The Spanish Connection

by Nick Carter

  "The drug chain," I said.

  "Exactly. I am now speaking of her ambitions after I had decided to destroy the chain and reveal its innermost secrets to the United States Narcotics Department."

  I nodded. "And that was the reason she hired Parson to kill you!"

  "That is correct. Luckily I interpreted her first shocked reactions to my decision to dismantle the chain as suspicious, and kept my eyes open. Although she promised me she would remain faithful to me and accompany me to America, I guessed that she might be lying. So I put a tap on her phone — our villa in Corsica is a large one and each of us has a great deal of freedom — and finally heard her making a deal with Barry Parson in Malaga. Interesting?"

  "Most interesting."

  "My next move was to put my own spy on Parson. I believe, incidentally, that you'll find Parson listed in Interpol files as Daniel Tussaud, late of the French Underground. He was a child of ten at the time of World War Two, and grew up to a life of espionage and murder."

  "He is dead now."

  "I suspected as much." Corelli shrugged. "I heard about your exit from the discothèque with your Malaga contact."

  I smiled. "Not much escapes you."

  "Enough," sighed Corelli. 'Well, Elena Morales did keep a close watch on Parson, after letting him pick her up in a bar in Torremolinos. And it was she who warned me that he had come to Sol y Nieve here to find me and kill me. For that reason I did not meet you at the Veleta."

  "I had reasoned that out."

  Corelli nodded. He had finished with his skis. "I hoped that perhaps Tina might be killed on the yacht Lysistrata if anything happened there, but she escaped serious injury, as you know. Even though the Capos had planned the execution nicely. That meant that I must keep a weather eye out for not only the Capo's assassin, but for Tina's hired killer as well! The Mosquito. And Parson. So I simply became Herr Hauptli, having hired several out-of-work actors in Valencia to play the part of my supposed sycophants."

  I laughed. "You re a most resourceful man, Mr. Corelli."

  "I have lived a long life because of my resourcefulness, in a very dangerous profession." He frowned. "Not profession. That desecrates the very meaning of profession. In a very dangerous racket. A good word. Harsh. Flat. Unromantic. Racket."

  I nodded.

  "I have watched you at some length with admiration." Corelli smiled. "I knew instantly that you had killed The Mosquito. And I predicted that you would kill Parson as well. The death of Tina is a surprise to me. I do not think she committed suicide, as they are saying around the Prado Llano. But I think she must have lost control of that car after quite possibly finding that Parson was dead and figuring that I knew all about her and would kill her."

  I said, "In which case she decided to run away before you found out she was here."

  "Exactly."

  "She's dead. That's all there is to it."

  Corelli nodded. He tightened the cable bindings on his skis, fitted his boots to them, then slipped the clamps on. He stood and flexed his knees.

  I began to put my own on.

  "Care to do the slope with me?"

  "Beautiful."

  He grinned. "Before that, Nick, I'd like you to take possession of this."

  I looked down. He was holding out an envelope. It had a bulge in it. I opened the envelope and saw a familiar-looking roll — microfilm.

  "It's just what you think it is. Names. Places. Dates. Everything. All the way from Turkey through Sicily and the Riviera and on to Mexico. You can't miss a thing or a person if you follow the facts. I want that chain destroyed so it can never be put back together again. For Beatrice's sake."

  Beatrice. His daughter. And wasn't that Dante's dream image of womanhood?

  "Okay, Corelli," I said.

  He slapped me on the back. "Let's go!"

  * * *

  He began a slow traverse against the fall line, and then cut across the slope and schussed down toward a curve in the run. Then he turned back in a nicely executed christie, and went around a pile of rocks.

  I tucked the microfilm into an inside pocket of my ski jacket and began my run behind him. The snow was packed just right. I could feel my skis biting into the powder with a good springy bounce.

  There was Corelli below me as I came around the curve of rocks. He executed a few turns, went into a wedeln, and then turned into a very wide traverse across a flat angle of the run.

  I came down behind him, making a few turns and shaking the kinks out of my body. It was at the end of my run and just into the traverse that I saw the third skier on the alternate route.

  The slopes were such that the alternate runs kept rejoining at intervals, somewhat like two wires that had been twisted loosely together at certain points.

  It was a young man in brown togs. He seemed to be a teenager; at least he had that wiry, slender build. Whatever his age, he was an excellent skier. His skis bit into the snow and he was expert in turning and in drifting down the run.

  At the portion of the slope where the two runs came together, the young skier cut back into his side, and went down slowly in a series of flat traverses. He was out of sight behind the backbone of rock that separated the two runs as I came up to Corelli.

  "Beautiful pack," I said.

  He nodded.

  "When you come to the States, I'll take you up to Alta and Aspen. You'll love them!"

  He laughed. "I may take you up on that!"

  "Good deal," I said. "Go on. I'll follow you down to the next stop."

  He grinned and started off.

  I came a few moments after him. My right ski had been lagging a bit, and I tried to adjust my stance for better bite.

  I moved along the steeper drop, slowing down with a snowplow because the neck between the two rock outcrops was too narrow for graceful maneuvering, and then came to a wide glade of snow and ice that looked like a picnic ground for any skier. I saw Corelli at the far end.

  I started down, following Corelli to the left, and it was at that moment that I saw the young boy again.

  He had gone down faster than the two of us in the alternate run, and was now approaching the cross-lanes of the two runs at the bottom of the wide, sloping field.

  For a moment I drew up, cutting into the snow in an ice-hockey stop and just stood there. The powder was good. The snow beneath seemed solid. But I did not like the angle of the field. I mean, it was steep and it was almost flat, but there was a concave slope to it at the top that I did not quite like the looks of.

  Yet Corelli was moving along it halfway down without any trouble. He was skiing from my left to right, and as I watched, he went into a lack turn and came back from right to left. Beyond him I saw the young man in the other run nearing the rock spine that separated our run from his.

  I was just about to move out when I caught a warning flicker out of the corner of my eye. I lifted my head again, squinting against the glare of the sun. Had my eyes played tricks on me? No!

  The kid held something in his right hand, and was clutching both ski poles under his left arm. He held a weapon of some kind — Yes! It was a hand gun!

  Now the kid stopped and crouched in the snow. He was behind the rocks now, and I could not see what he was doing, but I knew instinctively that he was aiming the piece at Corelli who was skiing away from him, unaware that he was targeted in the gunsights.

  "Hauptli!" I screamed, using his cover name just in case I was being tricked by some kind of optical illusion.

  He turned his head quickly, looking up the slope at me. I waved my arm toward the young man. Corelli turned and could see nothing from his angle. I waved frantically, warningly. Corelli understood something was wrong, and reacted. He tried to change his line of run, but lost his balance and went down in a bad front fall. But he controlled himself and hit on his hip, then started to slide.

  I jumped on the skis and slammed down on my poles, schussing straight down toward the rocks behind which the youth was crouched. I tucked both ski poles u
nder my left arm and got out the Luger.

  The mogul came up out of nowhere. I was watching the rocks for the kid's head, but I could see nothing of him. The mogul took me midway between knee and ski clamp and threw me flat on my face in the snow, ripping one ski completely off as the safety grips loosened, and sending it sliding down the powdery field. I slid and finally came to a wrenching stop. The other ski lay next to me. I do not even remember its coming off.

  Corelli pushed himself up out of the snow, turning now to look at the rocks.

  The first shot came. It missed. Now I could see the youth coming up out of the rocks, moving forward. I aimed the Luger at his head and squeezed the trigger. Too far to the right.

  He turned quickly and saw me. His cap fell off. Golden hair flowed out around his throat.

  It was Tina Bergson!

  I was so stunned I could not think.

  But then my brain recapitulated the entire story without any prompting.

  Tina!

  It was not her body in the red Jaguar.

  It had to be Elena Morales's. I saw it now. I saw Elena go into Parson's room, and find Parson's dead body where we had left it. And I saw her inside the room — with Tina Bergson already there! Tina had come up to Sol y Nieve to find Parson and direct him to Corelli to kill him. And she had found Parson dead — before Elena came up to the room. So she had called down to the lounge to bring Elena up. And Elena had come, directed by the message.

  Tina had forced Elena out onto the balcony and down to the red Jaguar — because now she knew that Elena was Corelli's eyes and ears. She put her in the Jaguar and killed her. In the horseshoe turn, out of sight, she placed Elena behind the wheel, started up the Jaguar with a ski boot or something heavy holding down the gas pedal, and jumped free herself.

  And escaped in the dark even though I had come along right after her.

  And now…

  Now she had come to kill Corelli and take over the drug chain herself — as she had always wanted to do!

  I saw Corelli rise again and stare at Tina. Tina fired once again at me. I returned her fire. I was too far away to do any good.

  She looked at me, and then at Corelli, and then started on foot across the snow toward Corelli. He was frantically trying to get himself out of the snow and down the slope. Like many men involved in extremely dangerous professions, he apparently did not like to carry a weapon on his own person.

  She floundered purposefully toward him in her ski boots, holding her weapon poised high in the air.

  The snow was frozen hard around the mogul. I could see it crackling with tension at the top of the slope that formed a rounded contour, slanting down toward the bottom of the field.

  I moved back and aimed the Luger down into the snow and fired once, twice, three times. The shots echoed in the air. The snow flew in all directions. There was a splitting crack, and the entire slab of snow and ice began to go — parting company with the upper half of the mogul that had grounded me.

  It moved fast once it started. Slide!

  She saw it coming but she was unable to escape it. She fired at Corelli two times and then started to run toward him, out of the way of the snow slide, but it caught her and carried her on down with it. I saw her yellow hair vanish in the stuff.

  Then the snow piled up and began to disintegrate against the rocks of the spine as it came to rest with a smash and a roar.

  I got my skis together and moved slowly down to Corelli.

  He was lying on his side bleeding in the snow.

  I came up to him. His face was white with pain and his eyes were unfocused. He was going into shock.

  "Destroy the chain!" he whispered to me.

  I lifted his head out of the snow. "I will, Rico."

  It was the first time I had called him by his first name.

  He slumped back, a faint smile on his lips.

  Sixteen

  I pushed his eyelids closed.

  I helped the Guardia Civil take care of Corelli's body and then left on my skis as some men with shovels began digging for Tina Bergson. I drew aside the man with the Fu Manchu mustache and informed him of Barry Parson's sad end.

  It was pleasant under the shower to soak off all the strain and the tension of this Spanish Connection business. I toweled in my room preparatory to dressing and knocking for Juana Rivera. It was time I told her the last chapter of the story and started with her on the road to Malaga.

  I checked my Luger in the shoulder holster hung over the bedpost, and reached for my robe. Since my feet were dry I taped on the stiletto and shrugged into the cool terrycloth. The mirror in the bathroom was clouded but I managed to comb my hair. I checked again and found that the strands of gray had not reappeared after I had pulled them out the week before.

  I knew I would see more of them, not less, in the future.

  My bags were all packed — I had done that before climbing in the shower — and I debated putting on my clothes before knocking for Juana, and then I thought, what the hell, and strode over to the door and tapped with my bare knuckles.

  "Come in," I heard her say in a muffled voice.

  "Are you ready?"

  There was no answer.

  I opened the door and walked in.

  The door closed behind me and I turned in surprise to find Juana in a chair facing me. She was completely naked, with a handkerchief tied around her mouth and her hands spliced together behind her back and tied to the chair. Her legs were fastened to the legs of the chair. She was staring at me with mute, imploring eyes.

  I reached back for the door knob.

  "No, no, Nick!" a voice said softly.

  The drapes near the window shimmered and Tina Bergson stepped out from behind them, holding a gun in her hand. It seemed enormous — for her. It was Parsons Webley Mark IV. She was dressed in ski clothes — the same outfit she had worn on the slope. She was wet and cold, but otherwise quite herself. Her eyes were burning with a land of frenzy.

  "Hello, Nick," she said with an amused laugh.

  "Tina," I said.

  "Yes. I did not die in that avalanche you started."

  "So I see."

  I turned and glanced at Juana's naked body once again. It was then that I saw the cigarette burns on her naked breast. I shuddered. There were sadomasochistic strains in Tina Bergson, possibly the lesbian tendencies that had been channelized into nymphomania.

  "You're sick, Tina," I said softly. "What good does it do to hurt people like Juana?"

  Tina exploded. "Rico was a fool to try to break up the drug chain! He had the best money-making scheme in the world — and he wanted to get rid of it!"

  "But it killed his daughter."

  Tina sneered. "That daughter had become a slut just like all women — having every male at that silly college she went to."

  "In your imagination only, Tina," I said. "You need a shrink."

  She threw back her head and laughed. "You're a puritan, Nick! You know that? A puritan!"

  I thought of the shoulder holster hanging on the bedpost in my room and cursed myself for being a stupid fool. I never go anywhere without it. All because of a silly sentimental interest in Juana Rivera I had exposed myself to death.

  "Give me the microfilm, Nick," said Tina, moving away from the drapes where she had been waiting for me. "I saw you with Rico. You must have it. Give it to me or I'll kill you."

  "No deal, Tina," I said. "If I hand over the film, you'll kill the two of us and go."

  "No," Tina said, her eyes bright. "I don't care what you and the bitch do. You can leave and fly back to the States, for all I care. I just want the microfilm and I'll let you go."

  I shook my head. "No way, baby."

  Her eyes were bright and as blue as glacier ice. I thought of Scandinavian fjords, and grues of ice. And I thought of that beautiful body under those ski clothes.

  Tina pointed the heavy British Webley toward Juana. I watched her with a fascination that was almost sickening. Juana's eyes rolled around fear
fully. I could see her trembling. Tears began to slide down her cheeks.

  "You're a monster," I said calmly. "Do you hear me, Tina? You could have taken me on, and not tormented Juana. What kind of an inhuman thing are you?"

  Tina shrugged. "I'll kill her at the count of three if you don't deliver those films to me, Nick."

  "I don't have the film," I said quickly. Suddenly, out of the blue, I had a plan. I wanted her to think I was protesting too much.

  Her eyes narrowed. "I saw you with Rico. You must have gotten the film from him. He needed one meeting with you alone. That was all. And he got it. He must have given it to you. One, Nick."

  I was sweating. "Tina, listen to me! He put the microfilm in the mail. He mailed it to Washington."

  "Rico wouldn't trust the mails!" snorted Tina. "I know him better than that. Think up a better one, Nick. Two."

  "Tina, it's the truth!" I moved toward her impulsively. "Now, put that gun down and get Juana out of that chair!"

  Tina swung around at me. The muzzle of the heavy hand gun pointed at my chest. "This is a Webley.455 Nick," she snapped, her face tight. "It's as powerful as a Frontier Colt. Don't make me tear you to pieces. At this short range, there wouldn't be anything left of your chest or your heart. I'd have to hunt all through your things for the film. And I like that big rugged body of yours far too much to destroy it. Give it to me, Nick. The film!"

  Juana was crying.

  I moved around slightly.

  "No!" Tina shouted, then turned the gun toward Juana's head, the muzzle only inches from her hair. "You give me that film, Nick. Or she dies!"

  I stared at her in desperation.

  "I've said one, and two, Nick! Now — here is the last moment…" She took a breath.

  "Hold it!" I cried. "It's in the other room!"

  "I don't believe it," Tina said with a small sneer. "No. You're carrying it on you. A valuable thing like that."

  My face fell. "How can you be so sure?"

  She smiled. "I know! That's all. I know!" She moved toward me. "Give it to me!"

  I reached for the pocket of my terrycloth robe. "Tina…"

  "Slow!"