“All right. When?”
“Immediately,” she said. “I have just come from the library, and I am beginning to understand.”
“Understand what?”
“Come,” she said. “We will talk.”
He hung up and took a cab to her apartment. It turned out to be a huge, modern high-rise in the northern suburbs. Her apartment was on the tenth floor. He took the elevator up and knocked on the door.
No answer.
He knocked again and waited.
No answer.
“Karin? Are you there?”
He tried the knob. The door was unlocked. He went in. The living room was empty, but very tidy and neat, with unmistakable feminine touches. There were bright pillows on the couch, a rack of fashion magazines, mostly French.
“Karin?”
He went into the next room, a small bedroom with barely room for a single bed. The bed was unmade and empty, the rumpled sheets contrasting oddly with the neatness of the living room.
Behind him, the door slammed. He felt a cold, sharp point against the base of his neck.
“Don’t move.”
He did not. A moment later, the point was removed. He heard sobbing and turned around. It was Karin. She was leaning against the door, crying. The knife had dropped to the floor.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “So sorry. But I was afraid …”
“It’s all right now,” he said, comforting her. He took her back to the living room, made her sit on the couch, and poured her a brandy. Then he locked the front door. When she had sipped the brandy and wiped her eyes, she seemed better.
“You all right?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Can I get you something else? Coffee?”
She nodded. He went into the kitchen to make it. In the kitchen, he found a half-finished cup of coffee next to the stove. Nearby was an ashtray with several stubbed-out cigarettes. And five books in a careful stack.
They were old books, dusty. He looked at them: they were library books, from the University of Barcelona. The titles stopped him.
Prescott: The Conquest of Mexico. He opened the book; a marker had been placed in the section concerning “The Marriage of Cortez.”
He looked at the others.
Henriques: Aztec Civilization.
Marston-Thomas: The Life of Cortes.
Quirnal: Artifacts des Aztecs.
And finally, a thick book in Spanish of genealogies. There were two markers here: one for a page describing the House of Arellano, the noble family of Navarre; the other, the House of Bejar. Neither name meant anything to Ross.
He looked at the library cards.
The books had all been checked out the day before.
Odd.
He put the water on to boil and returned to the living room. She was smoking a cigarette tensely.
“Now then,” he said. “What’s this all about?”
“I am afraid,” she said softly. “Because I know.”
“Know what?”
“Know everything,” she said. “I overheard the men talking. Do you know a man they call the professor?”
“The professor? What’s his real name?”
She shrugged. “They just called him the professor.”
“No,” Ross said, thinking. “Never heard of him.”
“And the count?”
He shook his head again.
“They talked about these two men,” Karin said. “The professor and the count. They made jokes about the shipment. They said the shipment would go to Portugal. And they laughed: The shipment would go to Portugal. And then something about America. Do you understand this?”
“No,” Ross admitted. “It doesn’t make any sense at all. What else did they say?”
“The object,” she said. “They talked about it. The object you put in the body. Can you describe it for me?”
“Not really. It was about the size of your hand, and very heavy, and square—”
“Square? Are you sure?”
“Well, at least it was in a square box of some kind.”
“You are certain of this?”
“Yes. But why? What was it? And what are all those books in the kitchen about Mexico?”
“They are about Cortez,” she corrected.
“Cortez?”
“Yes. Cortez is the key to everything.”
“Cortez?”
She nodded.
At that moment, the doorbell rang, with a low, musical chime. They both froze. Karin looked at Ross questioningly; he shook his head. The doorbell rang again, and then a heavy hand knocked on the door.
A muffled voice said, “Karin? You there?”
Neither of them moved. They heard a hand twist the doorknob, but the door was locked.
At that moment, the boiling water began a shrill whistle. Ross looked up in horror; Karin leaped up and knocked over an ashtray, which fell to the floor with a thump.
The knocking at the door began again.
“I must answer it,” Karin whispered. “Go to the kitchen.”
Aloud, she called, “Just a minute, please.”
She waited until Ross had gone to the kitchen and turned off the water; then she answered the door. Ross listened, ears straining, but he could hear only low voices. There seemed to be a whispered argument of some kind. Then there was a rustling, or a scuffling.
And then the door slammed shut.
He hesitated in the kitchen, waiting for Karin to come back to him. When she did not, he looked cautiously out into the living room.
Karin lay on the floor, not moving. Her face was blue-black, and there was an angry red ring around her neck. He bent over her quickly, feeling for a pulse. The pulse was there, but very slow. He saw that she was breathing. He shook her gently.
“Karin. Karin.”
She did not respond. He shook her harder, but there was still no response.
Then he heard sirens, at first in the distance, but coming closer. Somehow he knew the sirens were coming to Karin’s apartment. He got up and opened the door, peering out into the hallway. No one there. He made a dash for the elevators, punched the down button, and waited; the lights overhead showed the elevators were both on the ground floor. As he watched, he saw that they both began to ascend.
He ran to the service stairs. As he opened the door leading down, he heard the tramp of boots coming up.
Trapped.
Someone had set it up, set it up very neatly and carefully. And he had fallen into it.
He returned to the hallway and looked up and down desperately. All the doors were shut, except for one, which was slightly ajar. From the inside, he heard Latin music.
He glanced at the elevator lights. The elevators were already to the eighth floor. The police were closing in.
He had no choice. He knocked on the door that was ajar and pushed it open.
“Excuse me,” he said as he entered the room and closed the door behind him, “But I am afraid I—”
He stopped.
And stared, as anyone might, when faced with a beautiful girl, standing in the middle of her apartment at midday, wearing a very sheer nightgown, and beneath that, nothing at all.
“Lover!” she cried, and flung her arms around him.
6. Services Rendered
HE HAD NO OBJECTION, REALLY. She was very warm and soft and blonde and cuddly, and the warmth was catching. She had nice soft lips, and she held him tightly, dragging him back to the couch. They fell, and the springs creaked loudly.
He finally managed to pull back. “But we hardly know each other,” he said.
“Kiss me, kiss me,” she sighed.
She pulled him down on her, and they kissed again.
“Allow me to introduce—”
“Later, baby, later,” she said.
They kissed more, and while they were kissing, she wriggled against him and messed his hair and did various other little things which, in the back of his mind, he appreciated.
It
was then that the police knocked on the door and entered immediately afterward. They looked up from the couch at the man in the uniform, who blushed deeply and excused himself in quick Spanish. The door slammed shut again.
The girl sat up and pushed Ross away. She put on a quilted housejacket, lit a cigarette, and said, “That will be fifty dollars, please.”
“What?”
“Fifty dollars, lover.”
“What for?”
“Services rendered,” she said.
“I don’t under—”
“If it seems excessive,” she said, “I can always scream. The police will be back in seconds. And I will explain how you burst into my apartment, running from them, and—”
“Fifty dollars,” he said, reaching for his wallet. He counted out ten five-dollar bills and set them on the coffee table.
As the girl scooped them up, she said, “Isn’t money wonderful?”
“Nice if you can get it.”
“That’s what I always say. Do you want it?”
“Want what?”
“Cost you another fifty, you know.” She smiled slightly. “Inflation. The rising spiral of wages and prices. Supply and demand. You know?”
“Not really,” he said. He was puzzled by her. She had a blonde, American wholesomeness and an American accent. “What’s your name?”
“Suzy,” she said. “Gordon. I am employed by the American consul in Barcelona.”
“Oh?”
“In a private capacity.”
“Oh?”
“In a very private capacity. You must know about the public sector and the private sector. All that stuff. Well, there’s the public parts and the private parts, too.”
“Oh?”
“And besides, he is a very dear man.”
“Oh?”
“He is a perfect example of what I call the gross national product.”
“Oh.”
“But he’s rich, you see. That helps.”
“Oh?”
“However, I also do other kinds of work. Listen, the economics of this business are fascinating. I pay income tax, you know. Damn right I do. I’m a law-abiding public servant.”
“I see.”
“Now then,” she said, “you’re the doctor, right?”
“Right.”
“Okay.” She went to a corner of the room and came back with a paper bag. “I’m authorized to negotiate with you.”
“You are?”
“Sure. There’s no point in acting surprised, lover. I know you’re smarter than you act. At least, I hope you are. Now then: what are you asking?”
“For what?”
“For everything you know. I’m authorized to negotiate.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Information, baby,” she said, stubbing out her cigarette. “That’s what we want.”
“We?”
“Of course. Now what are you asking?”
“I’m not asking anything.”
“Play it as cagey as you want. I’ll give you five thousand dollars.”
He watched as she reached into the paper bag and brought out five stacks of bills. Each was bound with a paper strip on which was marked “$1000.”
She stepped back from the table. “Well?”
“What can I say?”
“Say where the shipment is.”
“The shipment?”
She winced, reached into the bag, and brought out five more bundles of bills.
“The body, baby,” she said. “Say where it is.”
“What body?”
“Listen, sweetmeat, this is serious business. You’re dealing with an obsession, you know? The guy really cares. You want more? Fifteen thousand?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I can’t be bought,” Ross said.
“Bullshit,” she said.
“Because I don’t know anything,” Ross said.
“Bullshit,” she said.
Ross stood. “I’m sorry we have to part this way.”
She scooped up the money and dropped it into the paper bag. “You’re making a mistake.”
“But I’ll always remember you fondly.”
“You could get killed.”
“Even on my deathbed, I will remember little Suzy—”
“I’m not so little.”
“—and her stacks of money.”
She smiled. She came up and patted his cheek. “You’re a love,” she said. “Just be careful, huh? I’d hate to see you get killed.”
“So would I.”
“And the chances are you will get killed.”
“I’m beginning to suspect you’re right.”
“I usually am,” Suzy said. “It’s because you won’t play the game.”
“I’d play,” Ross said, “if I only knew the rules.”
“But you see,” Suzy said, “that’s the way the game is. Nobody knows the rules.”
“Not much of a game.”
“Well, it depends.”
As he was leaving, she said. “By the way, better wipe that lipstick off your face before you go. You look like you’ve been through a pretty wild time.”
“I have,” Ross said, and closed the door behind him.
7. The Marriage of Cortez
ANGELA WAS IN THE HOTEL room, her shoes kicked off, lying on the bed and drinking a Scotch.
“You’re late,” she said.
“I know,” he said. “I got held up.”
“Oh?”
“Yes,” he said. He took her drink and swallowed it in a long gulp.
“Hey!”
“Sorry. I was thirsty.”
She went to the phone. “I’ll call for more. Maybe they’ll send up a better-looking bellboy. The last one was ugly. Lucky for you.”
“No,” Ross said, putting the phone down. “We’re going out now.”
“Lunch?”
“No. Bookstore.”
“Bookstore? What for?”
“I have to do a little research.”
The concierge directed them to a large, cosmopolitan shop in the center of town.
“What kind of book do you want?” Angela said.
“A book about Mexico.”
“Why Mexico?”
“Curiosity.”
He asked a salesman for a copy in English of Prescott’s The Conquest of Mexico. The salesman was a flirty Spaniard in very tight pants.
“We have only the abridged version,” he said.
“I’ll take it.”
It turned out to be a cheap, dusty copy with small print, yellowing pages, and a ten-dollar price tag. Ross paid it, and they went out and caught a taxi.
“You seem awfully curious,” Angela said. “Ten dollars.”
“I am.”
“Is this a sudden urge? Or do you often get these fits of academic interest?”
“Sudden,” Ross said. “Very sudden.”
He directed the cab driver to a restaurant, then sat back. He thumbed through the index.
“Cortez, Cortez … here we are. Marriage of Cortez.”
Angela frowned. “Marriage of Cortez?”
“That’s right”
He turned to the correct page, and squinted to read the small print. It was a very short section, no more than three paragraphs.
“I don’t get it,” he said when he finished. He closed the book.
Angela waited.
“All it says is that when Cortez returned from Mexico, he wanted to be governor of the new country, but that Charles V denied it. Charles wanted him to win more battles for him. Cortez stayed in Spain for a while and courted Dona Juana de Zuniga, who was very beautiful”
“Naturally.”
“Naturally. He married her.”
“Naturally.”
“Yes. And it says here—” he opened the book again, “that she was daughter of the second count of Aguilar, and niece of the duke of Bejar, and was of the House of Arellano, of the royal lineage of Nava
rre.”
He stopped. Those were the names Karin had been looking up in the genealogy books. Those same names.
Angela said, “Something wrong?”
“No, no. Just thinking.”
“Relatives of yours?”
Ross laughed. “Hardly,” he said.
Angela sighed. “Well, that’s all fine for Cortez, but why did you want to know so badly?”
“Damned if I know,” Ross said. He scratched his head. “Wait a minute. This book is abridged. Maybe there’s something else, in the full-length version.”
“Something else?”
“Yes.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know,” Ross admitted.
The taxi pulled up at the restaurant.
“So much for research,” Ross said.
“I’m starved,” Angela said.
Over lunch, Angela said, “What will we do tomorrow?”
“Well, there’s something I haven’t told you.”
She frowned. “Yes?”
“I have a meeting.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“More about this autopsy business?”
He shook his head. “This is respectable. The American Society of Radiologists.”
“You’re kidding,” she said.
“I’m registering,” he said.
“I’m stuck with an establishment creep,” she said.
“That’s right,” he said.
“Zero cool,” she said, “and no points for me.”
“Well, perhaps one or two,” he said.
“Yes,” she said. “Come to think of it.”
Part II
“The diagnostic thrills of the radiologist are significant, but limited.”
—Harold Ellison, M.D.
Prologue
THE HEARSE DROVE THROUGH the moonless night, churning a plume of dark dust behind it. It passed through desolate, barren country, a land of sand and naked rock, now shielded in darkness.
In the driver’s seat, the Arab said, “Where is it?”
The man next to him squinted, peering forward in the light of the headlamps. “Soon. Just ahead.”
The Arab glanced at the rearview mirror. No one was following them. It was midnight and everyone, even the trucks, were off the road.
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