The Spanish Connection (7 page)
"He's miles away by now," I said. "I'm afraid we may as well forget him."
He was studying me closely. "I don't recognize you, old chap. CIA? Military Intelligence?"
I said calmly, "I'm an American tourist. What are you talking about?"
He laughed. His adam's apple bobbed up and down as his head went back. He was a big, handsome man in a typically tweedy British way. "You don't have the foggiest notion, do you?"
He sighed. "Damn it all. I'm Parson. Barry Parson. British subject. On holiday in Spain. And you?"
"George Peabody. Likewise, I am sure."
He chuckled irritatingly. "Bullshit."
"Indeed, yes," I responded, also chuckling. "It's dark in here. Do you want to stake him out?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"Stake him out. You know. Wait here for him."
"Oh. Maintain surveillance? Affirmative. I agree with you completely, old chap."
"Call me George."
He snorted. "George, then."
I shrugged. "We'll wait." I walked over to the bed and sat on the edge of it.
He strolled past me and sank onto the pillow, his back propped against the headboard. I could hear him fumbling in his pocket. He pulled out a pack of Spanish cigarettes, put one in his mouth, and lighted it quickly with a long wax match. "Oh. Sorry. Smoke?"
I shook my head. "Gave it up."
"How did you ever get onto him?" He asked suddenly.
"Who?" I grimaced because I knew how foolish it all sounded. But there was always security.
"The Mosquito," said Parson, as if I were totally incompetent.
"Oh. Well." I was trying to see my way clear to the proper cover story. "There is this woman in Malaga," I said. "She is properly married to a businessman of my acquaintance. However, when her husband began playing around in Switzerland with his mistress, the woman decided to have a fling with the man you call The Mosquito. Now he is blackmailing her, threatening to tell about their affair to the husband. I am acting on behalf of the Señora to force The Mosquito to cease and desist his blackmail scheme."
Cigarette smoke rose into the air. It was dark, but I could see that Parson was grinning there, bemusedly. He chuckled again, very softly, very contemptuously.
"You have a knack for the cliché," he said conversationally. "George? George, is it necessary?"
"You asked for the true story. That is the true story." I turned to him. "And you?"
"Ah. Me." He took a deep breath. "Well, The Mosquito is known to me in many capacities, but not as a great lover."
"Well," I began diffidently.
"Mainly he is known to me as a
pistola prezzolata.
That's fractured Latin for Tut man/ His real name is Alfreddo Moscato, hence The Mosquito. He has been sent in from Rome to do a job here in Spain, but I do not know what job. The Mosquito is of Neapolitan origin"
pistola prezzolata.
That's fractured Latin for Tut man/ His real name is Alfreddo Moscato, hence The Mosquito. He has been sent in from Rome to do a job here in Spain, but I do not know what job. The Mosquito is of Neapolitan origin"
"But why are you hunting for him?"
"It was primarily a nonmilitary matter at first, but it has become a paramilitary matter. The Mosquito ran across one of our people in Rome six months ago and killed him."
"One of your people?"
"Military Intelligence," said Parson stiffly. "We have been concerned over the drug traffic along the Mediterranean. The armed forces are full of it. We're been trying to break it up since the end of the Second World War. And we were onto the real pipe line, when Justin was killed by Moscato." Parson paused thoughtfully.
I nodded. "I see. Sorry."
"I was in Spain last week when we had word that The Mosquito was here. I tried to search him out, but failed. Then, just this evening, I was running out a lead and found you talking with a prostitute I was supposed to interrogate. I simply questioned her after she returned to the discothèque and came here on the double.
"Military Intelligence?" I mused. "MI-6?"
"Five, actually." He smiled. 'That's very perceptive of you to think MI-6. Six is espionage, of course. And five is counterespionage. Right? Now I won't bother you about your particular identification tag, because I know you Yanks are terribly sensitive about security and all that. It shouldn't make our relationship complicated, however. I propose we work in tandem and try to get our man Moscato."
"What are your orders re Moscato?" I asked.
"I beg your pardon? Oh. Actually, The Mosquito is a most bothersome player. I have been told to total him."
"Total him?"
"Yes. Eliminate him."
"Who do you think is behind him?" I asked.
"The Mafiosi, undoubtedly. He has done jobs for the Fathers many times before."
"I'm sorry about Justin."
"Justin?" He presented a blank face to me.
"The man who was killed. Your…"
"Oh. Justin Delaney. Yes. Poor Justin." Parson sighed. "Oh well, he knew what he was getting into when he joined up, didn't he?"
I stared at him in the darkness. That was just like the British, I thought. Stiff upper lip and all that.
"What do you get from your patron?" he asked me sardonically.
"Patron?"
"The errant wife?" He paused. "Have you taken The Mosquito's place in her, uh, affections?"
Oh. My cover story. "It is strictly a matter of chivalry," I said with a smile.
"You Yanks
do
have an excessive streak of old-fashioned gallantry in you. Good chap!"
do
have an excessive streak of old-fashioned gallantry in you. Good chap!"
We lapsed into silence.
An hour later we decided Moscato would not return.
Two hours later we were having drinks in my hotel room. It was «Barry» and «George» then. I was still suspicious, but decided that he might lead to information.
* * *Juana stood in the open doorway in her robe, hair hanging down around her shoulders, eyes full of sleep, and a frown on her lovely face.
"What vision of pulchritude is this?" Parson cried out, waving a glass of cognac about.
"It's Juana," I said. "Greetings, Juana."
"Is this the
Señora
you mentioned to me?" Parson asked with elaborate gestures. He was almost as drunk as I was.
Señora
you mentioned to me?" Parson asked with elaborate gestures. He was almost as drunk as I was.
"No, indeed," I said. "This is — is my wife!" Parson turned to me to stare. Then he looked round to gape at Juana.
"I say, now! You have excellent taste, old man! Excellent taste!"
I stood up and bowed. "Thank you, Barry. Oh, Juana. Come in, please. I am sorry to be so late. I ran into an old buddy of mine."
Parson leered. "Yes indeed, my dear. Barry Parson is the name."
"This is Juana Peabody," I said.
Juana was awake now. She came into the room glowering at me. "What happened?"
"I'll fill you in later, wife," I said, reminding her of her status in front of Parson. "Suffice to say, I ran into my old pal Barry Parson from Six."
"Five," said Parson.
"Five and one is six, like I said." I smiled. "Join us, Juana?"
"It's late, and I'm tired."
"You don't look tired," Parson said, walking over to her and looking down at her closely. "You look very wide awake." He reached down and tipped her chin up and gave her a quick kiss on the lips. "You see?"
I closed my eyes, waiting for the explosion. It never came. When I opened my eyes again I saw her smiling up at Parson, smoking a cigarette that had magically gotten into her mouth. Spanish smoke rose from the glowing tip of it.
I sank back on the couch, stunned. What had happened to Liberated Juana?
Juana was looking up into Parsons eyes now, her body loose and curved toward him. "You're British, aren't you?"
"The Shaggy Old Lion in Parson!" he said with a laugh. He put his arm around her. "You Yank types provide a superbreed of female."
She did not shake him off. "Five?" Juana repeated. "What does five mean?"
"Military Intelligence," I said. "Counterespionage, eh, Barry?"
Parson nodded. "Precisely, old man. I say, don't you two want to come over to my digs for a little drink?"
Juana smiled brightly. "Love to."
I looked up weakly. "Okay."
"You can come too, George."
"I say," I said as heartily as I could. I was beginning to sound like David Niven.
* * *I had to hand it to Juana. She played him as skillfully as he played her.
There was a light burning in the front room of Barry Parson s villa. It was a nicely furnished place, decorated in the usual Spanish seacoast style — throw rugs, tapestries, thick wooden chairs, couches, and tables.
I was still playing it drunk as we entered the room. Because it was the closest thing, I made for the couch and sank into the end of it, throwing my head back and yawning prodigiously.
Juana looked at me, and then turned to smile at Parson. He glanced my way, grinned, and took Juana into his arms. They kissed long and deep. I watched them through the slits of my eyes and thought again what a consummate artist Juana Rivera was.
"Que bruto! En nuestra casa! Mil rayos te patten!"
I lifted my head. A woman stood in the doorway, arms folded across her chest, staring at Parson and Juana. She was a lovely young woman, with brown hair, dark hazel eyes, and a creamy complexion.
Parson held Juana from him, and turned to the woman in the doorway. "Elena," he said. "This is George, and this is Juana."
"Humph!" snorted Elena.
Juana glanced at Parson, and then back at the woman. "Who are you?" she asked quietly.
"It's my…" Parson turned to me and seemed to wink"…wife."
I nodded. "How do you do, Elena?"
"Elena Morales," she said, and smiled. She turned to Parson, lifted her chin, looked down her nose at him, and came across to plump herself down next to me on the couch.
Juana's face clouded for an instant, but then cleared magically as Parson squeezed her and took her out of the room by way of the door through which Elena had entered. A moment later I heard him rattling glasses and bottles. More drinks!
Elena's robe had fallen away from her shoulders. She was wearing a thin nightgown under the robe, and I could see the contour of her breast clearly. She had a full build, and was exquisitely shaped from her head to her ankles.
"You really married to Parson?" I asked.
She grinned impishly. "Why you want to know?"
"Because I'm curious."
"I will keep you curious."
"You won't say?"
"I don't think it matters much." She reached up and tweaked my nose. "I suspect you know that."
I reached out and gripped her shoulders.
"Hey, that wife of yours," she said. "She's pretty. I think Barry likes her."
"You come on strong, lady," I said as she leaned against me, the robe opening conveniently.
"I don't understand what you say," she laughed.
"There is always too much talk, anyway," she observed judiciously. "Don't you think so, George?" She pronounced it "Hor-hay."
"Yeah."
We came together like some land of thunderclap, and I remembered hearing the bottles and the glasses clanking in the next room. But that was about all. Whatever Parson was mixing in there never got into any glasses for Elena and me. I did not see Parson and Juana after that.
Elena made no comment about the lack of liquor, either. She was too busy showing me how much I had missed all my life without her.
She got a big kick out of my shoulder holster and my.38 Luger. She tried to unstrap it and everything got all mixed up. It was the last thing I had on, and more than she had on. Somehow she got the holster off me and threw it on the tile floor.
I felt —
defenseless
— without it I almost said "naked."
defenseless
— without it I almost said "naked."
She reached out for the lamp switch and killed the light.
I noticed the rattle of bottles had ceased in the next room.
SevenTo get to the Sol y Nieve ski resort, you take a winding road out of Malaga and up the southern slopes of the Sierra Nevada. The Hotel Sierra Nevada, where we were registered, lay at the bottom of the Prado Llano, and the suit Juana and I shared looked out onto the ski run.
The white slope of the Borreguilas divides the ski run about midway between the Picacho de Veleta and the Prado Llano. The lower cable-car from the Prado Llano ends and the upper cable-car begins at the Borreguilas. The engine room
is
nearby.
is
nearby.
Two parallel
barrancas
contain the lower ski runs from the Borreguilas to the Prado Llano. They are separated by a knife-edge ridge of granite and mica, where only small patches of snow are visible even after the heaviest snowfall.
barrancas
contain the lower ski runs from the Borreguilas to the Prado Llano. They are separated by a knife-edge ridge of granite and mica, where only small patches of snow are visible even after the heaviest snowfall.
The cable car running from the Prado Llano to the Borreguilas is suspended over the main barranca where the easy runs are located. The more difficult runs are to the east in the neighboring gulley.
I sat out on the balcony that ran all the way around the hotel, watching the skiers, but I soon decided I would rather ski than watch. But just to enforce my cover, I took half a dozen pictures with the Rolleiflex 1 had brought along — gratuitously supplied by AXE's Prop Section — making sure the patrons below saw me.
It had been a tiring drive, and soon I went inside, kicked off my shoes and lay back on the bed with a weary sigh. But I couldn't sleep. My mind was racing over the events of the past couple of days.
It was now two days after the killing of Rico Corelli's gemini — his stand-in — by The Mosquito. Absolutely nothing had happened in the two days following my meeting with Barry Parson and Elena Morales. But I had kept in touch with Mitch Kelly, and several communications had come in from Hawk:
ITEM: Under no circumstances try to communicate directly with Rico Corelli. AXE's agreement with him stands firm. No trace of double-dealing from his end. Wait until you hear from him by way of Tina Bergson.ITEM: Our information shows that Moscato is not now in Malaga or Torremolinos. Do not — repeat, do not — try to follow him. Keep a watchful eye out for him.ITEM: The meeting at Sol y Nieve is still in the go stage.ITEM: Information requested on Barry Parson is nonexistent. MI-5 will not divulge whether or not there is such a person. Obviously the name is a pseudonym; MI-6 will probably not divulge his identity until his current mission is over. Sorry but there is neither confirmation nor denial on him or on bis role in this scheme.ITEM: Moscato is a hired killer who has been employed by the Mafia for years. He also makes free-lance hits.ITEM: Elena Morales — not much can be found out about her. She has no record of prior involvement in espionage, counterespionage, or undercover work of any land for the Spanish Government. However, she might not be Spanish at all, but French or Italian. No leads.ITEM: Confirmation on Moscato's presence in Mexico at the time the sniper attacked you in Ensenada. Also, there is a record of his having made a flight to Europe at the same time you did, although not via Iberia.
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