“Where is it now?”
“In my room, in a suitcase.”
“Locked, I hope.”
“Of course it’s locked. I’m not an idiot.”
“Good.” Bryan sipped at his drink.
“Well, are you going to tell me what the story is?”
“No,” Bryan said smoothly. “For that, you’ll have to wait for the third member of our little party.”
“The mastermind, eh?”
“More or less.”
“And when is he due to arrive?”
“Tomorrow,” Bryan said, finishing his vodka. “And we will meet in his room as scheduled. You’ll get the details then. Have you been working with the flash cards?”
Miguel was growing angry. He was being treated like a child. “Listen, if you think I’m going to sit around here without the slightest idea—”
“That’s exactly what I think. Keep your voice down.”
“I don’t like it,” Miguel said, sulking.
“You will.”
Miguel shook his head. “Just tell me one thing. Is it political? Because if it is. I’m not—”
Bryan stood to go. “No, it’s not political. You needn’t worry about that.” He started to leave, then turned back. “Just one thing. At the meeting tomorrow night, don’t be funny, and don’t call him ‘the mastermind.’ He won’t like it.”
Bryan left the bar.
Miguel swore to himself, ordered another gin and tonic, and allowed his attention to return to the girl. With disappointment, he saw that she had been joined by a Spaniard. She was listening to him with obvious inattention, watching her cigarette smoke curl up toward the ceiling.
Miguel liked her. She looked like a hot number. He called the bartender over.
“The lady in the corner,” he said. “Who is she?”
The bartender shrugged inside his starched white jacket. A discreet bastard. Two hundred pesetas should overcome his scruples. He pushed the money across the bar. “Buy yourself a drink.”
“Maria Theresa Gonzales,” he said, and added in a conspiratorial tone, “but that is not her real name.”
“No kidding. And what is her real name?”
“I don’t know.”
“Not very good at your job, are you?”
The bartender shrugged again, a deferential, hesitant movement. So it was another two hundred pesetas. Well, Miguel was not interested. He had time, and he was confident that very shortly he would know a great deal about that girl, no matter what her real name was. She seemed the type worth knowing.
BARCELONA, SPAIN: Steven Jencks stared at the plans and blueprints spread out on the bed of his hotel room. To one side, neatly folded in a heavy envelope, was the computer output. He had spent three hours reexamining the plans and the output. He had found nothing wrong—every possibility, every chance and contingency, had been considered, weighed, and evaluated.
Except for Mr. Alan Brady-Bernet.
Jencks sighed. He had spent most of the day sightseeing, admiring the view from Tibidabo hill, looking at the Gaudi Cathedral. The skinny man had been close behind. Late in the afternoon, it had started to rain, and Jencks had returned to his hotel to think.
No answers. The plan itself was perfect, but Brady-Bernet was a new factor, a complete unknown. There was nothing he could do but wait and see what happened. Jencks was certain of only one thing—the fat man did not know, could not know, what was planned. That was absolutely impossible.
He glanced at his watch—10:30. It was time to meet the man with the launch. Undoubtedly, it would be an exhausting and suspicious encounter. Jencks sighed again, found the two packets of money and slipped them into his jacket pocket. Then he went outside, and walked down the Ramblas toward the waterfront. The skinny man picked him up a block from the hotel.
Jencks ignored him. There would be plenty of time to lose him later.
The Ramblas was a street that never failed to fascinate him, though he could not say he enjoyed it. It was the main street of Barcelona’s port section—broad and lined with cafes and bars. In the center, dividing traffic, was a wide strip of pavement along which people strolled, taking the night air, stopping to buy books and magazines from the stands. As always, the crowd was young, gay, and boisterous; boys laughed and shouted, while girls pushed away roving hands with small giggles.
The cafes were a study in themselves. At the north end of the street, near the Plaza Cataluna, they were clean and elegant, and patronized by the rich, international set. As you approached the water, they became smaller, dimmer, and less respectable; the whores sat about, waiting for customers or talking in a bored way to other whores. Eventually, the cafes became waterfront bars, bawdy and raucous, blaring rock-and-roll music with a heavy sexual thump into the dark.
Jencks turned left off the Ramblas onto a narrow street, walked one block quickly, turned left again. He entered a bar jammed with sailors and their girls and waited for his tail. The skinny man arrived moments later, and Jencks dropped back in the shadows. The place was noisy, crowded, chaotic. The skinny man looked around, did not see Jencks, and went to the bar to speak to the bartender.
Jencks slipped out the door. He walked to the end of the street and entered another bar, where he waited ten minutes, drinking ginger ale. All around him, the sailors and pimps shoved and argued. He kept his eyes on the door. The skinny man did not show up. When Jencks was satisfied, he went outside and returned to the Ramblas, caught a taxi, and drove north to the Plaza de Cataluna, then west on Avenida Jose Antonio to the Plaza de España, and back toward the waterfront on the Calle Marques del Duero. At the intersection of Ronda de San Pablo, he stopped, changed taxis, and returned to the Ramblas.
He walked down another narrow street, brightly lighted by red and green neon signs advertising restaurants, snack bars, dingy nightclubs. There were several strip joints. The air smelled of sweat and fish; several furtive men approached him, an offer on their lips, but he pushed them aside and continued on, threading through a maze of streets which grew increasingly dark and deserted. Finally he stopped before a nightclub which had no name; the sign blinking on and off said simply “Nightclub.” He pushed open a battered wooden door and went inside.
It was very dark and smoky. A nonsmoker, Jencks noticed that first. His eyes stung, and he stood for a moment, trying to see around him. He made out the shape of a high bar to the left and little tables to the right. There was no music; the only sound was quiet talking among the dozen people in the club.
He stepped to the bar and ordered a glass of sherry. When he looked around, he saw an overweight blond woman in a tight skirt and sweater standing next to him, her breast against his arm. They didn’t waste any time in this place. He looked at her face, which was old and hard, rather masculine; she was caked with makeup, through which two mean eyes surveyed him. She noticed his interest and moved closer. He smelled cheap perfume.
“Where is Barry?” he asked in Spanish. He did not speak much Spanish, but he could get along.
The woman shrugged and split her face into a lascivious grin. Her teeth were stained from smoking; her breath stank. He turned away from her and grabbed the bartender’s sleeve.
“Barry?”
The bartender, a thin, dissipated-looking man, stared curiously at Jencks, then pointed to a dark corner of the room. Jencks saw a slim figure sitting alone at a table. He walked over.
“I am Barry,” the man said, waving Jencks to a seat. He seemed very tired. His motions were slow and weary. “We speak English, yes?”
Jencks nodded and sipped his sherry. Spain was the only place in the world where he could drink sherry.
“Let us get down to business,” Barry said, placing his palms carefully down on the table. His face was heavy, puffy, expressionless. “You have an important job, and you need a boat.”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Saturday night.”
“And what do you want done on Saturday night?” He spoke slowly, as if the wo
rds were heavy, and hard to lift up through his throat.
“I want you to carry a package a short distance down the coast.”
“A package.” Barry sighed. “So complicated. What is it, exactly?”
Jencks shook his head.
“My friend, each shake of your head costs you more money, because secrecy from you means risk for me. Understand?”
“Too bad,” Jencks said.
“Where, exactly, on the coast?”
“You will pick up the package at the Hotel Reina, and take it down to Palamos. You will deliver it to a man in the Pension Anna in Palamos. That is the extent of your job.”
“Expensive,” Barry said.
“Of course,” Jencks said. “How much?”
“It depends upon the details—”
“It does not. How much?”
Barry sighed, and ran his fingers pensively across the tabletop. “Three thousand dollars.”
“I’m looking for a dependable man, not a pirate.”
Barry shrugged.
“I’ll give you a thousand. Five hundred in cash now and five hundred in Palamos.”
“Twenty-seven hundred. No less.”
“The economy is booming,” Jencks smiled, “but this is absurd. Fifteen hundred.”
Barry said nothing. He snapped his fingers, and the bartender brought him another drink. “I like you,” he said, “and I am good to my friends. Twenty-three.”
Jencks leaned back in his chair. They both knew, now, that they would finally settle on two thousand dollars. It was a sum Jencks had come prepared to pay, and he was satisfied. Within fifteen minutes, the ritual was over, and the men shook hands perfunctorily. Jencks passed Barry an envelope containing eight hundred dollars in old bills, mostly twenties. Barry accepted it without counting the money, and they proceeded to discuss the details.
Barry would receive a signal from the hotel late Saturday night, and would draw close to the water-skiing pier. His boat would be muffled according to Jencks’ specifications—the alterations would be cheap and relatively simple. Shortly before 1 a.m., he would be given a package, a small suitcase, which he would ferry to Palamos and deliver to a man waiting in a particular hotel room. The man would pay twelve hundred dollars in bills of small denomination.
Barry said he understood it all, and Jencks got up to leave.
“Oh, one last thing,” he said, smiling disarmingly. “This package will be locked, and treated in certain special ways. The man in Palamos will not pay if there has been any tampering.”
Barry held up his hands, a pained look crossing his face. “Please, my friend—”
“We know, too, that you have a large family. A brother in Bilbao, a sister in Madrid, and a son at the University here. A nice boy, I understand.”
Barry’s face hardened, his eyes narrowed. “You have made your point.”
Jencks nodded, satisfied that this was so, and left the nightclub. Outside, the air was cool and fresh; he felt tired. He walked to the nearest cafe and used the telephone.
“Reese here.”
“Cafe Montaldo. Ten minutes.”
“Okay.”
He hung up and walked along the Ramblas, now at the peak of late evening activity. The pimps were out in full force; he felt as if he were swatting flies as he made his way to the Cafe Montaldo. It was a big place, open to the air and brightly lighted. The decor was nondescript modern, but the clientele were easily pegged—international, vaguely rich, noticeably bored. There were women in floor-length gowns and immaculate hairdos, men in dinner jackets. There was a sprinkling of dungarees and riding clothes. Jimmy Reese was already there.
He was a young man with a boyish face and an athletic body. Jencks had met him in Reno and had formed an immediate friendship based on mutual interest. Jimmy Reese was a con man, a jet-setter, a man with a passport which he never renewed. There was no sense to it, he had explained—whenever it came up for renewal, it was always so densely covered with entry stamps and visas that he felt it was wiser to start fresh. He was a man who was always on the move, and he was perfect for Jencks’ needs.
“You look tired,” Jimmy said. “Problems?”
“No. It all went smoothly.”
They ordered two coffees, and Reese had a glass of cognac.
“Tell me a story,” Jencks said. The cafe was crowded; there were a dozen pairs of ears nearby.
“George is working on a novel, and this is his idea. It’s about smuggling, and the hero receives the stuff—it’s LSD, or something like that—in Palamos, drives immediately to Barcelona, and catches the morning plane to Rome. He delivers it to a doctor there and makes a good deal of money. But he never opens the package and doesn’t know what’s inside it. That’s part of the twist.”
“But if the hero’s disreputable, he shouldn’t care.”
“I imagine he doesn’t.”
“Sounds interesting,” Jencks said, “though it needs development. What I wanted to see you about was this.” He reached into his pocket and withdrew another envelope, business-sized and bulging with twenty $50 bills. “It’s a short story that you might look over. I think it has possibilities, but you know how it is. I’m too close to it. Oh, and speaking of Rome, the next time you’re there I want you to look up a friend of mine. He’s very interesting. Here’s his card.”
Reese took it and looked at it thoughtfully. “It doesn’t list office hours.”
“He’s available almost any time. Even Sundays.”
“Sundays?”
“That’s right.”
“Must be a hard worker,” Reese said. “The opposite of me. I never work on weekends. In fact, I’ve been planning a special little trip this weekend to the Costa Brava. I’d like to stay three days, but I may have to come back here Sunday morning for a little party. Private reception.”
Jencks smiled. “Hard life. Tell me more about George’s novel.”
“You know how it is with George. Lots of talk so far, and not a word on the page. George is big on talk. This time, though, I think he may have something—he’d better, he needs the money—because he told me he has a firm offer from an uncle in Italy who’s in publishing. Lots of world-wide contacts. Anyhow, he’s going to get an advance of a thousand dollars.”
“Does that satisfy him?”
“It seems to.”
“I’m glad,” Jencks said, finishing his coffee. “I’ve got to be off,” he said. “Try and contact me soon, after you’ve read the short story. I’m very interested in hearing what you think of it.”
“You going to be staying in Barcelona?”
“Well, actually I have to go to Italy myself next week. A little business. I’ll be at the Hotel Florian in Milan.”
“The Hotel Florian? Isn’t there a Hotel Florian in Rome, too?”
“Yes,” Jencks said, “I think there is.”
“Well, I’m sure we’ll get together,” Reese said, “one way or another. Milan, Rome—what’s the difference?”
“None,” Jencks said, laughing. “None at all.”
He left the cafe, still chuckling to himself. Reese was a very bright boy.
TUESDAY, JUNE SEVENTEENTH
HOTEL REINA, SPAIN: ANNETTE Dumarche, assistant manager of the Hotel Reina, pushed the yellow card across the reception desk to the new guest. At the same time, she observed him carefully.
“Just sign here,” she said, “and if you’ll leave your passport, I’ll fill in the rest.”
“Of course.” The man signed smoothly: Steven F. Jencks. He pushed his American passport across the desk and looked up at her. “Is that all?”
“Yes,” she said. He was an unusual man, she thought, with a face that seemed both ugly and handsome at the same time. His features were coarse, thick; his nose was large and bulbous; his hair a nondescript curly brown. But his eyes indicated strength and great intelligence, and his stocky body was undoubtedly powerful. What was his occupation? The damned American passports never listed it, just the way they neve
r listed city of issue.
“Where was this passport issued?” she asked, thumbing quickly through it. Mr. Jencks was a well-traveled man, whatever job he held. Perhaps he was some sort of salesman.
“Los Angeles,” he said.
“Fine.” She wrote quickly on the form. “The boy will bring your bags. You have room 205.” She hesitated. “It doesn’t have a view of the ocean, I’m afraid. We’re practically filled at the moment, and—”
“That’s perfectly all right,” he said, smiling.
She thought that was odd. Most of the Americans were disappointed if they didn’t receive a room looking over the sea. They were a fussy bunch, almost as bad as the French, but this one seemed genuinely unconcerned. She looked at his well-cut clothes, trying once more to decide his occupation. He wore a tasteful, conservative suit of dark gray, obviously custom tailored to fit his broad-shouldered body.
The bellboy came up to the desk, and she handed him the key. “Mr. Jencks,” she said, “room 205.” The bellboy nodded and led Jencks to the elevator. She watched them go, noticing his easy, well-coordinated walk. He had every appearance of a professional athlete, and she smiled. Annette Dumarche liked her men that way.
She was Swiss, as was the manager, Mr. Bonnard. The syndicate which had built the Hotel Reina had been fussy about the staff, and had stipulated that both the manager and assistant manager be Swiss, the maître d’hôtel French, and the concierge Scandinavian.
Annette had been with the hotel since its opening a year ago, and, looking back, she had to admit it had been a pleasant year. Her only real complaint was the shortage of men; she found the staff repulsive and most of the guests the same. On the average, a suitable man arrived at the hotel once every six or seven weeks, and that was not really satisfactory. At thirty-one, she was at the peak of both her desirability and her desire, and these brief, infrequent affairs were insufficient for her. Sooner or later, she knew she would have to quit this job and return to Geneva to find a husband. She did not particularly wish to become an honest woman, but she earnestly desired to become a satisfied woman. Marriage seemed the only solution.
But for the time being, she thought, there should be no problem. First that handsome Englishman yesterday, and now Mr. Jencks with his broad shoulders and commanding eyes. Either of them would do. She was certainly ready for someone; it had been more than two months since the German had left—the one who made ball bearings. He had been excellent for her, though a trifle cold and conceited.
Odds On: A Novel Page 4