Delta Factor, The

by Mickey Spillane

  Resistance was a thing that melted like wax in a flame. There was no awareness of anything I did except taste her lips and merge us both into a caldron of passion that was so intense it was almost unreal. Then the last shred of nylon dropped from her while she stood on her toes, arms around my neck, her mouth fierce against mine while I kneaded the firm contours of her body.

  I pushed her away from me, waited until she opened her eyes, then hated myself for doing what I did. I let a laugh crease my face and said, “See?”

  For a moment she stood there unbelievingly, then she glanced at her clothes and herself and a slow flush crept into her cheeks. This time I didn’t stop her when she let me have the open hand right across my cheek.

  She walked to the bedroom, the fury high in her. I said, “It’s part of being a pro, kid.” Then she slammed the door in my face.

  7

  DAYBREAK was the deathwatch of Nuevo Cádiz. Down stairs some of the habituals would still be drifting between the tables, eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep and their minds blurred with too much alcohol, but the rest of the world outside had buried itself, like Count Dracula, away from the morning sun. Across the stillness a rooster crowed shrilly, and annoyed at the lack of response, did it again.

  I had awakened abruptly, fully conscious of being on the couch with the .45 warm in my hand. It had been an automatic reflex developed from years of waiting and watching, of hearing even when your brain was deep in the black of sleep. Inside the closed door of the bedroom I heard Kim toss restlessly, but that wasn’t what had awakened me.

  Then I heard it again, the slow tread of footsteps going past my door, the fractional hesitancy when they were directly opposite it. I slid off the couch, cocked the .45 under my arm so the click would be inaudible and crossed to the door in my stocking feet.

  I waited, listening, then yanked the door open and jumped through it, the rod in my hand swiveling with my body, and I crouched to cover both ends of the corridor.

  Nobody was there.

  As quietly as I could, I ran to the elevator, tapped the button and heard the slow whine begin from far below as the car inched upward toward me. Whoever had been there didn’t use the elevator. There wouldn’t have been time for it to make the trip. But the stairwell was handy and the door still hadn’t fully closed on its hydraulic cushioner.

  Maybe I could have been getting spooky again, but somehow it didn’t just have that feeling. I got back to the room before the elevator reached the landing, closed and locked the door and went back to the couch. All I could think of was that there were more games being played in Nuevo Cádiz than the ones downstairs.

  A little before noon I heard the shower going and knew Kim was up. I let out a silly laugh because I knew a lot of ice had to be thawed before the tension was off the spring, so I did the same bit with the door lock she had done with Lisa’s and let myself into the bedroom.

  When I stepped into the shower with her she let out a stifled scream and would have slipped on her butt if I hadn’t grabbed her. “So shoot me with the soap,” I told her.

  “You ... get out of here!”

  I squirted a mouthful of water over her. “Don’t talk like that to your legally wedded husband, sugar. You might get your tail paddled.” I took the soap from her fingers and began scrubbing her back. She tried to get away all right, and yelled a little, but what can a dame do when she’s trapped in the shower by her husband anyway?

  The ice cracked, but didn’t thaw.

  When I threw her a towel she deliberately turned her back, but I didn’t give a hoot about modesty and whistled while I dried, flipped the towel over her head and walked out to get dressed. A screwy marriage like this had to have some compensations.

  I didn’t hurry at all. I loafed my way all the way into my shirt and tie before she finally gave up and came out with the towel wrapped around her like a sarong and stood there, daring to make a move.

  “Sexy,” I said.

  “Shut up and get out of here. I want to get dressed.”

  “Rape or seduction, honey?”

  “Neither.” Her voice was like a knife.

  “The game’s getting rough, isn’t it?”

  “You warned me once,” she said. “It won’t happen again.”

  I looked at her and I wasn’t smiling any longer. Very softly I told her, “I know it won’t. It will never happen again. Not that way, my beautiful wife. The law allowed me certain privileges. Normal male ego imbues me with certain desires I might be challenged to fulfill. I’m wonder. ing how it works the other way around.”

  “You’ll never know.”

  I finished knotting my tie. “Oh, I know, honey. I’m curious about how long it’s going to take you to know.” I picked the .45 from the dresser, checked the load automatically, put it on half cock and stuck it in my belt. Then I looked at her in the mirror and said, “Things are beginning to jell out. Let’s get the show on the road.” I left her there and went back to the living room and turned on the radio. The tail end of a weather broadcast mentioned a tropical disturbance building up five hundred miles southeast of us that had possibilities of developing into a hurricane.

  She was able to play the game without any trouble. We were tourist imports fresh enough to find things interesting, but jaded enough to steer clear of the traps. Kim and I had sensed the tails the minute they had picked us up when we left the hotel, the one behind us and the two in front of us. It was a team operation and when they broke off to let another pair do the shadowing we grabbed them too and made it easy for them.

  I had gotten a map of the local layout from the desk that laid out the tourist attractions, and we hit each one systematically and in bored fashion, not spending too much time sight-seeing, but relieving the strain by popping in and out of the bars that fed on the trade. At least our tails were enjoying the hike if they were on an expense account.

  All I wanted to do was establish a pattern.

  By four in the afternoon the early floor shows broke out their tired strippers and worn-out jokes and we spent more time in these places than any of the others. By the time we had hit the Orino Bar it was almost an accidental stop and not a deliberate one, but we made a show of studying the menu pasted on the window, decided to try the local food and went on in. It was the first time we had eaten all day and the two mock drunks behind us in the white suits the businessmen wore were glad to see us pick a table, sit down and order.

  The Orino Bar wasn’t like the others. From all appearances it was an established institution patronized by the residents. Native stone and timber had gone into its construction and time had weathered it until it had a flavor of old Spain itself. The waiters were elderly and gracious, the single bartender across the room a heavy-set man with an archaic white moustache and two medals pinned to his jacket. When he walked he limped, and when he looked, he watched. His eyes barely touched us, then focused on the pair in the white suits, hardened a little until he caught the direction of their seated positions and watched us with another degree of interest.

  And now the pattern had to be set.

  Three drinks for me did it. I insisted the waiter have one with us, sent another to the bartender who mixed them so admirably and waved back his thanks when he saluted me with his drink. A little old man sitting by himself over a bowl of chili got a bottle of wine that lit his face up with a multitude of “gracias.”

  Then the show came on and the pattern was formed and I was getting drunk. They thought.

  A four-piece orchestra had set itself up to the left of the small stage, a soft combo that lent a Spanish flavor to every piece it played. After the third number I sent them a bottle of champagne and got a “thank you crazy American” smile from all of them.

  There were only three acts, a tenor soloist, a mediocre magician who relied more on his dirty jokes than on his feats for the applause, and a fiery, dark-skinned blonde blues singer, named Rosa Lee, with a body so fully in bloom it looked about to burst. She wore a two-piece halte
r and full skirt outfit, and when she whirled in tempo to the music the skirt flared out to show the loveliest pair of dancer’s legs I had seen in a long time.

  This one the crowd didn’t want to let go and Kim and I were finished dinner and went into another round of drinks while she was still going.

  And then she went into an old number called “Green Eyes.”

  Kim saw my sudden interest and leaned toward me. “What is it?”

  “Our contact.”

  “How do you know?”

  “The song. Art Keefer and I use it as a recognition signal. Something left over from the war when that band of us were working behind the lines.”

  “Nostalgia?”

  “No,” I said, “just habit. It’s one of the things you never forget.”

  Kim gave me a small smile. “Your Rosa Lee was never in any war. She couldn’t be over twenty-five.”

  “Art has her set up here for his own business.”

  “And would that be something like yours ... stealing forty million dollars?”

  I could feel my jaws go tight. “Knock it off, Kim. What he does is his own business. I told you he had nothing to do with that job.”

  “Tell me about the others.”

  “I thought you checked them out,” I said nastily. “Your Intelligence figured him for being killed, so they can’t be too damn bright.”

  “Perhaps they never had any reason for suspecting otherwise.”

  “They didn’t. Art just prefers it that way.”

  “Two others were reported dead too,” she insisted.

  I reached for my drink and put half of it away before I said, “Carey got it in an explosion. There wasn’t enough left of him to identify. Art and I saw him go and they had to take our word for it. Malcolm Hannah couldn’t outrun a train on a bridge he was blowing and went down with the wreckage and a couple of thousand other bodies in the Nazi troop movement.”

  “And Sal Dekker?”

  “Caught and imprisoned in a concentration camp. Tortured but was unable to reveal any future operations because we never knew about them until we were briefed prior to their execution. He escaped, got tangled in a land mine, was badly hurt, but lucky enough to be rescued by some friendly farmers and turned over to Allied forces just as the war ended. He spent a few years in an Army hospital, then went to Australia.”

  “So you could have had help,” Kim said. She wouldn’t let the thing alone.

  “Not Dekker, sugar,” I told her. “He was the only one of us who truly hated the whole business. We enjoyed every minute of it. All he wanted to do was be a farmer. He’s got that now.”

  “But that brings us back to you.”

  “How about that?” I said.

  On the stage Rosa Lee had come to the end of her routine in a burst of applause. I waved the waiter over, showed him the magic in a ten-dollar bill and asked him to invite the little lady to our table for a drink.

  The bill went into his pocket while he told me that ordinarily the performers didn’t share the guests’ tables, but since the señorita was present it would possibly be all right and went away to get her. All the booze I had been buying for everybody else made the request look like a standard American habit anyway, so watching Rosa Lee hip-swinging to our table didn’t come as a surprise. Another two bottles of champagne to the orchestra kept them playing happily and loud enough to drown out our conversation.

  “Rosa Lee,” I said. “My wife Kim, and I’m Morgan ... Winters. Sit down. You were pretty good up there.” She tucked her skirt under her and slid into the chair I held out for her.

  “Drink?”

  “Manhattan, please.”

  I passed the order on to the waiter and toasted her with my glass. “Liked your song ‘Green Eyes’ up there. Nice style.”

  Her eyes came alive. “Really? Strange that you should enjoy such an old number.”

  “I have a friend that likes it too. Art Keefer.”

  “I see.”

  The waiter placed her drink in front of her and she tasted it, approved, and took a bigger sip. I said, “Has Art alerted you?”

  “Yes. What is it you need?”

  “Access to a radio transmitter.”

  “I live at 177 Palm Drive. A transmitter and receiver are installed in the area over the garage in the back. Anything else?”

  “Information from the States. A check on a dead woman named Bernice Case. Have Art contact Joe Jolley, who may have something on it by now. Tell him it’s urgent and to expedite. Got it?”

  “Clear.”

  “Now, is there any word going around about Victor Sable?”

  “The one in the Rose Castle?” Her face drew into a serious expression when I nodded. “It isn’t wise to ask questions about that one. For some reason he is in a special section under maximum security, a new place just built.”

  “How would you know?”

  “A guard ... a cousin of a friend of mine. He was drunk and boasting one night and mentioned it. This Sable ... he is important enough to be under the personal attention of Carlos Ortega. All the guards in that section are personally responsible to him.”

  “I’ll want somebody who knows about the new modifications to the prison.”

  Rosa thought a moment, then bobbed her head. “There is one who can be bought. The cousin of my friend, a Juan Fucilla.”

  “That could be trouble. If we could buy him he could sell out to somebody else.”

  “Only at the risk of his life, señor. He will be made to understand that.”

  “All right, I’ll take your word for it. Set up a meeting with him as soon as possible.”

  “Tonight? Say ten o’clock?”

  “That will be fine. Where?”

  “Perhaps it had better be at my house. By then I will have contacted Art Keefer with your message and the transmitter will be available if you wish additional information.” She paused and studied my face. “The Rose Castle, señor ... it is virtually impregnable.”

  “How tight is the security?”

  “Impossible to break without a direct attack by heavy forces. Even then, they have orders to kill Sable if such a thing occurs.” She looked down at her hands as if studying her fingers. “Tell me, is this the reason why you are here?”

  I said, “Yes,” and Kim’s hand tightened on my forearm in warning. I shook it off gently. “Rosa’s on our side, kid. We can’t play this in the dark.”

  Rosa agreed with a nod. “You are ... agents?”

  “Of a sort.”

  “This is a priority mission?”

  “Top.”

  “We will do everything possible if it means we may be able to overthrow this regime.”

  “How many people have you got available?”

  “Key government people are in hiding. About two dozen are trained and experienced in the military phases of what may be done. We have deliberately kept the force small to avoid infiltration and for mobility. The people, of course, cannot be counted on until there has been a definite success by our group, then they will rally. At the moment they are kept in fear by Ortega’s mercenaries.”

  “And the Commie influence?”

  “They are waiting. We are not yet important enough to risk an international incident, but if they can move in subtly, they will, of course. Ortega has been cultivating them.”

  “When are you planning to move?”

  Rosa’s smile had a wry twist to it. “Whenever a situation arises that will unite the people and force the dictatorship out. That is why we are willing to cooperate with you.”

  I nodded. “We’ll try to give it to you,” I said. “One other thing ... Art Keefer train your military group?”

  “Personally.”

  “Good. I know his routine. I figured as much.”

  “One thing more, señor. You are being watched at this moment. They are Ortega’s men under the command of Russo Sabin.”

  “Yeah, I know. I hope they enjoyed their dinner.”

  She stood up
then, shook hands with us both and walked away smiling, saying hello to some of the regular customers on the way. For another half hour I played the good-time Charlie, left a fat tip for the waiter and paid the bill. On the way out I swayed a little, said so long to everybody around, laughed at their good-natured replies and even went to the trouble of including Ortega’s men in the fun and watched them smile back uncomfortably.

  Outside, we caught a cab and when I leaned back against the cushions Kim looked at me curiously and said, “What’s the matter?”

  “There was something funny back there.”

  “Oh?”

  “I made a big enough ass out of myself to get everybody looking at me.”

  “You succeeded admirably.”

  “Not quite.”

  Kim frowned and waited.

  “One made quite a point of not looking at me,” I said.

  They had done a better job of shaking the room down this time. Both pieces of thread I had used on the suitcase to tell if it had been opened were seemingly untouched, but they had missed the third gimmick, a tiny splinter of metal on the lock itself that was straightened out when it was flipped up.

  Kim waited until I lifted the leather facing on the bottom of the suitcase and extracted the Miami bankbook and the safe-deposit-box key before she asked, “You think they found them?”

  “Sure they did. They’ll duplicate the key and forge my signature.”

  “If it was too easy they’ll begin to suspect something.”

  “I doubt it,” I told her. “We haven’t been here long enough to stash something away with any degree of surety. The bag was specially made to hold this stuff and it was a good stunt. Ordinarily, nobody would have uncovered it.”

  “At least it will give us a little more time if they fall for it.”

  “We can’t afford to wait, baby. Don’t play these guys down. Ortega will have me hooked good when he finds out this is a decoy.”

  “How do you plan to move?”

  “I’ll know in the morning. Tonight I’m going to see this Juan Fucilla and get the new layout of the Rose Castle and find out what’s turned up on Bernice Case. You’re going to stay here....”