Checkmate in Rio

by Nick Carter

  "Tell me all," she said.

  Nick took her hand and held it lightly.

  "I don't know any more than you do. But we should go over what we know and see what we can make of it. Six trusted agents mysteriously missing, we know that. Reported as expected, and then stopped. CIA investisates as best it can, but can't do too much without calling undue attention to the whole affair. And they can't take a chance on sending down any more of their own people until they know what's happened. Right now, one or more of those six might be spilling everything they know."

  "Trusted agents?" Rosalind frowned. "They'd rather die."

  Nick's face was serious. "It's rarely that simple. When you're not engaged in hit-and-run cloak and dagger work, you don't go around with L-pills tucked beneath your tongue. Spill first, die later. There are lots of ways of making people talk."

  Rosalind shivered. The ugly mental picture of dedicated people being made to talk contrasted horribly with the blazing sunlight and clean sea smell that enveloped them, and even more shockingly with the carefree lavishness of Rio's Copacabana Beach. The hotel they had chosen was the city's most luxurious and extravagant. Nouveau millionaire Milbank and his decorative companion were not without appreciation for genuine elegance, nor for the cruel irony that led them to such splendor in search of six vanished colleagues who could be dead or dying of torture unthinkable and hideous.

  Nick's hand tightened over hers.

  "You're not exactly a case-hardened old bag, are you? You know, there's no need for you to get involved in the seamier side of this. If you'll just cover me…"

  She pulled her hand away. For some reason it tingled, and she wasn't sure that this was an appropriate time for her to tingle.

  "If you're suggesting that I can't take it, don't. I can and I will. But I don't have to pretend to enjoy the thought of death by torture. Or the fact of it. I think it's possible to get a bit too case-hardened."

  He took her hand back. "And you think it's possible that I am. Well, you may be right. But that's something we can take up later, after hours. In the meantime, what've we got? A mass disappearance. Every single one of our agents goes out like a blown light bulb. Question: Could they all have been together? Or was it first one, and then the others? If that's the way it was, we have a couple of grim possibilities to consider. One of them could have been a traitor, and given the others away. Or one of them could have been found out and forced to give the others away. Because unless they were all together when whatever happened did happen, one of them must have given the others away. They didn't work together; there was no apparent link between them all that could have been observed by some common enemy. So, either somebody provided the information that somebody else wanted, or they did break precedent and get together for some special reason."

  "But according to their last batch of reports," Rosalind put in, "there wasn't anything out of the way going on at all, nothing that would suggest a special meeting. Besides, surely it wasn't up to any one of them to call meetings? Especially without consulting their home office first? I just can't believe that they would."

  "No, I can't either," Nick agreed. "I can only think that if there was such a meeting it was forced on them, and that brings us back to the question of a traitor — or someone who was discovered and made to talk. It would help if we knew who was first and who was last. At least I think it would. But that's one of the things I'll only find out by asking, I guess."

  They were silent for a moment. Glad cries and cool-sounding splashes came from the swimming pool.

  "Who will you ask?" the girl enquired eventually.

  "The survivors." And his tone was grim.

  "Oh… How?"

  "One way or another." He released her hand and looked about him, scanning the cool sweep of grass and the huge blue pool. Nothing had changed; no one seemed to have moved except the trim, silent waiters who glided back and forth between the poolside tables. No one walked or strolled or lounged anywhere near Rosalind and Nick. They might have been on a desert island, so isolated were they by a few yards of lawn and the nature of their profession.

  "By tomorrow, I think we can start being a little more gregarious," said Nick, satisfied with their privacy. "The more people we meet, the more we can find out."

  Rosalind stirred restlessly. "You mean we just go around asking questions and the answers fall into our laps?"

  "Not exactly." He sat up and stared at the pool. "We're obvious when we can afford to be, and subtle when we have to be. Think over the list, and see what suggests itself. We have six lines of enquiry to follow. One: João de Santos, news reporter for the Rio Journal, an English-language daily. Youngish fellow — twenty-seven — but one of the old-timers, relatively. Working for the U.S. since he was a cub six years ago. Married, one child, simple but comfortable home life. Good nose for news, crack photographer. Expert at microfilm work. One of the three who knew all the others. Even though he was the first one to stop sending reports, there's a good chance he was the last one to go."

  Rosalind raised an enquiring eyebrow. Once again he took her hand, and once again she felt that tantalizing tingle.

  "Why?" he answered. "Because the whole family went on vacation together, and we know that the wife and child are back. And recently. We think they all came back together. We have a little more than that to go on, but not much. But he did know all the others, and he was a fine newsman. Maybe he still is.

  "Then we have Miguel de Freitas. Unmarried, thirty-five years old, owner of a small club called the Moondust. Been working for us for a little over three years. Not one of those who knew all the others, but one of the two who reported gun-running. The other was Maria Cabral. Thirty-nine, married to financier Perez Cabral. One daughter by a previous marriage. She did know the identities of the other five — she joined the ranks almost eight years ago. In fact, she was just about our best source of information in these parts. Apparently a very lovely woman. Beautiful home, a great many social contacts, and a finger in several business concerns. Her report, incidentally, was the first of the December batch. And as a rule she was more regular than the others. Her chief competitor in the report-sending business was Carlos Brenha…"

  "Forty-seven, unmarried, something of a pedant, assistant curator of the National Indian Museum," said Rosalind. "Give me a cigarette and let me die a little. Light it for me, please. I intend to become accustomed to these small courtesies by my wealthy lover… Thank you. Cloistered life, few friends, but with a lonely man's penchant for picking up gossip that could sometimes be translated into hard fact. Often reported in by radio, although he was warned that it could be dangerous. So perhaps he was the first to be picked up."

  "He may well have been," Nick agreed. "Although he always claimed to be extremely careful. But he could have made just one mistake. Who's next on the list? Oh, yes — let's not forget that Brenha's only known contact with the others was the bookstore man. We'll get to him in a minute. First, let's do Pierce Langley."

  "Wait a minute!" Rosalind sat up suddenly. "We may have been making a mistake. Oh, sorry, lover — I shouldn't get so agitated in public. One moment while I kiss you. I've had a sudden urge."

  One lovely arm encircled his neck; one soft, sweet pair of lips lightly touched his cheek. Nick ruffled her dark hair and kissed the tip of her nose.

  "I hope you often have this kind of urge," he murmured, holding her just a little longer than was absolutely necessary.

  "Part of the act," she reminded him between her teeth. "All right. Urge over. I've had a thought, and I don't want to let it get away." Nick released her, keeping his eyes on her piquant face. "You know, it's possible that more than one of them gave away the others. Look. Brenha could have been first. He only knew one man. But that man knew another. And the one he knew, knew someone else. It could have been some awful chain, one after the other being forced to give away another name! So we're not limited to the three who knew them all."

  Nick stifled a groan. "Christ," he said
quietly. "You're right." He thought for a moment, noting her heightened color and the glow that lit her eyes. "But still, that's not going to make any difference to the way we go about this thing. It's a nasty thought to bear in mind, but with or without it we'd still have had six jobs to do. Nevertheless… if that's the way it happened, this business is going to be even trickier than I'd thought. Okay. Pierce Langley. He did know all the others, for whatever it's worth. American businessman, dealer in jewelry, exporter of gem stones. Forty-five, married, wife considerably younger. Some difficulties there, it seems. But a good operative with useful contacts in business and government. Odd, in a way, that he didn't know about the gun-running. Still, who knows, he might have gotten on to it later, if he'd had the chance. Maybe that's a bigger factor than we'd thought. Could be the key to the whole thing. And then we have…"

  "John Silas Appelbaum," Rosalind said, with the hint of a smile. "I love that name. I hope he's all right." The faint smile faded. "American by birth, lived in Rio nearly all his life. Owns the Unicorn Bookstore, downtown. Another of the quiet men. Fifty-three, unmarried, lives alone in a small, book-lined apartment. Likes to sit at a sidewalk café at lunchtime and after working hours to watch the world go by. Also takes frequent walks in the Botanical Gardens. Had occasional discreet contact with de Santos and Brenha. Can't think of any reason why he should be first or last. Seems to be very sort of neutral and inoffensive. And rather a nice old man, I should think."

  She blew out an unladylike cloud of smoke and stared at a bronzed, sag-bellied man on the diving board. The man gazed down at the water, thought about it, and backed cautiously away.

  "Rich fat useless ass!" Rosalind said suddenly.

  Nick clucked reprovingly.

  "That's no way to talk about us rich. Come on, let's get some clothes on and then go do the town. Or would you like another dip first?"

  She shook her head and pulled on a diminutive terry cloth robe. "Uh-uh. Next time, let's go to the beach. With our own bucket of champagne."

  He drew on his own splendid beach jacket and helped her to her feet. His arm lightly about her waist, they walked slowly toward the bathers' entrance to the hotel.

  Something — probably the sixth sense that pricked him into alertness in time of danger or when something lovely passed nearby — made him glance up at the terrace that overlooked the pool area. His eye leapt at an image, caught it, and held it even as his swift gaze flickered away. He had been tempted to raise his arm in a cheerful wave, but had instantly thought better of it. That would surely have been a step outside the Milbank character.

  Nevertheless, the moon-faced man with the genial eyes had been looking down at them with more than casual interest, and the waiter beside him had undeniably been pointing down and mentioning their names.

  "What is it?" Rosalind murmured.

  "I think the game is on," said Nick, and steered her beneath the terrace. "We're being admired."

  •'We are?"

  He shook his head slightly. "Montez and Milbank, I should say. Why not? That's what we're here for."

  In fact, it was not at all surprising that they should be stared at. If all went well, the days to come would be full of stares and whispers, pointing fingers, amused smiles and envious sighs.

  The boys in Documents had done their work well. They had created a character and given him a life history which included a genius for manipulation and several million illicitly earned dollars. They had arranged the difficult transfer of huge sums of cash from New York to Brazil and provided for an almost unnoticed getaway, and they had planted the story of stock embezzler Robert Milbank and his "exotic paramour" Rosita Montez in every major newspaper in the U.S.A. It was not long before the story was followed by rumors of Milbank's reappearance in Rio, and by confirmation in Brazilian newspapers. There was even a hint that Milbank, safe in Rio from the long arm of extradition, might be looking for something to invest in.

  "The whole story is a tissue of lies," Milbank had declared on his arrival at Galeao Airport (via Caracas) with Miss Montez on his arm. "When it is checked into by disinterested authorities, it will be seen at once that no actual shortage exists. There has been no juggling of any sort. Such funds as I have — and I see no reason to deny that I do have certain resources — came to me through legitimate business operations. I am not ashamed of success, nor with enjoying the proceeds in any way I see fit." Then a captivating smile had flashed across the handsome Milbank features (which by some strange and subtle alchemy bore scant resemblance to Nick Carter's), and the lady reporters present had sighed to themselves and felt weak in the knees.

  Nor was Nick surprised, later that evening, when half the diners in the exorbitant Skytop Restaurant turned to stare at him and his expensive, delectable lady and exchange speculative whispers. It was quite understandable that the maître d' had stage-whispered, by request, a list of all the places where illegal gambling was to be found, and expected to be well paid for his information. And the unusually big tabs at Sacha's and the Nova York did not come as much of a jolt to Nick.

  He was not even particularly surprised, when they got home early the next morning, to find that their magnificent ten-room suite had been neatly and thoroughly searched. They had been careful not to leave anything around that could incriminate or be spent. But it did seem that the game was on.

  Rosalind stared at the spatulate fingerprint in the thin film of powder on a bureau top.

  "Who do you think it could have been? We haven't been found out — already?"

  Nick shook his head. "Nosy bellhop, chambermaid, cat thief, maybe even the management. I'll scream in the morning. In the meantime, come here. Let me help you unhook."

  She looked at him coldly. "Thank you, I'll help myself."

  "No, really, I'm good at that sort of thing."

  Fingers lightly touched her back. She swung around.

  "I'll bet you are. Look, we have ten rooms in this place." Strange, she thought, how she shivered inside. "Five for you, five for me. Therefore, goodnight Mister Car — Milbank!"

  Gently, he. reached for her. Softly, he touched her bare shoulders. Lightly, he drew her toward him so that her high, firm breasts were pressed against his chest. Tenderly, he kissed her eyelids. Regretfully, he straightened up.

  "All right, Roz. I'll go do my Yoga exercises."

  He pulled himself away from her and made for an adjoining doorway.

  "You'll do your what?" She stared in astonishment at his retreating back.

  He turned at the doorway.

  "Exercises," he said sadly. "Goodnight, sweetheart."

  Opening Gambit

  He spent a good part of the next day cursing their brief stopover in Caracas. That, too, had been part of the act. But it had been an expensive bit of dressing: two unidentified bodies had been discovered in Rio while Carter was living it up in Venezuela. But, as one would have noted if one had bothered to read yesterday's paper instead of making furtive little call-box enquiries between swims and martinis, they had now been identified.

  One, found in the bay somewhere near the base of Sugar Loaf, had once been João de Santos, well-known and talented journalist. It had taken some time to recover the body and then to identify it. Almost certainly, his fall had been the result of an accident.

  The other had been John Silas Appelbaum, genial bookstore owner and friend of the young intellectuals who used to gather in his store and at the nearby cafe to solve the world's literary problems and borrow money from each other. Appelbaum had been the victim of a vicious murderer. His skull had been cracked and the body bore several knife wounds. He had been found under the lily pads of the beautiful pond in the Botanical Gardens he had loved so well. Apparently he had been under water for many days, perhaps three weeks. It was impossible to tell exactly.

  De Santos had been found three days ago, one day after he had fallen.

  Then why in the world hadn't he reported for so long?

  Mrs. de Santos was grief-stricken and sp
eaking to no one.

  Mr. Appelbaum's landlady was overcome and spoke volubly to everyone, which put her high on the list of those to be interrogated. And the police were already doing that.

  Nick scoured the newspapers — current and recent — for any mention of the names de Preitas, Langley, Brenha and Cabral. The only thing he came up with was a line about Mrs. Carla Langley's attendance at some social event unaccompanied by her husband, who was away on business.

  "On business." Nick's mouth was a grim line. With two of Langley's colleagues already found dead, it was unlikely that Pierce Langley would have lived through his last business deal. As for the others, he had nothing at all to go on. AXE's Records Department had long since checked the newspapers, magazines and newscasts of the preceding weeks, and had found no significant reference to any of the missing six. De Santos' last, pre-vacation byline had been dated November 30. A singing act at the Moondust Club had been extended by owner Miguel de Freitas by popular request. And that was it.

  Nick resolved to spend one day more, and one day only, in establishing himself as a well-heeled playboy with a flair for chicanery and lavish living and an eye for beautiful women. After that he'd have to start spreading himself a little thinner.

  But by this time he was virtually convinced of several things: That de Santos had been the last to be taken and the last to die, that they were all dead, not hidden and in the process of being tortured, that they had been disposed of singly and not as a group. All this was based on the little he knew of de Santos. Unless luck and his cover threw something else his way, he'd start with the reporter. His heart dropped a few notches at the thought of questioning the newsman's widow. But as it happened he didn't have a chance to, right away.

  Nick left the papers on their private veranda and went in search of Rosalind. It was getting close to lunchtime and he was hungry. Splashing sounds came from the bathroom. He put his head around the door. A wet sponge sailed past his ear.