Harold Robbins Thriller Collection

by Harold Robbins

  Her voice faded and she turned to the bright sparkling ribbon across the entrance behind her. Someone handed her a scissors. It shone briefly in the sunlight as she held it aloft. Then suddenly she lowered it and the ribbon fell fluttering to the ground. With a roar the crowd surged forward through the entrance of the hotel. It jammed up the opening until the two lines of soldiers pushed it into an orderly procession.

  Dax stood on the platform watching until the dignitaries and officials had made their polite thanks, then he went over to Amparo. She was alone, except for the soldiers, her bodyguards, who were always nearby. She looked thoughtfully down into the pushing crowd.

  “You were very good,” he said quietly at her elbow. “Very good.”

  A quick polite smile came to her lips as she turned, then she recognized him and the smile changed. It became warm and personal. “Dax! I didn’t know you were here.”

  He bowed over her hand, kissing it. “I got in last night.” He straightened up. “You were very good.”

  “I should be, I’ve had enough practice.”

  He glanced toward the hotel. “Are you going inside?”

  “With that mob?” she asked. “I’m not that crazy. I can’t stand them. It’s a good thing we have soldiers stationed there or they would tear the place apart. They have no appreciation for anything.”

  “You haven’t changed,” he said, looking at her. “At least you’re honest.”

  “Why should I change? Do you change?”

  “I like to think so. I grow older. Wiser.”

  “No one ever changes,” she said positively, “they only think they do. We’re still the same people we were when we scratched our way down from the hills.”

  “You sound bitter.”

  “I’m not bitter, I’m just realistic. Women are more hard-headed than men. New airports, new roads, and new buildings don’t impress us.”

  “What does impress you?”

  “You.”

  “Me?” His surprise was reflected in his voice.

  “Yes. You escaped. You got out. To you the whole world is not just Corteguay.” She frowned suddenly. “I need a drink. I have a headache from squinting into that damned sun.”

  “The bar is open inside the hotel.”

  “No, come back to the palace with me. It will be more comfortable there.” She hesitated. “Unless you have something better to do.”

  “No, Princesa.” He smiled. “I have nothing better to do.”

  It was hot in the car, and he leaned forward to roll down the window. Her hand stopped him. “No, not until we’re out of the crowds. There are still wolves around us.”

  Dax leaned back thoughtfully. Perhaps she was right. People did not change.

  The face of the slim young man leaning against the speakers’ platform offered no clue to his thoughts as he watched the big black limousine turn and make its way slowly through the crowds.

  I could have killed them, he was thinking, just now as they walked in front of me and the soldiers were looking the other way. I could have killed them the way they killed my father. Without mercy. From ambush.

  He straightened up and put his hand inside his jacket and feeling the gun in his belt gave him comfort. Quickly he took his hand away and put it in his pocket, lest it betray him. Still lost in his thoughts, he joined the crowds pushing their way into the hotel.

  But what good would killing them have done me? None at all, he thought. The soldiers would have killed me, and all I came back to do would remain undone. El Presidente would go on forever. It was not for this I went away to school across the sea.

  He paused in the doorway and looked back over his shoulder at the hills. Tomorrow I will begin my journey home. To the land of my father, to my father’s people. They will listen to my message. They will discover that they are not alone, that we are not alone, and they will believe. When the guns come will be time enough for the murderers of my father to die. And they will know it is the son of el Condor who is their executioner.

  He was too busy with his own thoughts to notice the two men fall into step behind him. When he did notice, it was already too late. They had him.

  “The comunistas!” El Presidente spat on the marble floor. “It is they who are behind this new trouble in the hills. They are sending in guns, money, and guerrilleros. There is not a night that passes that another of them does not slip across our borders.”

  “If we had solved the problems of the bandoleros earlier we would not have had to worry now.”

  “Dax, you are being stupid! Do you think that alone is the answer? I wish it were. But not anymore; the disease has spread throughout the world. It is not our country alone. It is Brazil, Argentina, Cuba. In Asia it is Vietnam, Korea—”

  “A truce has been in effect in Korea for almost a year now,” Dax said. “Both the United States and Russia have withdrawn their troops.”

  “I have not the advantage of your worldwide knowledge,” el Presidente answered sarcastically. “But I know enough about the uses of power to understand that the Korean truce will not survive the summer. How long do you think the North Koreans will continue to sit and allow their southern brothers to grow rich and fat in the valleys below the thirty-eighth parallel while they starve in the mountains?”

  Dax did not answer.

  “Just this afternoon my police picked up a young man who has returned to this country after attending a school in Russia. He was less than three feet away from Amparo while she was making her speech. They found a gun in his belt. He had been sent there to assassinate her.”

  “Yet he did not fire,” Dax replied. “Why?”

  “Who knows? Perhaps he got buck fever, possibly he was afraid he would be killed first. There could be a thousand reasons.”

  “What will happen to the young man?”

  “He will be tried,” el Presidente said. “If he cooperates and gives us information, he will live. If not…”

  He turned and went back to his desk. “In three weeks our application for membership in the United Nations comes up again. This time it will be approved. The Western powers can no longer hold it against us that we remained neutral throughout the war. All of us now face a common enemy.”

  “It will not be that easy. Russia still has a veto.”

  “When war comes in Korea,” el Presidente continued, “Russia will not dare exercise that veto in the face of world opinion. It is then we must be ready. You must let the United Nations know we are ready to pledge three battalions to their service.” He picked up a sheet of paper and handed it to Dax. “Meanwhile, here is your commission as a coronel in the army.”

  Dax stared at the paper. “Just what is this for?”

  El Presidente smiled. “I am sending Amparo on a visit to the United States. A—what do you call it?—a good-will mission? You are to be in charge of it.”

  “I still see no reason for the commission.”

  A wise grin spread over the old man’s face. “There is nothing like a uniform to make a woman appear more feminine and fragile.”

  138

  “La princesa called twice while you were out,” Fat Cat said, “she wishes to see you right away.”

  “Did she say what she had on her mind?”

  Fat Cat shrugged. “No. The usual thing, I imagine.”

  Dax frowned as he shrugged out of his military tunic. It had been like this the entire trip. Amparo demanded constant attention. He started to remove his tie. “Was the correspondent from the London Times here?”

  “He left almost an hour ago. Amparo began phoning almost the instant he left.”

  “Call her back and tell her I’ll see her as soon as I shower.” Dax pulled on his shirt. He walked into the bedroom and stripped down the rest of the way.

  He let the hot water play over his body. Slowly he felt the tensions ease. The Southern congressman who was so influential on the Foreign Affairs Committee had not been the easiest person in the world to get along with. If it were not for the help of Je
remy Hadley it might have proved impossible.

  But Jeremy had a way with him, an open kind of ingenuousness that belied the shrewd political turn of his mind. Gently, ever so gently, he had managed to get across that the privileges currently enjoyed in Corteguay by the Texas oil syndicate could as easily be revoked. He was certain that this would not happen, of course, but no one could really tell. Corteguay was the only country in South America that hadn’t made demands on the United States foreign-aid program. Whatever they had accomplished had been wholly on their own, and that made them very independent.

  The Southerner had been no fool. He got the message. Besides, he liked the idea that Corteguay had no demands to make on the United States. It was very refreshing, he said, to find a country that chose to stand on its own feet in the great tradition of the Americas. Dax was sure that in the back of the congressman’s mind was the tremendous campaign contributions he had already received or been promised by friends in the Texas oil syndicate. At any rate, the meeting had concluded most satisfactorily. The congressman would recommend most strongly to the State Department that the United States favor Corteguay’s application.

  Dax was so absorbed in his thoughts that he failed to hear the bathroom door open. He was not aware that Amparo had come into the room until he heard her voice.

  “What are you doing in there?” she demanded angrily.

  “Taking a shower,” he called sarcastically through the opaque glass shower doors. “What the hell did you think I was doing?”

  “In the middle of the afternoon?”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “You’ve been with a woman,” she said accusingly, “that German girl.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “I saw the way she was looking at you at lunch.”

  Angrily he turned off the water. There was no point in explaining to Amparo that Marlene had actually been with Jeremy Hadley. “Stop behaving like a jealous campesino. There are reasons other than fornication for bathing in the afternoon. This is the United States; water is plentiful here.”

  He pushed open the glass door and stuck his hand out, groping for a towel. He found one on the rack and wrapped it around him, then stepped out of the shower.

  Amparo was standing in the doorway watching him. Silently he took another towel and began to dry himself. Glancing in the mirror, he could see the anger fading from her eyes.

  “Did the interview go well?”

  “I guess so, but you should have been with me. I never feel right with reporters when I’m alone. They seem so… superior.”

  “All newspapermen seem that way. I think it’s an act. To make you think they know more than they do.”

  “What were you doing?”

  “I had that meeting with the American congressman. You knew about it.”

  “It went well?”

  “It went well.”

  She was silent for a moment. “I would like a drink.”

  He met her eyes in the mirror. “Ask Fat Cat, he’ll make you whatever you want.”

  “What was it we had before lunch?” she asked. “That cocktail. I liked it.”

  “A dry martini.”

  “It was good. These gringos know how to make good drinks. They do not merely swill straight raw rum.”

  “Watch out for them, they are very potent. They sneak up on you and cloud your mind and loosen your tongue.”

  “I had three at lunch,” she said. “They didn’t bother me. I just felt good.”

  Amparo turned and walked away. Silently Dax finished drying himself, then, pulling on a robe, went through the bedroom into the living room of his suite. Amparo was standing by the window, a martini in her hand, looking down at Park Avenue.

  She turned. “There are so many of them.”

  He nodded. “This city alone has three times the population of all Corteguay.”

  “They live and work together. There is no war here, no bandoleros in the mountains.”

  “Not in our sense, but they have their problems. Their criminals are social, not political.”

  Amparo turned back to the window. “Everyone here has automobiles, even the poorest.” She finished her drink. “Not even Mexico, which I thought very wealthy, was like this. It is a very rich country. Now I am beginning to understand what my father means when he says we have a long way to go.”

  Dax didn’t answer.

  She turned. “May I have another of these martinis?”

  “I am your escort,” he said, “not your duena.”

  He waited until Fat Cat had brought her another and then said, “Don’t drink too much, we have an important dinner tonight. It would not create a good impression if you were to fall asleep in the middle of it.”

  “I won’t fall asleep,” she replied angrily. Her face was slightly flushed.

  “I am going to take a little siesta. I suggest you do the same. It will be a long, late night.”

  “I’m not sleepy.”

  “Suit yourself. If your highness will excuse me?”

  “You don’t have to be sarcastic,” she said, following him through the bedroom door.

  He sat down on the edge of the bed. “I’m not being sarcastic. I’m just tired.”

  She watched as he stretched out on the bed. She took another sip of her drink. “You were with that German woman this afternoon!”

  He smiled up at her. “See? I warned you about the drink. Already it is making your tongue foolish.”

  “I am not foolish!” She stood over the bed looking down at him. Her face was quite flushed now. “I know about you. If you had not already been with a woman you would not allow me to stand here like this!”

  He put his arms behind his head. “What do you know about me?”

  “You forget I see all the foreign newspapers. They are not like the papers in Corteguay, which are not allowed to print anything bad about you. You have been involved with many women.”

  “So?”

  Unexpectedly Amparo felt the tears come to her eyes, and she became even angrier. “Am I not a woman?” she demanded. “Is there something the matter with me?”

  He laughed aloud. “You are very much a woman. There is nothing the matter with you. But—”

  “But what?”

  “Your father has entrusted you to my care. It is a question of honor. How do you think he would feel if he were to learn that I betrayed that trust?”

  “You are not smiling when you say that? You are serious?”

  “Yes.”

  Suddenly she began to laugh. “My father is right, you are the best diplomat Corteguay ever had.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She looked down at him. “You know damn well what I mean! Why do you think my father threw us together on this trip if not in the hope that we would become involved?”

  Dax didn’t answer. For the first time, he thought about it. It was exactly what the devious old bandolero might do. The direct approach would always be too simple for him.

  “It is over between us,” Dax said, “he knows that.”

  She stared at him. “That is really the reason, isn’t it? You have never forgiven me for what happened.”

  “There was nothing to forgive.”

  “It was not my idea to deceive you; my father insisted. I wanted to tell you.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It does matter,” she insisted, “now. Then it didn’t.” Abruptly she finished her drink. “It always was you. But I was young then, and you were never there. So I fell in love with a man who reminded me of you, and my father had him murdered. After you left there was nothing, no one. When I learned of your marriage, I cried all night.”

  “You don’t have to tell me all this.”

  “I have to tell you,” she replied, almost harshly. “How long must I be punished? How long must I bear the pain of your thinking that I tried to deceive you?”

  He didn’t answer.

  She sank to her knees beside the bed. Pu
tting the empty cocktail glass on the floor, she pulled his robe away. He felt her tiny hot kisses on the soft flesh of his underbelly, and the power flooded into his genitals. She captured his surging phallus; her sharp teeth scraped him, and her tongue laved him.

  Abruptly he sank his hands into her hair and twisted her face up to him. “Amparo”—his voice was harsh, his eyes searching—“it is not the gringo liquor in you?”

  She looked at him almost shyly. “It is not the liquor,” she answered in a low voice, “nor is it my father. This is for me. He will never know.”

  He still held her in his firm grip, his eyes demanding the truth.

  “A few minutes ago you said it was over between us,” she whispered, “but you were wrong. It never began.” She pulled his hand from her cheek and buried her lips in its palm. He scarcely felt the movement of her lips. “Now it begins.”

  139

  Marcel picked up the telephone on his desk, and the secretary in his office downtown answered immediately. “Anything special this morning?” he asked.

  “No, Mr. Campion. I kept the morning free as you suggested.”

  “Good. I should be at the office before lunch.”

  “If anything comes up, can I reach you at Mr. Schacter’s office?”

  “No, I don’t want to be disturbed there.”

  Marcel put down the telephone and went out through the private side entrance where his car and chauffeur were waiting. He paused for a moment and looked back at the gray stone building. A glow of pride came over him. It was one of the last decent town houses on Park Avenue. And a corner, too.

  Fortunately it was not large enough to house an embassy or the price would have been prohibitive. Still, it was more than large enough for him. Thirteen rooms. The agent had laughed embarrassedly. “Some people think it’s an unlucky number.”

  Marcel had laughed, remembering all the gamblers who had fetishes about the number. One number had been the same as any other for him. The house did just as well on the lucky numbers as it did on the unlucky ones. “I don’t mind. I’m not superstitious.”