I lingered beside the monitor while the tape recorded sounds reached a frantic climax. 'Okay, baby,' Ted's voice said after an interval in which heavy breathing gradually lessened. 'You're better'n a short arm inspection.'
Marcia's sniff was plainly audible. 'Thanks for nothing. Listen, I've got to use your bathroom. I'm not on the pill.'
'Hell, I thought all you broads were on the pill from kindergarten. But go ahead.'
The buzzer sounded again.
I switched off the recorder, retrieved the microphone, closed and bolted the door again, and went into Erikson's office. 'I thought you'd fallen asleep in there,' he greeted me.
'Not quite. What's the good word?'
Erikson vacated the chair behind his desk. Piled in its center was a stack of file folders, some thick, some thin. 'Sit down here. These contain photos and identity information on the UN guides. If the girl from the Alhambra really works at the UN, you should find her here.'
I opened the top folder. There were head and shoulder shots, profile views, and full length photos of a creamy-skinned girl in street clothes, in a flowing robe, and in a bathing suit. The other folders contained more of the same. It was like looking over the candidates for a Miss International Beauty Contest. They were all young and attractive.
A printed sheet of paper slipped out of the folder which held photographs of a beautiful Eurasian girl. Across the top of the sheet, in bold red letters, was the word CONFIDENTIAL. There were only two paragraphs on the page, but both were specific about aspects of the girl's after-business-hours activities. It was documented evidence that she engaged in frequent sexual moonlighting.
Erikson removed the paper from my hand and replaced it in the folder. 'Is being a UN guide just a sideline?' I asked.
'Living in New York is expensive for nationals whose countries suffer from a poor exchange rate,' Erikson explained. 'Some girls tutor in foreign languages, some model, some work in nightclubs.'
'And some peddle it instead of sitting on it. Does UN stand for Uninhibited Nymphs?'
'Using a young woman to charm information from a diplomat isn't restricted to the CIA or to Embassy Row in Washington, Earl. Many of these girls aren't averse to using sex for their countries.'
'Patriotic pussy, hmm?'
'You're wasting time,' Erikson pointed out.
I returned to the folders. I found three more CONFIDENTIAL slips, but Erikson wouldn't give me time to read them. When I finished the stack of folders, I had two set aside for a second look. Erikson placed the photos side by side. Both girls had dark hair, beautiful high-cheekboned faces with liquid-looking dark eyes, and inviting mouths with promising full hps. Seeing them together, I couldn't be mistaken. 'That's the girl,' I said, tapping the glossy print on the left.
Erikson leaned down for a closer look. 'You're sure?'
'Positive.' I cupped my hands around the face, concealing part of the shoulder-length hair. 'She's wearing her hair shorter now, but that's the girl.'
'Did you hear her speak?'
'Only when she said hello and how are you to a few people while she was walking through the UN lobby. She has quite a voice, though. Foreign-sounding. Memorable.'
Erikson opened the file folder to the back cover. He extracted a folded, narrow strip of paper from a small brown envelope stapled to the cover, and stretched it into a long ribbon. One side was blank, the other printed with a small grid similar to cross-section drawing paper. Across the grid ran an uninterrupted, squiggly line.
'An electocardiogram?' I asked. 'I didn't get to feel her heartbeat.'
'This is a voice print.' Erikson threaded one end of the strip of paper into a slot in the side of a boxlike machine on a shelf behind his desk. It looked something like an automatic telephone-answering device. 'Listen to this,' Erikson said as he flipped a switch.
At first I heard only scratchy noises until he adjusted a control knob. Then a voice came through clearly. The deep, throaty sound and slight, husky accent were unmistakable. 'Check and doublecheck,' I confirmed. 'That's our bird.'
'Talia Rhazmet,' Erikson read from the folder. 'Born in Ismir, Turkey, December 29, 1942. That makes her twenty-eight. Five foot seven and one hundred and thirty-three pounds. A girlish armful, obviously. Speaks Turkish, Greek, Arabic, and English fluently. Been in this country four months. I'll go to another source to get a more complete dossier on her.'
'Let's have another look,' I said, taking the folder from him. The bathing-suit photo of Talia Rhazmet was a beauty. She stood on a sandy beach in a micro-bikini with drops of water dotting her smooth, olive skin. A tiny pool trapped in her navel reflected sunlight like a many-faceted diamond. The white bikini was almost transparent when wet, and it showed plainly her erect nipples and the dark triangle of her pubic hair.
'Very nice,' I understated the case. 'Even an old crock like me wouldn't mind combining business and pleasure in this instance.'
'Businesswise, she may be a complete dead end,' Erikson answered. 'I'll know better when I pull the report. Meantime you go back to the Alhambra and see if Hawk shows again. I'm-'
'Seeing him the first time reminded me of something,' I interrupted him. I tapped my left shoulder. 'My gun is buried in the sand near the airstrip where the gambling plane came down, and if I'm going to see Hawk again I want another.'
'That's not unreasonable,' Erikson agreed. 'Just a minute.' He went into the equipment room, came out with a Smith & Wesson.38 that could have been a duplicate of my own, and handed it to me after taking down the registration number. 'It's already been sighted in,' he said.
'Not like I'll sight it in when I get a chance,' I said, slipping it into the chamois-lined shoulder holster without which I'd have felt undressed.
Jock McLaren waved to me cheerily as I passed through the outer office. He still had the earphones on.
I wondered what his reaction would be if it fell to him to transcribe the segment of tape I'd made of the magazine-studio seduction scene.
It was the cocktail hour when I reached the Alhambra.
The place was a blizzard of bright colors as a hundred people, two-thirds of them in native costume, engaged in high-pitched, alcohol-heightened conversations in half a dozen languages.
All the booths were occupied, and men were standing three-deep at the bar. I eased in at one end. I was in no hurry to be served, since I was going to be there for awhile. There was no sign of Hawk in the swirling smoke eddies in the room, and I resigned myself to waiting it out.
When I was finally served, I nursed my drink for an hour. The crowd began to thin out. I moved to a vacated booth in a corner of the room where I could see the front entrance. I settled myself with as much patience as I could muster.
Only scattered customers remained on the bar stools. One was a woman seated directly in front of my booth. Inside of three minutes I knew she was watching me in the back-bar mirror. After years on the run a man develops a sensitivity about such things.
The woman was an artificial platinum blonde, about thirty, with thin, plucked eyebrows and a lot of makeup. I couldn't remember ever having seen her before. She had on a white blouse and a black skirt of some shiny material. The skirt was so tight it tucked in under her buttocks, delineating each fleshy crease.
I hadn't looked directly at her, but she picked up her drink and carried it to my table. With no invitation from me she plopped herself down in the booth opposite me. She crossed her legs deliberately, far enough out in the aisle to afford me a look at her thigh-high sliding skirt. She smiled at me, disclosing bad teeth. At close range the heavy facial makeup was intended to hide blemishes. She was braless under the blouse, and she might just as well have had HOOKER branded in the center of her forehead.
'I'm Teresa, the original whore with the heart of gold,' she said. 'I saw you with the kid last night. The skinny little blonde. Chryssie.'
'So?'
'So the kid sat here in a booth all afternoon, cryin' about bein' stood up. She had no bread for Mary Jane or
