The Spanish Connection (2 page)

"By a foreigner," said the store owner, a man with a fat belly and a smiling face. González.

"A tourist?"

"Can you describe him?"

González shrugged. "About your height. Brown hair. Brown eyes. A thin man. Nervous."

That was all.

I drew Juana aside in the hotel lobby as we waited for the cab to pick us up and take us to the airport.

"He was here two days ago," I told her.

"So?"

"How long have you been here?"

Tour."

"You think he figured out who you are?"

Her eyes narrowed. She took it as an insult. She was Latin and beautiful and full of fire. "I do not think so!" she said indignantly.

I had not meant it as an insult.

"What were you working on before you were contacted for this assignment?"

"A drug drop."

"Smash it?"

She nodded, her eyes lowered.

"All of it?"

"Yes." Her chin lifted defiantly.

"One got away?"

"Maybe so," she said noncommittally.

I turned and glanced out the doorway at the top of the dry-goods store.

"Yes," I agreed. "I think maybe so."

Her face knotted in fury.

I grasped her elbow. The cab had come. Lucky Nick. Saved by the Ensenada Taxicab Company.

"Let's go, Juana. Next stop, Washington, D.C."

Very authoritarian. Very commanding.

Meekly she climbed in the cab flashing a nice piece of thigh. But I barely noticed it.

Hawk sat at the console of AXE's screening-room control panel, pushing buttons and setting dials. One button for sound. One button for tapes. One button for 16 mm film. One button for live television. One button for old black-and-white films. One button for slides. Or, if you wanted to rest your eyes, one button for a soft feminine voice reading out intelligence estimates.

The conversation up to this point had been casual chit-chat. I have erased it all from my mind. I only remember that I could take, and did take, Juana Rivera visually. Something about her thoughts, however, seemed preconditioned, pretested, and sterile.

But she was beautiful and I have an affinity for beautiful women. I thought, "If only I could erase her voice, the way Hawk could erase a tape he did not want to hear."

The lights went completely out and there was the picture in front of us on a screen that had magically appeared on the wall.

"Enrico Corelli," a woman's bland voice announced over the picture flashed on the screen. It was a still photograph, taken perhaps fifteen years ago, and blown up from a most minute portion of some larger picture. The background scene was the rotunda of the Vatican.

"Photographed circa 1954," the voice continued. "This is the last remaining photograph of Corelli. The other photographs of him have been bought off for large sums of money. Investigation cannot prove that the money comes from the Mafia treasury. But that's what is believed."

I took a long, hard look at the photograph. There was almost nothing to distinguish the face from any other. The features were quite ordinary, the hair dark, the chin firm, the face shape without distinction. I memorized it the best I could, but because it had been blown up so many times from such a small piece of grainy film, there was almost nothing there I could concentrate on.

A map flashed on the screen. It was a map of Corsica. There was a circle drawn around the town of Basria.

"It is established that Enrico Corelli lives here in a suburb of Basria, Corsica, in a villa dating back to the Napoleonic era. He has a staff of a dozen servants, and two bodyguards. He lives with a woman named Tina Bergson.

"Corelli is now forty-five years of age. He had worked for the Italian government in Rome, but he was dismissed after a very few months. He was married briefly, but his wife died of pneumonia during the time Corelli was out of work. In disgust he began working for members of a ring of forgers and thieves — exiles from the United States who had been born in Sicily and who had been members of the Mafia in New York and Chicago. He became a good enforcer and a very good businessman for them. When the drug chain was established, he was one of the first men to set up a flow point near Naples.

"The drug chain flourished in the 1960s and at the end of that time, Corelli had become the key figure in the Mafia's entire chain.

"He has had various mistresses since then. One tried to kill him when he dropped her for another woman. She was later found drowned in the Bay of Naples."

The map disappeared and a palatial yacht, about 180 feet long, filled the screen in a beautiful color slide.

"This is Corelli's pleasure yacht, the
Lysistrata.
It flies the flag of France. Corelli considers himself a citizen of Corsica, even though he was born in Milan."

Now a picture of a large villa appeared on the screen.

"Corelli's house. Although he has only two bodyguards to keep his own person secure, he has a half dozen gunmen patrolling the estate at all times."

A new picture flashed on. A body lay in the weeds. It had been shot several times. The corpse was unrecognizable, but from the appearance of the remains, I decided that the slugs that hit it had been dumdums — ordinary bullets sliced across the point in an X. A dumdum slug mushrooms into a cutting, destroying shape when it enters its target.

"This was an agent of France named Emil Ferenc. He had tried to penetrate the Villa Corelli, as the estate is called. He was apparently discovered by the patrols and killed."

Then picture of desolate, desertlike countryside appeared on the screen. The lens zoomed in on a figure standing near a stately Lombardy poplar, the only tree of any size in sight As the figure grew bigger, it could be seen that the man was of indeterminate age, but rather tall and powerfully built. The face was in shadow.

"Enrico Corelli. This is the closest anyone has succeeded in photographing him for the past ten years. The picture was taken by telescopic lens from a secure vantage point on an opposite hill. Although the face is indistinguishable, the man's body can be seen clearly. Estimates from the computer put his weight at about 182, his height at 6 feet, his stance erect, and his health excellent"

The screen darkened. Then a motion picture started up. It was a scene at the beach, possibly the French Riviera. A stunning blonde girl in a miniscule bikini paraded across the sand, swinging her hips, long blonde hair swinging about her shoulders. Momentarily she stopped and turned, as if someone had spoken to her. She looked past the camera and smiled.

"Tina Bergson. She is twenty-three. Born in Sweden, she moved to Rome where she had a brief, but unsuccessful motion picture career. Then, two years ago, she moved to Switzerland, where she involved herself in money manipulation, apparently for the Mafia, or for some organization like the Mafia. She was caught but never brought to trial. A great deal of money is said to have changed hands to help her escape Swiss authorities.

"Soon after this, she turned up in the household of Enrico Corelli. Corelli has not married her, but she is his constant companion. She speaks Swedish, French, Italian, and Spanish, as well as English. Her IQ is said to be 145 by actual test, made when she filled out an application to be an employee of a Swiss bank. She is an excellent skier."

The motion picture now showed her on skis, flashing down a slope. I had to admit that she was very good. No wonder she wanted to spend her winter months near a ski slope; she seemed to love the sport.

Another map came on the screen. It showed the world on a Mercator Projection, with a line running from the Near East to Turkey, and from Turkey to Sicily, and from Sicily to Corsica, up to the Riviera, back to Corsica, and then to Portugal, from there to Cuba, on to Central Mexico, and over to San Diego in California.

The drug chain.

"There have been many changes in the basic drug chain over the past few years. Generally, the hard drugs start in the Orient and come west across the Mediterranean, where they are processed. Control of this chain is anchored in Corsica, the stop just before the all-important processing on the Riviera. The drugs then go back to Corsica and on to Cuba, via one of three stops: Portugal, Morocco, or Algeria."

A new map. It showed Corsica again.

"From this area the lines of distribution extend back to the Near East and forward to the final destination in the West. The money from the West comes here, where it is then distributed to the links in the chain."

The lens zeroed in on the map, showing Corelli's estate in the suburbs of Basria circled.

"Rico Corelli is the man in control of the chain. He takes his orders from Sicily, where the second-in-command of the Mafiosi controls the eastern half of the chain. The Don in the West controls the rest of the chain, plus the distribution."

The picture faded out and the lights came up.

We sat there in silence for a moment.

Hawk cleared his throat "Well?"

"Interesting," I said.

"Academic," Juana said.

"I agree with her," I went on.

Hawk frowned. "It's just a briefing."

"What about Corelli?" Juana asked.

Hawk closed his eyes and swayed back and forth in the comfortable swivel chair.

"The Mafiosi have become dissatisfied with the profits from the drug program," Hawk said finally. "Six months ago they began to send inside men around to check up on the chain's system. Corelli's take was considerable — too much, according to the U.S. Don. But the Sicily second could devise no way to correct the situation. At a high-level meeting it was decided that Corelli would have to go. One man was sent to hit him, but he vanished from sight You saw what happened to the so-called Trench agent' who tried to infiltrate the estate. That was the man.

"Then the Mafiosi Capos decided to attack Corelli through Tina Bergson. A detective claiming to be from Switzerland tried to arrest her one day in Basria on an old Swiss charge. But one of Corelli's bodyguards interfered and saved Tina. He then delivered the detective to a nearby beach, tied him up and let him wait for high tide to drown him. The man escaped and left Corsica, never to return."

I held up a hand.

"Nick?"

"How do we know all this?"

"Corelli told us."

"Directly?"

Hawk sighed. "We have a man close to Corelli, although he has never
seen
him. Corelli let out the information on his own initiative."

"Why?" Juana asked.

"He said he wanted to get out for good."

"To save himself and the girl?" I asked.

"Exactly. And get a safe house in the States."

"In return for…?"

"The whole line of command, the proper chain, and the way it works."

"How do we know it isn't a trick?" I asked.

"We don't." Hawk opened his eyes lazily. "That's where you come in." He turned to Juana.

She nodded.

"With your expertise, you have to find out if Corelli is giving us the truth — or is leading us down the garden path."

I sighed. Sometimes Hawk's diction is hopelessly Victorian.

Juana paid no attention to words. "I'll find out."

"Has anything been set up?" I asked.

"There is to be a meeting at Sol y Nieve. A ski resort in Spain. I told you about that?"

"Briefly"

Hawk leaned back. "Every year Tina Bergson goes to this particular ski resort, and Corelli goes with her. They spend about a month."

"He goes there as Rico Corelli?"

"No. We don't know what name he uses. But we do know they always go. And Corelli wants to meet there."

"It could be a set-up," I murmured.

"Certainly," said Hawk. "That's why you're there, Nick. That's why AXE is in the picture."

"Anticipating a hit."

He nodded. "Suppose the Mafiosi were aware of Corelli's plans. Wouldn't they love to get our number-one enforcer
and
our number-one drug expert?"

I rubbed my chin. "How do we make the contact?"

Hawk said, "We have a man in Malaga. He has a boy at Sol y Nieve. Corelli's bodyguards will approach him. You meet our man in Malaga and he will set up the meeting with the boy at the resort. Then you will meet Corelli face to face."

I nodded. "And then?"

"Then Miss Rivera will take over*

"Have you prepared our covers?"

"AXE Identification has the papers. You'll still be George Peabody, but now you're a professional photographer."

"Sir, I can't even operate a Brownie, much less a Hasselblad!"

"These cameras today are foolproof! Besides, well teach you the basics. And you, Miss Rivera, are a photographer's model. Your papers are all made up. Burn them after you memorize your backgrounds."

"Do I pose in the nude?" Juana asked.

Hawk was shocked. His blue eyes widened. He was the last of the old Puritans, a totally repressed man in a society where sexual freedom is the rule. "My dear girl!"

"Would
you pose in the nude?" I asked quickly.

"Of course," she replied. "In a professional sense. When I play a part, I play it to the hilt."

Hawk's face had changed color. It was very red. He was staring down at his hands in an agony of embarrassment "If you're
quite
through," he interposed.

I grinned. "Go on."

"I know you won't mind that we've set up your cover as a husband-and-wife team," he said quickly, his eyes bright.

"Sir!" That was me exclaiming.

"Mr. and Mrs. George Peabody, of Millers Falls, Minnesota."

"I love it!" Juana said softly.

"I loathe it!" I growled. "It's too contrived!
And
it causes complications!"

"But it enables Miss Rivera to operate more easily — if she must." Hawk's face turned red once again.