Flashpoint (10 page)

    She drank her liqueur leisurely while I studied her. What connection could a beauty like this have to a machine gunner like Hawk? When I followed her from the lounge I'd have to be careful that he wasn't lurking outside somewhere to make sure she reached her destination safely with the package he'd left for her in the booth.

    I was ready when she picked up her handbag. I left a bill on the table and followed her outside. Her walk was not the long, free stride of an American girl; she took short, dainty steps which rolled her hips above the fulcrum of her pelvis. The hips were indisputably not as slim as the rest of her. She crossed Lexington and headed north. I stayed on my side of the street and paralleled her. I watched each doorway on both sides of the street, but there was no sign of Hawk.

    After four blocks, the girl turned right, toward the East River. I remained on the opposite side of the street. At once there was no secret where we were going; at the far end of the street I could see the massive glass tower of the UN building. Now that I thought about it, the UN building helped to explain some of the odd costumes and foreign features I'd seen in the Alhambra. Evidently the cocktail lounge was where some of the UN swingers liked to do their partying.

    I had never seen the UN buildings at close range. There were four major ones, the most impressive of which was the Secretariat which looked at least five hundred feet high. I had never seen so many windows. Two sides of the building were green-tinted glass in which I could see passing clouds reflected. An impressive fountain fronted the Secretariat, and UN guards stood at the gates.

    The girl walked toward a white stone building with a domed roof and gently curved wall ridges at the top. I recognized it from pictures as the General Assembly Building. Buses were discharging school children at the entrance. Off to the side, in front of the fountain at the Secretariat, the flags of the UN nations snapped in the breeze.

    We walked along, still in tandem. There was no question now that the girl was going to enter the General Assembly Building. I closed the gap slightly. We entered a large lobby, a vast open area. At the left, standing alone at the far end of the lobby, was a bronze statue of a Greek god atop a tall, cylindrical block of marble. Three balconies overhung the lobby area.

    The girl spoke to several people as she pushed her way through the throngs of people. I remembered reading somewhere that the UN employed more than four thousand international civil servants. The girl walked under the first balcony overhang to a doorway on which a
UN PERSONNEL ONLY
sign in four languages was hung. Before I realized what was happening, she disappeared inside the door. A UN guard eyed me up and down as I stood there irresolutely for a moment. I turned away.

    Now I'd lost both the girl and Hawk. I walked through the cavernous interior until I found a bank of pay phones.

    "I blew it," I told Erikson after giving him a rundown on events. "I thought I could stay with her. I didn't count on anything like this."

    "The UN is ideal for a package drop," Erikson replied. "The girl may only be a courier for the transfer of the package. From your description, though, she could be one of the girl guides. I'll have photos of the entire guide personnel shipped to the office here and you can take a look. Can you make it in an hour?"

    "I'll be there."

    I was outside when I remembered I'd stood Chryssie up on my offer of breakfast if she made it to the Alhambra.

    But there was nothing I could do about it.

    I had more on my mind than a flaked-out flower child.

    

    

    A stranger answered my knock at Erikson's office door. He was a broad-shouldered six-footer, young and well tanned. "I'm Jock McLaren, one of the hired hands," he said. "The boss wanted you to have this." He handed me what looked like a credit card. "In case you ever have to come here late at night," he explained. "It'll identify you. Because of the all-hours nature of the work of most of the building's renters, it's not locked at night. Have a seat till the man's free."

    He went to the desk in the tiny office, put on a pair of earphones, and started tap-tap-tapping a typewriter as he transcribed a tape I could see on a recorder. I wondered what his position was in Erikson's organization. Despite what he was doing, I knew it wasn't strictly as a typewriter jockey. In the brief second we'd shaken hands, I'd noticed scars on the back of his right hand that had been induced with malicious forethought.

    Quite a few minutes went by before Erikson opened the door of the inner office and beckoned me. "The UN files on the girl guides aren't here yet," he said. "Wait in the equipment room. I have some phoning to do."

    I started to heat up at the way he was wasting my time. I almost asked him if I was in or out of this operation. Then I realized I'd never committed myself to going along with it. It was Erikson's show, and I really didn't care how he managed it as long as I had a shot at recovering Hazel's money.

    "It shouldn't take long," Erikson continued as he pressed the corner of the Emmett Kelley picture and the apparently solid section of wall swung out, disclosing again the inner room with its shelves and benches of sophisticated gear. "Don't turn on the television monitor."

    He closed the panel when I was inside. I was tempted to turn on the monitor just because he'd forbidden it, but I knew he'd probably have some kind of signal in his office to let him know when it was in use. I started to sit down on the same padded stool when I thought of the studio next door in which I had seen the nude models being photographed.

    I turned out the light in the equipment room, went to the door in the dark, fumbled for the bolt and found it, eased it back, and cracked the door open silently. It was dark on the other side of the door, too, and for a second I thought the studio was empty. Then from the darkness I heard a voice that sounded like the blonde with the frosted hairdo who had been so reluctant to strip in a crowd. "You haven't done a thing for me, yet you want something for nothing," she was saying.

    "But you know I can do something for you, Marcia." It was the voice of the younger man who had been stage-managing the nude model scene. I could see the glow of two cigarettes, low down, as if the smokers were sitting on a couch or divan. "I brought you in to tell you that you came through on the glossies twice as good as Edna or Ginger."

    "You only brought me in because you want to bang me. Why should I let you?"

    "I'll tell you why, kid." The man's tone had hardened. "Because I can make it tough for you if you don't. If you want to get along in this business. Now quit stalling. I've got to be crosstown in an hour."

    One of the glowing cigarettes described a downward swoop and then disappeared. I had a picture of the girl stubbing it out in an ashtray. "All right," she said, "but

    I'm warning you, Ted. If floodlights come on while we're doing it so you can take pictures, I'll rip your face with my fingernails."

    "What do you think I am, baby?" The protesting voice sounded injured. "A lot of things I might be but an exhibitionist I'm not." The second lighted cigarette described a downward arc similar to the first and disappeared. "Okay, Marcia, peel it. Ever since the first day you walked into the office I've had the feeling you'd make a great lay."

    An idea began to form in the back of my mind. I closed the door, found the light switch, and turned it on. I hurried to the bench with the tape-recording equipment, picked up a long-snouted directional microphone, plugged it into the already set-up recorder, and unreeled the cord toward the door.

    I put out the light again, cracked open the door, and aimed the rifle-barrel of the microphone directiy at where I'd seen the lighted cigarettes. Then I eased back to the tape recorder and turned it on, increasing the monitor level gradually.

    Ted's voice came through the monitor suddenly. "- great legs, Marcia. Just great. Now roll over and let me play with your ass. That's what really turns me on."

    "Nothing fancy, now," Marcia's voice said. The microphone was so sensitive I could hear the rustle of clothing and the sound of hand-pats on bare flesh. "I don't go for-hey, that's not in the contract-what are you DOING? Ohhhh!"

    "Dee-licious!" Ted's voice said huskily. "You taste just like clam chowder. Stop squirming."

    "Cut it-OUT!" Marcia exclaimed breathlessly. "I said nothing-FANCY! Ooooh! STOP-it!"

    There was the prolonged slithering, fleshy sounds of bodies in semi-combat. "You know you love it," Ted's voice said after an interval. "Okay. Spread your wings."

    The voices stopped, but not the sounds. In increasing degree the microphone picked up hoarse breathing, sibilant sighs, muffled squeals, and inelegant grunts. The slap-slapping sound of bare bodies became metronomic. I was standing there, picturing the reaction of whoever was called upon to transcribe this particular tape when the buzzer sounded indicating that Erikson wanted me in his office.

    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.