Big Three-Thriller Bundle Box Collection (55 page)

PHONE HOME

THE SCANT LIGHTS along the narrow Barcelona road making dim circles on the bricks and the shadows took over the streets.

Spurs stood from her small table, tossed a wad of paper
pesetas
next to her empty coffee cup and went for the door.

At the
Centre de Telefono
on a nearby corner, she called the Naval Criminal Investigative Service in Washington, D. C., gave the receptionist her name and asked for Paul Royse. She looked around the empty, glass enclosed room as she waited. Over a dozen pay phones covered two walls.

Ten seconds later, Royse picked up.

“Spurs, are you all right?”

Warmth spread over her body. It was so good to hear a familiar voice. A voice of someone she trusted. Deputy Assistant Director (DAD) Royse. The acronym seemed to fit. He treated her more like what she thought a father should than her own father, the Admiral.

“So far. You guys really dropped me in the cow pasture blindfolded.”

“I know. It wasn’t my idea. This might sound incredible but I believe Director Burgess set you up. He knew this mission was too involved and dangerous for a green agent. He’s using you for a decoy to throw off
Allah’s Jihad
.”

Spurs didn’t like the implication that she was green, even from Royse.

“I can handle it. There’s a heap of strange things happening here, but I’m going to break the case soon.”

“No way. I heard about your little swimming incident and the helo crash. Drop everything and go to the airport. I’ll arrange for your ticket back.”

“No, I’m okay. I’m getting close. I’ll have the Chameleon hog-tied and on your doorstep within the week.”

“The Chameleon?—No, Spurs. Leave that to. . . .”

A huge hand swung down on the phone and she was bumped to the side. She stumbled and looked up. Chardoff towered over her, grinning. He’d disconnected the line.

LOVERS AND FRIENDS

“EXCUSE ME, ENSIGN,” Chardoff said. “Guess
I’d
better watch where
I’m
going or
I’m
liable to get hurt.”

He pulled the receiver from Spurs’ hand and looked at the phone buttons.

“Glad there’s a free phone—I’ve gotta call Mom,” he said, dropping a coin in the slot, then he looked to her. “It’s a personal call. Do you mind?”

Spurs glanced around the room at the other thirteen phones. No one stood in front of any of them. No
Out of Order
signs. The room was empty except for her and the Marine.

“Asshole,” was all Spurs could think of to say.

“Sweetheart, is that the best you can do? Now, be a good little cunt and go away.”

She backed off, seeing the large K-bar knife in its scabbard on his belt. This was not a good time or place for a confrontation with this big ape. She’d have to call Royse back later.

Her thoughts were interrupted by yet another familiar figure—her ex-fiancée, Doug
Bird Dog
Smith.

He walked by the windows, arms around the shoulders of two companions. All wore civvies and big smiles as they talked. It appeared that they’d started drinking early.

Spurs missed him. She had to at least say hello. Maybe they could have a drink together.

Without looking back at Chardoff, she trotted out the door to see that the three were walking toward what appeared to be a popular bar as several other military sorts preceded them in. Suppressing an excited yell—trying to avoid appearing like an infatuated teenager missing an old lover, she jogged to catch him before he went through the door. But her emotions were so taken aback by the sight of a friendly face that she couldn’t contain herself.

“Doug!”

He hadn’t heard. She trotted up behind and got in on the middle of their conversation.

“. . . at least my pickle button doesn’t stick, Cards,” Doug said to his black companion on the right. “Between that and your loose cannon plugs, we ought to change your handle to
Ol’ No Shot
.”

Spurs knew that the pickle button was the button on the stick of a fighter plane used to fire a particular weapon after it had been selected. The cannon plug he referred to was probably the electrical connector on a fighter plane’s wing pylon that couples a missile to the fire control wiring harness.

The smaller man on his left patted Doug on the back in an odd sort of soft and feminine way and said, “Nothing’s wrong with your pickle.”

Doug turned to him and smiled amorously. The man leaned his head on his shoulder.

Spurs was sure that this was some kind of a male play-gay-so-everyone-knows-you’re-not sort of game.

Cards pulled away from Bird Dog’s arm and said, “Hey, I told you two, no funny business while I’m around. I’m straight, remember?”

He turned back to see Spurs looking at the three bewildered.

“Well, hi there, pretty ensign,” Cards said. “I like girls, really.”

The three men stopped in front of the bar and the other two turned to her smiling.

Bird Dog’s smile turned to shock.

“Spurs?”

“Hi Doug,” she said stepping up to him, somewhat surprised at his reaction. His face became red as if he’d been caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“I’m on the
Atchison
.”

“What? I thought you were going into NCIS.”

She frowned at him.
Good move, Doug. Let the world know
.

He seemed to realize his mistake. “My big mouth. But these guys are okay.”

The tall, broad-shouldered black guy on the right asked, “Hey, Bird Dog, where have you been hiding this cute little quail, or should I say secret agent?” He reached his hand out. “The name’s Robert Stedman, Spurs. But you can call me Cards.”

She shook his hand as the shorter, boyish faced man on the left said, “Well isn’t this just too cozy. Everyone has a nickname except me.” His voice was soft. He turned to her and offered his hand. “I’m Victor Bowser,” he said, “I guess you can call me Vic.”

They shook. “So you’re Spurs. Doug has told me a lot of nice things about you.”

“Oh?” she said, looking to Doug.

“Yes,” Vic continued. “I’m sorry things didn’t work out for you two.”

Cards punched Doug in the arm. “Kind of got your tit in the wringer, huh boy?”

The
Bird Dog
Doug Smith appeared dumbfounded, seeming to have lost his speech.

“I think we’d better go inside, sit down and talk,” Vic said looking to Doug. “Let’s get this over with and behind us, Doug.”

GAY BARCELONA

“YOU GO IN,” Spurs told the others in the doorway of the bar. “I’ve seen and heard enough.”

Several eager patrons squeezed by them and went through the door of the tavern.

“Spurs wait,” Doug said. “You don’t understand.” He looked down. “I don’t even understand.”

Spurs stared at him as he continued.

“I really cared for you—I still do, it’s just that all my life I’ve had this kind of funny feeling. It’s like the whole world thinks a guy has to be macho and want to be with women. I went along with it because I thought I had to. I thought there was something wrong with me. I really cared for you, Spurs. You’re a wonderful girl, but I was so confused about my own sexuality. Then I met Vic back in Virginia and everything changed. He made me realize that I wasn’t sick. I was just different than most guys. He made me feel special.”

Spurs’ cheeks burned. She turned and walked away, briskly. The street was filling with the evening crowd of sailors, tourists and locals going to the bars and restaurants.

“Wait, please,” Bird Dog said.

She heard running from behind. Someone pulled her shoulder and turned her around. She expected to see Doug. Instead, it was the tall black man, Cards.

“There’s something you really don’t understand about this,” he said. “You know, I was kind of like you when I found out about it. Of course Bird Dog and I were never lovers or engaged or anything. I’m as straight as a guy can get. When he told me that he was gay, I nearly shit. At first I was pissed, I mean we were best friends.”

Spurs looked up at him. “I’m listening. Tell me what I don’t understand. How am I supposed to react to this?”

Several people passed, a couple of them bumping into the two. A young sailor holding hands with a pretty young girl went by.

Cards took Spurs by the arms and she looked up at his pleading eyes.

“You’ve got to understand that Doug isn’t any different than he used to be. He’s still a great guy. He’s bright and funny and intelligent. That hasn’t changed. He doesn’t want to hurt anyone. Especially you. He fought with this for quite a while. He didn’t ask to be gay. He was born that way. He’s been imprisoned by other people’s prejudices for a long time. Now he’s finally free. But he still has to deal with the prejudice.” Cards paused. “I know exactly what that’s like. Maybe you do too. I didn’t ask to be black, but I’m proud I am, and I’m going to make the best of my life and not worry about ignorant people. You didn’t ask to be a woman. I’ll bet it’s been hard for you to be doing a
man’s job
, hasn’t it. But you’re going to live your life, do the best you can with what God gave you to work with, and the hell with everyone else, right?”

Spurs bowed her head and looked away. The few words Cards had spoken were worth a lifetime of bigotry preached to her by her father. It didn’t matter how much she told herself that the Admiral was always right, she’d known deep down inside since she was old enough to tie her shoes and think for herself that he had been disgustingly wrong about gays, blacks and women, besides every other race and religion that wasn’t his own.

“Tell him I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ll try to understand.”

“It’d be better if you told him.”

“I can’t. Let’s leave it like this. It’s the best I can do, right now.”

She looked up to him and he smiled and patted her arm. She turned away confused and angry. She wasn’t watching where she was going and bumped into someone on the street. Someone in a red dress and high heels. Someone with walnut brown skin and bright red lipstick. A blonde wig, jarred to the side. Short, curly black hair underneath. Another person stood to the side with milk-white skin and a tight pink dress.

“Que pasa, hermana?
”

Spurs looked up at the woman. She quickly recognized the masculine nose and jaw veiled in thick makeup. A transvestite. Another queer! The world seemed loaded with gays.

She bolted, hustling toward a taxi a block away.

“Loca puta,”
she heard one of them say. She stepped quickly. It was too much—sickening. She felt about to vomit.

Nearly in a run as she sought escape, she glanced off of several people on the crowded street. A pair of hands seemed to come from nowhere. She was suddenly grabbed and held by her forearms. Oh God, she thought, it’s probably another one. She wrenched away and looked up.

“Hey, easy, Ensign Sperling!” Lieutenant Commander Reeves said, his white uniform brightened by the colorful lights from the bars and dance clubs surrounding them. “You all right?”

Spurs immediately relaxed. It was someone straight—someone down to earth—someone on her side.

“Oh God,” she said, eyes rolling. “I’m glad to see you.”

“Well, thank you Ensign. I’m glad to see you, too.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” she said. “It just seems like everyone around me is a homo.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“How about a drink?” he asked.

She glanced about. “Okay, but not here.”

“Have you ever seen a live Flamenco show?”

Spurs smiled. “No, I’d love to, sir.”

Reeves smiled back then raised his hand to a cab a half a block away.

“Taxi!” he yelled.

The cab pulled up immediately and he opened the door for her.

She seated herself and scooted over to the opposite side and he slipped in beside her. “Thank you, sir.”

He grinned. “Call me Nick.”

FLAMENCO FEVER

AFTER A FIFTEEN-minute drive away from the seaport’s bars and red-light district, through a dark, forsaken industrial area filled with dilapidated buildings, abandoned warehouses and empty textile plants, and down several deserted narrow alleyways, the cab stopped in front of
El Club Del Flamenco
. Reeves assisted Spurs out of the car and tossed in several
pesetas
to the driver. Along the dimly lit cobblestone street were late-model Mercedes, Saabs, and Volvos. Spurs wondered if the black car parked closest to the door was not a Rolls Royce. Around many of the vehicles were finely dressed men, standing patiently, some leaning against the ancient mortar walls of Barcelona’s oldest sector.

The vigorous strumming of guitars pulsated from the doorway of the club. Reeves took her by the arm and escorted her eagerly to the door. The smile on his face was endearing, like that of a child on his way to the circus. A colorfully dressed doorman with a top hat and ruffled shirt opened the thick wooden double doors. They entered to find a heavy-set balding maitre d’ who ushered them to a table, second row from the dance floor in the rapidly filling room. Three guitarists sat on stools to the back of the spotlighted wall in between two closed, red curtains. Around them were couples in their nicest evening attire: dark suits and tuxes and brightly colored and sequined evening gowns.

The vibrating strings rattled Spurs’ lungs as she glanced over the audience. The lights dimmed. She could feel the anticipation of the crowd, building up like the electrical charge she’d experienced before the lightning had struck the helo.

The other patrons appeared to be locals, no other military or obvious Americans. Nearly glowing in their white uniforms, she and Reeves stuck out from the rest of the audience like ice cream vendors at a funeral.

Reeves ordered drinks in the leaning waiter’s ear. Spurs couldn’t hear what. The waiter quickly returned with two glasses of what he called in English “a nice, native
Rosa Barcelona
,” and they sipped from them casually for the next few minutes as she took in the crowd. Spanish citizens, smiling, joking— laughing out loud. They only occasionally glanced back at her and Reeves. Some of the men were smoking large cigars. But this was no a back-street dive. She examined their attire once again. The men’s tuxes were silk, their ruffled shirts, also. The women’s gowns were long, low-cut and formal. They were all dressed as if they were attending a presidential inauguration or the Academy Awards.

Soon, castanets began clacking rapidly. The guitars silenced. The crowd hushed. The lights rose. The castanets stopped. Silence.

The audience watched the curtains, excitement in their faces.

As the waiter returned with two glasses of red wine and placed them on the table the castanets started again, slowly. A man’s thick-heeled shoe appeared from behind the right curtain. A woman’s high-heeled shoe came out from the one on the left. Their heels tapped on the tile floor. The castanets clicked along like drumming fingers. The guitars accompanied, strumming softly.

The sound built, some of the crowd joining in, clapping along. The man and woman came out from behind the curtains striking their heels and twisting their bodies. The woman’s red dress was tight at the thighs, and when she spun it flew out from just above her knees exposing trim, shapely legs. The man’s tight black pants showed every curve, every bulge of his athletic body. Dressed as a matador, he wore a short, black jacket and a wide-brimmed, flat black hat.

They crossed the floor, their backs arched, stepping boldly. They paused to spin around each other in the middle, her castanets clicking, his hands clapping sharply. Then they headed for the audience, looking momentarily into the eyes of each of the patrons sitting in the front row.

Without even a glance to each other to pick a target, the matador’s eyes found Reeves. The woman’s found Spurs. They advanced to them, stamping their feet, clicking castanets and clapping hands to the rhythm of the strumming guitars.

Spurs checked Reeves, his expression dead pan, watching the
matador
approach. She looked at her counterpart, stomping closer, castanets in one hand, a colorful fan fluttering in the other. They drew nearer, staring at the two.

The crowded room witnessed the show intently, wordlessly, their clapping hands now silent.

Spurs watched Reeves and the young, delicately featured
matador
. The man brought his face to within inches of the commander, Reeves looking back still unfazed, without blinking.

The woman was now in Spurs’ face and she turned to her. She saw that the young woman also had delicate features. Auburn hair. Full, wet, cherry
-like lips. Beautiful, sensuous, brown eyes. Her low cut dress left no guess whether or not she had full, firm breasts. Thin waist, shapely hips.

Her face neared to within inches of Spurs’. She ran her tongue across her sexy mouth and stared deep into Spurs’ eyes, drawing uncomfortably nearer. Spurs felt a warmth rush through her body. It raised. Burned. She pulled her head back but the woman moved closer. Her eyes asked Spurs to kiss her. Her lips parted showing the tips of straight white teeth. Her mouth begged for a long, passionate, wet kiss. Her eyes, lazy, staring, longingly inviting. Spurs’ own eyes could not wander. They were drawn in to the woman’s.

Something deep within told Spurs to go ahead, kiss this lovely young woman, experience her exotic beauty, taste her sensuous juices. The enticing Spanish woman was a beautiful art form. Something that should be appreciated. She told herself that these were not gay thoughts; she didn’t like other women sexually—had never experienced a gay relationship of any kind—even the thought of it was repulsive to her, yet. . . .

She didn’t know where the forbidden notion had come from and once she had time to analyze it with her society-taught morality, she jerked her face away, dashing the temptation.

The woman also moved away and Spurs looked at Reeves. The two men seemed to be in a stare-down. She wondered what went on inside Reeves’ head. Could he also be tempted to kiss the young man? Did he also have these strange, suppressed feelings that should never be explored or let out, but be held down, covered up, strangled, ashamed of. No, not him. He was just being his cool self. Able to handle any situation. In control, even as he sat there, the crowd watching, the young man glaring.

The two flamenco dancers crossed behind them, changing partners. Now the young
matador
drew closer to Spurs, the young woman closer to Reeves.

The young man’s lips parted. His eyes did not ask for, they demanded a kiss. He brought his face to hers and once again, she pulled back, but he pursued quickly. She felt the heat of his body, heard his heavy breath, took in his scent. It was not an offensive or pungent odor, but a mild musky smell with its own clean sweetness. She felt her nostrils flare, her face flush, a burning from within warmed her breasts. She didn’t turn away and when his kiss met hers, it was welcomed. But it was only a light touch, brief, disappointing. His lips glanced off of hers, in the same instant, the matador rose and glared at the young woman.

The female dancer’s lips lingered on Reeves’, and as she finished the prolonged embrace, she turned to the male dancer, her head bowed, eyes glimpsing up guiltily. He scowled back and began to move calculatingly around the table like a barnyard rooster about to run off one of his hen’s new suitors.

The woman slinked behind Reeves, looking as though she was using him as a shield. The man stopped five feet in front of the commander, glaring first at the young woman, then at Reeves. He reached under his short jacket.

Then the gun appeared.

The crowd gasped. He pointed the revolver at Reeves, the commander still looked back unflinchingly. Calmly.

Spurs knew this was part of the act. It had to be.

The
matador
pulled the hammer back. His eyes squinted.

Spurs had doubts. Was this real? The gun certainly was. Had the two dancers been in a jealous fight moments before taking the floor? Did the woman go too far with the act? Had he told her that he would kill the next man she kissed? Was he about to actually shoot Reeves?

Spurs rose from the table.

Reeves still sat, staring back at the gunman.

She started toward the pistol.

Suddenly;
POP, POP, POP!