next door. What

did they have in mind for me? I began checking out

the room. I went through all of the drawers. I

looked under tables, under the bed, in the closet

and in the shower in the bathroom. I sighted along

the woodwork to see if there were any cracks or

loose moldings. I found nothing unusual, and I'd

almost given up the search when my eyes lighted on

a small console table beside a lounge chair.

I knocked against the side of the table. It was not

solid wood, but was hollow inside. I took a knife

and traced its blade along the edges of the table's

side panel. Then I put pressure on the panel and it

unwedged easily, falling onto the floor. I shined a

flashlight into the whole, and looked into the

table's hollow base. I found what I was afraid I

might: at the bottom of the table's hollow base sat

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a foot-long, rectangular package wrapped in

brown paper.

I slowly lifted the package out of the table, being

careful not to make any abrupt movements. I gin-

gerly cut around the wrapping paper. My suspi-

cions were confirmed. Inside was a black metal

box. A faint ticking coming from the box was

almost imperceptible to the ear. It was a bomb all

right. I shuddered.

I would have liked to have called Lorca and had

him send over a squad of detonation experts, but I

knew there probably wasn't time for that. The

bomb had the kind of sophisticated triggering sys-

tem in which you couldn't tell from the outside

what time the explosion was set to go off. By the

time Lorca got the experts here, I, and the people

in the hotel rooms above and below and to the side

of me, might already be blown to smithereens.

I went to the windows and looked out, hoping I

could toss the bomb out that way. My room over-

looked a shaded courtyard and fountain at the

back of the hotel. Normally the courtyard was

deserted, but today a group of people, who looked

like English tourists; had decided to have cocktails

out there by the fountain. Why had they picked

this particular day to enjoy the courtyard's shaded

recesses?

I now had two choices. could make a run for it

and maybe save my own skin. But that wasn't

going to save the people in the hotel rooms around

me. My second choice was to try to detonate the

bomb myself, even though I knew it could blow up

in my face at any second.

I made my choice. I got the appropriate tools


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NICK CARTER

from my bag and steeled myself. I'm not a detona-

tion expert, but I have some training, and this was

my only hope of preventing another large-scale

massacre by El Grupo. First I unscrewed the black

metal base and removed it. Inside, next to the in-

nards of the bomb, was the timer itself. My heart

leaped against my chest: the timer was set to go off

in less than one minute.

I studied the bomb itself. At first it looked com-

pletely unfamiliar, but then gradually, working

back in my memory, I was able to find the various

parts that corresponded to the parts of the bombs

I'd already worked on. The structure of the bomb

became comprehensible, and I decided the trigger-

ing device must be the tiny steel lever sticking out

toward the timer.

Only a few seconds were left. If I pressed the

lever in the wrong direction, everything would be

all over. If I waited any longer, though, everything

would be all over anyway. It was a question of do

or die. I moved a pair of metal clippers to the lever

and gritted my teeth. One quick motion jammed

the lever to the left.

The ticking stopped. I smiled down at the clip-

pers in my hand. I'd foiled their plot to have me

follow Maria to the grave.

Spain has over 1,500 castles, and the Castle

Galdos had to be one of the most spectacular. Sit-

ting in park-like grounds along the Manzanares

River, it was an enormous Romanesque structure

of beige marble and red tiles. Lights glittered from

four stories of windows as I pulled the Mercedes

into the circular driveway and stopped the car


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beside a large, round fountain in front of the main

entrance.

A man in black and gold livery helped me from

my car, and inside the house a butler checked my

name against a large guest list. I'd been invited here

ostensibly because of my interest in Spanish

architecture, and because Castle Galdos was one of

the outstanding structures in Spain of its particular

period. In fact, Lorca had told me that a number of

high government officials would be attending the

party here, given by La Condesa Galdos, the

widow of a government minister. He wanted me

here in case any trouble developed and because it

was a convenient place for me to meet up with my

Spanish contact. Lorca had told me he was taking

extra security precautions because of the distin-

guished guest list, and I noted four Spanish officers

in full dress flanking the castle's ballroom en-

trance.

"Mr. David Bryan of New York City," another

liveried attendant announced as I descended the

steps into the enormous gold and white ballroom.

Heads turned briefly to look as I moved down

the marble stairs, then turned back to their com-

panions to chatter. A few people, mainly women,

followed my entire descent. I smiled at a shapely

redhead who was staring at me from across the

room, and caught the eye of a statuesque brunette.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, I surveyed the

crowd. They were a glittering lot, all right, a com-

bination of la creme de la creme of Madrid society

and the highest officers of the Spanish government.

The men were, for the most part, a distinguished-

looking lot and carried themselves with that air of

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authority and complacency of the very powerful.

All of the women were beautifully dressed, and

many of them were, simply. beautiful, exquisite in

that way that only wealthy women with the means

and the leisure to pamper themselves endlessly are.

It was difficult to believe, as I watched these people

dancing and chattering gaily, that they were a

group under siege, that the lives of who knew

whom among them were in danger. And who in the

crowd, I wondered, was the Spanish agent I was to

contact?

I felt a hand on my right elbow.

g€Mr. Bryan, I presume?" said a tantalizingly

feminine voice.

I turned to my right.

There's a myth that all Spanish women—and

particularly the most beautiful ones—are dark and

diminutive, with brown eyes and black hair. The

woman before me proved that the myth was totally

wrong. Her hair, drawn back sleekly from her face,

was ash-blond, and her complexion was tawny,

roses and beiges mixed together in a delicious

blend. Her eyes were of a cool but intense green.

And she wasn't small. She was cast in the heroic

mold, only four or five inches shorter than me. Her

statuesque curves were accentuated by the tight-fit-

ting, low-bodiced evening gown she was wearing.

Could she be my Spanish contact? I smiled at her,

delighted at the prospect.

"l am your hostess," the woman said. "La Con-

desa Galdos."

I was dismayed that I wouldn't be working with

this beauty, and I was surprised that this was "the

widow of an ex-government official" Lorca had de-

scribed to me. I'd expected someone at least fifty,


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with a heaving bosom, and weighted down with

jewels.

These two reactions must have both played

momentarily on my face, for La Condesa smiled

mischievously and asked, "Is anything wrong, Mr.

Bryan?" Her voice was low, throaty, and incredibly

sexy. "Perhaps,"

she continued before I had a

chance to answer her, "you were expecting some

other type of person. People often do. My late hus-

band was twenty-five years older than I. People

sometimes expect me to be of his generation." La

Condesa had read my thoughts all right.

"Perhaps," I said.

"Well, no cause for dismay, I hope?" Again she

smiled at me mischievously.

I smiled, looking at the

"No cause whatever."

large emerald necklace, hanging against the soft,

tawny skin of her voluptuous breasts.

At this point La Condesa and I were interrupted

by some of her other guests, an older, very thin,

gray-haired woman, the Princess of Sedula, and a

small, fiercely elegant, extremely handsome man of

middle-age, El Conde Ruiz. La Condesa responded

charmingly to the Princess's effusive greetings, and

smiled—cordially, but also with a hint of irony—at

El Conde Ruiz. The social chatter between El Con-

de—who explained to me that he was a former gov-

ernment official and ex-officer of the army—and

La Condesa was pleasant and affectionate, but I

sensed a tension beneath the surface pleasantries,

as though they were really speaking to one another

about something completely different from their

ostensible subjects. As they chatted with the Prin-

cess about the latest art shows and parties of Eu-

rope, I excused myself. Their blood was too blue


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for me. Besides, I needed to be alone if my Spanish

agent was to approach me with any kind of discre-

tion.

"Perhaps you would care to stay later," La Con-

desa whispered to me, "so that I can show you the

various other parts of the castle. The Minister of

Culture tells me you're here surveying Spanish

architecture." Did I detect a scowl, quickly covered

by a smile, pass across Ruiz's face as she said this?

I told La Condesa that I'd like very much indeed

for her to "show me the castle," and went off to

look for my Spanish agent.

I was heading toward the bar on the other side of

the room, when a great murmuring went up among

the people surrounding me. They were all turning

toward the ballroom's entrance. As I turned to see

what was happening, I heard the blast of a

trumpet. At the top of the staircase I saw what ev-

eryone was excited about. There stood an attrac-

tive young couple. As the liveried servant an-

nounced, "The King and Queen," the couple

began descending the staircase. Suddenly everyone

was silent, and I noticed La Condesa move to the

bottom of the stairs to greet her new guests. She

embraced the King and Queen as though they were

old and close friends, and then the three of them

and half a dozen others in the royal party moved to

the side of the ballroom and formed a reception

line. Guests began filing past them. I figured this

was one ceremony I could skip. I was more in-

terested in saving the King's government than in

making small talk with him.

During the next hour a number of people ap-

proached me, mostly women, and I talked

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amicably with them about my architectural re-

search in Spain and satisfied their curiosity about

current happenings in New York and Washington.

Nearly everyone I spoke with mentioned her anxie-

ty about El Grupo; contrary to appearances, the

subject was on everyone's mind. But no one identi-

fied himself or herself as my co-worker.

I was talking with Manuel Ricardo, the current

Minister of the Treasury of the Spanish Govern-

ment, about a mutual interest, Moorish architec-

ture, when I happened to glance toward the win-

dows near us, which faced onto a terrace overlook-

ing the Manzanares River. What I saw shocked the

hell out of me. Standing behind a French window

was a figure I couldn't make out. But what I could

make out was the XM pistol the figure was hold-

ing. The metal of the gun reflected the light of a

candelabra. Whoever was holding the pistol out

there in the dark must have seen me looking, for a

slight jerk of the pointed barrel indicated that the

pistol was being cocked. Without thinking, with

only a visceral reaction, I threw myself toward

Manuel Ricardo, plunging my head into his stom-

ach, attempting to throw both of us to the floor.

But it was too late, the bullet came whizzing to-

ward us, missing my head by a fraction of an inch,

but plunging straight into Ricardo's heart. A tiny

jet of blood spurted onto my forehead, and a small,

gurgling sound came from the Minister of the

Treasury's throat. By the time we hit the floor I

knew that he was dead.

Whoever fired the gun had used a silencer, so at

first the other guests didn't know what had hap-

pened. When, however, I rose, and people near us


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pened. When, however, I rose, and people near us

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saw the blood on my head and then the red seeping

through Ricardo's white shirt, pandemonium

broke out. At first a few, then many women's

shrieks burst out across the room as the news

spread, and men and women were both scurrying

across the room like rats trapped in a lethal cage,

unsure of which direction to turn in. It was rough

going shouldering my way past the pushing and

shoving crowd to reach the terrace from which the

shot had come. It was a waste of all too precious

seconds.

I unpocketed Wilhelmina as I opened the French

doors and stepped into the cool of the night. As I'd

expected, the tile terrace was deserted. I looked

over the marble balustrades—below was a straight

drop of about a hundred feet to the Manzanares

River. The terrace was closed to the left by a wing

of the castle. To the right, marble steps led to a side

garden. I went down these into the dark.

"Stop," a voice cried out, and I froze. "The po-

lice," the voice said a minute later. "Drop your gun

and put your hands above your head." I did as I

was told, and through the darkness three uni-

formed men came running toward me.

"I'm from the Special Security Force," I said

and reached toward my pocket for my identi-

fication.

"Keep your hands above your head," said the

man who was apparently the leader, as he fired a

warning shot in the air. I put my hands back above

my head. It's dangerous to mess around with cops

who don't know what they're doing and have a gun

pointed at you. The leader motioned one of the

other men to search me. The man did so, murmur-


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ing "assassin" under his breath. I heard his intake

of breath, however, when he found my identi-

fication. He immediately scurried to his superior,

who, after glancing at the identity card, broke into

loquacious apologies.

These were beside the point. It was now too late

to look for anyone in the garden. If the assassin

had come through the garden, he would have long

since escaped under cover of my "capture."

"Wasn't anyone guarding this terrace?" I asked.

"Weren't all entrances and exits supposed to be

covered?" I heard the cold fury in my voice.

One of the guards looked down at his shoes and

finally admitted sheepishly that he'd been stationed

on the terrace steps, but had gone around the

house—briefly, he assured us—to get a cigarette.

When he heard the confusion inside, he'd been on

the other side of the building. When he'd returned

to this side of the building—with his buddies in tow

—they'd found me coming down the steps. The

man's superior now let loose with a torrent of

abuse and obscenities, and I turned to go back into

the castle. Heads would certainly be rolling at po-

lice headquarters tonight.

In the ballroom, the pandemonium had quieted

down. La Condesa was moving among the guests,

calmly reassuring them, apparently in complete

charge of the situation. Now everyone was as silent

as though they were at a funeral, which I suppose

they were, in a way. A police officer informed me

that the King and Queen had been surrounded by

their private security force when the panic broke

out, and had been whisked out of the castle im-

mediately. Police photographers were now clicking


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away at the body of Ricardo on the floor, as the

guests filed rapidly but quietly toward the entrance

to leave.

I answered a few of the police's questions about

what I'd seen, and then I moved to the entrance

hall to watch the guests file out. Perhaps my

Spanish contact would greet me as he or she left.

No such luck. At the end of another half an

hour, all the guests had filed past La Condesa,

an ambulance crew had arrived and removed

Ricardo's body, and even the investigating officers

had departed. But my agent hadn't made contact.

La Condesa Galdos, still calm as could be, ap-

proached me.

"So you are staying for your tour, after all," she

said. "I'm afraid I must apologize. Usually my

guests are not treated so badly. At least when they

first visit."

"You were a pillar of strength," I said to her

admiringly. Her sober countenance broke into a

grin, and she laughed a deep, throaty laugh. I guess

I looked puzzled again for she explained, "You

have made, without knowing it, Mr. Bryan, a pun.

A bilingual pun. My Christian name is Pilar, please

call me that. Now come, your tour."

' 'Perhaps another time would be more conve-

nient for you," I said. There was no reason for me

to stay here now. I needed to get back to Lorca and

find out what had happened to the Spanish agent.

Much as I would have liked to spend more time

with La Condesa.

' 'I think you had better let me give you the

tour," she said. She took my hand. g 'Come along,

Mr. Bryan, the dimensions of the castle are shrink-


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ing." That was it, "the dimensions of the castle are

Shrinking," the code phrase Lorca had given me.

So I had been right after all. looked at her, shak-

ing my head in joy and disbelief: La Condesa, Se-

cret Agent.

Over coffee in the Castle Galdos's library, I con-

fided to Pilar that I was fairly certain the shot in

her ballroom had been aimed at me, and not at

Minister Ricardo. Although the guests, of course,

and even the police had taken this as another of El

Grupo's assassinations, it didn't look like El

Grupo's style to me: no dramatics, no torture, so

far no threats.

What neither Pilar nor I could figure out was how

anyone could have got past the tight security force

Lorca and the police had set up. The party hadn't

been catered, but served by Pilar's own staff,

which, she assured me, consisted, for the most part,

of old family retainers, all of whom were infinitely

trustworthy.

It was possible, of course, that the assassin had

gotten wind of the party and entered the grounds

of the estate by boating down the river and climb-

ing up the steep bank and over the walls. The po-

lice had already put out a checkpoint for the boats

along the river. But that approach would have

taken a lot of planning, and if the assassin were

after me, he couldn't possibly have had time to hire

a boat and get there that quickly.

The other possibility was that the killing had

been an inside job, either by one of the guests or by

one of the security men. The latter possibility

seemed extremely unlikely. So Pilar produced her

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guest list and we went over it, hoping that we could

find some clue there. All of the people on the guest

list, though, were eminent, most of the men high

government officials, the women their wives,

daughters, or themselves in positions of govern-

ment trust and responsibility. Of course, there

were, as Pilar pointed out, a number of people who

could have been political enemies of Minister

Ricardo. That is, people who opposed his policies.

But hardly, one would think, opposed them

enough to assassinate the man. The police had a

guest list in their possession and would be in-

vestigating all this, but it seemed unlikely to me

that the gunman really had been aiming at Ricardo

and not me. And yet, supposedly, no one at the

party had known who I really was except Pilar. It

was a puzzle.

"And how did you get into this line of work," I

asked Pilar.

She hesitated.

"Complicated explanation?" I asked her.

"No, not so complicated," she replied. She ex-

plained that she had been married—ten years ago,

while still a student—to El Conde Galdos. El Con-

de came from one of the oldest and richest of

Spanish noble families, but when Pilar met him he

had been a professor of social sciences at the Uni-

versity of Madrid. She had been his student. De-

spite the difference in their ages, Pilar and El Con-

de had fallen deeply in love. Pilar came from a long

line of anti-fascists. Two of her uncles had died

fighting on the loyalist side in the civil war. And

the Galdos family also, despite their wealth and

aristocracy, had been anti-fascists. This had been


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one of the bonds between Pilar and the man who

became her husband. Together the two of them

had fought, as discreetly as possible to bring de-

mocracy to Spain. Shortly after the King came to

power, he had asked El Conde Galdos, an old

friend, to join his government, and El Conde had

given up his professorship to become the Minister

of Social Services.

"My husband was an idealist," Pilar said proud.

ly, "and he was on fire with the idea of using his

position to help the people—the poor, the

peasants, the political outcasts like ourselves—who

had suffered so long."

Galdos had died of cancer only a few months

after taking office. At first Pilar had been almost

inconsolable with grief, but soon she pulled herself

together and realized that the best way to serve her

husband's memory was by helping the regime they

both had so many hopes for. But what could she

The idea of being an agent had occurred to her

one day when Pilar was lunching with my boss,

Lorca, who was an old school friend of hers. When

she first proposed it, Lorca had scoffed.

"But I am persistent," Pilar said smiling, "Final-

ly, I won him over. After all," she laughed, ' 'who

could have a more perfect cover? Who would sus-

pect a rich, frivolous society lady of being a gov-

ernment agent?"

Pilar was mocking herself, but I knew she had to

be damn good. She'd only been with the agency for

two years. Yet for Lorca to assign her to an impor-

tant case like this meant that she was already one

of his top agents.


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The phone rang in the room next to the library,

and Pilar excused herself to answer it. When she

returned to the library, her face was grim.

"That was Lorca," she said, •gwe are to proceed

to Barcelona tomorrow as planned. Half an hour

ago, a radio station in Catalonia received a new

communique from El Grupo Febrero. They claim

responsibility for the political assassination of

Minister Manuel Ricardo."


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Chapter Five

Naturally, all the newspapers the next morning

played up the assassination of Minister Ricardo.

They dwelt at length on the fact that the King and

Queen had been in attendance at the party where

he had been killed, some even going so far as to

speculate that the bullet had been aimed at the

King (despite the fact that the King and Queen had

been completely across the room from Ricardo

when the shot was fired). Ricardo's death was a

gigantic propaganda coup for El Grupo, and a ma-

jor embarrassment to the police and government.

You could sense an electric wave of shock and pan-

ic sweeping through the Spanish populace.

Pilar and I set off for Barcelona that morning in

the Mercedes and arrived in the city in mid-

afternoon. After checking into a hotel off the

Ramblas, we immediately set off for the Barrio

Chino to search for Dona Pretiosa.

The Barrio Chino is an ugly, decadent part of

Barcelona, not the kind of neighborhood where

you'd be likely to stroll at night. Even during the

day the place is dark because of the shadows the

crowded buildings cast on the narrow, angular

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streets. Pickpockets and thieves lurk here, under

cover of darkness, and even in mid-afternoon

whores stand on doorsteps and lean out of win-

dows, calling out raucous propositions. Drug

dealers and peddlers of blackmarket goods hawk

their wares on corners and stoops. From the open

doors of bars and brothels, the sounds of cheap

music and tired, argumentative voices waft onto

the streets.

Lorca's agents had located one Don Santillana

for us. Santillana ran a saloon called La

Cuchuracha, one of the Barrio Chino's lowest

dives, sort of a center for neighborhood crime.

Santillana would know most of what was going

down in the Barrio's streets and backrooms, and

with luck he'd also know where we could find

Dona Pretiosa.

La Cuchuracha was located in a large, dark base-

ment room that we entered through a narrow alley.

Already, although it was not yet nightfall, the

room was filled with rough-looking types, and the

air was heavy with the smells of alcohol, tobacco,

marijuana, and opium. Tough and jaded-looking

faces turned toward Pilar and me as we entered.

Men's eyes drank in Pilar's beauty greedily, eyes

that were used, I knew, to seeing only the most bat-

tered and hardened kinds of women. I couldn't

help noticing that the only other woman in the bar

was a slatternly barmaid, heavily made-up, and

vulgarly dressed, who was serving drinks to a

group of men at a table across the room. One of the

men at the table whispered something in the

barmaid's ear, and with a large lascivious grin on

her face the woman made her way across the


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crowded room toward Pilar and me.

77

"I am Rosa," the woman said. She grinned,

showing badly cared for teeth. "One of my friends

wishes to buy you a drink," she said to Pilar. "And

he asked me to ask your price." There was con-

tempt in her voice, mockery in her flashing eyes.

"Tell your friend," Pilar said, not batting an eye,

"that my price is much too high for him and that I

do not drink with swine." Then Pilar fixed Rosa

with such a cold, withering glance that the mockery

drained from the woman's face and she immediate-

ly scurried back across the room, like a badly

frightened hen. had to hand it to Pilar. She might

have been high born, but she certainly knew how to

handle herself in places like this.

Pilar smiled at the man across the room, as the

barmaid bent to tell him what Pilar had said. Then

the big bruiser, who looked to be in his mid-twen-

ties and already a seasoned criminal, rose and

lurched toward us. I tensed as he made his way

across the room, and took Pilar's hand in my own

as he approached. The man swayed above us, ob-

viously stoned on drugs or booze, and, ignoring

me, went to Pilar and put his hand on her bare

shoulder (she was wearing a tank top). I started

toward him, but Pilar's reaction was even swifter.

As cool and efficient as a machine, she removed the

man's hand from her shoulder, then dealt him a

blow on the chin with the back of her hand that

sent him reeling toward the bar. The other people

in the bar, who had been watching all this avidly,

gasped at her effrontery and her strength.

I knew that a fight was on, for the man's four

buddies had already risen from their table and were

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running toward us. For a moment I thought the

whole La Cuchuracha crowd might join in the

fray; they collectively shifted in their chairs as

though getting ready to leap up. But they must

have decided, at least until they knew what direc-

tion the fight would take, to sit back and see what

would happen. They must have figured the five

men would pretty quickly beat me to a bloody

pulp, then have their way with Pilar.

"Pimp," yelled the first of the quintet as he came

lunging toward me. I caught the weight of his body

as he barrelled into me and with one motion threw

him over my head. He flew through the air briefly

then landed with a thunderous whack as he hit the

ground; he was out. A second man rammed his fist

into my stomach as the first went over, but my

stomach is in pretty good condition, like steel, and

I knocked this one out cold with a single punch

against his jaw. Meanwhile Pilar had already

jumped up as the original tough approached her

again, and with a quick karate kick sent him whirl-

ing once again toward the bar. This time Pilar used

such force that the man hit the steel covered bar

with a bang and crumpled to the floor.

Already another man had grabbed Pilar's long

blonde hair and was violently pulling on it, as

though trying to wrench it from her scalp. He

reached toward her breasts with his other hand,

leering and growling "prostitute" as he did so. But

before the hand could caress her breast Pilar kneed

the man in the groin hard, and he involuntarily let

go of her and howled with pain. While he was still

stunned from this blow, Pilar picked up a chair and

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and neck. The chair splintered as it struck, and the

lecher collapsed beneath its impact.

While this was going on, the last man had come

up on me from behind, pinioning my arms to my

side and clinging to my back like a monkey. Then

he moved one of his hands from my arms to my

throat and began squeezing hard. That was his mis-

take. I swiveled to my right, and with my now free

elbow I jabbed him just below his ribs. I heard the

whoosh of air as I knocked the breath out of him

and felt his grip on my throat loosen. With him still

clinging, now precariously, to my back, I propelled

us both backward with all my force. I heard the

crack of bone against wood as his head hit the wall

behind us, then he went completely limp and

slipped down my back like water.

The other customers in La Cucharacha, who had

been following this melee in attentive silence, now

unexpectedly let out a chorus of loud whoops and

whistles for Pilar and me. I guess they'd enjoyed

the fight and decided not to take us on themselves.

This ovation was still going on when I heard the

sound of shattering glass. Turning around, I saw

the barmaid Rosa weaving toward Pilar. The

jagged edge of the broken whiskey bottle in Rosa'a

hand was aimed right at the back of La Condesa's

neck. I yelled and Pilar turned just in time to avoid

the bottle coming toward her. Suddenly the crowd

was silent again.

I decided not to interfere. Rosa, unlike her

drunken cohorts, had a weapon that was, or could

be, lethal. She was armed and Pilar wasn't. But I

could see by now that Pilar could more than take

care of herself. The two women stood facing one

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another. Then Rosa swung with her bottle again,


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another. Then Rosa swung with her bottle again,

this time aiming at Pilar's throat. Pilar sidestepped

the blow, and as Rosa's arm came down, Pilar

grabbed it at the wrist. Pilar's grip must have been

strong, because the woman whimpered and let go

of the bottle, which crashed to the floor. With her

free hand, the barmaid grabbed at Pilar's waist,

knocking them both off balance. They fell to the

floor in a heap, and then they struggled with one

another as they rolled around on the floor, now

Rosa, now Pilar on top. Pilar soon, however, had

the frowsy barmaid beneath her.

"Not a very nice thing to do," Pilar said coldly,

looking down into the woman's furious face.

"Dirty whore," Rosa said as she went for Pilar's

eyes with her long red fingernails. But Pilar

checked the barmaid, dealing a swift, clean blow to

the side of Rosa's neck that put the barmaid out of

commission, at least temporarily.

Pilar rose, as cool as could be, smoothed her

clothes, and reached toward her purse. From this

she took a comb and straightened out her long

blonde hair. This gesture sent La Cucharacha's pa-

trons into an ovation that topped the first one. Ap-

parently the men enjoyed a cat fight even more

than a fist-swinging free-for-all. A faint, ironical

smile played on Pilar's beautiful face.

"Drinks for all!" I turned to see that the boom-

ing voice came from an enormously fat, completely

bald man who stood beside the bar. The man

nodded at a couple of attendants who quickly

moved toward two of the recumbent figures on the

floor. As they hoisted the limp bodies over their

shoulders, then threw them into the alley outside


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the bar, the fat man moved toward Pilar and me,

beaming. This had to be Don Santillana, and I was

glad La Cucharacha's manager had apparently en-

joyed the fight as much as his customers.

"You begin fights in my bar?" Don Santillana

said with mock severity. Then his face broke into a

broad grin, and his huge belly shook as he laughed.

With a wave of his hand, Santillana shooed away

the group at the nearest table and invited Pilar and

me to sit down with him. A bartender appeared

immediately with drinks for all of us, and Pilar and

I introduced ourselves, using false names. We told

Santillana that we hoped he could help us locate

Dona Pretiosa. The smile faded from Santillana's

face and was replaced by the shrewd, calculating

frown of a businessman. He said he didn't know a

Dona Pretiosa in the neighborhood, but he might

be able to have his men inquire about her where-

abouts. Of course there would be a small fee. I

pulled out my wallet and handed Santillana the

Spanish equivalent of two hundred dollars.

s 'I will have my men begin making inquiries."

Then he beckoned one of his lackeys toward the

table. "Locating her will probably cost, however,

more than this," he said, pocketing the two hun-

dred dollars.

I motioned away Santillana's lackey as he came

up to our table. I had a feeling Santillana already

knew where we could find Dona Pretiosa. I didn't

mind giving him and his men more money, but we

didn't have time to play these elaborate games with

him.

"Cut the crap," I said, and I explained that we

had been sent here by the Barcelona Commissioner


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the bar, the fat man moved toward Pilar and me,

beaming. This had to be Don Santillana, and I was

glad La Cucharacha's manager had apparently en-

joyed the fight as much as his customers.

"You begin fights in my bar?" Don Santillana

said with mock severity. Then his face broke into a

broad grin, and his huge belly shook as he laughed.

With a wave of his hand, Santillana shooed away

the group at the nearest table and invited Pilar and

me to sit down with him. A bartender appeared

immediately with drinks for all of us, and Pilar and

I introduced ourselves, using false names. We told

Santillana that we hoped he could help us locate

Dona Pretiosa. The smile faded from Santillana's

face and was replaced by the shrewd, calculating

frown of a businessman. He said he didn't know a

Dona Pretiosa in the neighborhood, but he might

be able to have his men inquire about her where-

abouts. Of course there would be a small fee. I

pulled out my wallet and handed Santillana the

Spanish equivalent of two hundred dollars.

s 'I will have my men begin making inquiries."

Then he beckoned one of his lackeys toward the

table. "Locating her will probably cost, however,

more than this," he said, pocketing the two hun-

dred dollars.

I motioned away Santillana's lackey as he came

up to our table. I had a feeling Santillana already

knew where we could find Dona Pretiosa. I didn't

mind giving him and his men more money, but we

didn't have time to play these elaborate games with

him.

"Cut the crap," I said, and I explained that we

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head. "l should have suspected something was up,

all those dirty students and puny young men

always in and out of her coffeehouse. They're not

real men. I should have known they were filthy an-

archists. We've been harboring them in our midst.

We'll demolish the place," he said angrily.

Pilar and I had to persuade Santillana that it

was extremely unlikely that Dona Pretiosa's cof-

feehouse was the headquarters of El Grupo, and

that we merely wanted to question her because we

thought she might offer us a few clues to the case.

We explained that Dona Pretiosa herself was prob-

ably not involved. I didn't know whether this was

true or not, but J certainly didn't want Don San.

tillana and crew barging in on her, and finally he

agreed to leave Dona Pretiosa to us. He wrote

down the address of her coffeehouse, and Pilar and

I rose to leave.

"Destroy them, destroy them," he shouted as we

left La Cucharacha.

Dona Pretiosa's small, candlelit coffeehouse was

almost deserted. At the front of the cafe, a young

girl with long dark hair was playing a guitar and

singing a Spanish folk song. A couple sat at a table

near her, sipping coffee, smoking cigarettes, and

listening. Pilar and I were the only other cus-

tomers. We sat down at a small, wooden table, sev-•

eral feet from the singer and were approached by a

large, dark woman of middle years. We ordered

cafe cortado, and the woman asked us if we were

tourists. Pilar said that we were from Madrid.

When the woman returned with our cafe cortado

I asked her if she was Dona Pretiosa.


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"Yes." She smiled. Her eyes were warm and

friendly. "Have friends in Madrid sent you to look

me up?" she asked. Her voice was solicitous, that

of a gracious hostess.

"We are friends of Maria Salas," I said, carefully

watching Dona Pretiosa's face in the candlelight to

see what effect the name had on her. Her smile did

not fade, but her eyes seemed to cloud over with

anxiety.

"I'm afraid I don't recognize the name," she

said.

"She is the sister of Pedro Salas," I said. ' 'We're

here in Barcelona looking for him. He's been miss-

ing for over two months."

"And why do you come to me?" she asked.

Dona Pretiosa's smile hadn't faded, but it now

seemed pasted on, no longer natural.

"Don't you know him?" Pilar asked. "It's im-

portant that we find him: His sister felt you might

be able to help us."

"I'm afraid I can't." Dona Pretiosa's smile had

completely faded. She was speaking now in a soft

voice, very slowly, as though weighing each word.

"I remember the name," she continued. "He used

to come to my cafe many years ago. He was a stu-

dent then, I think. But I haven't seen him recent-

ly."

I sensed that she was lying. "Maria, Pedro's sis.

ter, has been killed," I said.

I wanted to shock Dona Pretiosa, and I did. She

buried her face in her hands and moaned, "No,

poor, poor Pedro!"

"We must find Pedro," Pilar said gently. "We

think his life may be in danger. If he has committed

no crime, he has no reason to fear us. If he has,


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giving himself up now might help him."

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Dona Pretiosa uncovered her face. Tears now

ran down the flat planes of her cheeks. "Pedro has

commited no crimes," she said softly. "Why can't

you people just leave him alone? Don't you think I

know he's in danger?"

"Why do you think he's in danger?" I asked.

Dona Pretiosa didn't answer. She looked away

from us toward the folk singer. Tears were still roll-

ing down her face.

"El Grupo Febrero used to meet here," I said.

"Would you know how we could get in touch with

any of the members other than Pedro?"

Dona Pretiosa turned back to us. s 'No," she

said. "They have all disappeared."

"Within the last two months?"

She nodded.

"So Pedro is with them?"

"No," she said vehemently almost shouting.

Then she caught herself. "I mean, I'm not sure

where he is, but I don't think he's with the others."

Abruptly she turned away from us. She moved

to the coffeebar and began busying herself, wiping

the wooden surface of the bar. I followed her.

"Please go away," she said. "You are from the

police, no? I already told the men from the police

that I don't know where Pedro is. Please leave me

alone."

Pilar had followed me to the bar. We exchanged

glances. No other police had been sent to talk to

Dona Pretiosa. Lorca would have told us.

"When did you speak to these men?" I asked.

"Why, yesterday."

"Look, Dona Pretiosa, those men were not from

the police. If they were from the police we would

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have known about it. You must tell us where Pedro

is. If those men do find him, it could be a matter of

life and death for him."

"Those men were from El Grupo?"

"Quite possibly."

Dona Pretiosa let out a long moan. "He knew

they would find him eventually." She described the

three men to us, one very tall, cleanly shaven man,

the other two shorter, with dark beards. All of

them had been wearing dark business suits.

"Pedro is so afraid of them," she said.

"I cannot tell you. I do not know."

"But you do know where Pedro is?" Pilar asked.

"Please tell us. For his sake."

Dona Pretiosa did not speak for many seconds.

The only sound in the cafe was the singer's wailing

voice. Finally, she cleared her throat, and almost in

a whisper said, "He has been hiding in a deserted

cottage I own in Felipe, along the coast from the

city. He came to me three weeks ago in a panic. He

wouldn't tell me why, but eventually I figured out

that he was terribly afraid of being caught by mem-

bers of El Grupo. Once a week I go there and take

him food." She then broke down in tears. Pilar

took the woman in her arms and comforted her.

When she finally ceased crying, Dona Pretiosa

gave us directions to the cottage where Pedro was

hiding. We promised her we wouldn't hurt him. I

only hoped we could keep that promise.

A glorious red and pink sunset accompanied us

as we drove along the coastal highway. By the time

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pletely set and a full moon had appeared in the sky.

Its light shone down on the rocky terrain and

showed us a countryside that was almost like a

lunar landscape. The village was named after

Felipe II, a Spanish king of the sixteenth century,

but there was nothing regal about the town. Its

rocky stone streets were dotted with small houses

made from the same beige stone, and at this hour

the streets were almost deserted. Because it was set

in from the coastal highway and was perched high

above the ocean, it had apparently not been

touched by the booming tourist industry that had

transformed the surrounding towns. Finally we

spotted an old man on one of the streets, walking a

mongrel almost as skinny as his master. I stopped

the car and asked for directions to the Giralda

Place. He pointed us down a rocky road that he

said would eventually lead us there.

"You won't find anyone there, though," he said.

"The place has been deserted for two years now,

ever since Old Man Giralda died."

We explained that we had been sent by Dona

Pretiosa, who was Giralda's daughter, and that we

were thinking of buying the Giralda cottage.

"Can't imagine what you'd want with it," the

old man said, "but I guess it's in demand."

"Some other men were here, earlier this after-

noon, looking for the place. I guess Dona Pretiosa

has several people looking at the place."

"l guess so," I said. 'S Too bad we didn't get here

first. Thanks."

I steered the Mercedes onto the rocky road the

old man had pointed out to us. It was more than


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too bad that we hadn't got here first. If the men

who had asked about the place earlier in the day

were from El Grupo, chances are Pedro would al-

ready be gone.

The rocky road wound up through steep jagged

mountains and eventually turned to dirt. About

two hundred yards along the dirt road, I pulled the

car to the side of the road.

"We're almost at the top of the hill,"

I said.

"The cottage can't be far. We'd better walk the rest

of the way." I didn't want Pedro to hear our ap-

proach if he was still here, just in case he was

armed or decided to flee.

A coyote called out from the hills as we made

our way up the steep dirt road. After climbing a

couple of dozen yards, we reached the top of the

hill, and the Giraldo cottage came into sight.

"That must be it," Pilar whispered.

The cottage, like the ones in the village of Felipe,

was small and made of beige stone. It stood on the

flat top of the hill, the ground surrounding it bar-

ren except for a couple of low bushes beneath the

front windows. Jagged rock formations edged the

place in a circle.

No light showed from the cottage's windows.

The night air was silent. I was afraid we were too

late.

I touched Pilar's arm, indicating that we should

bear to our left, keeping close to the rock for-

mations that would give us a cover of shadowy

darkness. The rocks were closer to the house's

back, and would afford us more protection if we

went around that way.

"Look," Pilar whispered as we neared the back

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of the house. My eyes turned in the direction she

indicated. Standing between the back of the house

and the rock formation was a black sedan, gleam-

ing in the moonlight. So someone was here still.

As we moved toward the car as a cover, the si-

lence of the night was suddenly punctuated by two

gunshots.


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Chapter Six

Both Pilar and I froze at the sound of the gun-

shots. It took us a second to realize that the shots

had clearly come from inside the house, and that

they hadn't been fired outward, aimed at us. We

edged toward the back of the house. From here we

could hear voices coming from the windows, and

then the sound of a low, guttural laugh. I stood

next to the window nearest me. Pilar took up a post

at the other window at the back of the house. Be-

cause the window was high and narrow, she picked

up a metal bucket lying in the yard and stood on it,

placing her head against the window.

Up against the window I could see why we'd

seen no light coming from the cottage. The win-

dows had been covered with heavy dark cloth from

the inside. Even standing right next to them, one

could barely see the light that appeared around the

windows' edges.

I listened, and my heart gave an extra beat when

I realized that the voices were speaking in Russian.

"Now Nozdrev can get the plans," a man's voice

said.

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"Now that we've got rid of this one," said anoth-


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"Now that we've got rid of this one," said anoth-

er man.

'S He's supposed to pick up the plans tomorrow?"

"That's what the deal was."

"And then Spain will be in our hands."

At this they both gave a hoarse laugh, then con-

tinued talking.

"Too bad this one didn't give us the information

we wanted."

At this point I heard a crash to my left. I turned

to see Pilar sprawled on the ground, the bucket

beside her. The men inside must have also heard

her fall, because suddenly all conversation among

them stopped. I moved to help Pilar. She was hold-

ing her ankle, wincing in pain.

"Damn," she whispered, as I bent down to help

her up. 'ST he bucket just gave way beneath me, it

must have been rusting."

"Couldn't be helped," I said. I pulled Wil-

helmina out of my pockets Just in time. For at

that moment a man of middle height, with a care-

fully cropped, dark beard, came around the cot-

tage. The gun in his hand was pointed at us. For-

tunately his eyes were taking awhile to adjust to the

darkness. He squinted toward where we were, then

spotted us.

I aimed and fired. The luger's shot echoed loudly

against the surrounding rocks. The bullet entered

the man's chest as he let out a curse in Russian.

Then he fell to the ground, and his gun flew out of

his hand and hit the side of the cottage. The man

lay motionless, as his blood, now simply a dark

shape in the moonlight, flowed onto the light col-

ored ground.


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"Are you okay?" I asked Pilar.

She nodded.

"You stay here then and guard the car." She had

already taken a Mercury RR8 from her pocket.

She hobbled over to the car and crouched behind

it.

I rushed around the corner to the front of the

house. The primitive wooden door was closed. I

kicked at it with all my might until it splintered and

opened inward. As I entered the cottage, one of the

Russians, another with a shortly cropped beard,

came toward me holding a high-powered pistol. He

fired at me, but I ducked the shot and his bullet

whistled into the empty night air. I aimed

Wilhelmina at him, but he came running at me,

knocking my aim off track as he shoved into my

stomach. I hit him against the side of the head.

Blood ran down his face as he staggered backward.

He tried to aim his pistol at me again, but my shot

was ahead of his. It went straight into his gut, and

he slumped against a primitive wooden table,

knocking it over.

A lighted kerosene lamp fell from the table ignit-

ing a pile of rubbish lying near it. As the kerosene

flowed along the floor the leaping flames followed

it. There was water in a large pitcher beside the

door, which I tipped onto the flames, but to no

avail. I started toward a cot in a dark corner of the

one-room cottage, hoping to find a blanket. As I

approached I realized with a start, that there was a

man lying there in the shadows. But he didn't get

up off the cot and rush me. He didn't raise a pistol

at me. He had two bullets in his head, one through

his left eye, the other through his forehead. And

he'd been badly beaten by the Russians before they