The Spanish Connection

by Nick Carter

  She lifted the heavy muzzle and aimed it at my neck.

  I backed off. "It's in — in my pocket."

  She watched me, her eyes pinched, her mind working swiftly.

  "Then take off your robe and hand it to me. Slowly."

  I untied the belt, thinking furiously. I did not have the film in the pocket, of course. Yet…

  "Off!" she snapped.

  She was too far away to catch with the robe as I had hoped to do at first. I shrugged it off my shoulder and removed it from my body. I was standing there naked and exposed. If only she were nearer, I could flick out the robe, snap the Webley out of her hand, and…

  "Throw it on the bed!"

  With a sigh, I did so.

  She moved toward it, keeping the gun centered on my chest and heart. With her left hand she fumbled inside one pocket. Empty. And then the other. Empty.

  "Liar!" she screamed. "Where is it? "Where is it?"

  I saw her eyes all blue fire as she stared at me, running her gaze up and down my body, and over my legs. I moved my foot slightly, flinching and trying to keep her from seeing the adhesive tape where it came around from the back of my ankle.

  Involuntarily, my eyes drifted down toward my right leg. She noticed the way my glance had gone, and her eyes narrowed in thought She looked more carefully at my foot, then my leg, and she saw a tiny piece of adhesive tape coming around from the back of my ankle.

  "There it is!" she snapped. "Taped to your ankle! Get it, Nick. Get it and…"

  "Tina, I swear to you!"

  "Do you want me to kill you and take that tape off myself?"

  I knew that she would do it.

  Feeling all naked and vulnerable, I bent over, reaching behind my right ankle. The tape was loose from the moisture of the shower when I had put it on, and I pulled the stiletto free instantly.

  "Quick!" she called to me, leaning down over me and reaching out her left hand to take it from me.

  I pulled the stiletto up and around and came toward her extending my left hand as if it held the microfilm. Her eyes flicked to my bunched-up fist and she reached out in a reflex action.

  I pushed my fist toward her. She let her fingers touch it. I grabbed her wrist. At the same moment I drove with my right hand toward her body and slammed the stiletto into her neck just under the ear.

  She fired the Webley with a gurgling scream.

  The slug blasted itself into the hotel wall, penetrating through to the other side.

  My chest burned from the fire of the exploding powder.

  I fell back.

  She went down and the arterial blood pumped out of her body onto her golden skin.

  What a waste.

  What a hell of a waste.

  Shuddering, I got up and lifted her body and carried her to the bed.

  She opened her eyes once.

  "Nick," she whispered, and smiled a funny smile. "I'll never make it to seventy-seven, will I?"

  "You picked the wrong profession," I said.

  She went limp.

  I attended to Juana, trying to comfort her as I untied her from the chair, then hustling her to the closet where she slipped into her clothes. Then I went to my room and got into mine.

  I strolled back. I was holding my Rolleiflex now, looking exactly the way my cover story said I should look. Dear old Hawk.

  Actually, I was happy to be dressed. It is always much easier to talk about mundane things when you have your clothes on.

  "Where is that microfilm?" Juana asked me.

  I lifted the Rolleiflex. "In here," I said. "A good cameraman always carries his film in a camera."

  She stuck her tongue out at me.

  I caught it on film. After all, I was one of the best photographers from the midwest, wasn't I? And Juana did not need to know that I had the microfilm in my pants pocket, like a pack of cigarettes or a key chain, did she?