Delta Factor, The (9 page)

Kim and I both spotted a dozen well-known playboy types from two continents and a spattering of Hollywood celebrities, but the big-money people were the ones you ordinarily wouldn't pick out unless you could recognize the signs. For most, Nuevo Cádiz was an interesting stop on the Monte Carlo—Las Vegas route, one that had potential if the political wheels spun in the right direction.

I signed us in the Hotel Regis as Mr. and Mrs. M. A. Winters, feeling myself get a little tight at the stares Kim was drawing and some of the more audible remarks some of the other guests made, not thinking I caught their language. I played it straight and ignored it, wanting to keep the supposed language barrier an edge on my side if I needed it.

The bellboy took us up to a suite on the fifth floor, accepted the ten-dollar American with a toothy smile and bowed himself out the door. Kim went to say something, but I held up my hand, made a motion toward my ear and pointed to spots around the room. “Nice place,” I said. “Good honeymoon spot. Like it?”

“Beautiful.”

“Told you you would. Wait till you catch the nightlife.”

“I'd rather go shopping. We cut out so fast I didn't bring a damn thing.”

I grinned at her and nodded. While we were talking we had located two of the bugs planted in the living room and Kim picked up another in the huge bedroom. We didn't bother to strip them out. They would be a useful decoy if we wanted to plant an idea in their minds. The only place that seemed clean was the bathroom, so if we had anything to discuss we could do it there with the shower going. Nice, in one way of thinking.

“Come here, honey,” I said. My tone had a bridegroom touch and she scowled uneasily until I made an impatient motion with my hand. She came into my arms slowly and I buried my mouth against her ear. “Play it cozy, sugar. They'll be expecting this so don't do anything that will make them think differently.”

She nodded, her hair brushing gently against my cheek, smelling of some fine perfume. I tilted her chin up with the tips of my fingers, feeling those big wild eyes engulf me, then suddenly my mouth touched her mouth, and just as suddenly it wasn't just a touch any longer, but a crazy maelstrom that tried to suck me into its vortex.

With a trembling hand, she pushed me away, her breath caught in her throat for a moment. Soundlessly, but so I could read her lips, she said, “That wasn't ... necessary.”

I didn't have to be quiet about it. “Wonderful doll. You turn me inside out.” Her face flushed a little and I grinned at her. “How about trying the nightlife here? Maybe we can pick up a few bucks at the tables.”

“Or lose it. But I think ... it's a good idea.”

We took our turns in the shower, changed into clean cothes, then went out to the elevator. I gave Kim enough money to shop for both of us while I got the feel of the city, making arrangements to meet her at the tables downstairs in two hours. Given two people sensitive to the temper of a city, it wouldn't take too long to get the mood of the place. Kim would probe the locals, the salesclerks, draw them out the way one woman can another, and I'd tackle the tourist angle.

Although Nuevo Cádiz, the capital city of this politically volcanic country, wasn't especially noted for authentic tourists. The big men at the crap and roulette tables found it relaxing because all the wraps were off; hoods found it a convenient place to cool off if the heat was too much for them back home, provided they could pay the freight; the jet set reveled in the lush spas the government had erected and the Commies played their little games and waited to see which side to cultivate and harvest into their own world.

Looking out at the gaudy runways of the streets flanked by the glistening white façades of the hotels and casinos, it was hard to picture that four miles away on the tip of the peninsula was the graveyard of the living called the Rose Castle and inside was a man named Victor Sable and someplace in there I had to reserve a room for myself.

I tried my luck in four of the places, playing lackadaisically at the crap tables, picking up a couple of hundred bucks behind the shooters. It was still too early for the big action, most of the trade in catching the Las Vegas-style supper shows. But the mental climate was far from Vegas. There was something furtive about this place. It was subtle fear you could almost feel and smell, something in the attitude of the stickmen and croupiers. There were too many hardcases busily engaged in doing nothing except inspecting the crowd, noticeable bulges pulling their tuxedos out of shape, strangely military in their carriage, with hostile eyes their smiles couldn't conceal.

The most peculiar thing was the absence of the little people. Unlike similar cities, there were no shoeshine boys, no hookers working the bars, nobody trying to shake you down for a few coins on the street. What few I saw went about their business with their heads down and did it quickly. Twice, I deliberately approached them, ostensibly to ask for directions. One said he didn't speak English and the other simply pointed and held up two fingers for the blocks I had to travel, looked around him nervously, then scurried off.

When it was time to meet Kim I walked to a cabstand and asked the driver to take me to the Regis. When he pulled out from the curb I asked him, “When do things move around here, buddy?”

“Soon, señor. Once the heat of day has passed.”

“Recommend anyplace special?”

His shrug said one place was the same as another.

“How about the games? They straight? I'd hate to drop a bundle on a rigged wheel.”

This time his eyes caught mine in the mirror. “The government sees to it that all things are run honestly.” It was like reciting a well-memorized line.

“Quite a place. What was it like before?”

Once more I met his eyes and they were a little cagy. “Very different, señor. There has been a great improvement.”

“For the better?”

“Oh, si, señor. Much better now. There is no more poor. The government has seen to that.” It was another pat line. I was wondering if he ever drove through the slum area that bordered all this opulence.

The gaming rooms of the Regis avoided the Las Vegas look. The effect was more of early-twentieth-century splendor, the place swathed in heavy draperies and thick velvet carpeting, presided over by huge crystal chandeliers whose prisms threw weird spectrums on the tables below. There was a Diamond Jim Brady atmosphere and you could almost hear the money rustle in the thick wallets of the patrons. Currency from a dozen countries was being changed at the counters into stacks of chips, and multilingual hostesses circulated with bubbling bottles of champagne. Dress was mixed between casual and formal, with money being the only common denominator.

I wasted a half hour losing at stud poker, then hit a streak and added seven hundred to my pot before I moved on. What I wanted to establish was the attitude of a restless newcomer trying on things for size before getting into anything big, not caring one way or another whether I won or lost. Either way, I tipped the dealers a big bite so they'd have me spotted for another go around before I tried another pitch.

Kim came in just before nine o'clock and joined me at the roulette wheel. Once again she got those looks, and murmurs of appreciation ran around the table and the envious eyes sized me up when she took my hand like a loving wife was supposed to. I could pick out a couple of them who would have tried a continental approach to making a play for her, but I was just a little too big and my face was the kind that said I wouldn't go for that bit at all without crippling somebody, so there were regretful shrugs and they went back to the game.

When I lost out on a dozen turns I took Kim over to the bar, ordered a couple of drinks for us and said, “How'd you make out?”

“Purchasing power buys a lot of things around here. Incidentally, I put everything upstairs.”

“They shake the place down yet?”

“Thoroughly but efficiently. Ordinarily, you'd never notice it. They're very proficient.”

“I expected that. What did you pick up?”

“A confirmation of our information,” she said. “The government is nominally run by a president and his cabinet who were forced on the people by Carlos Ortega's machine. They're merely figureheads who have to do as they're told. It's the same old pattern. The people get a look at prosperity and have hopes of sharing in it, but it's all eyewash. Ortega controls the Army and they control the population. It all happened in a subtle takeover instead of a revolution, but it was just as effective.”

“Then why doesn't Ortega just assume control?”

“Because he wants world approval, for one thing. He likes money and he likes power, but of the two, he'll take money first. He's got a gold mine going for him here and if ever the balance swings in the wrong direction he'll be able to get out with a fortune the very same way the other dictators did.”

“But enough money and he can swing the power package too,” I stated.

“Exactly. Right now the government funds are depleted because they overextended themselves on their building program. Domestic taxes are murderous and if it weren't for the hard course the Army takes there might be open rebellion.”

“That won't work.”

Kim shook her head and sipped at her drink. “I don't know. There's a peculiar feeling running through the people I spoke to. They seem to like this figurehead president. Although he can't do anything, he's one of them and on their side. He's bucked Ortega twice and made it stick and my bet is that Ortega would have had him erased if it wouldn't have put him on the spot. Given one opportunity, or confidence that he'd be backed up by the right governments, and he'd pull the cork.”

“That fits the Commie trend.”

“I don't know. We backed them down in Cuba and they may not want to jeopardize their present status by going that far out for an inconsequential place like this. The other Latin American countries might toughen up at that. No, I think the Reds are playing it cute and waiting it out. If Ortega makes it on his own they'll side with him. If he falls, they'll bypass this situation.”

“And that brings us to Victor Sable.”

“Ortega's ace in the hole, Morgan. He can bargain with him. Both sides want him badly and Ortega's waiting until the price is right.”

“Damn, we should have moved in with troops to start with.”

“And risk a global war? Then the Commies
would
back up Ortega. They'd have the propaganda advantage for one thing and a ready-made secondary government to support him for another. Besides, it would give them the excuse to pull a power play in the other hot spots in Asia where the lines of communication favor them.”

I finished the drink and waved the bartender over for a refill. “And old Morgan gets tapped to be the patsy.”

“Somebody has to do it,” Kim told me. “You were just a natural for the part.”

“Gee, thanks, kid.”

“No trouble at all,” she smiled sweetly. “Consider it an education in global politics and a rebate on your jail sentence.” She let the smile go wider, then suddenly grimaced when I kicked her shin with the side of my shoe.

She didn't stop smiling, but she did say, “Ow ... you bastard.”

“No trouble at all,” I said. “Consider it an education in the art of learning not to push a man.”

She let out a little laugh that was real this time and finished her drink with me. Behind us the crowd had picked up, standing four deep around the tables, and we went over and joined the throng. Had it not been for Kim, we couldn't have gotten through to the crap tables, but she had the knack and the smile and found us a place, played small bets with me until I got the dice, then stood beside me when I let them roll.

Four times in a row I made my point the hard way and I could sense the sudden interest in the players. The big money started following my lead and the chips were piling up in front of me. The stickman changed the dice, let me inspect them; then I threw two sixes and did the same on the next toss. A four went out and there was a small sigh from the edge of the table and an apprehensive cough from the guy next to Kim who was winning for the first time that night. I rolled a nine and an eight with a dead silence hanging around us; then the four turn up. The excited chatter turned into applause and the other tables started to empty when the word spread that a lucky streak was on.

Once more the stickman called for a pause and spoke hurriedly to his assistant to run in fresh cubes. From behind me a voice with the hoarse quality of somebody who cheered too wildly said, “They'll do anything to break your luck, buddy.”

I turned around and grinned at him. He was a dark-haired guy with a lopsided smile and a face that had the touch of an old pug. His eyes crinkled humorously so that one seemed higher than the other and he had one hand wrapped around a stack of black chips. The other one he held out to me. “Marty Steele from Yonkers, New York,” he said. “I'm playing right behind you. Keep it up.”

“Morg Winters,” I told him. “I'll keep trying.”

“Those new dice won't do them any good. I can smell it.”

“You're better than I am. It's all the laws of chance.”

“That's good enough for me.” He grinned again, his face twisting oddly, and let out a throaty laugh.

I got the new dice, warmed them in my hand, didn't bother with a shake at all and tossed them out, watched them bounce off the backboard and come up a seven. The total silence erupted into a booming roar of delight as everybody grabbed for their chips and I picked up the dice again.

This time I rolled a three, but nobody was betting against me. The table was loaded, the players watching me expectantly, the stickman eyeing the way I handled the cubes to make sure I wasn't pulling a switch, and to make it easy for him I held them out in plain sight on the tip of my fingers and made my roll. The first time I drew a five, the second roll came up an eight and the third pass showed the three. It wasn't a lucky streak anymore. It was damn near a rout and the crowd knew it and yelled for more. Beside me Marty Steele was piling his chips up, his voice breaking with encouraging shouts.