COSTA BRAVA, SPAIN: IT was hot. The damned car was like an oven, Bryan Stack thought as he climbed out. He slammed the door, then remembered that he had forgotten the binoculars. Reaching through the open window, he plucked them off the passenger seat and walked away from the road, up a hill covered with scrubby underbrush. You could tell the sea was near—the air had a salty sharpness, the ground was sandy and soft, and the wind was fresh and cool. The low, thorny bushes scratched his legs, and he swore loudly, yet he was determined to see for himself.
This whole idea was Jencks’, and it had taken more than three days of drinks and discussion in a stuffy room of the Great Russell Hotel on Russell Square to convince Stack. Jencks had come equipped with blueprints and photographs, and it looked good—almost easy—on paper. But things had a way of becoming more difficult when plans turned into reality. Stack wanted to see with his own eyes before he became involved any further. If it wasn’t right, he would pull out; Jencks would be annoyed and Miguel bewildered, but that would just have to be. Because for a thing like this, the police wouldn’t merely slap your hand and send you on your way. You’d die in a rotten, stinking Spanish jail.
He came to the crest of the hill and looked down. White and shining, the Hotel Reina lay spread out before him. It was a high structure, L-shaped, built on the tip of a rocky promontory. It was in fact, built on a small island connected to the mainland by a short suspension bridge. This was a particularly wild and deserted section of the Costa Brava, miles from any town—Gerona and Bagur were the nearest, both of them inland, neither very large. The Reina, proud and shining, stood alone—cut off from civilization and completely self-sufficient. Bryan remembered Jencks’ words.
“It’s like a luxury liner, fully outfitted. Three hundred rooms, barber shops, a casino, hairdresser, nightclub, four restaurants, stores, and shops all lumped together in one luxury hotel, miles from anywhere. It’s the new thing on the Costa Brava, and several hotels are about to be built copying it; it has been open one year and has been incredibly successful. The jaded rich flock there to live for a week or two just as they would aboard the Queen Elizabeth. There’s black tie for dinner; dancing; two swimming pools; lots of drinking, skin diving, and water-skiing. You get the picture.”
Bryan had understood immediately. It was almost too good to be true. No, it was too good to be true. It had to be. Somebody must have thought of this before.
He had said this to Jencks, and Jencks had replied, “Bullshit.”
Now, with the hot Catalonian sun beating down on him, Bryan surveyed the Hotel Reina through the binoculars. He followed the road to the suspension bridge, noting that it was sturdily constructed; then to the traffic circle, with a fountain and palm trees in the center (there must be an underground garage, he decided); then to the hotel itself, modern and tall, with glass window-walls and individual balconies for each room; then over to the swimming pool. He could see only one of the pools. The other must be salt water, hidden from his view behind the hotel itself.
The center of activity seemed to be the pool. Deck chairs surrounding it were all occupied, several of them by women in bikinis. He could not see any more than the mere fact of the bikinis—it was impossible to judge figures at this distance. He thought of Jane with sudden longing, and realized that he was growing more attached to her with each return to London. With a slight twinge, he realized that this was the first time he had ever missed her while he was abroad. It was, he knew, a sign that he was slowing down.
Bryan Stack had been slowing down for some time. He had begun in a burst of glory, attending Eton and Oxford, and had a good war record operating the Resistance station “Epinephrine” in southern France. He had gone bad—if that was the word for it—after the war, when his modest but comforting family fortune was lost, and he discovered that his education and service record didn’t mean much in postwar England. For a while, he had looked for a job, but after six months gave up the search to do free-lance work “borrowing” paintings from private collections in Spain and Switzerland. He went on to try his hand at hoofwork in divorce cases for eminent clients, and eventually was asked privately to handle a particularly rough embassy job in Lisbon which called for an accidental drowning on a pleasure yacht. Success there led him to other things—stealing papers from a Polish diplomat’s office in Vienna, planting false evidence to facilitate the removal of a Russian attaché in London, and similar tasks. His work paid well, was never official, and never openly acknowledged—except that once, when he was caught pinching stuff in Brighton, he was released without questions—but spoken to rather roughly afterward. It was his own fault; the Brighton maneuver had been ill-conceived and insufficiently planned. Stack believed in planning, practice, and more practice. The older he grew, the more faith he put in preparation rather than muscle.
Well, he thought, this would be a job that would take planning. If it were to be successful, the timing would have to be nearly perfect, the coordination superb. It would require finesse and coolness, but the stakes were high and the rewards immense.
He returned to his car and drove down to the Hotel Reina. He would have a nice swim before lunch and then spend the afternoon practicing with his flash cards.
TANGIER, MOROCCO: Like a giant white whale, the Lincoln Continental crept through the winding streets on the outskirts of the Casbah. Jean-Paul, at the wheel, kept his palm on the horn as veiled women in black and men in striped galabahs scurried for the sidewalk. Even so, progress was slow; the streets were clogged with people talking, buying, and selling. On the sidewalk, vendors squatted beside their wares, arguing with the customers standing around them.
The car passed two horse-drawn carts laden with dried red peppers and grain in burlap bags. The air was momentarily pungent with the smell of spice. He honked again at an old man balancing a crate of chickens on his head.
“Must you continue to do that?” Miss Shaw asked irritably from the back seat.
Jean-Paul rolled the toothpick he had been chewing to the corner of his mouth before answering. “It is all they understand—the horn.”
“But it makes such a frightful racket. Do try to be more sparing. Moderation in all things, my boy.”
Jean-Paul sighed, and glanced at the dried-prune face of Miss Shaw in the back seat. At least five times a day, she repeated this dictum to him. This time, however, he could see that she was genuinely upset; her jowls, liberally covered with powder, were quivering unhappily.
“I will try,” he promised. It didn’t matter much now. They were already at the Grand Socco, the main square where most of the Arab bartering took place. There was a fountain in the center of the square, and a colorful mosque to one side; around the perimeter were shops and open-air stalls where everything from fruit to fan belts and aged tires were displayed. It was a hectic, busy scene, but soon they would reach the broad, well-policed avenues of the modern town—the European quarter of Tangier.
“That’s a good boy. Now where did I put that newspaper? Oh—here it is, right next to me. Fancy.”
They drove in silence for several minutes. Jean-Paul glanced briefly at the neat shops along the Boulevard Pasteur as they went by. Tangier was not the same, he thought. Before 1956, when it had been a free port, the city had been a pleasure. In those days, you could do anything, get anything, trade anything on the streets of the town. He remembered with fondness the little stalls of the money changers, and that fine “nightclub,” which the proprietor, an Egyptian political refugee, had stocked with such superlatively sexual hostesses. Now it was all reputable banks and clean, antiseptic floor shows. The fire and excitement of the town had vanished.
He turned right off the main street and stopped before an appliance store. The window displayed refrigerators, irons, and washing machines.
“We’re here, are we?” Miss Shaw asked. “Good. I shan’t be a minute.”
She waited while Jean-Paul fumbled in his shirt pocket for a cigarette.
“The door, stupid,” Miss Shaw snapped. “Don’t forget yourself.”
He jumped out and opened her door. As Miss Shaw stepped out, she said, “And be sure you wear your hat from now on. I didn’t buy you that uniform for nothing.”
Jean-Paul nodded and slipped back behind the wheel. Inwardly, he was angry. The little woman could treat him like dirt when it suited her; she had the icy, sharp imperial tongue that the British of her generation had perfected before the Empire fell apart in their hands. He thought about Miss Shaw, asking himself for the hundredth time what made her tick. He was never able to understand. Nearly seventy, but sprightly for her age, with a quick mind behind that absurd, dumpy little body, she was a complete enigma to him. She had been ever since she had hired him two weeks before.
He lit his cigarette and smoked slowly, calming himself. He preferred to be calm, to take things slowly, to be relaxed.
Jean-Paul was French-Algerian, twenty-eight-years old, somewhat handsome in a slim, rangy way, and a gigolo. He did not think of himself in those terms, of course. He preferred to regard himself as a soldier of fortune, a romantic drifter, a man of good taste but flexible. He was tall and well-built, for a Frenchman, and had worked, in his time, at many jobs: construction worker, circus acrobat, nightclub bouncer, and escort. He had two great loves in his life, scotch whiskey and young women, but he had found from experience that to afford the scotch, he often had to forgo the young women. Fortunately, he was a flexible man.
Before he had met Miss Shaw, he had worked for a black-market money operation in the Casbah. His job required him to carry large sums in a money belt through the cramped, dark alleys of the Arab section. It was a dangerous job, one he would not normally have undertaken, but it paid very well. And he had been lucky—only twice in three months of courier work had he confronted a grim face and a glinting knife at the end of a narrow street that stank of urine. The second time, he had nearly lost a hand, but he had caught the bastard and squeezed the information out of him. It was an inside job, of course; Jean-Paul had returned to his employer’s office and confronted the culprit.
The poor fellow was still in the hospital.
But essentially, Jean-Paul disliked violence and hard work. Whenever possible, he preferred to make his money easily, with the soft touch, the gentle hand. He had been more than pleased to accept Miss Shaw’s offer. It was precisely the kind of job he most enjoyed.
Miss Elizabeth Shaw left the appliance store, and Jean-Paul opened the door for her. It was tiresome, this routine of opening doors, but Miss Shaw was less demanding than some he had known. At least she had no perversions. He flicked on the ignition and the big engine rumbled to life. This car was a wonder to him—it was like a boat, so big and soft riding.
“The port,” Miss Shaw said. “Don’t hurry, we have plenty of time.”
Through the rear-view mirror, he watched her unbutton the top buttons of her blouse and slip a flat package wrapped in gray paper into her enormous, heavy bosom.
“You’re taking it to Spain?” he asked.
“Of course.”
“Is that wise?”
“Don’t be silly, dear boy. Of course it’s wise. Do you imagine for one minute that any impertinent Spanish customs officer would dare suggest that I be searched, that I … disrobe?” She said it with great indignation, almost horror. It was an act, he knew, but a good one. Jean-Paul knew that Miss Shaw could puff herself up like an angry bird if the occasion demanded it, and that the effect was invariably scathing. No Spaniard would brave her proper British wrath.
“How much did you get?” he asked.
“Almost a kilo of very good stuff. My God, it’s heavy,” she said, feeling her breasts. “I would rather put it in my purse, but occasionally the Spanish become nasty about purses. A friend of mine had an unpleasant experience some months ago.” She wrinkled her leathery face at the distasteful recollection. “It was a tip-off, of course, but still … I don’t care for it myself,” she continued, patting her bosom mildly, “you know that. But others like it, and I feel that we should make ourselves useful. Don’t you agree?”
“Certainly,” Jean-Paul said, wondering who “others” were. His attention returned to the traffic, which was heavier as he approached the port. Carefully, he maneuvered the giant car with its aging British gentlewoman passenger, her five large suitcases, and her two pounds of marijuana, down to the boat. In three hours, they would reach Algeciras and Spain.
ORGON-SUR-PLAN, FRANCE: Peter Ganson pulled off National 7 just east of Avignon, and parked in front of the inn. He cut the motor of his Jaguar XKE and listened for a satisfied moment as the deep-throated growl died away. Then he turned to Jenny.
“Not much to look at, is it?” he said, nodding at the building. The inn was small and painted a rather sickening pink.
“Who cares? I’m tired, and the food is supposed to be good.”
“It’s right on the road. The trucks will keep us awake all night.”
“Maybe they’ll keep you awake. I’ll shut the windows in my room and won’t hear a thing.”
“It’s too hot to keep your windows shut.”
“I’ll sleep nude.”
Peter groaned inwardly at the thought of Jenny nude between crisp sheets. “Look,” he said, “why don’t we share a room?”
“No,” Jenny said, then added, “not tonight.”
HOTEL REINA, COSTA BRAVA, SPAIN: They met according to plan at precisely 8:15, in the bar of the hotel. It was a large room with subdued lighting and a heavy-duty appearance, which indicated its importance to the social life of the guests. The decor and furniture were modern, and in one corner a guitarist played softly. Miguel had already been there for half an hour, eyeing a woman who sat alone at a table demurely sipping her drink. She was slim, darkly tanned, and tough looking in a sophisticated way. After an appropriate interval, they had begun to exchange glances of increasing frankness, and Miguel would have asked her to join him in a drink if Bryan hadn’t been coming. He relaxed on his stool—the girl could wait. His first concern was the project. Although he had given it considerable thought in the last few days, he still could not guess what was going on. One idea had occurred to him, and he didn’t like it—kidnapping or assassination. Various high government officials vacationed here, as well as important people from Barcelona who drove up for the weekend. Miguel knew Bryan had been mixed up in political things before, and it disturbed him. Any kind of politics disturbed him, because he felt no interest or concern, no dedication. Miguel was not a fanatic about anything but money.
Bryan came into the bar wearing a light blue sport coat and an ascot showing little ducks on a navy-blue background. He looked very cool and very British. His short-cropped gray hair and sharp, aquiline features gave him a distinguished appearance. Miguel thought with approval that his friend might be a lawyer on a holiday or an executive taking a few days off from a business trip.
Bryan sat down on a stool next to Miguel without looking at him, called the bartender, and ordered a vodka gibson. He let his eyes run casually around the room as he drew out a cigarette. Then he began to pat his pockets, a look of consternation crossing his face.
Miguel whipped out his lighter, beating the bartender. “Allow me.”
“Thanks.” Bryan accepted the light with just the right mixture of formal gratitude and dismay. He seemed to be thinking that it would have been more proper for the bartender to light the cigarette; now he would have to engage this fellow in polite conversation. “You speak English?” Bryan asked, with reserve.
“Yes, I’m American.”
“Really? How interesting.” He did not seem interested at all as he raised his glass. “Well, cheers.”
“Cheers,” Miguel said, raising his own.
The two men looked at each other, a silence falling between them. Bryan appeared embarrassed. “Not many Americans on the Costa Brava these days,” Bryan said finally.
“Not many Britishers, either.”
“True,” Bryan said. “I’ve noticed that.”
Another silence. The bartender was still nearby, drying glasses with swift, practiced movements.
“Have you been here long?” Bryan asked.
“I arrived yesterday.”
“It’s a long way from the United States, isn’t it? Did you fly to Madrid?”
“No, I came through France from Paris, by car.”
“Ah, that’s a lovely way to do it. Good trip?”
“Fine, thanks.”
The bartender moved away to take care of new customers.
“No hitches?” Bryan asked, the forced friendliness gone from his voice. He was all business now.
“Not one.”
“Where is it now?”
“In my room, in a suitcase.”
“Locked, I hope.”
“Of course it’s locked. I’m not an idiot.”
“Good.” Bryan sipped at his drink.
“Well, are you going to tell me what the story is?”
“No,” Bryan said smoothly. “For that, you’ll have to wait for the third member of our little party.”
“The mastermind, eh?”
“More or less.”
“And when is he due to arrive?”
“Tomorrow,” Bryan said, finishing his vodka. “And we will meet in his room as scheduled. You’ll get the details then. Have you been working with the flash cards?”
Miguel was growing angry. He was being treated like a child. “Listen, if you think I’m going to sit around here without the slightest idea—”
“That’s exactly what I think. Keep your voice down.”
“I don’t like it,” Miguel said, sulking.
“You will.”
Miguel shook his head. “Just tell me one thing. Is it political? Because if it is. I’m not—”
Bryan stood to go. “No, it’s not political. You needn’t worry about that.” He started to leave, then turned back. “Just one thing. At the meeting tomorrow night, don’t be funny, and don’t call him ‘the mastermind.’ He won’t like it.”
Bryan left the bar.
Miguel swore to himself, ordered another gin and tonic, and allowed his attention to return to the girl. With disappointment, he saw that she had been joined by a Spaniard. She was listening to him with obvious inattention, watching her cigarette smoke curl up toward the ceiling.
Miguel liked her. She looked like a hot number. He called the bartender over.
“The lady in the corner,” he said. “Who is she?”
The bartender shrugged inside his starched white jacket. A discreet bastard. Two hundred pesetas should overcome his scruples. He pushed the money across the bar. “Buy yourself a drink.”
“Maria Theresa Gonzales,” he said, and added in a conspiratorial tone, “but that is not her real name.”
“No kidding. And what is her real name?”
“I don’t know.”
“Not very good at your job, are you?”
The bartender shrugged again, a deferential, hesitant movement. So it was another two hundred pesetas. Well, Miguel was not interested. He had time, and he was confident that very shortly he would know a great deal about that girl, no matter what her real name was. She seemed the type worth knowing.
BARCELONA, SPAIN: Steven Jencks stared at the plans and blueprints spread out on the bed of his hotel room. To one side, neatly folded in a heavy envelope, was the computer output. He had spent three hours reexamining the plans and the output. He had found nothing wrong—every possibility, every chance and contingency, had been considered, weighed, and evaluated.
Except for Mr. Alan Brady-Bernet.
Jencks sighed. He had spent most of the day sightseeing, admiring the view from Tibidabo hill, looking at the Gaudi Cathedral. The skinny man had been close behind. Late in the afternoon, it had started to rain, and Jencks had returned to his hotel to think.
No answers. The plan itself was perfect, but Brady-Bernet was a new factor, a complete unknown. There was nothing he could do but wait and see what happened. Jencks was certain of only one thing—the fat man did not know, could not know, what was planned. That was absolutely impossible.
He glanced at his watch—10:30. It was time to meet the man with the launch. Undoubtedly, it would be an exhausting and suspicious encounter. Jencks sighed again, found the two packets of money and slipped them into his jacket pocket. Then he went outside, and walked down the Ramblas toward the waterfront. The skinny man picked him up a block from the hotel.
Jencks ignored him. There would be plenty of time to lose him later.
The Ramblas was a street that never failed to fascinate him, though he could not say he enjoyed it. It was the main street of Barcelona’s port section—broad and lined with cafes and bars. In the center, dividing traffic, was a wide strip of pavement along which people strolled, taking the night air, stopping to buy books and magazines from the stands. As always, the crowd was young, gay, and boisterous; boys laughed and shouted, while girls pushed away roving hands with small giggles.
The cafes were a study in themselves. At the north end of the street, near the Plaza Cataluna, they were clean and elegant, and patronized by the rich, international set. As you approached the water, they became smaller, dimmer, and less respectable; the whores sat about, waiting for customers or talking in a bored way to other whores. Eventually, the cafes became waterfront bars, bawdy and raucous, blaring rock-and-roll music with a heavy sexual thump into the dark.
Jencks turned left off the Ramblas onto a narrow street, walked one block quickly, turned left again. He entered a bar jammed with sailors and their girls and waited for his tail. The skinny man arrived moments later, and Jencks dropped back in the shadows. The place was noisy, crowded, chaotic. The skinny man looked around, did not see Jencks, and went to the bar to speak to the bartender.
Jencks slipped out the door. He walked to the end of the street and entered another bar, where he waited ten minutes, drinking ginger ale. All around him, the sailors and pimps shoved and argued. He kept his eyes on the door. The skinny man did not show up. When Jencks was satisfied, he went outside and returned to the Ramblas, caught a taxi, and drove north to the Plaza de Cataluna, then west on Avenida Jose Antonio to the Plaza de España, and back toward the waterfront on the Calle Marques del Duero. At the intersection of Ronda de San Pablo, he stopped, changed taxis, and returned to the Ramblas.
He walked down another narrow street, brightly lighted by red and green neon signs advertising restaurants, snack bars, dingy nightclubs. There were several strip joints. The air smelled of sweat and fish; several furtive men approached him, an offer on their lips, but he pushed them aside and continued on, threading through a maze of streets which grew increasingly dark and deserted. Finally he stopped before a nightclub which had no name; the sign blinking on and off said simply “Nightclub.” He pushed open a battered wooden door and went inside.
It was very dark and smoky. A nonsmoker, Jencks noticed that first. His eyes stung, and he stood for a moment, trying to see around him. He made out the shape of a high bar to the left and little tables to the right. There was no music; the only sound was quiet talking among the dozen people in the club.
He stepped to the bar and ordered a glass of sherry. When he looked around, he saw an overweight blond woman in a tight skirt and sweater standing next to him, her breast against his arm. They didn’t waste any time in this place. He looked at her face, which was old and hard, rather masculine; she was caked with makeup, through which two mean eyes surveyed him. She noticed his interest and moved closer. He smelled cheap perfume.
“Where is Barry?” he asked in Spanish. He did not speak much Spanish, but he could get along.
The woman shrugged and split her face into a lascivious grin. Her teeth were stained from smoking; her breath stank. He turned away from her and grabbed the bartender’s sleeve.
“Barry?”
The bartender, a thin, dissipated-looking man, stared curiously at Jencks, then pointed to a dark corner of the room. Jencks saw a slim figure sitting alone at a table. He walked over.
“I am Barry,” the man said, waving Jencks to a seat. He seemed very tired. His motions were slow and weary. “We speak English, yes?”
Jencks nodded and sipped his sherry. Spain was the only place in the world where he could drink sherry.
“Let us get down to business,” Barry said, placing his palms carefully down on the table. His face was heavy, puffy, expressionless. “You have an important job, and you need a boat.”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Saturday night.”
“And what do you want done on Saturday night?” He spoke slowly, as if the words were heavy, and hard to lift up through his throat.
“I want you to carry a package a short distance down the coast.”
“A package.” Barry sighed. “So complicated. What is it, exactly?”
Jencks shook his head.
“My friend, each shake of your head costs you more money, because secrecy from you means risk for me. Understand?”
“Too bad,” Jencks said.
“Where, exactly, on the coast?”
“You will pick up the package at the Hotel Reina, and take it down to Palamos. You will deliver it to a man in the Pension Anna in Palamos. That is the extent of your job.”
“Expensive,” Barry said.
“Of course,” Jencks said. “How much?”
“It depends upon the details—”
“It does not. How much?”
Barry sighed, and ran his fingers pensively across the tabletop. “Three thousand dollars.”
“I’m looking for a dependable man, not a pirate.”
Barry shrugged.
“I’ll give you a thousand. Five hundred in cash now and five hundred in Palamos.”
“Twenty-seven hundred. No less.”
“The economy is booming,” Jencks smiled, “but this is absurd. Fifteen hundred.”
Barry said nothing. He snapped his fingers, and the bartender brought him another drink. “I like you,” he said, “and I am good to my friends. Twenty-three.”
Jencks leaned back in his chair. They both knew, now, that they would finally settle on two thousand dollars. It was a sum Jencks had come prepared to pay, and he was satisfied. Within fifteen minutes, the ritual was over, and the men shook hands perfunctorily. Jencks passed Barry an envelope containing eight hundred dollars in old bills, mostly twenties. Barry accepted it without counting the money, and they proceeded to discuss the details.
Barry would receive a signal from the hotel late Saturday night, and would draw close to the water-skiing pier. His boat would be muffled according to Jencks’ specifications—the alterations would be cheap and relatively simple. Shortly before 1 a.m., he would be given a package, a small suitcase, which he would ferry to Palamos and deliver to a man waiting in a particular hotel room. The man would pay twelve hundred dollars in bills of small denomination.
Barry said he understood it all, and Jencks got up to leave.
“Oh, one last thing,” he said, smiling disarmingly. “This package will be locked, and treated in certain special ways. The man in Palamos will not pay if there has been any tampering.”
Barry held up his hands, a pained look crossing his face. “Please, my friend—”
“We know, too, that you have a large family. A brother in Bilbao, a sister in Madrid, and a son at the University here. A nice boy, I understand.”
Barry’s face hardened, his eyes narrowed. “You have made your point.”
Jencks nodded, satisfied that this was so, and left the nightclub. Outside, the air was cool and fresh; he felt tired. He walked to the nearest cafe and used the telephone.
“Reese here.”
“Cafe Montaldo. Ten minutes.”
“Okay.”
He hung up and walked along the Ramblas, now at the peak of late evening activity. The pimps were out in full force; he felt as if he were swatting flies as he made his way to the Cafe Montaldo. It was a big place, open to the air and brightly lighted. The decor was nondescript modern, but the clientele were easily pegged—international, vaguely rich, noticeably bored. There were women in floor-length gowns and immaculate hairdos, men in dinner jackets. There was a sprinkling of dungarees and riding clothes. Jimmy Reese was already there.
He was a young man with a boyish face and an athletic body. Jencks had met him in Reno and had formed an immediate friendship based on mutual interest. Jimmy Reese was a con man, a jet-setter, a man with a passport which he never renewed. There was no sense to it, he had explained—whenever it came up for renewal, it was always so densely covered with entry stamps and visas that he felt it was wiser to start fresh. He was a man who was always on the move, and he was perfect for Jencks’ needs.
“You look tired,” Jimmy said. “Problems?”
“No. It all went smoothly.”
They ordered two coffees, and Reese had a glass of cognac.
“Tell me a story,” Jencks said. The cafe was crowded; there were a dozen pairs of ears nearby.
“George is working on a novel, and this is his idea. It’s about smuggling, and the hero receives the stuff—it’s LSD, or something like that—in Palamos, drives immediately to Barcelona, and catches the morning plane to Rome. He delivers it to a doctor there and makes a good deal of money. But he never opens the package and doesn’t know what’s inside it. That’s part of the twist.”
“But if the hero’s disreputable, he shouldn’t care.”
“I imagine he doesn’t.”
“Sounds interesting,” Jencks said, “though it needs development. What I wanted to see you about was this.” He reached into his pocket and withdrew another envelope, business-sized and bulging with twenty $50 bills. “It’s a short story that you might look over. I think it has possibilities, but you know how it is. I’m too close to it. Oh, and speaking of Rome, the next time you’re there I want you to look up a friend of mine. He’s very interesting. Here’s his card.”
Reese took it and looked at it thoughtfully. “It doesn’t list office hours.”
“He’s available almost any time. Even Sundays.”
“Sundays?”
“That’s right.”
“Must be a hard worker,” Reese said. “The opposite of me. I never work on weekends. In fact, I’ve been planning a special little trip this weekend to the Costa Brava. I’d like to stay three days, but I may have to come back here Sunday morning for a little party. Private reception.”
Jencks smiled. “Hard life. Tell me more about George’s novel.”
“You know how it is with George. Lots of talk so far, and not a word on the page. George is big on talk. This time, though, I think he may have something—he’d better, he needs the money—because he told me he has a firm offer from an uncle in Italy who’s in publishing. Lots of world-wide contacts. Anyhow, he’s going to get an advance of a thousand dollars.”
“Does that satisfy him?”
“It seems to.”
“I’m glad,” Jencks said, finishing his coffee. “I’ve got to be off,” he said. “Try and contact me soon, after you’ve read the short story. I’m very interested in hearing what you think of it.”
“You going to be staying in Barcelona?”
“Well, actually I have to go to Italy myself next week. A little business. I’ll be at the Hotel Florian in Milan.”
“The Hotel Florian? Isn’t there a Hotel Florian in Rome, too?”
“Yes,” Jencks said, “I think there is.”
“Well, I’m sure we’ll get together,” Reese said, “one way or another. Milan, Rome—what’s the difference?”
“None,” Jencks said, laughing. “None at all.”
He left the cafe, still chuckling to himself. Reese was a very bright boy.