The Death’s Head Conspiracy

by Nick Carter

  Fifteen

  I took my second shower of the day and drew the blinds against the late-afternoon sun. I stripped off my new clothes and laid them over a chair. Then I stretched out naked on the bed, pulled a sheet over me, and stared at the ceiling.

  To simply will yourself to sleep is usually impossible. Every nerve in my body cried out for rest, and my eyes were gritty pouches, but I couldn’t sleep.

  Somewhere a former U.S. scientist and a former Russian general were preparing to erase my country, city by city. New York would go first, day after tomorrow. I should be racing somewhere to stop them, not flaking out on a hotel bed in Veracruz.

  But rushing into action without preparation would be foolish and dangerous. And if Pilar could locate the smuggler, Torio, there might still be time enough to carry out the mission. I closed my eyes. The vision of Rona swam before me, faded, then returned.

  The sunlight filtering through the orange blinds dimmed gradually through all the shades of gray, and finally it was dark. Still my mind wouldn’t rest.

  Every sound from the street below seemed to be piped directly into my ears. A toilet flushed in the next room, a gushing Niagara Falls.

  Then someone knocked lightly on my door.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Pilar,” came the soft answer.

  I swung out of bed, grabbed a towel and opened the door. Pilar wore a black dress with tiny flowers that seemed to grow happily in the mounds and valleys of her rich terrain.

  “Come in,” I said.

  “I didn’t really believe that you would be able to sleep,” she said, and stepped inside.

  “Your beauty is only surpassed by your wisdom,” I answered.

  “I brought you something to help.” She settled lightly upon the edge of the bed.

  “Pills?” I asked. “I never take them.”

  She offered me a lazy smile. “No, not pills. Me.”

  “Well,” I answered, recovering from my amazement, “you certainly are a delightful tablet, and you wouldn’t be at all hard to swallow.”

  Her pretty face sobered, became almost stern. “Don’t make Jokes,” she said. “Both of our lives may depend on your physical condition tomorrow, and . . .” Here she hesitated, her eyes walked over my towel-clad frame. “And perhaps I, too, would rest uneasily alone tonight.”

  “Perhaps,” I said.

  “You will leave everything to me?”

  “Pilar, I am in your hands.”

  “Bien. First I want you to lie here on the bed.”

  I moved obediently to the bed and was about to sink down when her strong brown fingers slipped inside the towel I was wearing and whisked it away.

  “For this, we will not need the towel,” she said crisply. “Lie down on your stomach, please.”

  I spread myself prone across the bed, made a pillow of my folded arms. Something cool touched my neck at the base of the skull and trailed slowly down my back. I caught the light scent of cinnamon. Over my shoulder, I saw that Pilar had taken a tiny vial from the bag she carried, and had spilled the contents down the length of my spine.

  “Oil of cinnamon,” she explained. “Now I want you to put your head back down and let me help you to relax.”

  “Yes ma’am,” I grinned. There was a whispering silky sound. From the corner of my eye, I caught the flash of a tawny hip and knew that Pilar had taken off all her clothes.

  As if sensing my thoughts, she closed my eyes with a butterfly touch of her cool, soft fingers. “Relax,” she murmured. “Now you must only relax.”

  Her hands played over my back then in smooth little circles, the pressure of her fingers both firm and gentle. She spread the oil across my shoulders and down over my rib cage, making little humming sounds of approval to herself. She found the crease in my side where the Mayan spear had grazed me, and her fingers caressed the pain away.

  She smoothed the oil down over my waist, her hands sliding deliciously over my skin with the scented lubricant. Down and down, across my buttocks and the back of my thighs. A little extra touch at the hollows of my knees, then over my calf muscles, along the Achilles tendon to cup my heels on her palms.

  Gently Pilar brushed the oil over the soles of my feet, sliding a slippery finger between each of my toes.

  My skin was alive and supersensitive to her touch. It seemed I could sense through my pores the nearness of her naked body.

  I said, “Pilar, I don’t know if I’m excited or sleepy. Please make up my mind!”

  “Be still,” she softly scolded. “We have just begun.”

  She took my toes then, one at a time, caressing them, rolling them between her fingers. With her thumb and forefingers she made an oiled sheath, sliding up and down each toe.

  Next, Pilar took each foot between her hands and kneaded it till I could feel the bones crack. Then she moved her hands up my legs again, her expert fingers digging into the tensed muscles, squeezing, manipulating, drawing out the aching soreness.

  My rump received special attention. With one hand on each buttock, she leaned and squeezed with surprising strength for a woman, her hands rolling rhythmically from the heels to the fingertips.

  The bed sagged slightly as Pilar kneeled astride my legs. From this position she leaned forward and worked her supple fingers over my back, magically loosening the tight muscles.

  As she reached far forward to massage my shoulders and the base of my neck, I felt the nipples of her swaying breasts brush against me. Now her hands slid all the way down my naked back from shoulders to feet.

  “Roll over now,” she said, “and I’ll do the other side.”

  “I don’t know if I can stand it.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m sure you will bear up bravely.”

  I turned over onto my back.

  Pilar gave a little gasp. “Why, Nick, I thought you were relaxed!”

  “The devil you did!” I grinned, taking the opportunity to peek at my nude masseuse. Her skin was like burnished copper—smooth and flawless. Her breasts were full and ripe. They dipped, then rose sharply. Her narrow waist and her round, firm hips glistened with a faint sheen of perspiration.

  She bent gracefully to pick up the vial of oil from the bedside table and drizzled it down the front of me, spreading it with her hands.

  “Don’t worry,” she said, as if reading my mind again, “nothing will be left undone!”

  So now I surrendered myself to her hands. My eyes closed—no troubling pictures swam in my mind. I had a sense of weightlessness, as if my body, directed by those knowing fingers, were drifting in space. I seemed to be made of taffy . . . pulled, stretched, deliciously strung out to within a fraction of the breaking point.

  I opened my eyes abruptly and reached down to seize Pilars hand. “That’s enough,” I said. “We have just reached the limits of massage. Do you have other talents?”

  Pilar gave me a lazy, teasing smile. A shock of exquisite pleasure engulfed me as her mouth closed over me.

  And for a time I felt as if I were being pulled through a small, velvety hole into a world of unimaginable delights. Then a shudder of release overcame me. And for the first time in many hours I was empty of thought or feeling, adrift in a void, floating toward the deep well of oblivion.

  I drew the warm, glowing body down beside me and covered us both with the sheet.

  In less than a minute the sleep that I’d sought for so long enclosed me in a warm, cinnamon-scented embrace.

  Sixteen

  I woke up at dawn feeling as if all the old parts had been replaced with brand-new, teflon-coated permanent-press components. The sound of splashing water and a woman’s voice singing in Spanish came from the bathroom. I swung out of bed, padded over to the door, and pushed it open.

  Billows of steam rolled out into the room. Behind the transluscent shower curtain, I could see the silhouette of Pilar’s beautiful body as she soaped herself and sang something from the days of Pancho Villa. Now and then the curtain would cling to her skin, displa
ying the glistening surface like the cellophane window in a box of candy.

  I stood there for a minute, enjoying the sight, then grabbed the curtain and pulled it aside.

  Pilar gasped with surprise, and moved to cover herself with her hands in the instinctive female gesture. Then she dropped her arms and stood smiling under the shower jets while the water sluicing down over the mounds and dips of her body made her glisten like a seal.

  “Good morning, querido,” she said. “I hope I didn’t wake you.” Her eyes moved down my body. “Do you always wake up in this condition?”

  “It all depends on who’s taking a shower in the next room.”

  “I trust you slept well.”

  “Like a log. If the world ever learns about that in-somnia cure of yours, we’ll see the last of barbitur-ates.”

  “Flatterer. Get in and I’ll soap your back.”

  I stepped into the shower and Pilar turned me around. She lathered up her hands, but the area of my anatomy she soaped was definitely not my back. I turned and stood facing her, water splashing off both of us. For the first time I realized what a tall girl she was.

  “It occurs to me,” I said, “that I’ve been taking an awful lot of orders from you. It’s about time I took over.”

  “What did you have in mind, querido?” she breathed, leaning forward, those magnificent breasts swinging toward me.

  Placing my hands under her arms, I lifted Pilar and brought her toward me. Then I lowered her, a fraction of an inch at a time.

  She made a little sound of delight as her arms encircled my chest and she pulled us together, squashing her breasts against me. We began a slow, undulating, stationary dance there in the shower, gradually stepping up the rhythm until Pilar twisted and flailed like a woman possessed. Suddenly, she cried out, her voice piercing the monotonous drone of the water.

  Afterward, we stood together, letting the water wash over our bodies.

  We dressed quickly, then went to the caf£ next door for a delicious breakfast of huevos rancheros. We washed it down with Mexican beer, which even at breakfast time is better than the bitter Mexican cof-fee.

  A taxi took us to the Aeropuerto Nacional, where we boarded a small jet. We took off at six-thirty. With the two-hour time differential, we would land in Curasao at about noon.

  As we flew over the peaceful green of Yucatan and the deep blue of the Caribbean, I couldn’t help remembering that not many hours before, I’d been fighting for my life down there.

  As if by mutual consent, Pilar and I didn’t speak during the trip. Earlier that morning we’d been just a man and a woman enjoying life and each other as if our biggest problem was deciding what to have for breakfast. But now we were two professionals, heading into unknown dangers, knowing that we might never return. It wasn’t the time for small talk. We sat quietly, lost in our private thoughts.

  The voice of the pilot broke the silence. “Those of you on the starboard side can now see the island of Aruba up ahead. Aruba is the smallest of the three islands that make up the Netherlands Antilles. Curasao another fifty miles to the east. We are beginning our descent and will be landing in approximately fifteen minutes.”

  As the pilot went on to tell us about the weather conditions in Curasao (ideal, as always), I watched Aruba slide past below us. The straits between Aruba and Curasao were speckled with white sailboats and a number of tiny brown islets with no permanent population, though they were used occasionally by fishermen.

  Our plane put down at Plesman Airport, and we found a taxi for the five-mile ride into the capital city of Willemstad. The cab was an old Hudson, with the top removed to make it an open-air vehicle.

  The driver was a talkative little man who seemed determined to fill us in on all the local gossip during our short ride. I didn’t pay much attention to what the man was saying till one phrase stabbed my consciousness like an icepick.

  “Wait a minute,” I barked at the driver. “What was that you said about a blonde woman pulled from the sea?”

  He turned in his seat with a wide grin, pleased at having aroused my interest. “Oh, yes, senor. Much excitement at the fishing docks two days ago. One of the boats returned with the yellow-haired lady. She wore a life jacket that kept her afloat, though she was not conscious when they brought her in. Very strange, as no boat has been reported in trouble.”

  “Where is she now?” I cut in,

  “When word went out from the fishing docks, the lady’s husband soon arrived and took her away with him.”

  “Her husband?” I repeated.

  “Oh, yes. He is the big man, like a bear, who sails sometimes with the Goviota.”

  Gorodin! He must have returned to Curasao when he was unable to find me or Rona in the water. No doubt he’d been there waiting when word came from the docks that she had been brought in by fishermen. That was two days ago. I calculated the odds that Rona was still alive. It was a long shot “Do you know where the man . . . her husband . . . took the woman?” I asked.

  “No, senor, but maybe my friend Saba the fisherman can tell you. He is the one who pulled the lady from the sea.”

  “Can you take me to Saba?”

  “Now, senor?”

  “Now.” I slipped a ten-guilder note out of my bulging wallet and handed it to the driver. “And make it fast.”

  “Five minutes,” he said, pocketing the money.

  In five minutes, almost to the second, we had twisted our way through a maze of narrow streets to the fishing docks outside Willemstad, clearing the way with a horn that the driver leaned on constantly. We jerked to a stop on a waterfront street in front of a frame building with one large smoke-stained window and a sign with weathered paint spelling “Vanvoort’s Hideaway.”

  As I stepped out of the car, I felt a tug at my sleeve and realized that I had almost forgotten about Pilar.

  “Nick, the blonde woman . . . is it your Rona?”

  “It must be.”

  “And what are you going to do?”

  “Find her if I can.”

  “But we have a mission.”

  If it weren’t for Rona, there wouldn’t be any mission. She’s the one who gave us our key clue, and now she can lead us to Gorodin. Besides, she wasn’t trained for dangerous work as we were. If she’s in Gorodin’s hands now, she could be paying a terrible price. I have to try to find her. I owe her that much.”

  “You don’t owe her anything,” Pilar said. “You didn’t force her to take the assignment. And the time . . . you know what day this is?”

  “Yes, I know. Tomorrow is the deadline.”

  “Forget about her, Nick. Come with me, and I will take you to Torio. We will find him on the waterfront not far from here.”

  I stopped walking in front of the door of Vanvoort’s Hideaway and looked down into Pilars face. When I spoke, my voice was cold. “The decision is mine, and I have made it. Are you coming in with me?”

  She met my gaze for a moment, then looked away. She reached out and touched my hand. “I’m sorry, Nick. You must act according to your conscience. I will help you in any way you ask.”

  I gave her hand a squeeze and pushed on in through the door.

  Seventeen

  Vanvoort’s Hideaway was no tourist bar. The lights were dim, the air was stale. The walls were covered with posters advertising beer and politicians. The linoleum on the floor had worn through to the bare wood in the strip along the front of the unvarnished bar.

  The clientele were fishermen and sailors of many nations. And all male. The hum of conversation and clink of glasses ceased abruptly as the customers caught sight of Pilar who looked spectacular in a short lemon-yellow dress.

  The man behind the bar was a brush-cut Dutchman with biceps like cantaloupes bulging from under the short sleeves of his shirt.

  “I’m looking for the fisherman called Saba,” I said.

  The Dutchman’s tiny eyes ran over me like insects. “Who says he’s here?”

  “His friend the taxi driver.
The one in the chopped off Hudson.”

  He shook his massive head from side to side. “Don’t mean nothin’ to me.”

  Planting both hands on the .bar, I stuck my face into his. “Mister, I don’t have time to play games, and I don’t have time to explain. But I want you to know this: if you don’t point Saba out to me in five seconds or tell me where I can find him, I am going to come over this bar and break your bones till I get an answer.”

  The Dutchman knew I meant it. His ruddy complexion paled. “Over there,” he rasped. “Alone in the booth by the wall.”

  When I turned from the bar, the babble in the place suddenly began again, and everybody got busy not looking at Pilar.

  The man alone in the booth was a black Virgin Islander.

  “Saba?” I asked.

  “That’s right, mon. Sit down. And de lady, too.” His speech had the musical part British, part calypso lilt you hear in parts of the West Indies. “You must put de fear of God in Hans, make him back down like dat.”

  “I want to ask about the woman you brought in two days ago. The one you found in the sea.”

  “Ah, de yellow-hair lady. Very pretty. She don’t wake up to say even a word. Very, very tired. The sea drain your strength. I don’t think she hurt bad, though. Nothing broken.”

  “And a man took her away? One who said he was her husband?”

  “Oh-ho, maybe he’s not her husban’, eh? I not surprised. He don’ look like de kind of mon de yellow-hair lady take for husban’. Too rough, too ugly. Are you the husban’, mon?”

  “No, but I’m her friend, and the man who took her away definitely was not. Do you know where he took her?”

  “Yes, I know. I tell him de way to Queen’s Hospital. He say never min’, he take lady to where he have friends. He say they take care of her. So I watch where he go. He take de lady in de power boat with two other men. They go to Little Dog, a little island twelve miles offshore. Nothin’ but big rocks on Little Dog. Big rocks and ol’ fisherman’s shack. No fishermen use dat place no more. Men with guns dere now, scare everybody.”