Agent Counter-Agent (4 page)

"You were told to keep your hands up!" said the man who had hit me. "We will search you for identification."

The one with the gun held his revolver near my face. "Now you will sit just like that, with your hands supporting you, on the pavement, while we search you."

I'd had enough. I was tired of having to work with an army of blundering security people, and I was especially fed up with the stupidity of these two plainclothes policemen.

I kicked at the gunman's ankle, and the bone cracked audibly. At the same time I grabbed at his gun hand and pulled hard. I didn't care if the damned gun went off and gave everyone a heart attack. But it didn't go off. The policeman went sailing over me and landed hard on his face. I grabbed the gun as he went past and wrenched it from his grasp. The other man dived at me. I rolled away from him, and he hit the pavement. I brought the handle of the gun down onto the back of his neck, and he collapsed in a heap beside me. I got to my knees just as the first man was trying to get to his feet. I stuck his revolver into his face, and he froze.

With my other hand, I pulled my I.D. out of my pocket and stuck it up close to his face so that he could read it. The second policeman was struggling to a sitting position, trying to focus on me.

"Do you read English?" I asked the first one.

He stared at me for a minute, breathing hard, then glanced at his crumpled companion. When he looked back at me, there was a new humility in his face. "Yes," he said. He studied my card briefly. "You are with AXE?"

"That's what I've been trying to tell you," I said impatiently.

He raised his dark eyebrows. "It seems an error has been made."

I got up, and he struggled to his feet. "Now let's see your card," I said quietly. He got it out and handed it to me. While I checked it over, he helped his companion up. The man couldn't put any weight on his right foot. When he realized his ankle was broken, some of the hostility came back into his face.

The I.D. checked out. They were secret police, all right. I handed the card back, along with the second man's gun. He accepted it silently.

"Okay," I said. "Now we're both satisfied." I started to leave.

"Will you report this?" the man with the gun asked.

I sighed. "Not if you'll quit aiming those things at me," I said, pointing to the revolver. I turned and headed back toward the front of the palace. The mystery man was gone again. And being a part of this security system was really beginning to get on my nerves.

The next morning I asked Collins, the agent in charge of the CIA operation, to check with the West German Embassy to find out whether they had a girl named Ilse Hoffmann working there. It was Sunday, and the office was closed, but Collins knew the German ambassador personally and was able to call him at his home.

The ambassador said there was a girl named Ilse Hoffmann employed there, and he gave a description that convinced me she was the girl I'd met the night before. The ambassador had sent his deputy to the reception and had told him he could take another member of the staff. Probably Ilse had expressed an interest in going, and the deputy had taken her.

I tried to remember who'd been sitting beside Ilse at the dinner. I seemed to remember that she'd been flanked by middle-aged men. Either of them could have been the deputy. The fact that she was alone later when she approached me was not remarkable in itself. It was natural that she'd want to find more interesting company.

Collins tried to contact the deputy at his home, but there was no answer. The fellow was probably out enjoying himself on his day off.

The girl seemed to check out, but that didn't make me any less suspicious. I still had a bad feeling about this assignment. Hawk had made some recommendations to the CIA and the Venezuelan Security Police. Security now seemed tighter, but the feeling didn't go away. Hawk had it, too. It's not very scientific to have premonitions, but in my business you learn to pay attention to gut feelings. They can develop from a series of small facts that don't amount to enough to jar you on a conscious level but turn on a red light somewhere deep inside you. I don't know. I just know that I've saved my life many times by following my hunches.

Maybe it didn't have anything to do with the girl or even with the man I'd seen at the café and possibly at the palace. It might be something unrelated to them, lurking deep in the shadow of my subconscious. But the girl, and the mystery man were reason enough to be on my guard, premonitions or no premonitions.

I had lunch at a cafe near the Plaza Ibarra and just off Avenida Baralt. A parade passed while I ate, and I had a good view of it. There were dancers in costume, floats, papier-mâché heads on poles, and bands. People were out having fun, and I began to relax a little.

In early afternoon I met Hawk at the restaurant, as instructed. He was sitting outside in the sun, wearing a bright blue sport shirt, open at the neck, with a loosely knotted blue scarf. On his head he wore a navy blue beret, cocked jauntily to one side. He looked like an aging Hemmingway character. I suppressed a smile and sat down across from him at the small table.

"Make yourself comfortable, Nick, and don t make any cracks about the get-up. I'm trying to blend into the holiday crowd."

It was still the same old Hawk under the beret. He pulled out one of his long Cuban cigars, bit a chunk off one end, and spat it out. Then he stuck the cigar in his mouth and turned it slowly, moistening it. The cigar seemed incongruous with the beret and shirt. Finally he lighted it and began sucking it into glowing life. It was a kind of ritual with him, and it never ceased to amaze me.

"You're beautiful, sir," I said, despite his admonition.

He shot a hard look at me. "Not as beautiful as that raven-haired beauty I saw you dancing with last night. What do you think this is — a paid vacation?"

"She insisted," I said. "She seemed quite interested in me."

"Yes, I know," he said. "You've either got it or you haven't." He gave me a wry grin.

"Actually, she put me on my guard," I said, remembering. "I had her checked out this morning but she seems to be okay."

"Anything else interesting at the reception?" he said, working hard at the cigar. "I mean, besides the girl?"

I told him about the man and my encounter with the Venezuelan Security Police. "Of course, I can't be sure it was the same man," I said. "Or if it was, that he has anything to do with the threat. There isn't necessarily anything wrong with a man going to the same café and reception that I went to in the same day. Maybe I'm just jumpy."

A waiter came, and we both ordered Pernod. We didn't resume our conversation till he'd brought the drinks and left again.

"The girl practically asked me to meet her at the bullfight this afternoon," I said when he was gone.

Hawk's eyebrows raised. "Really?"

"She said she's an
aficionada."

Hawk began chewing on the cigar, his lean face somber, his bony frame hunched over the table. "What did you tell her?"

"I told her I'd get there if I could. But I have other things on my mind. I want to get back to the palace this afternoon to see what I can find out about my mystery man."

"That's a refreshing attitude," he said, trying not to smile. "I sometimes get the impression that you have a difficult time squeezing work into your busy sex life."

"Just stories circulated by bitter KGB men to discredit me," I smiled.

He grunted. "Actually, when you get on a case you are very tenacious. But I want you to be especially careful on this case. It may be very dangerous for you."

"Any theories?"

He sat there pensively for a minute before he spoke. The warm afternoon sun glistened on his gray hair and touched his face with color. "Nothing special. But if that man who attacked you at the training center was KGB and if he should happen to be the fellow you've seen here twice, it could mean they're setting you up for something."

"With a little luck they could have killed me at the training school."

"Maybe that wouldn't have suited their purpose," he said slowly. He looked up at me. "What time does that bullfight start?"

"At four. It's supposed to be the only event in Venezuela that starts on time."

He glanced at his wristwatch. "You have plenty of time to make it."

"You want me to meet the girl at the bullfight?"

"Yes, I do. I think we'd better find out just what her interest in you amounts to. If it's strictly amorous — well, enjoy yourself, but be discreet. If it's not, we want to know about it."

"All right," I said. "The
corrida
it is."

"Report back to me tomorrow morning. I'll be viewing the Picassos at the Museo de Bellas Artes at ten a.m. tomorrow.

"I'll be there," I said.

If you've never been to the Nuevo Circo at three-thirty p.m. on a Sunday in festival time, you'll never know what complete chaos looks like. There are so many
aficionados
milling around that it's practically impossible to walk from one point to another without having to fight your way through them. There are scalpers everywhere, selling tickets at twice or three times the normal price. Vendors of all kinds clog the open area in front of the arena, and hundreds of pickpockets are hard at work. I had a hard time finding a scalper with a ticket for the shady
barrera
section where Ilse had said she would be sitting. Front-row tickets aren't easy to come by during festival time. But finally I got a ticket and went in.

Inside the atmosphere was completely different. It was still noisy, but there was a land of hushed expectancy in the crowd, very unlike pregame time at American football games. I found my seat, which was right down by the ring, where you can see everything at close range. Just then a bugle sounded, and a man on a horse rode across the ring and doffed his hat toward the presidential box. He was the official in charge, and he was obtaining permission from the president of the bullring to proceed with the
corrida.

I looked around for Ilse, and after a few minutes, I spotted her, sitting just two sections over. She hadn't seen me. A man renting cushions came down the aisle beside me, and I bought one. Without a cushion those stone bleachers can be pretty uncomfortable. For a few minutes the two seats beside me were empty, but then an English couple came down and took them. The parade of
toreros
was over, and the band had stopped playing. A silence had fallen over the bullring. I glanced over at Ilse again, and she seemed to be looking around for me.

Then a gate opened, and a big black bull came thundering out of a chute. The bullfighters stood behind the barrier and watched somberly as the bull charged the
burladero
shield just in front of them, smashing into the wood and splintering it loudly. Ilse's favorite, Nunez, was one of the men watching. He was the first
torero
on the bill.

The English lady beside me seemed to be all right through the initial
veronicas
and
rodillazos
with the big red cape, because it was all so colorful and pretty. And she actually seemed to enjoy the graceful
banderilleros.
But she started to get pale when the bull knocked the
picador's
horse down and almost gored the
picador.
Nunez fought the bull, and his capework was good, if a little flashy. Finally he went in for the kill, and the blood flowed. On the first try the sword hit bone, and he had to pull it out. But the second attempt was more successful — the blade went in clean. Nunez'
cuadrilla
chased the bull in circles till it fell to its knees, and the
matador
finished it off with a dagger at the base of the skull. Then a team of mules came out and dragged the crimson-splattered carcass past us on the way out of the ring. By then the English lady had had enough. She was really green as her husband led her away.

Núnez was taking his bows around the ring. He had been awarded an ear more out of respect for his reputation than for his performance. He hadn't deserved it for that fight. His capework had been pretty good, but he hadn't killed the bull well. Instead of going in over the horns, which is necessary for a good kill but requires a certain amount of courage on the part of the bullfighter, Nunez had stabbed at the animal like an apprentice butcher.

After the shouting died down a little, I called to Ilse. She turned at the sound of my voice, and I waved to her.

"There are empty seats here if you'd like to join me," I yelled.

She didn't wait for a second invitation but immediately started to make her way over to me. Ilse was wearing a short suede skirt and matching vest over a sheer white blouse. As she moved, the skirt revealed her long, tanned thighs.

"I am afraid my favorite
torero
had a bad day," she said as she sat down beside me. I gave her my cushion.

"Doesn't everybody occasionally?" I smiled wryly.

She returned the smile and dazzled me. Maybe he will do better on his second bull."

"I'm sure of it," I said. "I'm sorry to have left so fast last night. But I saw a man I knew, and he was leaving."

I watched her face for a reaction, but there was none. I was sure she had seen the man, too, and I wondered if she knew him. But if she did, she wasn't showing it.

"I know that business comes before socializing," she said. "Unless the socializing is business."

I smiled. "Well said."

You can tell when a woman wants to go to bed with you, even if she's trying to hide it from you. Mostly it's the way she looks at you and the gestures she makes with her hands and body. Sometimes she comes on strongest when her conversation is anything but seductive. She can be telling you to get lost or explaining the latest theory in thermodynamics. But her body, her chemistry, always gives her away. Ilse kept talking about the fine points of bullfighting, but I could tell that she wanted me as much as I wanted her. Even if she had ulterior motives for wanting to see me, I found myself looking forward to the evening.