by Joanne Pence
Just wait until the boys back in Quantico learned that he, old retired George, was the one who’d finally captured the Hydra. Yessir. That he alone had been able to do the job where all others had failed. They’d gotten close, but she’d beaten them. They’d never even seen her face.
But he had. That very afternoon, as she and the guy she ran around with—a bodyguard?—checked into the hotel. He’d followed them and found out which one was their room. They never even noticed. He was that good.
He flipped through a small address book she’d left in one of her suitcases. What was it supposed to be for? Sending postcards back home? He laughed. The Hydra, sending postcards!
The book had her name and address on the first page. He assumed it was there as identification in case she lost it—as if anyone would ever bother to return a lost address book. Talk about a holdover from past times. These days, people would as soon shoot you as return anything you’d lost. Angelina Amalfi, it said. San Francisco. Yep. It was his considered opinion that she was most definitely the Hydra. Angelina Amalfi was a made-up name if ever he heard one.
He lifted his hat and rubbed his crew-cut blond hair.
For twenty years his opinion had always been on target—and valued. That was why he’d held his position for so long. Now his opinion had led him straight to the Hydra.
Some people said she wasn’t so clever. But he knew better. As far as he was concerned, she was the cleverest, most deadly perpetrator of industrial espionage in the world. At least that was sure as hell what he would tell the press after he captured her.
But…captured her for what? He couldn’t just arrest her for no reason. Not even active FBI agents could do that, let alone retired ones.
He had to find out what she was up to.
He checked his watch. In his excitement, he seemed to have lost track of time. He hadn’t been in the room too long, had he? He’d come up here as soon as he saw Amalfi and her friend enter the restaurant. His friends were supposed to keep her busy. He sure hoped they hadn’t finked out on him.
Perspiration broke out on his forehead. What if she wasn’t hungry? What if she’d just wanted a drink and was even now on her way back? He had to get out of here.
Good God! Footsteps. In the hall. He froze for just an instant, then his old training kicked in and he crawled under the bed. He hoped she hadn’t heard him sneeze from all the dust balls.
But the footsteps continued past the room. Slowly, cautiously, he crawled out again.
With his heart pounding so hard he was afraid he wouldn’t hear the Hydra if she did come back, he pulled the smoke detector out of his backpack. It wasn’t actually a smoke detector, of course, but a tiny camera—one that connected via remote control to a receiver in his room. Or so he hoped. He’d “borrowed” it in Quantico upon learning he was being down-and-out-sized and hadn’t even unpacked it until now.
He held the miniature instrument in his hand. Where to put it? On the back, peel-off paper covering a sticky substance meant he could put it just about anywhere. He looked at it uncertainly.
Research and Development had assured the FBI it would work. R&D cost taxpayers plenty with little toys like this. It sure as hell better work.
There was a large armoire in the room, the doors pushed all the way open, revealing shelves. He could put it on the top shelf, where extra blankets were placed for guests. No one would be using an extra blanket in this heat. But the gizmo looked like a smoke detector.
He didn’t want it on the ceiling, where it’d look down in just one spot. He wanted a view of the room. He stuck it to the wall above the armoire, angling it as best he could toward the bed. That was probably where most of the action would go on in the room, anyway. So he took in a little cheesecake—so what? Of course, if the Hydra found out he’d been watching her in bed…The thought of what she might do to him made him dizzy.
26
Angie’s first thought was that the woman looked like someone out of a French film noir. Except that this wasn’t a film. This was Mazatlán.
The woman had left her friends and glided over to their table. She was at least five feet ten inches tall and wore a formfitting, long-sleeved black jersey dress that reached to mid-calf. Her shoes had thick, chunky heels with ankle straps. Without a word, she oozed into a spare chair across from Paavo.
“You are foreigners,” she said, her voice a deep contralto, her words slightly accented in the distinctive Central European style of Gabor or Lugosi.
“We are,” Angie said, wondering what this crazy scheme they’d agreed to was going to turn up next. Livingstone hadn’t mentioned anything about other people being involved. “We’re Americans.”
“I know. I could tell just by looking at you.” Her gaze inched slowly over Angie, matching her deliberate, slightly menacing way of speaking. “Your clothes, your style.”
Angie looked down at her Gianni Versace dress and Ferragamo shoes. Oh, really? she thought.
“I take it you aren’t an American,” Paavo said.
Angie smirked.
“You are correct. My name is Grundil Duchievor. All of us”—she pointed to the table where the two men sat, and they nodded—“are staying at the same hotel as you, and ve noticed you sitting here alone, so I came to say hello. To be…friendly.”
“I’m Angie Amalfi, and this is Paavo Smith.” Angie wanted to show she could be friendly herself, even if the woman did seem a bit peculiar.
“How nice to meet you,” Grundil said.
“I’ve never heard the name Grundil before,” Angie said. “What kind of name is that?”
“I vould have said I vas Transylvanian, vonce upon a time. Now I have no country.” Her smile had a strangely unnerving effect on Angie. It was like being smiled at by a skeleton.
“Oh. I see,” Angie said. Just then, the two men who had been seated with Grundil rose, moved to the table, and stood there silently, just staring at her and Paavo.
“This is my husband, Béla,” Grundil said, gesturing toward a short, chubby man wearing a dark brown suit, a white shirt, and a yellow tie, who, upon being introduced, thrust out a pudgy hand to Paavo.
“Ve are most pleased to make your acquaintance,” he said in a high, nasal voice.
“My name is Xian, I mean, MacDougall,” said a soft voice in a completely different accent. “I mean Shawn MacDougall,” he hastily corrected himself.
She looked past Béla to see a Chinese man bow with great formality in her direction. Shawn MacDougall? Who was he trying to kid? He wore a starched white shirt, blue bow tie, gray sweater, and black, slacks. Angie was as amazed by his outfit as by his name. Didn’t these people feel the heat in here?
“Hello, Mr. MacDougall?” She couldn’t stop her voice from rising on the last syllable, turning her statement into a question.
“I’m fine, thank you,” he said, somewhat inappropriately.
Paavo held out his hand to him. “Hello.”
The poor man looked ready to sink through the floor with embarrassment, then turned and hurried back to his own table, where he gulped some water.
Béla peered up at his tall wife, his bulging eyes nearly popping from their sockets. “I didn’t know he vas so shy,” he said, more whiny-sounding than ever.
“Or maybe something else,” Grundil replied darkly. Both cast their dark eyes on Angie and Paavo, then shut their mouths tightly.
Just then a newcomer entered the restaurant and headed directly toward their table.
A fellow American, Angie thought wryly, all the way from his yellow cotton hat, festooned with fish lures, down to his blue canvas deck shoes. He pulled off the hat, revealing a crew cut and steely blue eyes. He wore a short-sleeved green oxford shirt, buttoned to his muscular neck, and blue Dockers.
“Hi there, Grundil, Béla. Won’t you introduce me to your new friends?”
“This is another American, George Gresham,” Grundil said.
“A couple of Yanks. Great,” George greeted them.
“Why don’t
both of you join us?” Paavo said to George and Béla, who was still standing. MacDougall continued to sit alone at his own table.
Béla sat beside Grundil while George grabbed a chair from the table behind them and swung it around next to Angie. “It’s pretty quiet in here,” he said. “Did I interrupt something?”
“Nothing at all,” Grundil said. “Ve vere just starting to get to know von another.”
“Oh, great. So tell me, where you from in the States?”
They kept up the inconsequential chatter for nearly an hour before Angie and Paavo excused themselves. As they left, Angie realized that they had discussed plenty about her, little about Paavo, and nothing at all about the four strangers.
George Gresham leaned back against the headboard in his room, a bottle of cerveza at his side. It had taken him only a half hour to get the TV set up so he could pull in the picture from the little camera in the Hydra’s bedroom. It was just like one of those security devices in a department store. He could sit here and watch just about every move the Hydra and her friend made.
This was going to be great! He’d left the restaurant moments after they did, stopping at an abacería only long enough to buy a beer. He turned on the TV as soon as he entered his room—and it worked. It hadn’t been all that difficult to set up, either.
He grinned from ear to ear as he watched the Hydra walking around her room, every detail as clear as if he’d been right there with her. God, but he was good!
She was good, too, he had to admit. She hadn’t stumbled once when answering questions during dinner tonight. She’d sounded as sweet and innocent as any dumb tourist. Little did she know that he was on to her.
Now she was unpacking her suitcases. Putting clothes in the closet after shaking out the wrinkles. Yep, just like a woman. God, he was even better than good!
Whenever she carried a blouse or sweater or underwear toward the camera, the picture was so clear he could see the length of her eyelashes. Long, pretty eyelashes, he had to admit. He also had to admit that watching her get ready for bed was going to be most…interesting. A tough job but, as they say, somebody’s gotta do it.
After putting the last pile of underwear on a shelf in the armoire, she took out a black negligee and held it up. He could practically see right through it. She tossed the negligee onto the bed and put her hands to the top button on her dress.
“Yes!” he shouted. “All right, babe! God, but I’d forgotten how much I love the spy business. I love this job!”
But she stopped. Something out of his view caught her eye and she walked over to it.
“Come back to me, ba-a-a-by!” George cried. He took a sip of his beer.
She stepped back into view holding a big straw hat. It had a wide brim and a round crown, with a little sprig of flowers on one side. She tugged at the brim, as if trying to straighten it, and frowned.
Her boyfriend took the hat from her and tugged a bit himself, then handed it back as he went to a suitcase and took out a bottle of wine.
Wine? A hat? What was this, some kinky sex thing? He sat up straighter in the bed, even more interested.
Paavo put the wine bottle on the bureau and the hat on top of it. A hat rack. That’s all it was. He sank down again.
She shook her head, looking around the room, then glanced up. He nearly dropped his beer. She was staring straight at him. She pointed.
She’d seen the phony smoke detector! He should have known he couldn’t fool the Hydra with a dumb trick like that. Now she was on to him.
But a second later, Paavo picked up the hat and makeshift hat rack and he, too, peered at the top of the armoire. What was going on? George wondered.
Then Paavo walked toward the camera. With each step a sinking feeling hit the pit of George’s stomach.
“No!” He jumped off the bed. “Stop! Not up there!”
But despite his shrieks, Paavo reached up to the top of the armoire.
George now watched a perfectly focused picture of the Hydra’s straw hat. And that was all.
27
In the center of the Hotel del Sud nestled a small open-air courtyard. There, the hotel staff served a simple continental breakfast of coffee, Mexican-style cinnamon-flavored hot chocolate, a variety of sweet buns, and churros.
As Angie stepped into the courtyard for breakfast, she stopped dead in her tracks, causing Paavo to bump into her. Seated in the courtyard were the four people they had met at the restaurant last evening. The Duchievors and George Gresham sat at one table, and Shawn MacDougall at another. All were having breakfast and reading English-language newspapers.
Angie and Paavo said good morning to them, then sat off by themselves.
“Hello there,” Livingstone said, coming up behind them with a cup of coffee. “I believe I saw you both in a nearby restaurant last night. May I share your table?”
Angie jumped at the sound of his voice. For a big man, he was amazingly light-footed. Now he was playacting. What next?
“Please do,” Paavo said, indicating an empty chair.
“Good morning,” Angie said, nervously looking around. Not sure what to say, she finally blurted out, “You sound English.”
Livingstone sat down at their table.
Just then, a large Mexican woman, age fifty or so, her black hair combed straight back into a traditional bun, walked into the courtyard carrying glasses and a pitcher of cold, freshly squeezed orange juice. She put the tray on the table where Shawn MacDougall sat alone. “Do you mind, señor?” she asked, loud enough that Angie overheard her.
“Not at all,” he said, half standing to give a slight bow before he sat down again.
“I am Juanita,” she said. “I have noticed you sitting here alone each morning, so I said to myself, today I will talk to him.” Her gaze caught his and she smiled. He blushed, glancing around to see if anyone had noticed. Angie pretended she hadn’t.
“You, señor,” the woman went on as she filled glasses with juice, “should have two glasses. You are much too thin. Does your wife not feed you?”
“I have no wife,” he said.
“Then I must take care to feed you well,” she said. With that she smiled, winked, and began handing out glasses of orange juice to each person at the tables. Angie noticed a decided swish to her step that hadn’t been there when she first walked into the courtyard.
Angie and Paavo glanced at each other and grinned.
Livingstone cleared his throat and bent close. “I think both of you should begin your sightseeing very soon. I’ll watch your room.”
“Who are those people?” Paavo asked, indicating with his eyes the four he spoke of.
“I don’t know,” Livingstone admitted. “Whoever they are, don’t worry about them. They have nothing to do with us.”
“They were awfully curious last night for people who have nothing to do with us,” Angie said.
“I doubt you need to worry. I’ll see what the hotel owner knows. I shouldn’t be concerned if I were you.”
“If you say so,” Angie said dubiously.
Paavo didn’t reply.
“We’ll meet in the lobby at nine tonight,” Livingstone said, “and I’ll let you know how it went.”
“Nine it is.” Paavo stood, as did Angie. “We’ll see you then. And be careful.”
Livingstone’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not my keeper, my good man. I’ll be careful. But whatever happens, happens.”
Paavo frowned as Livingstone gave him a slight nod, then sat back and watched them leave.
“Did you see that?” George whispered to the others.
Shawn MacDougall joined them.
“Ve saw,” Grundil said. “But vat does it mean?”
“The big Englishman was sitting at an outside table at the restaurant last night,” MacDougall said. “They acted like they didn’t know each other, and now they’re having breakfast together.”
“So vhat? Ve ate dinner together, but this morning ve didn’t eat breakfast vith them,” B�
�la said.
“That’s true.” MacDougall frowned, trying to reflect on the meaning of it all.
“This is the piece I needed,” George announced. “The evidence that proves how sneaky and deceitful the woman is. Now I’m more sure than ever that what I suspected last night is, in fact, true!”
“Do tell us, dahling,” Grundil said. “All night you looked like the cat who svallowed the canary. I really can’t take it much longer.”
George leaned closer to the center of the table. So did the others. He looked over each shoulder to make sure no one was nearby and listening. Again, so did the others. Then he lowered his voice and said, “That woman is the Hydra!”
“No!” Béla and Grundil cried.
“The what?” MacDougall asked.
“Von of the bad guys,” Grundil explained. MacDougall’s eyes widened.
“But she doesn’t look or act like somevon who can elude people, or steal secrets, or kill anyvon,” Béla said. “She seems very nice.”
George clenched his fists. “That’s what makes her so good at her work. Don’t you see? She fools everyone. But not us. Now that we know—”
“Vait! Vhat proof do you have?” Grundil asked.
“Too much to go into, but last night she immediately found a minicamera I’d planted in her room and disengaged it. She’s that good!”
The others showed by their stunned expressions just how impressed they were.
“Today, we’ll have to follow them and see what they’re up to, see if the colonel makes any connection with them,” George said. “I’ll watch the colonel. Grundil, you watch the woman. MacDougall, take the man, and Béla, er, you can watch the hotel.”
“Or perhaps I vill take the man and MacDougall the voman,” Grundil said. “They say the Hydra does not vork alone. Her companion appears to be the more dangerous of the two, in my opinion, and ve should plan accordingly.” She gave MacDougall a pointed stare.
He cleared his throat. “The man is very big. I think Grundil is right.”
“Vhat about the older, fat man?” Grundil asked. “Shouldn’t somevon vatch him?”
