THE MAN WAS SLIM and dark and Latin, and his name was Jorge Asignar. He sat across the table from Nick Velvet, studying him through narrow, uncertain eyes.
“I understand that you steal things,” he said, speaking with a pronounced accent.
“Some things,” Nick admitted. “Unusual things.” He’d been at home with Gloria, relaxing with a cold beer, when the call had come from Asignar. He disliked the man immediately, but personal feelings never entered into his professional activities. “What do you want stolen?”
Jorge Asignar smiled, showing a line of gold-capped teeth. “A baseball team.”
“A baseball team?” In his business nothing ever surprised Nick Velvet. “Any special one?”
The Latin shrugged. “I leave the choice to you. Your fee, I believe, is $20,000?”
“That’s correct, under ordinary circumstances. But for especially difficult or dangerous assignments I charge thirty thousand. With something this size I believe the larger fee would be justified.”
Asignar waved an indifferent hand. “Agreeable. Half the money now and the balance on delivery.”
“Fine.”
“Then the choice of a team and all other arrangements are yours. It must be a major league professional team, and it must be delivered intact to my country within the next two weeks.”
Nick glanced at the calendar in his wallet. Two weeks would give him till August 16th. “And what is your country?”
“The island Republic of Jabali. Not far beyond Cuba, in the Caribbean.”
“I see,” Nick said slowly. “And might I ask, what the Republic of Jabali wants with an American baseball team?”
Asignar curled his lips in a sort of smile, showing again the gold-capped teeth. “Our president, General Tras, is a great baseball fan. In past years your teams occasionally played exhibition games in Jabali, but there have been none in several years. General Tras has personally trained and equipped a Jabali national team, but they have no one to play.”
“Let me get this straight,” Nick said. “You want me to steal an entire baseball team and transport it to Jabali just so your president can have competition for his private team?”
Asignar bristled a bit. “You are well paid to perform a service, Mr. Velvet. I had understood from some satisfied customers that you never questioned the peculiarity of an assignment.”
“And I don’t. But do you realize what this theft might do to relations between Jabali and the United States? There was a time when it would have brought a boatload of Marines to your shore. Even now you could hardly escape without denouncement in Congress and possibly some sort of economic sanctions.”
“As soon as the team is in our hands we plan to issue a statement that the theft is merely temporary. We will return the team safely after one game with our Jabali team. We could hardly expect to hold the American players indefinitely.”
“You’re still in for a lot of trouble from Washington,” Nick warned. But then, having said it, he accepted Asignar’s half fee—in cash.
“What are you doing, Nick?” Gloria asked later that evening. They were sitting in the back-yard patio, after dinner, as he pondered the evening paper.
“Checking the baseball standings.”
“I never knew you were interested, except at World Series time.”
“I’ll be away on another trip,” he told her. “Just wanted to see what games I’ll miss.”
Nick had already decided that the theft of the baseball team must not be allowed to interfere with the pennant races in the two leagues. But this early in August most of the teams were still in contention. He did some quick figuring and found that only one team was definitely out of it—the hapless Beavers. Though Nick followed the sport only occasionally he was—like nearly everyone else in the country—well aware of the Beavers’ plight. They had replaced the old Brooklyn Dodgers and then the New York Mets as the butt of comedians’ jokes, and after losing 14 straight games earlier in the season the sports sections had dubbed them the “Meager Beavers.”
All right, Nick decided. Since the choice was his to make, it would be the Beavers. Perhaps with the Beavers to play against, General Tras might even be victorious with his own team, and that would certainly please him.
Next Nick checked the schedules of the Beavers at home and on the road for the next two weeks. They flew to New York for a weekend series with the Mets on Thursday. Then, on Monday, they flew on to Atlanta to play the Braves before returning home. Nick checked the standings again and confirmed that the Braves were also far down in the National League. A postponed or canceled game would not affect their standing, either.
Then that’s what it would be—the Beavers on next Monday—a full, week ahead of Asignar’s deadline.
Pop Hastin had been manager of the Beavers for as long as anyone—even the sportswriters—could remember. He’d come up with the team from Triple-A baseball when the National League expanded, and it was only a high personal regard for Pop that had kept the Beavers from ridicule this long.
He was a gray, bristly man in his early sixties, and his reputation for eating umpires alive had got him thrown out of many ball games. The fans and the sportswriters loved it, of course, as they loved everything Pop did. They’d turned against his Meager Beavers only with the greatest reluctance.
“You’re a writer?” Pop asked, eyeing Nick with open suspicion. They’d met in the dressing room at Shea Stadium, just after the Mets defeated the Beavers by a score of 9 to 1.
“That’s right,” Nick confirmed, passing over a card. “With Sports Weekly. We want to do an article on your team.”
Pop Hastin grunted, rolling the plug of chewing tobacco to his other cheek. “More Meager Beaver stuff?”
“Nothing like that. My editors want an in-depth article with a sympathetic slant, to balance some of the other stuff.”
“How long will it take? We’re flying to Atlanta in the morning.”
Nick hesitated, then said, “I was going to suggest that I might fly down with you. That way we could talk at leisure and I’d get to meet some of your key players.”
Hastin snorted. “This year the Beavers got no key players. We haven’t gotten more than four runs in any game all summer.”
“Still, there’s Karowitz at first base—”
“Yeah, he’s pretty good.”
“And that rookie shortstop, Nesbitt.”
“The kid, yeah.” Pop Hastin shifted the tobacco again. “Well, I guess you could fly down with us. There’s plenty of room these days. Not many of your sportswriters come along any more.”
Nick Velvet smiled. “I’ll meet you at the airport in the morning, then.”
The chartered jet which flew the Beavers between cities on the National League circuit was piloted by a young man named Farnsworth. He stood by the ramp with a pretty, long-legged stewardess welcoming the players aboard, smiling and joking with them about the previous day’s game.
Nick Velvet, walking beside Pop Hastin, boarded the plane with a friendly nod toward the pilot and stewardess. It was a clear August morning, perfect for flying, and the players seemed in a good mood considering their recent losses. There were nineteen of them making the trip, plus Pop and the coaches. A publicity man—a slight harried individual named Roswell—was also along, as were the trainer, batboy, and a few others.
“Sometimes we have a planeload,” Hastin explained, settling comfortably into his seat and strapping himself down. “But this isn’t much of a trip and a few of the regulars aren’t making it. We have a couple of injured players back home, and some of the front-office people stayed in New York for a league meeting.”
Roswell, the publicity man, dropped into the seat across the aisle, eyeing Nick with open suspicion. It had not been an easy season for him. “What sort of an article did you say you were writing?” he asked.
Pop Hastin interrupted, trying to avoid trouble. “All the equipment on board, Ros?”
“Sure it is. That’s not my job, anyway.” He turned his attention back to Nick. “We’ve had a pretty bad press the last few months—all this Meager Beaver stuff. If you’re going to write something like that, forget it.”
“No, nothing like that,” Nick reassured them. “I’m planning something that will put the Beavers on the front pages of every paper in the country and make people forget you’re in last place in the National League.”
The jet had risen smoothly from the runway and was climbing into the clear blue sky. Pop Hastin relaxed. “We’re on our way,” he said. “Now just how do you propose to give us all this publicity? Through Sports Weekly?”
“Partly,” Nick answered vaguely. “Suppose you introduce me to a few of the players.”
They went forward in the plane and Pop spoke to the team’s muscular first baseman. “Stan Karowitz, this is Mr. Nicholas, a writer with Sports Weekly. He’s going to give us a good article.”
Nick dropped into the seat next to Karowitz and started asking the Beavers’ star some routine questions, taking notes as he talked. “Do you think the Beavers are coming out of their slump, Stan?”
“It’s a little late in the year now,” Karowitz replied, “but we think our rookies might make a strong foundation for next season.”
Nick had been watching the stewardess walk past them to the cockpit and unlock the door with a key that dangled from her waist. She was carrying a tray with two steaming cups of coffee. “Pardon me,” he interrupted Karowitz.
He moved quickly down the aisle behind the girl, catching the door before she could close it. The flight was still young, but he might not get another chance this good. He pushed past her, shoved the copilot aside, and pointed a pistol at the pilot’s head.
Farnsworth, the pilot, turned as the stewardess gasped. He started to rise, then thought better of it. “Where to?” he asked in a resigned tone. “Havana?”
“No,” Nick told him. “The island of Jabali.”
“We may not have enough fuel for that.”
Nick kept the pistol steady. “Well, let’s give it a try anyway, shall we?”
Hours later, as the jet settled down on the runway at Jabali Airport, Nick Velvet breathed a sigh of relief. The fuel had indeed been low, and he wondered what he would have done if they’d run dry over the Caribbean. Or if the pilot and copilot had put up a fight. He’d never killed an innocent person during any of his assignments, and he wouldn’t have started now. More likely he would have knocked them out and tried to bring the big plane in himself—though he’d never piloted anything larger than army transports during a brief period of the Korean war.
When he stepped out of the cockpit he faced Pop Hastin, the manager’s face flushed with fury. “Why did you bring us here?” Hastin demanded.
“Calm down,” Nick told him. “You’re in no danger.” He motioned with his gun for Pop and the players to leave the plane.
Roswell pushed his way through the crush. “You had no intention of writing any article! It was all a lie to hijack this plane!”
“It wasn’t entirely a lie,” Nick pointed out. “You’ll get plenty of publicity out of this.”
“Publicity?” Pop Hastin looked out the window at the welcome signs. “You mean somebody wanted to kidnap the Beavers?”
Nick Velvet smiled. “That’s right. Welcome to Jabali.”
The President of Jabali, General Tras, was waiting to greet them with his eight cabinet ministers. He was an imposing man in his full military uniform, smiling broadly yet giving an unmistakable picture of power. There were armed bodyguards on both sides of him, and his gloved fists were clenched with expectation.
“We had your radio message, Señor Velvet. You have truly fulfilled your mission! Let us proceed to the National Hall, where I can more formally greet my guests.”
Jorge Asignar stepped forward, wearing the purple sash of a cabinet minister. “I have the balance of your money,” he told Nick. “The President is very pleased.”
“What are you? Secretary of Kidnaping?”
“Minister of Information,” Asignar replied with a thin smile. Then, motioning toward the plane, he questioned, “Who are all these people?”
“Baseball teams aren’t just nine men and a rack of bats. Not these days. They need a trainer, batboy, and press agent. They need pitching and batting coaches. They need—”
Stan Karowitz came barreling over, looking for a fight. “What is this, anyway? Are we prisoners here?”
Nick tried to calm him. “Their president likes baseball. You’ll be home in a few days.”
“A few days!”
But already the armed guards were moving in, steering everyone toward a big waiting bus. There was no opportunity for argument. Nick rode to the National Hall in the black, limousine of General Tras, sitting in the back seat between the President and Asignar. On the front fenders fluttered the flag of Jabali—a field of red with a wild boar’s head in the center, enclosed by a black triangle with three seashells along each of the triangle’s sides.
“Jabali,” Nick observed. “The wild boar?”
“At one time they overran our little island,” General Tras remarked. “Now they are confined to the zoos and a few game preserves back in the hills.”
Here and there along the highway were people to cheer and wave as the big presidential car went by. When the marble-faced auditorium came into view, the crowds grew thicker.
“This was really Jorge’s idea,” the President said, patting Asignar approvingly on the knee. “I had been training our own team for some years as a hobby, but it all meant nothing without real competition.”
“I hope you’re prepared to risk the wrath of my government,” Nick commented dryly.
Tras dismissed it with a wave of his hand. “The Beavers will be safely returned after a single game with the Jabali team. No one will go to war over it.”
The auditorium was about half full when they entered. Asignar motioned Nick to a seat on the side, saying, “General Tras and the cabinet ministers always sit in row J. You can follow the proceedings from here.”
“Fine,” Nick agreed. He’d been sitting only a few moments when a strikingly beautiful girl with long black hair slipped into place next to him.
“You’re Nick Velvet?” she asked quietly.
Her English was perfect, which was his first surprise. And she knew his name. “That’s right. And you are—?”
“Maria Tras.”
“The President’s—”
She laughed lightly at his hesitation. “Daughter.”
“Are you a baseball fan too?” Up on the stage Asignar was beginning to speak. Nick’s slight knowledge of Spanish indicated he was introducing the President.
“Not like my father,” the girl was saying in answer to his question. “In fact, I was against this whole scheme. I was at Columbia for four years and I know how seriously you Americans take your baseball.”
“That’s what I tried to tell Asignar.”
“That man!” She made a face.
“What does your father want? Just a game?”
“That’s all. It was wise of you to steal the Beavers. At least it’ll be something of an even match.”
General Tras mounted the stage and held up his hand for silence. Surprisingly, Pop Hastin was at his side. Tras spoke a few words in Spanish and then switched quickly to English. “I want now to welcome a fine and famous American baseball manager, the pride of the National League—our guest, Pop Hastin of the Beavers!”
Even Pop seemed taken aback by the applause with which the introduction was greeted. If he’d planned to denounce the kidnaping from the stage he must have had second thoughts. He cleared his throat, grinned weakly, and said, “I can’t approve of being brought here against our will, but I am pleased at the reception we’ve received. We look forward to meeting the Jabali team on the field.”
The audience cheered and General Tras smiled. Off to one side of the stage the shortstop Mike Nesbitt and some other players seemed far from pleased at the turn of events, but there was little they could do. General Tras resumed his speech. The big game would take place in two days’ time, on Wednesday. The teams would have Tuesday to practice.
“I can’t wait to see it,” Maria Tras told Nick as they left the building.
“I’m surprised that Pop Hastin gave in so easily.”
“Now that it’s done, the game should be an exciting one.” She glanced sideways at Nick. “Will you be staying for it?”
“I have no reason to. Asignar paid me the rest of my fee. But it might be wise to stay down here for a few days. Even though my true identity isn’t known I’m sure the authorities back in the States will be watching for me.”
“I wish you would stay.”
“Thanks.”
“And I hope you can dine with us at the presidential palace tonight. My father is inviting Pop Hastin and all the others.”
“I don’t know if I dare face him,” Nick told her. But there was something odd about the whole business, something that bothered him. He knew he’d be there.
The presidential palace was as regal as Nick had expected—a great white building that must have dated from the early years of the century. In certain rooms there had been obvious attempts to copy the decor of the White House in Washington, but the venture had been ruined by a tasteless plushness more, in keeping with kings than presidents.
“Our country was founded in 1899 by the great revolutionary leader Palidez,” General Tras explained as he led them on a brief tour. “He wrote our constitution and built this house. Nueve—that was the word he lived by. This is called the Casa Nueve, a fitting name.”
Nick nodded. “The New House,” he translated, “for a new country.”
Maria shot him an odd glance and started to say something, but then Asignar joined them with Pop Hastin and Roswell, the publicity man. “Shall we go in to dinner?” the Minister of Information suggested.
Roswell was seated next to Nick, and as they sat down the publicity man said, “We might make something out of this yet, no thanks to you.”
“Oh?”
“Pop thinks it’s a great publicity break for the team, and he’s right, of course. Every magazine in the country will want our story when we get back.”
Later, after a meal of wild boar more fitted to a medieval monarch than a Caribbean president, Nick had an opportunity for a private word with Pop Hastin. “I’m glad you realize the publicity value in all this,” he said.
Pop reached for some chewing tobacco. “I was upset at first, but now I’m beginning to like the idea. All season long I’ve listened to sports commentators chuckle about the Meager Beavers, and at my age that wasn’t easy to take. But now we’ve been kidnaped by you and brought down here to play the Jabali team. You didn’t kidnap the Yankees or Cards or Pirates—you kidnaped the Beavers!”
“Well, yes,” Nick admitted. He wasn’t about to mention that he’d picked the Beavers simply because they were last in the league standing.
“Coming out to the practice tomorrow?” Pop asked.
“I’ll be there.”
By morning the news of the stolen Beavers had made headlines around the world. The storm was particularly heavy in Washington, as Nick had feared, but Pop’s statement to the American Ambassador that they were well-treated and anxious to play the game had done much to cool the tense situation.
At the stadium for the practice session Pop Hastin had a further statement for reporters. “We are here as guests of the President and we consider it an honor to be so chosen. We’ll be returning home after the exhibition game tomorrow.” In answer to persistent questions he added, “We are not being held against our wills or mistreated in any way.”
Nick breathed a sigh of relief as he settled onto a bench to watch the practice. At least Pop’s statement should take some of the pressure off him. He glanced up to see Tras and his daughter coming over to join him. The President was obviously excited, like a small boy on a Sunday afternoon at Yankee Stadium. The General watched intently as Stan Karowitz took batting practice and actually cheered when the tall first baseman hit a line drive to the farthest corner of left field.
“Do you think your team can take them?” Nick asked.
“The Beavers are very good. It will be a real event for my people and I do not really care which team is victorious. But of course I will be cheering for Jabali.” He watched the pitchers for a time and then added, “Jorge has suggested a patriotic pageant before the game tomorrow. Our independence day is in a few weeks—on September 9th—and he thinks an early celebration is in order. He’s to speak to both teams about taking part.”
Nick grunted and lit a cigarette. A few minutes later, when General Tras went down on the field to speak with his own brightly uniformed team, Maria moved next to Nick. “Something’s troubling you,” she observed.
“I’m running low on American cigarettes.”
“Something besides that. I’ve known you only a day, but I can see the worried look in your eyes.”
“It’s just this whole setup,” he admitted. “I could understand one man, an absolute ruler, getting the crazy idea to steal a baseball team and bring it here, overriding the objections of his advisers. But this is different. Your father told me it was Asignar’s idea. And yet Asignar apparently isn’t even a baseball fan. At least he’s nowhere in sight today.”
“You worry needlessly,” she assured him. “After all, the Beavers are happy with their new fame. My father is happy. You should be happy with the money you were paid. Why look for trouble?”
“Because I brought them here. If anything happens, I’ll feel responsible.”
That night Nick dined with Maria at Jabali’s most expensive restaurant. On the way home he noticed an anti-Tras slogan chalked in Spanish on the side of a building. Maria seemed to miss seeing it, and he did not call it to her attention.
Nick had arranged to escort Maria to the baseball game the following day, since her father would be busy on the field during the opening ceremonies of the pageant. When he called for her at the presidential palace just after noon, he still carried the pistol he’d used to hijack the plane. He wondered why he hadn’t left it in his room, yet knew somehow that it belonged with him, even at a baseball game.
“There’s already a lot of traffic,” he told Maria. “I didn’t know there were so many people on the island.”
“It is a great day for them.”
“Few foreigners, though.”
“My father does not encourage them. He has the airport watched. Even the number of newsmen is limited.”
“So I noticed.” They were walking through the downstairs rooms toward the door when Nick paused to examine the large oil painting over a massive stone fireplace. It was of a handsome bearded man in military uniform. “Who’s this?” he asked.
“Palidez, our liberator. Father mentioned him at dinner the other night. Founder of our country, author of our constitution, builder of this house—”
Nick studied the painting more closely. “He’s missing a finger.”
“Lost in the Revolution. It became a sort of symbol. He died in 1920, rich and famous—and loved by his people.”
One of the servants had turned on the radio and they could hear the sounds of the stadium ceremonies. “They’re starting without us,” Nick said. “We’d better hurry.”
“I’m ready.”
He led her out to the official car, where a dark-skinned driver waited by the open door. “Too bad all your servants can’t come.”
“Most of them went, but the house requires so much work—you can imagine, with nine rooms on each floor.”
Nick froze with his hand on the car door. “My Spanish is rusty,” he said, hardly breathing. “Your father said this place is called the Casa Nueve—”
Maria chuckled. “I started to correct you the other night. New House would be Casa Nuevo. The presidential palace is called Casa Nueve, which means—”
“Nine House! Nine rooms on each floor! And nine was the word Palidez lived by!” From the car radio came the sounds of the pageant ceremonies, the rolling of drums, the blowing of bugles. “Come on! We’ve got to get there fast!”
“But why?”
“Don’t ask questions. What I need are answers and you can give them to me.” The car pulled away from the palace grounds and headed toward the stadium. “Jorge Asignar is up to something and it’s no good.”
“Asignar? I don’t understand.”
Nick Velvet leaned back in his seat, eyes closed, trying to see it all. “The thing was Asignar’s idea from the start. At the airport Monday he was surprised to see nineteen players with manager and coaches and all. He didn’t need them. He only needed nine men—a baseball team. Nine men who could enter the country without attracting your father’s suspicions, without being noticed by his airport guards.”
“Nine men—”
“Don’t you see, Maria? This whole country is built on the mystical number nine. There are nines every where—the President and eight cabinet ministers—nine in all. Nine sea-shells on your national flag. And the cabinet always sits in row J at the auditorium—the ninth row, since theaters hardly ever have a row I. The country was liberated in 1899, on September 9—the ninth day of the ninth month. And nine-fingered Palidez did it all. He wrote the constitution and built the palace, Nine House, with its nine rooms on each floor.”
“I know all that,” she said.
“Then tell me what else there is. Something in the constitution that Palidez wrote. Something that Jorge Asignar needs nine men for.”
“Nine men—” And suddenly her hand flew to her mouth. “My God, the firing squad!”
It was then that the driver pulled over to the curb and turned to face them with a pistol in his hand.
Nick Velvet fired a single shot through the back of the seat, hoping his aim was good. It was—the driver crumpled sideways without a sound.
“Help shove him over,” Nick told Maria. “I’ll drive.”
“He’s one of Asignar’s people,” she gasped.
“He was. I’m glad I still had the gun with me. Which way should I go?”
“Straight ahead—you can see it from here, over on the left.” As he drove she kept talking. “Palidez’s constitution states that the President of Jabali can be removed from office and sentenced to death by a secret panel of judges in a time of national crisis. But the actual execution of a President can only be carried out by a nine-man firing squad. To insure that the firing squad itself is impartial, none of the men can be citizens of Jabali.”
“So Asignar brought the Beavers in to be public executioners. He’s planning to take over the country, but he wants it all nice and legal. He doesn’t want the citizens upset.”
“But how can he get the Beavers to shoot my father?”
“However it is, I’ve got to stop it. I agreed to steal a baseball team, not to provide a firing squad. Asignar suggested the pre-game pageant. He must be planning it for then.”
The voice on the radio droned on in Spanish. Nick missed many words, but he got the general idea. Both teams were lined up on the field, facing the President who was standing on a raised platform. The teams carried rifles, symbolic of Jabali’s revolution, but they would soon exchange them for bats, symbolic of today’s peaceful life.
“Faster!” Maria urged. “They have guns, and father is now down on the field.”
Nick swung into the stadium driveway, saw a policeman signaling him away, and brushed the man aside like a fly. Then he headed the car toward the metal gates that blocked the entrance to the field. “Keep your head down,” he warned Maria.
The car hit the gates with a force that cracked the windshield and crushed in the radiator, but they were through. The Beavers, nine of them, were facing General Tras, aiming their rifles in the air in some sort of salute. Nick drove the crippled car forward in a final burst of speed that almost bowled the players over.
“Don’t shoot!” he yelled to Nesbitt, the shortstop. “It’s a trick!”
There was shouting from the stands, and Nick saw soldiers running onto the field. “They’re only blanks,” Karowitz protested. “Asignar told us to fire over the President’s head as part of the pageant.”
Nick grabbed one of the rifles and ejected a blank cartridge. “Then he’s somewhere with a high-powered rifle. He couldn’t expect you fellows to really execute the President, but he wanted it to look that way.”
General Tras was running over now, his face ashen. “What is it? What’s happening?”
“Asignar is planning to kill you and make it look like an execution. Once you’re dead, no one would know the difference. The judges who condemned you in secret must be part of Asignar’s plot.”
There was the crack of a rifle, from far off, and Tras stumbled to the ground. The bullet had hit the fleshy part of his thigh. “He’s on the roof, over there!” Nick shouted. He grabbed one of the rifles and then remembered they held blanks. A soldier had reached them, his rifle pointed, and Nick grabbed the soldier’s rifle as a second shot sounded from the roof.
“Everybody down!” he shouted. The second shot, fired in haste, had missed. Now Jorge Asignar was up and running along the edge of the roof. Nick fired two quick shots, then took an extra few seconds to squeeze off the third round at the running figure.
Asignar went off the edge of the roof, falling without a sound, and hit the top of the Beavers’ third-base dugout.
“There are men faithful to me,” General Tras said as they bandaged his leg. “We will round up the rest of the plotters.”
“With Asignar dead they’ll be off and running,” Nick told him. They were still in the center of the field, surrounded by players and soldiers.
“How can I thank you?” Maria Tras asked Nick.
“There must be a way.”
From the dugout Pop Hastin had finally fought his way through the mob. “What is all this shooting?” he demanded. “Let’s get that body out of here and play ball!”