by Nick Carter
The first thing I realized upon regaining consciousness was that I couldn't breathe. And then I discovered that my head hurt, too. The third thing I felt was the constricted position in which my body has been twisted. I was in a very tight space, with barely enough room for my aching bones.
I was gasping for breath, trying to breathe in pure air through the fog of noxious fumes that surrounded me.
I opened my eyes and could see nothing at first. My eyes stung, blurred, and refocused. Suddenly I realized that I could not move my hands or feet.
Struggling to sit upright, I saw in the faint light that I was wedged in the front seat of a very small Volkswagen. The engine was going, but the car wasn't moving.
I coughed and tried to clear my throat, but I could not.
Exhaust fumes! The thought flashed into my mind and I sat bolt upright, staring about me, noticing for the first time the hose thrust in through the almost-closed window.
Exhaust poured through the hose into the Volks. I knew enough about these cars to realize they are practically air- and water-tight inside. And with that carbon monoxide coming in, I didn't have much time left.
My wrists and ankles were bound with tight ropes, tied together so that I resembled a bull-dogged steer. I reached over, trying to grab the key in the ignition to twist it off, but I couldn't maneuver my ankles high enough in the confines of the car to get at the key.
I lay there panting in desperate frustration. I knew there was no way I could get any fresh air into my lungs.
Outside, I knew, The Mosquito waited, and in five or ten minutes he would come into the garage, open the car door, turn off the engine, and take me out for delivery somewhere. He had outsmarted me completely!
I could reach my ankles with my right hand, but I couldn't get them high enough to touch the steel blade taped to the back of my ankle. I slid off the seat and smashed against the gearshift, almost bending it out of shape.
And then I touched the steel blade.
I blacked out momentarily, my entire body racked with agonized coughing. I didn't have much time at all.
The blade came out, and I tried to saw through the ropes holding my ankles. After a minute the rope shredded. I couldn't breathe anymore, and I held my breath. Blackness was beginning to come in on me from all sides. I could hardly move my fingers now.
The carbon monoxide continued to pour into the car.
Then, miraculously, my feet were free. I kicked them away from my wrists and jammed one foot on the gas pedal. The Volks jumped, but the brake held.
I twisted the gearshift to the side and down, into reverse, and jammed my foot on the gas pedal again.
The Volks shot backward into the closed garage door and crashed into it.
But the door did not break open, though I could hear the splintering of wood.
I drove the Volks forward.
My vision was fading again, and I couldn't see much of anything. My lungs were convulsing from the poisonous air.
Again — back, smash.
The doors parted.
I could see night outside. Forward.
I slammed the Volks into reverse again and sailed through the wide-open doors into the driveway. I braked in the open and came to a stop. Fresh air poured in through the window.
On my right I saw a sudden stab of orange flame, preceding the sound of a gunshot.
I hacked at my wrist ropes and freed my wrists. I tore open the door, and rolled down the window, coughing in fresh air. In a minute I had the wheel in my hands. I twisted the Volks, flicked the lights on, and aimed it at the point where the gunshot had originated.
Someone screamed. Another shot sounded. I drove across the driveway and onto lawn, headed for the shrubbery that grew by the garage. I saw the form of a man jump out of the bushes and run across the lawn. I kept the Volks aimed at him.
He turned once, his terrified face highlighted in the bright headlights of the car. He was a small, dark-haired, round-faced man, with thick eyebrows, long sideburns, and a very bluebearded jaw — The Mosquito.
He shot once again but missed, and I stepped hard on the gas. The Volks jumped forward.
Moscato zigzagged now, trying to find cover in the small yard. I jammed on the gas pedal and kept the Volks driving hard. I saw him jump up onto the brick wall and vault over it.
I lifted my foot from the gas pedal and stepped down hard on the brakes. The Volks slewed sideways, dug up grass, and smashed against the brick wall, the lights immediately going out.
I got the wheel in my stomach, but I had not been going fast enough to really hurt myself.
I climbed from the car and jumped up onto the wall, looking into a tangle of vegetation and shrubbery in the adjoining yard.
There was no sight of anyone.
I walked back to the house and went inside. In the bedroom I could see where I had stood and where The Mosquito had hidden before he hit me. I found my Luger on the floor, right where I had dropped it.
I picked it up and started to leave the bedroom, planning to set a trap for Moscato. He would have to come back sooner or later.
Suddenly I realized I wasn't alone in the house.
A man stood in the hallway, smiling at me.
The first thing I saw was the Webley Mark VI, a very lethal weapon. Almost immediately I focused on the man holding the gun.
He was a big, imposing man in a belted raincoat He gripped the Webley almost casually, as if it were nothing more important than a calling card, aiming it straight at my stomach.
Six
He had a long, almost lean face, with dark eyes and wavy hair that fell in a careless lock over his forehead. And at the same time, although his features were immobilized in an expressionless mask of impartiality, his lips were slanted in a flat smile.
"He has flown," he said sadly in very British English. "Now that was most stupid of you to let him escape."
I waved at his gun, carefully not aiming mine at him. "Will you kindly remove that muzzle from my stomach?"
"What? Oh!" He smiled. The Webley slid into a side pocket of the belted raincoat and vanished. "You're an American, aren't you?" He seemed saddened by the idea.
"Yes. And there's no sense blaming me for the escape. If you hadn't come barging down that hallway like the Q E II I'd have had him dead to rights!"
He shrugged. "Oh well, that's the way it sometimes goes, isn't it?" He smiled broadly. "What do you think? Shall we go after him? Any chance?"
"He's miles away by now," I said. "I'm afraid we may as well forget him."
He was studying me closely. "I don't recognize you, old chap. CIA? Military Intelligence?"
I said calmly, "I'm an American tourist. What are you talking about?"
He laughed. His adam's apple bobbed up and down as his head went back. He was a big, handsome man in a typically tweedy British way. "You don't have the foggiest notion, do you?"
He sighed. "Damn it all. I'm Parson. Barry Parson. British subject. On holiday in Spain. And you?"
"George Peabody. Likewise, I am sure."
He chuckled irritatingly. "Bullshit."
"Indeed, yes," I responded, also chuckling. "It's dark in here. Do you want to stake him out?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"Stake him out. You know. Wait here for him."
"Oh. Maintain surveillance? Affirmative. I agree with you completely, old chap."
"Call me George."
He snorted. "George, then."
I shrugged. "We'll wait." I walked over to the bed and sat on the edge of it.
He strolled past me and sank onto the pillow, his back propped against the headboard. I could hear him fumbling in his pocket. He pulled out a pack of Spanish cigarettes, put one in his mouth, and lighted it quickly with a long wax match. "Oh. Sorry. Smoke?"
I shook my head. "Gave it up."
"How did you ever get onto him?" He asked suddenly.
"Who?" I grimaced because I knew how foolish it all sounded. But there was always securit
y.
"The Mosquito," said Parson, as if I were totally incompetent.
"Oh. Well." I was trying to see my way clear to the proper cover story. "There is this woman in Malaga," I said. "She is properly married to a businessman of my acquaintance. However, when her husband began playing around in Switzerland with his mistress, the woman decided to have a fling with the man you call The Mosquito. Now he is blackmailing her, threatening to tell about their affair to the husband. I am acting on behalf of the Señora to force The Mosquito to cease and desist his blackmail scheme."
Cigarette smoke rose into the air. It was dark, but I could see that Parson was grinning there, bemusedly. He chuckled again, very softly, very contemptuously.
"You have a knack for the cliché," he said conversationally. "George? George, is it necessary?"
"You asked for the true story. That is the true story." I turned to him. "And you?"
"Ah. Me." He took a deep breath. "Well, The Mosquito is known to me in many capacities, but not as a great lover."
"Well," I began diffidently.
"Mainly he is known to me as a pistola prezzolata. That's fractured Latin for Tut man/ His real name is Alfreddo Moscato, hence The Mosquito. He has been sent in from Rome to do a job here in Spain, but I do not know what job. The Mosquito is of Neapolitan origin"
"But why are you hunting for him?"
"It was primarily a nonmilitary matter at first, but it has become a paramilitary matter. The Mosquito ran across one of our people in Rome six months ago and killed him."
"One of your people?"
"Military Intelligence," said Parson stiffly. "We have been concerned over the drug traffic along the Mediterranean. The armed forces are full of it. We're been trying to break it up since the end of the Second World War. And we were onto the real pipe line, when Justin was killed by Moscato." Parson paused thoughtfully.
I nodded. "I see. Sorry."
"I was in Spain last week when we had word that The Mosquito was here. I tried to search him out, but failed. Then, just this evening, I was running out a lead and found you talking with a prostitute I was supposed to interrogate. I simply questioned her after she returned to the discothèque and came here on the double.
"Military Intelligence?" I mused. "MI-6?"
"Five, actually." He smiled. 'That's very perceptive of you to think MI-6. Six is espionage, of course. And five is counterespionage. Right? Now I won't bother you about your particular identification tag, because I know you Yanks are terribly sensitive about security and all that. It shouldn't make our relationship complicated, however. I propose we work in tandem and try to get our man Moscato."
"What are your orders re Moscato?" I asked.
"I beg your pardon? Oh. Actually, The Mosquito is a most bothersome player. I have been told to total him."
"Total him?"
"Yes. Eliminate him."
"Who do you think is behind him?" I asked.
"The Mafiosi, undoubtedly. He has done jobs for the Fathers many times before."
"I'm sorry about Justin."
"Justin?" He presented a blank face to me.
"The man who was killed. Your…"
"Oh. Justin Delaney. Yes. Poor Justin." Parson sighed. "Oh well, he knew what he was getting into when he joined up, didn't he?"
I stared at him in the darkness. That was just like the British, I thought. Stiff upper lip and all that.
"What do you get from your patron?" he asked me sardonically.
"Patron?"
"The errant wife?" He paused. "Have you taken The Mosquito's place in her, uh, affections?"
Oh. My cover story. "It is strictly a matter of chivalry," I said with a smile.
"You Yanks do have an excessive streak of old-fashioned gallantry in you. Good chap!"
We lapsed into silence.
An hour later we decided Moscato would not return.
Two hours later we were having drinks in my hotel room. It was «Barry» and «George» then. I was still suspicious, but decided that he might lead to information.
* * *
Juana stood in the open doorway in her robe, hair hanging down around her shoulders, eyes full of sleep, and a frown on her lovely face.
"What vision of pulchritude is this?" Parson cried out, waving a glass of cognac about.
"It's Juana," I said. "Greetings, Juana."
"Is this the Señora you mentioned to me?" Parson asked with elaborate gestures. He was almost as drunk as I was.
"No, indeed," I said. "This is — is my wife!" Parson turned to me to stare. Then he looked round to gape at Juana.
"I say, now! You have excellent taste, old man! Excellent taste!"
I stood up and bowed. "Thank you, Barry. Oh, Juana. Come in, please. I am sorry to be so late. I ran into an old buddy of mine."
Parson leered. "Yes indeed, my dear. Barry Parson is the name."
"This is Juana Peabody," I said.
Juana was awake now. She came into the room glowering at me. "What happened?"
"I'll fill you in later, wife," I said, reminding her of her status in front of Parson. "Suffice to say, I ran into my old pal Barry Parson from Six."
"Five," said Parson.
"Five and one is six, like I said." I smiled. "Join us, Juana?"
"It's late, and I'm tired."
"You don't look tired," Parson said, walking over to her and looking down at her closely. "You look very wide awake." He reached down and tipped her chin up and gave her a quick kiss on the lips. "You see?"
I closed my eyes, waiting for the explosion. It never came. When I opened my eyes again I saw her smiling up at Parson, smoking a cigarette that had magically gotten into her mouth. Spanish smoke rose from the glowing tip of it.
I sank back on the couch, stunned. What had happened to Liberated Juana?
Juana was looking up into Parsons eyes now, her body loose and curved toward him. "You're British, aren't you?"
"The Shaggy Old Lion in Parson!" he said with a laugh. He put his arm around her. "You Yank types provide a superbreed of female."
She did not shake him off. "Five?" Juana repeated. "What does five mean?"
"Military Intelligence," I said. "Counterespionage, eh, Barry?"
Parson nodded. "Precisely, old man. I say, don't you two want to come over to my digs for a little drink?"
Juana smiled brightly. "Love to."
I looked up weakly. "Okay."
"You can come too, George."
"I say," I said as heartily as I could. I was beginning to sound like David Niven.
* * *
I had to hand it to Juana. She played him as skillfully as he played her.
There was a light burning in the front room of Barry Parson s villa. It was a nicely furnished place, decorated in the usual Spanish seacoast style — throw rugs, tapestries, thick wooden chairs, couches, and tables.
I was still playing it drunk as we entered the room. Because it was the closest thing, I made for the couch and sank into the end of it, throwing my head back and yawning prodigiously.
Juana looked at me, and then turned to smile at Parson. He glanced my way, grinned, and took Juana into his arms. They kissed long and deep. I watched them through the slits of my eyes and thought again what a consummate artist Juana Rivera was.
"Que bruto! En nuestra casa! Mil rayos te patten!"
I lifted my head. A woman stood in the doorway, arms folded across her chest, staring at Parson and Juana. She was a lovely young woman, with brown hair, dark hazel eyes, and a creamy complexion.
Parson held Juana from him, and turned to the woman in the doorway. "Elena," he said. "This is George, and this is Juana."
"Humph!" snorted Elena.
Juana glanced at Parson, and then back at the woman. "Who are you?" she asked quietly.
"It's my…" Parson turned to me and seemed to wink"…wife."
I nodded. "How do you do, Elena?"
"Elena Morales," she said, and smiled. She turned to Parson, lifted her
chin, looked down her nose at him, and came across to plump herself down next to me on the couch.
Juana's face clouded for an instant, but then cleared magically as Parson squeezed her and took her out of the room by way of the door through which Elena had entered. A moment later I heard him rattling glasses and bottles. More drinks!
Elena's robe had fallen away from her shoulders. She was wearing a thin nightgown under the robe, and I could see the contour of her breast clearly. She had a full build, and was exquisitely shaped from her head to her ankles.
"You really married to Parson?" I asked.
She grinned impishly. "Why you want to know?"
"Because I'm curious."
"I will keep you curious."
"You won't say?"
"I don't think it matters much." She reached up and tweaked my nose. "I suspect you know that."
I reached out and gripped her shoulders.
"Hey, that wife of yours," she said. "She's pretty. I think Barry likes her."
"You come on strong, lady," I said as she leaned against me, the robe opening conveniently.
"I don't understand what you say," she laughed.
"There is always too much talk, anyway," she observed judiciously. "Don't you think so, George?" She pronounced it "Hor-hay."
"Yeah."
We came together like some land of thunderclap, and I remembered hearing the bottles and the glasses clanking in the next room. But that was about all. Whatever Parson was mixing in there never got into any glasses for Elena and me. I did not see Parson and Juana after that.
Elena made no comment about the lack of liquor, either. She was too busy showing me how much I had missed all my life without her.
She got a big kick out of my shoulder holster and my.38 Luger. She tried to unstrap it and everything got all mixed up. It was the last thing I had on, and more than she had on. Somehow she got the holster off me and threw it on the tile floor.
I felt — defenseless— without it I almost said "naked."
She reached out for the lamp switch and killed the light.
