Checkmate in Rio

by Nick Carter

  Encounter at the Club

  Red China.

  He had seen these things before in Viet Nam — Chinese copies of U.S. and Russian weapons, used by the Vietcong in their guerilla raids against Vietnamese forces and American installations. Nick's mind raced. Maria Cabral must have found out about these shipments and tried to pass the information on. In itself, it was nothing — illegal imports, gun-running — but the implications were enormous. Why from Red China, and where to? Neighboring Latin American countries? And had she tried to tell any of the others?

  There was one more locked room to go. He closed the gun room carefully and moved across the floor to the other. It was not only locked but padlocked: there were two identical keyholes in the padlock.

  It was while he was working on the strange locks that he heard the light footfalls upstairs. He cursed softly and doused his pencil flashlight, hoping against hope that whoever walked upstairs was beading for the men's room and not the door that Sleepy guarded when he was awake.

  But Hope was a grinning liar, and the footfalls ended with a sharp exclamation followed by a silence. Nick picked his way silently through the discarded chairs and tables and headed toward the stairway. Something like an alarm clock went off in the heights above him and the door to the cellar swung open. He ducked back behind the stairs and waited. Lights blazed in the junk-filled room, and he could sense that someone was standing at the top of the stairway, probably just out of range of the door. He drew himself back against a cobwebby wall and waited for whatever was going to come down. In a moment, something did.

  The man was tall and magnificently built. He walked with a step much like Nick's, light and springy, and he carried his body with the confidence of a man who knows his strength and what it can do for him. But he was foolhardy. He looked everywhere but under the stairs. Nick waited until he was well into the room before he made his move. It was a flying tackle that could have earned him the title of Ail-American any day of the week. The man fell with a hideous grunt, with Nick instantly on his back twisting up the arm that held the gun.

  "Aaahhhh!" the man moaned. Nick slammed the complaining face down into the floor several times in rapid succession, applying an excruciating pressure hold on the back of the neck at the same time until there was no more sound from the handsome man. He kicked the gun far back into a corner, and raced for the stairs with Wilhelmina at the ready.

  The back door was partly open and Sleepy still lay in an uncomfortable slump. But he was not alone. A man stood looking down at him, and as Nick came to the back door the man said: "Martín? Martín!" and his head swung up suddenly in vast surprise.

  Wilhelmina spat once, with noisy spite, and the caller's face twisted with the unbelievable pain. He swayed for a long moment, then dropped. Nick leapt over his body and ran, crouching low and twisting as though he were running across a battlefield.

  Which, in fact, he was.

  Footsteps pounded along behind him, two sets. One set paused briefly when a pained, moaning voice whispered: "Álvares! Help… help me…" and the other followed decisively. A shot slammed past his ear.

  But this he had to see. He had missed seeing Álvares once before and he wasn't going to again.

  He made a sudden leaping turn sideways and fired twice as he jumped. The first of his pursuers dropped in his tracks with a choked scream, and his last wild shot caromed against a far wall. At almost the same time a voice hissed, in the silence between shots, "You blind fool! What happened? How many are there?" And then a sharp sound of disgust, followed by something like a foot striking a fallen body, and a groan.

  The man who straightened up so swiftly from the pathetic remains in the passageway came up firing, and firing with accuracy. But in the moment of turning and firing a return shot, Nick saw that the man who had answered to the name of Álvares wore the face of Luiz Silveiro.

  Which was scarcely a surprise to Nick, but it made things so much neater.

  And then, suddenly, there was another man coming at him with a blazing gun, and from such an angle that Nick could only race toward the main street in search of an escape route.

  His swift, zigzagging course took him to a corner building with an ideally sheltered doorway, and he threw himself behind the cover and waited seconds for company to arrive.

  A tall gangling man careened clumsily past him, looked wildly about for a moment, saw Nick and tried to fire. But Nick was ready for him and squeezing Wilhelmina's willing trigger before the man had even caught his balance. One bullet would have to do it. Wilhelmina — no matter how willing — was running dry.

  One did it. It skimmed the skinny arm that held the gun and slammed into the bony chest. Nick, again, was moving even as he fired, darting away from the corner along the light-splashed sidewalk, hearing the running footsteps too close behind him and feeling something whizzing past his cheek. He had reached the next corner and had flung himself past it to cross the street at an oblique angle when he realized that the running feet had stopped. But something else had started — a feeling, more than a sound — of wakefulness, of people behind the darkened windows stirring, of muted wonderings about the noises in the night. He went on running with his light, loping stride until he had once again crossed the street that ran behind the club and covered a good three blocks more. Then he made a sharp right turn into a back street and padded on until he could no longer sense the chaos he had left behind him. At last he slowed into a comfortable walk and took a devious route toward his car and the Copa International, wondering if Silveiro could have recognized him. He decided that Silveiro could not have seen his face, but probably had a pretty clear picture of a tall man in a dark evening suit and might just possibly put two and two together.

  'Two and two…' Gold keys with numbers on them. A padlocked door with two identical keyholes. Number One? Perez Cabral was shaping up nicely for the Number One position. I may not have gotten the big man himself, Nick thought grimly, but at least I seem to be decimating the ranks of the enemy.

  He thought with some pleasure of what Silveiro must be going through right now, either to tidy up the bodies or explain them away, and of what the suave Cabral with the lingering air of sadness would be able to come up with by way of explanation.

  A faint glow was already beginning to touch the sky when he reached the Jaguar and made his customary check. He drove around slowly for the next few minutes before deciding on his next move. If Silveiro or his Number One man had any reason to connect Robert Milbank with tonight's proceedings, they would have had time by now to send a man to wait for him at his hotel — not to take pot shots at him, but to report on when and how he came in.

  Nick was driving toward the downtown area when he consciously decided what to do. Leaving his obtrusive car in an unobtrusive place, he rolled into a small second-rate hotel with a sheepish grin and a babbled story of what his wife would do to him if he stumbled home at that hour. Shamelessly pulling bills off the roll he'd filched from Sleepy, he paid in advance for his room and signed in with one of his favorite indecipherable signatures — Nikita Khrushchev, to anyone in the know — and then went upstairs to sleep the sleep of the completely blameless for a couple of hours before calling the Copa International and asking for himself.

  Rosalind answered sleepily.

  "G'morning, lazy," he said cheerfully. "I thought you'd be up sharpening the Axe for me."

  "I did that before I went to bed," she said, instantly awake. "I hope you're not calling me from Madame Whatsit's boudoir; if you are, I might just use that axe."

  "Shame on you," he said reproachfully. "Do you think I'd want to interrupt her sleep?"

  "I think you probably have already," she said acidly. "Or at least delayed it."

  "It's a lovely morning," he said briskly. "I think we ought to take advantage of it and make an early trip to the beach. Why don't you…"

  "Are you trying to change the subject? Where are you, anyway?"

  "Yes, I am, and I'm at the Hotel Dom Pedro, just
back of the main downtown shopping district. You see, I got in late from a binge, and I didn't think it was tactful to go home. I want you to leave there as soon as you can — don't answer the phone again or the doorbell — and come here without bathing suits and a change of clothes for me. I don't want you to be seen when you leave."

  "I'll join you as dowdy little Maggie Jones," she said demurely, "and leave, with or without you, as my usual scintillating self."

  "Fine. Better leave a little ahead of me, though — but we'll discuss that when you get here. And bring the kind of bag that'll have plenty of room for everything but won't be too recognizable…"

  She was there by the time he had breakfasted and showered and left a few minutes ahead of him to do some window shopping on the Rua Ouvidor. Nick's evening clothes were folded at the bottom of her capacious beach bag. He joined her, looking cheerful and refreshed, and admired her choice of costume jewelry before leading her to the Jag and driving off to a smooth section of beach at Ipanema-Leblon.

  They plunged far out beyond the surf and played like dolphins in the morning sun. Nick swam with great, strong strokes, exerting himself until he could feel the pull of his muscles, then enjoying the restfulness of lying on his back on the low swell, feeling his body relax, inch by inch, until he seemed to become part of the salt air and the spray. Then he raced her, taking pleasure in her graceful strokes and unforced speed, luxuriating in the unquestioning companionship and sense of glorious freedom that she offered him.

  Later they lay beside each other on the soft sand, talking idly, noticing but not caring that the beach was filling up and that children were playing almost at their feet.

  But when the children wandered off, their talk was far from idle. He told her most of what had happened the night before — hedging only on the more explicit details of his visit to Carla — and voiced the queries that had crept into his mind. She listened to him gravely, offering him her comments. She looked so clean and lovely, so newly touched with ripening tan that he wished their life together was real and that he could spend his days and nights touching that soft gold-velvet skin and making love to her. And there were moments on that sunlit beach when he was sure her feelings were in harmony with his. As Robert Milbank he caressed her carelessly, not caring what the world might think of her. As Nick Carter he leaned over her and said: "Sweet baby, Rosalind… my love… When this is over…" and touched the damp hair that curled around her ears.

  When the sun was high they left the beach and drove along the shore before turning and heading back to the Copa International. Nick left the Jag with an attendant and they strolled into the ornate lobby past the flower shop and the fountain, swinging the beach bag and touching each other possessively.

  "Want to say hello to your friend?" he murmured, stopping at the newsstand and buying a copy of the Rio Journal. "Note the lurking figure of Tomaz, surveying us so casually from behind the pineapple palms."

  "Banana," she corrected him. "He doesn't look at all well this morning. What did you do to him last night?"

  "Nothing, as far as I know," he said, and scanned the headlines. They were full of riots in another sector of the Latin world. A second-lead story had something to do with mysterious shots heard in the general vicinity of the Carioca Club last night. All was quiet when the police arrived, although certain bloodstains and drag marks had been discerned and the authorities were investigating reports of an attempted robbery at the Club.

  There were no messages in Robert Milbank's mail slot. But the presence of Tomaz was a message in itself… an ambiguous one. Who was he supposed to be able to recognize? Only Mary Louise Baker of the Colorado Institute of Indian Studies, and she certainly wasn't staying at the Copa International. It could only mean that someone was here with him, or that someone had pointed them out to him or otherwise identified them. But there was no doubt that he had been on the lookout for them. Nick saw him watch them to the elevators and then dart into a phone booth. Well, tough luck, he thought. He can't have much to report.

  The first thing he did when they got upstairs was to order up a lavish early lunch. The second was to scan the apartment for signs of intruders — negative — and the third was to take Roz in his arms and kiss away all thoughts of Carla. The fourth was to disengage himself reluctantly and let Roz call Perez Cabral.

  Their lunch had arrived before she got through to him. A housekeeper explained that he was at the Club, but if the Senhorina would wait for a moment she could put her through on a direct line… When Cabral at last answered his suave voice sounded slightly distraught, but he was most appreciative of Miss Montez' call, and Luisa would hope to see her that afternoon around four o'clock. He himself, unfortunately, would not be home until after six, but perhaps Mr. Milbank would call at about six-thirty and they could all meet…? Rosalind assured him that they could.

  The cold lunch got even colder. Nick stood over her while she talked, his strong fingers stroking her hair, his lips tickling the base of her neck. When she hung up she said: "Now, look, you…"

  "Show me," he said, and smiled disarmingly. He reached for her and she came to him, pretending a small frown but smiling with her eyes. His arms drew her close to him and their lips met.

  "I want you," he said, so quietly that she could barely hear him. "On a soft bed, in a room just light enough so I can see your face and your wonderful body. Let me love you, sweetheart… slow and sweet and right. The way I wanted to love you on the beach, in the sand… the way I wanted you, even in the water. Forget everything except that I want you…" And somehow he was carrying her to "his" room; and somehow he was taking off her clothes with very careful fingers that would not allow themselves to be anything other than softly probing and very, very gentle.

  "I want you, too," she said, as quietly as he. "I do want you. I want you in bed with me."

  Much more quickly he undressed himself and for the first time since they had come to share the suite they were beneath the soft, cool sheets together. His hands explored the firm, smooth shape of her and felt its softness where it should be soft and its hardness where it should be hard. The twin peaks of her breasts and the trembling of her legs showed him that her need was as strong as his. He kissed her breasts until they softened and stroked her legs until the trembling stopped and a new pulsating began. They lay together whispering and exploring until the fires glowed too brightly to be played with any more, then their bodies joined and clung together. Each exulted in the other's obvious pleasure and made it grow with such intensity that at last the very perfection of their mutual rapture became too much to bear. They floated over the summit together and hung suspended for an impossibly long, burning moment on a soft cloud of absolute happiness. Then they glided down to earth, glowing with dreamy contentment.

  After a while it began all over again.

  Lunch was very late that day.

  When at last they turned their minds to other things they were both satisfied yet starving.

  All softness fell away from them when they made themselves start thinking about the six who disappeared, but the sense of close companionship remained.

  "Try to find out," said Nick, spearing a succulent piece of lobster, "how and when Maria Cabral is supposed to have died. If the girl is taking it so hard she may be grateful for a chance to talk about it. Of course, she may not want to talk at all, in which case you'll have to rely on your native cunning."

  "Shouldn't be too hard to get it out of her," said Rosalind. "No, don't give me any more of that — I want to be wide awake this afternoon. She can't very well refuse to answer a civil, sympathetic question. But what I wonder is, why is Cabral so anxious for me to meet her? Or is the answer so obvious that I should be ashamed to ask?"

  "I don't think it's obvious at all," he answered. "But on the other hand I don't think we have a very wide range of possibilities. A, he really is fond of his daughter…"

  "Stepdaughter," she corrected him.

  "Stepdaughter, if it makes any difference �
� and it may. He is fond of her and he wants company for her. Or, B, Luisa be damned, he just wants you inside his house. But don't forget that he asked you to visit even before my shenanigans at the Club. Could we have given ourselves away already? I don't see how. No, I can't believe that anyone caught on."

  "Maybe he just suspects any newcomer in town of being a potential enemy and makes a habit of looking them over," she suggested.

  "In a city this size? With tourists swarming in from all directions every day? He'd have a full house all the time. True, we have made ourselves a little more conspicuous than the average visitor, and we did wind up sitting right under his nose at the Club, but I don't think that's enough to pinpoint us. Perhaps it's instinct, or your big brown eyes. Anyway, play it cool. I'd better lend you Pepito."

  "Who dat?" she enquired, eyebrows raised.

  "A variation on Pierre, designed especially for the no-kill spy."

  Will You Walk into My Parlor

  The Cabral home was an elaborate stone house with a beautifully landscaped garden set high on a hillside blazing with summer flowers. Nick dropped Rosalind off in the driveway and drove briskly back to Copacabana Beach feeling the old restlessness burning inside him. He knew that it was time for things to come to a head, and he sensed that Rosalind's meeting was going to be crucial.

  He picked up the afternoon papers and clipped them in the privacy of the luxury suite. Flatfoot had recovered sufficiently to refuse to talk, and the driver of the fleeing car had been found. Michael Nolan's disappearance was the subject of a great deal of wild speculation, and one of the Carioca Club's "night watchmen" had been hospitalized with seemingly serious wounds. There was no mention of the two men he had killed, nor of the fourth who must, Nick thought, be feeling sick and sore today.