The Spanish Connection

by Nick Carter

  I excused myself, went upstairs to my room and checked my Luger and stiletto. Then I got out the map of the area and checked off the route to the Veleta monument which I had seen that morning from the top of the ski run. As I said then, the government road from Granada to Motril on the Costa Del Sol ran right by the concrete structure.

  The road from the Prado Llano joined the regular highway about three miles from the Prado. I marked my route north to the fork, and then southeast toward the Veleta on the highway. I put the map in my pocket, got the keys to the rented Renault and went downstairs to the lobby.

  In the dining room I could see Juana still sitting there with Elena. I wondered where Parson had gone. As I stood there I looked out through the window toward the front of the hotel where the Renault was parked. Several figures were moving in from the Prado, probably from the Bar Esqui out there. One of them was Herr Hauptli.

  I stepped through the front doors of the hotel into the darkness outside and he saw me, waving:

  "Don't forget, we're taking that run sometime!

  "I'd prefer it in daylight," I said in German.

  He laughed big and pushed in through the doors into the lobby.

  I climbed in the Renault. There was a cold wind blowing down from the slopes. It was cold in the car, but snug. The heat of the engine would warm it up in no time flat.

  A light snow had begun falling. It was too early for it to stick, but it was falling on the icy snowy patches that were already there in the roadway. Alongside the edge of the pavement, drifts were beginning to pile up.

  The Renault hummed along like a contented bird. I drove slowly and watched the bright white line in the center of the road carefully. The double lane was a narrow squeeze for two cars passing. I had watched a bus and a car have some trouble jockeying past each other during the drive up from Granada, reminding me of an elephant mating with an uncooperative antelope.

  I met two cars coming toward the Prado Llano, and then came to the main road, where I turned up to follow it along the curves and switchback toward the Veleta. The snow was increasing in intensity now. It cut across the beams of light and formed a curtain in front of me. I could barely see the highway, and even though it was wider than the access road, it was not made for passing or trick driving of any land.

  The Renault took the curved road easily, but I could see that the snow was beginning to catch onto the pavement just a bit. Sometimes I could not make out the edge of the highway at all.

  The slope ascended steeply now, and I had to give the Renault all the gas I had. I downshifted to the lowest gear in the ratio and moved slowly and carefully through the increasing surface of snow.

  Finally I saw the sign: VELETA. And beyond the sign a dirt road curved off the main road up toward the familiar concrete monument at the top of the rock outcrop.

  I pushed the Renault up into the dirt road and slewed around over rocks and ice until I had come up to a level parking place apparently blasted out of solid rock. There was no car in sight.

  My watch said five past twelve. I wondered what had happened to Rico Corelli. Then another thought occurred to me: had Corelli decided not to keep the rendezvous when he learned that Arturo was dead? Was Corelli even now hiding somewhere behind a rock, waiting for me to step out into the open to gun me down?

  I switched off the ignition key and the Renault died. There were tire tracks all around in the refrozen slush, but they meant nothing. I shivered. It was lonely up here, the loneliest place in the mountains. It was just Corelli and I — and he had set it up that way. To kill me for Arturo's death? For Basillio di Vanessi's death?

  Cautiously, I switched off the headlights. For a moment I sat there, weighing the possibilities. Then I reached inside my windbreaker and got the Luger out. There was the pocket flashlight in the dashboard compartment that I usually have with me, and I took it out and switched it on.

  Then I opened the door of the Renault. The wind cut into me with chilling effect. I pulled the wind-breaker closer to me and stood by the Renault, closing the door with a solid thump. I pointed the beam of the flashlight into the night, and could see only the snow swirling toward me, lashing about in all directions at the top of the peak where the wind was hurtling in from all points of the compass.

  The monument hulked there dark and silent, and I walked all the way around it before I found the blue Simca, drawn up out of sight in the rear. I had no idea how its driver had coaxed it up through the ice and frozen slush, but there it stood. I touched the hood. It was still warm.

  There was a pile of building materials in the back of the monument, left by the original workmen who had completed the monument. I stood there a moment by the Simca, trying to get out of the wind, and it was there that I heard the sudden noise not far from me.

  I held the Luger steadily in my hand and turned to face the direction from which the sound had come. With the wind hurtling about, tearing sound and throwing it in every direction, I was not really sure if I was facing the movement or not.

  Then I heard a footstep.

  I held the Luger in my hand, aimed and ready to squeeze.

  "Ah, Peabody," a voice said, as if spoken through a scarf.

  I did not recognize it.

  But when he moved into the spot of light cast by the flashlight, I knew him instantly.

  It was Barry Parson.

  But now he did not have his British accent at all. He was speaking with an indeterminate kind of speech pattern that led me to believe he had after all only been acting the part of the British secret agent up to that moment.

  Now who was he?

  He stepped forward from behind the pile of building material and extended his hand to shake mine.

  I froze.

  "Relax," said Barry Parson. "It's all right. I'm Corelli. Rico Corelli."

  Ten

  The snow swirled about us for a long moment and neither of us moved a muscle. It was getting colder and colder.

  "Well?" he said, leaning closer, trying to see my face.

  I gripped the Luger under my windbreaker, just in case. "How can I be sure?" I asked him. "First you tell me you're Barry Parson, and now you say you're Rico Corelli."

  He laughed. "Come on. It must be obvious! I'm here, and who would be here but Rico Corelli?"

  "Anybody could be here, to answer your question. Anybody who knew about the meeting."

  "Who but Rico Corelli and the kid who was killed?" he asked.

  "The Mosquito. He might know."

  "You think I'm The Mosquito?" Parson asked with a laugh.

  "He'd be the only one who could know Corelli was meeting me here."

  "Be sensible! I'm not the Mosquito!"

  "You say so, but I don't know."

  "If I were The Mosquito, what would I be doing here?"

  "Trying to locate Corelli and kill him."

  "But I'm Corelli."

  It was getting to be a comedy routine. I shook my head resignedly. "Let's assume you are Corelli. I'm cold as hell. Let's get in my car and talk."

  He smiled. "Okay." I led him around the front to the Renault.

  "Nice little job," he said.

  "Runs good," I said. "When you rent you can get the very best."

  I opened the door with my key and got in, then reached over and opened the passenger door for him. He climbed in and slammed the door shut. The car rocked. It was still warm inside.

  "Let me tell you about Basillio di Vanessi," he said after a moment of silence. "The substitution. They've been trying to get me for months."

  "They?"

  "Someone in the top rank of the Mafiosi," Parson said. I could not help it; I still thought of him as Barry Parson, and not as Rico Corelli.

  "But how do you know that for sure?"

  "I have friends there, too. In the top. The Capo of Capos wanted me out of the chain. He wanted me totaled."

  "What's his name?"

  He smiled. "Forget it. Just believe me."

  "All right. So the Capo of Ca
pos wanted you out."

  "Wanted me dead. Tried to tell me twice already. Once in Corsica. Once in Naples. I was down there on a delivery."

  "Naples? That's where The Mosquito comes from."

  He looked at me sharply. "You get around."

  "I was told."

  "By whom?"

  "Never mind."

  "When the second hit failed…"

  "The one at your villa in Corsica?"

  He frowned at me. "Yes." He waited. Then: "When that one failed, I decided to get out of the business. That's when I came to you people."

  I nodded. "I know all about that." I did not. But there was no use listening to his story. I would have no way of knowing whether it was true or false.

  "Good. When we started from Corsica on the yacht, I brought along Vanessi."

  "To take your place?"

  "Yes. When we got to Valencia, we stayed in port for a day, and I stayed ashore when they left."

  "The Lysistrata sailed on without you?"

  "Exactly. Vanessi played Rico Corelli."

  "And when they landed at Malaga, Vanessi was still playing Corelli?"

  "Yes." He paused. "With the help of Tina Bergson."

  "Did Vanessi go into Malaga?"

  "No. He stayed on the yacht. We thought it would be better that way. Then there would be no slip-up. I mean, in case someone recognized him."

  "Could anyone in Malaga identify you?"

  "Not a chance," laughed Parson.

  "Then?"

  "Then you got in touch with Tina and she came in to meet you."

  "Right."

  "I figure somebody picked up your trail, followed you out to the yacht, got into the scuba gear, and made the hit."

  "Who?"

  "Moscato, of course. Who else? He knows all about me. And he must have had his eye on the yacht when it came in. He merely timed it while you were near the craft, to implicate you."

  "Why didn't Moscato recognize you?"

  "He knows about the yacht, about Tina, about the meeting with you people…"

  "I see. But he didn't really recognize you."

  "Right."

  "And he made the hit and injured Tina."

  "Thank God she wasn't killed!"

  I watched him. He reached into his pocket and brought out a pack of American cigarettes. He lit one and waved out the match. Last time he had brought out a Spanish cigarette. But then, of course, he was playing the British secret agent, Barry Parson. He was a consummate actor, and knew how effective the right props were.

  "How is she now?" I asked.

  "You mean, what is the word from the clinic?"

  "Yes." He knew.

  "She's coming along."

  "When will she be able to join you?"

  He hesitated. "Soon."

  "After we've had the meeting with my partner?"

  "Right." He smiled. "Listen, Tina is part of the deal. You know that, don't you?"

  "I do," I said. "But first, we want to meet and then we can discuss details."

  He nodded. "That's all that matters now."

  "One thing puzzles me."

  "What?" The smoke drifted up in front of his face. In the windshield of the Renault I could see the reflection of his features as he puffed on the cigarette.

  "How did you ever get on The Mosquito's trail in Torremolinos?"

  He laughed. "Neat, huh?"

  "Very neat." I paused. "Too neat."

  His eyes slid to mine. "What're you saying?"

  "I'm saying I can't buy your story all the way, Corelli. You break into a deal when I have The Mosquito cold, and then you play Barry Parson, secret agent. What gives?"

  "Let's back up," Parson said seriously. "Look. I knew you were after The Mosquito. Granted?"

  I nodded. "You could guess that, certainly. But why were you in Malaga in the first place? I mean, you, Rico Corelli. You were hiding out in Valencia. Why come down to Malaga to expose yourself unnecessarily?"

  "Insurance," he said slowly.

  "Insurance?"

  "I was safe from the time I left the yacht in Valencia. You understand?"

  I nodded.

  "Okay. The heat was on the yacht till the minute the hit was made by The Mosquito. Right again?"

  I considered. "All right. Let's assume that. You were supposed to be at Sol y Nieve at that point."

  "That's what I told Tina."

  "I guessed as much. I mean, why did it help to come to Malaga? That was my question."

  "I wanted to find out more about you." He shrugged. "I mean, my life is wrapped up in a pretty little package. I'm going to the States. And you and that girl you've got there are my keepers. Right?"

  "Right."

  "So I wanted to see how you shape up.

  There was a long silence. I stared at him coldly. He was watching me just as coldly.

  "Where did you pick me up?" I asked.

  He sighed. "All right. Look. You were on the prowl. I knew you were going to try to locate Moscato. Right?"

  "I suppose so."

  "I just waited around until I found you."

  "Had you identified me before?"

  "Oh, sure. I watched where Tina went."

  "And then you followed Juana and me that night?"

  "Sure, sure."

  "To the villa."

  "Right. By the time you hit that prostitute — the one that did the threesome with Moscato and the other broad — I knew we were in business. I just followed you."

  "But why did you break in through that back way when I had Moscato dead to rights?"

  His eyes held mine. "We all make mistakes, don't we?"

  I shrugged. "Okay. But why the cover story, then?"

  "The Barry Parson jazz? I just dusted that one off the shelf," he said, lapsing into Barry Parson's British accent. "And it seemed the thing to do at the moment. What am I going to do, come on strong and say, 'Well here I am, good old Rico Corelli! Now that doesn't make much sense, does it?"

  I laughed. "I still don't like all this doubling up and tripling up. You could have made the contact right then and there with Juana. You slept with her there, and once again here. Why didn't you just give her the information, and have her check it out?"

  He nipped the cigarette a moment and looked out through the windshield. The snow was falling, but more lightly now. I looked up and saw the reflection of our two faces peering out at the gloomy night.

  His eyes were watching me.

  "I never trust a bedroom," he said with a frown. "I mean, not even my own. That place I rented in Torremolinos. How do I know Moscato hadn't taped me even before I followed you to his place? After all, he thought he had killed me on the yacht. But maybe that was a trick. Right? Maybe it wasn't Moscato there, maybe Moscato had me figured all the time and was waiting for me. How could I know?"

  I sat there.

  "And this hotel. I don't trust anything. Not a thing. I think there are bugs in every room. I had to go through with the future meeting, because it was part of the initial plan. I do not like to deviate from initial plans, because it leaves too much to chance. Because we already knew each other, I simply played it cool and went right on from there. I'm sorry if it offended your sense of order."

  It made sense.

  "Now what?" I asked.

  "We set up the meeting between the girl and me," said Parson, all business-like again. "To deliver the microfilm."

  "Where?"

  "Well, you know what I think about the hotel. That lets out any room there. And I don't like to mingle with the people at the Prado Llano. Look, what about the ski run?"

  I considered. "It's plenty deserted there, all right — at times. No bugs in the snow, either." I laughed, wondering how true that was.

  "The hell with the snow. You can shoot a person a mile away with a telescopic lens." He shivered. "I don't like that at all."

  "But if no one knows you're Corelli…"

  "Who says? Also, there's another bad point. If Moscato is still around —
and I'm sure he is after Arturo bought it — he's going to be keeping his eyes on you and on your broad, right?"

  "On Juana?"

  "Of course! So, I've got to see her somewhere that's conspicuous, and protected at the same time."

  I shrugged. "That's not an easy bill to fill."

  "No? What about one of those cable cars? When you're in one of them you're isolated, alone, and safe!"

  I thought about it. "A gondola? I see what you mean. Get on it with her and travel up together. While you're there, locked in the cable car, you can make the delivery in a controlled environment, and nobody will be the wiser. Is everything on film?"

  "Right."

  I sat there thinking. "But someone could still take a pot shot at you from the slope."

  "That's where you come in, old man," Parson said, lapsing back into British U. "You get on your skis and stand at the Borreguilas station and cover us as we come up."

  I thought about it. I liked it. The more I thought about it, the better I liked it.

  "I'll buy it," I said.

  "What time?"

  I said, "Ten a.m. tomorrow?"

  "Right," said Parson. "I'll stay away from Juana. I don't want any complications when we're so near to closing the deal."

  "Good luck," I said.

  He stood in the snow, tightening up his wind-breaker. I could feel the cold whipping in through the open door, even though the snow had let up almost completely.

  "You start," Parson said. "I'll follow you down."

  I nodded.

  He slammed the door on me and hurried around the monument where he vanished from sight.

  * * *

  The Renault started up without any trouble. I let ft warm up for a few moments, then waited until I saw the Simca appear around the corner of the monument, its headlights slanting down toward the makeshift roadway. Then I drove off, crawling along the short access road to the highway. I waved to Parson in the rearview mirror.

  I saw the Simca following me, its headlights shimmering in the falling snow.

  The twists and turns were quite sharp, requiring constant braking and downshifting. I was beginning to enjoy the challenge of the roadway when I felt the first sogginess in the brake system.