The Spanish Connection (10 page)

"I know all that. But he doesn't seem to ring true."

"Interesting," I mused. I had always had the same thought.

"Where were you all night?" she asked suddenly.

The waiter brought her a tray filled with a Continental breakfast and a steaming coffee pot.

"I stayed with a friend."

One eyebrow rose as she broke open a roll and buttered it. "Oh?"

"Mrs. Parson."

"If
there is a Mrs. Parson," she scoffed. "I thought you might stumble over her in the discothèque."

"So I did."

"What really happened to the contact who was killed?"

I glanced around. "The Mosquito followed me to the engine house and killed him. I learned the rendezvous point, however. I'm meeting Corelli tonight at midnight."

"Had you better talk so freely here?"

"A bug in the coffee pot?" I grinned. "I doubt it. But don't say anything in your room that you want kept confidential. I'm convinced the damned thing is bugged. I think that's how Corelli's would-be killer got onto me. Juana, did Parson say anything about Corelli?"

"Corelli?" She shook her head. "No, why?"

"I think he knows Tina Bergson."

Juana froze. "Can you be sure of that?"

"Not really." I leaned back. "Why?"

"He speaks Italian, you know. Very well."

"What's that got to do with Tina Bergson?"

"Nothing at all. I was thinking of Corelli."

"You think Parson is Italian and
knows
Corelli?"

Juana shook her head. "I don't
think
anything. I just said that he surprised me when he came out with an Italian phrase."

"What phrase?"

She colored. "I don't remember."

"But you know it was Italian?"

"He admitted it. Very cool he was, too."

"And it was accidental?"

"Very much so." Juana looked down at her plate. She had suddenly become prim and precise. I did not smile, although I was laughing inwardly. Something inadvertent in the midst of love-making, I knew that much. And he had come out with a good rich Italian phrase. Interesting. Very interesting.

"Does he ski?" I asked.

"I don't know. I mean,
should
I know?"

"I just wondered. We're going up on the slopes today, Juana. I've got to put in an appearance for the cover story. And I'd better take some pictures." "Good. I'm sick and tired of all this boudoir work."

"You seem to be bearing up under it very well," I said casually, looking her over. "In fact, I've never seen you look so — oh, satisfied, if you grasp my meaning."

She fumed. "I'll grasp your…"

"Now, now," I cautioned, gulping the remainder of my
café con leche
down.

"When are you skiing?"

"I've got to get up to my room and clean up first."

She nodded. "I'll be ready at nine-thirty."

"Nine-thirty then. We'll go to the top. Veleta. You game?"

"Sure!" Her chin came up. She was defying me. I felt better. She was still fighting for her mind and her equality. Good girl.

We lugged our equipment out onto the Prado Llano and got in one of the cable cars to take the first run up to Borreguilas.

It was a bracing day, with the sun high in the sky, and the wind carrying a bit of moisture. It would snow that night, I thought. I remembered I had smelled a bit of snow in the air the evening before. Now it would come, I was sure of that.

The cable car bounced and jerked and we sat there riding up and up into the heights of the Sierra Nevadas. You could see everywhere from there. It was getting colder and colder — rapidly. I turned around and looked down and it was the same as looking out over the edge of the world. In the vast distance the whole plain of Granada was laid out before me, although there was some haze down there, enough to kill a full panoramic view of everything.

We jumped off the cable car while the attendant held it for us, and walked across the flats outside. It felt very high here, the air thin, the cold enveloping us from all sides, and sneaking into our skins through the clothes.

We walked to the head of the ski run in silence. It was desolate country — all mica schist and snow — without a tree or bit of growth anywhere. Just snow and rock and sky. Silently I buckled on my Austrians and watched Juana as she struggled with her Canadians.

We stood there a few minutes, looking down the slope, and then I slid the goggles down from my cap, tugged the cap over my ears, and waved to her.

"You first!"

She nodded, pushed herself forward with her knees bent, and started to traverse along the steep part of the first drop.

I followed, taking it easy, and enjoying the crisp bite of the snow on the ski edges. We were in the very best of weather conditions.

We rested once and she brought out a pair of sandwiches she had brought along for their surprise value. We ate them and did not say a word between us. We just basked in the sunshine and the delight of the loneliness and the beauty of the mountainside.

We finished the sandwiches and continued on down.

It was a wonderful run.

Wonderful.

After making the lesser run down from Borreguilas, we sat around all afternoon in the hotel lounge swapping stories with Barry Parson and Elena Morales while the fire crackled and the tourists came and went. We could see the lower run — Borreguilas to the Prado Llano — outside the window, and spent our time commenting on the forms of the various skiers.

Finally I went up for a rest and shower. Dinner was a muted affair, with the usual large number of courses, and I was beginning to get a little on edge at eleven-thirty. We were still sitting around and drinking at that point.

I excused myself, went upstairs to my room and checked my Luger and stiletto. Then I got out the map of the area and checked off the route to the Veleta monument which I had seen that morning from the top of the ski run. As I said then, the government road from Granada to Motril on the Costa Del Sol ran right by the concrete structure.

The road from the Prado Llano joined the regular highway about three miles from the Prado. I marked my route north to the fork, and then southeast toward the Veleta on the highway. I put the map in my pocket, got the keys to the rented Renault and went downstairs to the lobby.

In the dining room I could see Juana still sitting there with Elena. I wondered where Parson had gone. As I stood there I looked out through the window toward the front of the hotel where the Renault was parked. Several figures were moving in from the Prado, probably from the Bar Esqui out there. One of them was Herr Hauptli.

I stepped through the front doors of the hotel into the darkness outside and he saw me, waving:

"Don't forget, we're taking that run sometime!

"I'd prefer it in daylight," I said in German.

He laughed big and pushed in through the doors into the lobby.

I climbed in the Renault. There was a cold wind blowing down from the slopes. It was cold in the car, but snug. The heat of the engine would warm it up in no time flat.

A light snow had begun falling. It was too early for it to stick, but it was falling on the icy snowy patches that were already there in the roadway. Alongside the edge of the pavement, drifts were beginning to pile up.

The Renault hummed along like a contented bird. I drove slowly and watched the bright white line in the center of the road carefully. The double lane was a narrow squeeze for two cars passing. I had watched a bus and a car have some trouble jockeying past each other during the drive up from Granada, reminding me of an elephant mating with an uncooperative antelope.

I met two cars coming toward the Prado Llano, and then came to the main road, where I turned up to follow it along the curves and switchback toward the Veleta. The snow was increasing in intensity now. It cut across the beams of light and formed a curtain in front of me. I could barely see the highway, and even though it was wider than the access road, it was not made for passing or trick driving of any land.

The Renault took the curved road easily, but I could see that the snow was beginning to catch onto the pavement just a bit. Sometimes I could not make out the edge of the highway at all.

The slope ascended steeply now, and I had to give the Renault all the gas I had. I downshifted to the lowest gear in the ratio and moved slowly and carefully through the increasing surface of snow.

Finally I saw the sign: VELETA. And beyond the sign a dirt road curved off the main road up toward the familiar concrete monument at the top of the rock outcrop.

I pushed the Renault up into the dirt road and slewed around over rocks and ice until I had come up to a level parking place apparently blasted out of solid rock. There was no car in sight.

My watch said five past twelve. I wondered what had happened to Rico Corelli. Then another thought occurred to me: had Corelli decided not to keep the rendezvous when he learned that Arturo was dead? Was Corelli even now hiding somewhere behind a rock, waiting for me to step out into the open to gun me down?

I switched off the ignition key and the Renault died. There were tire tracks all around in the refrozen slush, but they meant nothing. I shivered. It was lonely up here, the loneliest place in the mountains. It was just Corelli and I — and he had set it up that way. To kill me for Arturo's death? For Basillio di Vanessi's death?

Cautiously, I switched off the headlights. For a moment I sat there, weighing the possibilities. Then I reached inside my windbreaker and got the Luger out. There was the pocket flashlight in the dashboard compartment that I usually have with me, and I took it out and switched it on.

Then I opened the door of the Renault. The wind cut into me with chilling effect. I pulled the wind-breaker closer to me and stood by the Renault, closing the door with a solid thump. I pointed the beam of the flashlight into the night, and could see only the snow swirling toward me, lashing about in all directions at the top of the peak where the wind was hurtling in from all points of the compass.

The monument hulked there dark and silent, and I walked all the way around it before I found the blue Simca, drawn up out of sight in the rear. I had no idea how its driver had coaxed it up through the ice and frozen slush, but there it stood. I touched the hood. It was still warm.

There was a pile of building materials in the back of the monument, left by the original workmen who had completed the monument. I stood there a moment by the Simca, trying to get out of the wind, and it was there that I heard the sudden noise not far from me.

I held the Luger steadily in my hand and turned to face the direction from which the sound had come. With the wind hurtling about, tearing sound and throwing it in every direction, I was not really sure if I was facing the movement or not.

Then I heard a footstep.

I held the Luger in my hand, aimed and ready to squeeze.

"Ah, Peabody," a voice said, as if spoken through a scarf.

I did not recognize it.

But when he moved into the spot of light cast by the flashlight, I knew him instantly.

It was Barry Parson.

But now he did not have his British accent at all. He was speaking with an indeterminate kind of speech pattern that led me to believe he had after all only been acting the part of the British secret agent up to that moment.

Now
who was he?

He stepped forward from behind the pile of building material and extended his hand to shake mine.

I froze.

"Relax," said Barry Parson. "It's all right. I'm Corelli. Rico Corelli."

The snow swirled about us for a long moment and neither of us moved a muscle. It was getting colder and colder.

"Well?" he said, leaning closer, trying to see my face.

I gripped the Luger under my windbreaker, just in case. "How can I be sure?" I asked him. "First you tell me you're Barry Parson, and now you say you're Rico Corelli."

He laughed. "Come on. It must be obvious!
I'm
here, and who would be here but Rico Corelli?"

"Anybody
could be here, to answer your question. Anybody who knew about the meeting."

"Who but Rico Corelli and the kid who was killed?" he asked.

"The Mosquito.
He
might know."

"You think
I'm
The Mosquito?" Parson asked with a laugh.

"He'd be the only one who could know Corelli was meeting me here."

"Be sensible! I'm not the Mosquito!"

"You say so, but I don't know."

"If I were The Mosquito, what would I be doing here?"

"Trying to locate Corelli and kill him."

"But
I'm
Corelli."

It was getting to be a comedy routine. I shook my head resignedly. "Let's assume you are Corelli. I'm cold as hell. Let's get in my car and talk."

He smiled. "Okay." I led him around the front to the Renault.

"Nice little job," he said.

"Runs good," I said. "When you rent you can get the very best."

I opened the door with my key and got in, then reached over and opened the passenger door for him. He climbed in and slammed the door shut. The car rocked. It was still warm inside.

"Let me tell you about Basillio di Vanessi," he said after a moment of silence. "The substitution. They've been trying to get me for months."

"They?"

"Someone in the top rank of the Mafiosi," Parson said. I could not help it; I still thought of him as Barry Parson, and not as Rico Corelli.

"But how do you know that for sure?"

"I have friends there, too. In the top. The Capo of Capos wanted me out of the chain. He wanted me totaled."

"What's his name?"