Chapter 7

Harold Sorenson stepped out of the phone booth in the lobby of the quaint Barcelona Hotel on the lake and walked down to the large patio that doubled as an outdoor restaurant and bar. The operator had assured him that she would send a bellboy down as soon as his call to San Francisco came through.

"Una botella de Pont Laveque," he told the waiter, ordering his favorite Argentine burgundy. In the short time that he had been in the country Harold had acquired a taste for the excellent Argentine wines. He was no expert on wines, but he knew that these were as good, if not actually better, than any that he had ever tasted.

Harold had, in fact, become quite attracted to Argentina. The low cost of living was amazing. What meals he had eaten in restaurants had been excellent, and the average price had been about a dollar and a half for a full dinner.

The lake was filled with boats. People were sailing and water-skiing, and a number of fishermen had lines in from the bridge. It was Saturday and he wondered if the lake was this crowded every weekend. He knew that this lake village of San Carlos was a popular resort area. It was located between La Cumbre in the mountains and Córdoba, one of Argentina's largest industrial cities. Harold thought that a majority of the people on the lake were probably from Córdoba, getting away from the busy city for a pleasant weekend.

For the past day or so, Harold had been considering settling down in Argentina when this assignment was over. A sudden display of money in San Francisco might draw the attention of the Internal Revenue Service, and Harold wondered just how safe he would be in the same city with Matthew Harmon and Debby. If they ever decided to blow the whistle on him, he might have a difficult time keeping his hide out of jail.

But with over four hundred thousand dollars in Argentina, he could pretty well write his own ticket. He could buy a ranch and live like a king without a worry in the world. The country had a great deal of natural beauty, and Harold found the people interesting and friendly

"Senor Maldonado, ya tienen su llamada," the bellboy said, telling Harold that his call was ready and waiting. Harold used a different name each time he placed a long-distance call.

"Gracias," Harold said, handing the bellboy a two-peso tip and following him back into the lobby. He was anxious to hear what Benny had found out. There had to be a good reason why Matthew Harmon wanted his sister kidnapped and turned into a sex machine. Nobody paid half a million dollars for this type of service without a good reason, and Harold wanted to know just how the cards were stacked in this game that he was playing in.

"Benny?" he said, picking up the phone.

"Right on, Harold baby," the voice said with a clarity that made it sound like he was in the same building rather than thousands of miles away.

"Get anything?" Harold asked.

"About an hour ago. This is going to cost you, baby. I laid five small ones on a broad."

"Okay, okay, I told you I'd pay," Harold said impatiently, "just fill me in."

"Old man Harmon cashed in a few days ago," Benny said. "His will ain't been read yet, but this chick got me a photo copy. Everything goes to the broad, providing she's a good girl."

"What does that mean?" Harold asked.

"A morals clause. Old man must have been a real non-swinger. The will provides that if either of the heirs has been balling around, the other one gets the cake. Chick says she heard her boss estimate the estate to be worth over a hundred million. Lot of bread."

"You can say that again!" Harold said with a low whistle.

"Is that the dope you wanted?" Benny asked. "I think so," Harold said slowly. "Any mention of the broad in the papers up there?"

"Just a line in the story about the old man's death. Said she was in shock, or something like that, and would return from her trip after a short rest."

"Funeral?"

"Today. Can't remember the place, but it was one of them fancy joints. Need anything more?"

"You might do some footwork for me. Check out Matthew Harmon's private life. Don't let anyone know you're on him, though. Can you handle it?"

"A bill a day, plus expenses," Benny said.

"Okay. I'll be in touch."

Harold returned to the patio to sip his wine and ponder on the information that Benny had supplied. He had never heard of a morals clause in a will before and something in his memory about general law and inheritance made him wonder if such a clause would hold water if it was challenged in court. Few people would risk the publicity of such an action, he mused as he stared out at the graceful sailboats slicing through the deep blue water.

The morals clause explained Matthew Harmon's caper. It was a lousy thing for a brother to pull on his sister, but the stakes were high. Over a hundred million dollars! It was hard to believe that Debby Harmon was worth that much money. And her brother, with Harold's help, was about to take it all away from her.

Harold also now understood why Matthew Harmon had suddenly doubled the stakes in the assignment. When he set the plan in motion, it had been preparation for the future — the gathering of evidence to be used at some undetermined future date. Then the father died and it was a case of now or never for Matthew Harmon. And with a hundred million dollars at stake, Matthew Harmon could afford to be generous to the group who would make it all possible for him.

Storing this information along with the seedling of an idea away in his mind, Harold signaled the waiter for his bill. He still had things to do before this day ended. First, he had to call Matthew Harmon, and Harold intended to drive into Córdoba for that. At this point he wanted to play his hand with every ounce of caution possible. Thus far he had seen no evidence that a search for Debby was underway in Argentina, but that didn't mean that the authorities weren't conducting an investigation. And calls to San Francisco might very well be under monitor. A call from Córdoba would be more difficult to trace than a call from any of the small villages near the lake or in the mountains. If any investigation was underway, several calls from the same area would certainly be suspect.

The drive into Córdoba took Harold through a lovely mountain pass that dropped into a lush green valley leading to the large industrial city. Córdoba itself reminded Harold of Pittsburg. It was a gray, dull, uninteresting city devoted primarily to heavy industry. A guidebook that Harold had purchased said that Córdoba was one of the oldest cities in Argentina and that the area was noted for its colonial architecture. The colonial buildings were in evidence, but in Harold's opinion Córdoba lacked charm and character. It was a sprawling mass of industry hugging a wide river that flowed through the valley.

Recently, Córdoba had become known as the center of Marxist guerrilla activity. A total of eleven prominent people had been kidnapped in the area, which was one reason that Harold had chosen the city as a base in his original plan. This was also why he wanted to make all of his calls to Matthew Harmon from Córdoba.

He parked one block off the main plaza and walked to the Hotel Antigua to place his call. He was fifteen minutes late on the time that they had agreed upon, but Harold felt confident that Matthew Harmon would be waiting. The station-to-station call went through in record time.

"I'm glad you called," Matthew's voice said above the low static on the line. "Was everything all right on the shipment?"

"Yes, sir,' Harold responded, avoiding the use of names as they had agreed now that the possibility of wire tapping existed.

"Good," Matthew said. "And when will you be ready to process the order?"

"Everything is in preparation now," Harold replied. "Once the order has gone through the print machine, we'll be ready to process at any time. Perhaps you can give me instructions on how you want this handled now."

"Yes, of course. But first, let me say that time is very important at the moment. Our clients are demanding prompt delivery. Do you think you will be able to process the order tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow! That's terribly short notice, sir," Harold responded, smiling to himself about Matthew's obvious rush now that his father was gone. "As I said, we have to put the order through the print machine."

"And how long will that take?"

"I can't honestly say, sir," Harold said. "It's possible that we could do it tonight or tomorrow, but it's impossible to state with any real certainty. I know you want quality."

"Absolutely! That's a must! Any effort you can make to speed it up will be appreciated. Our clients might become suspicious if we delay much more. Now here's how this should be handled. The invoice will be made out in the amount we originally discussed, and that should be delivered to the American Embassy for certification. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Payment will be made in the amount we agreed on the other day, double the first figure. The payment will be sealed to cover any variation. You may use your usual flair for these things in deciding how the payment should be received. I trust you'll cover all contingencies in that department."

"Naturally," Harold responded.

"Delivery of the merchandise can perhaps best be coordinated through the embassy. The documentation..."

"I'll be glad to bring that up myself," Harold interrupted. "It would be best to minimize the chance of exposure, don't you think?"

"All right," Matthew Harmon said after a moment's hesitation. "But if you want, I can arrange for someone to pick it up from you down there."

"That won't be necessary, sir," Harold replied. "Everything is under control. Unless something comes up, I won't talk to you again until I deliver the documentation."

"Is there anywhere I can reach you?" Matthew asked quickly.

"No," Harold replied. "But don't be concerned. Everything is going exactly the way you want. I'm sure I'll be seeing you shortly."

Harold had to wait fifteen minutes for the charges on the call to come through. He paid the hotel cashier and then drove out to the airport to turn the rented car in to the agency. From there he took a taxi back to town and spent the next hour and a half bargaining with a dealer over the purchase of a used Torino, the luxury car built by Renault in Argentina. The car was three years old and appeared to be in good condition. He paid cash in pesos and had the dealer register the car to a name that he had picked from the Córdoba telephone directory.

To Harold Sorenson, who had struggled most of his life to make ends meet, spending over two thousand dollars on a car that he would use for no more than a week seemed like a terrible waste. But the game was dangerous, and the stakes were high. With the documentation required by the car-rental agency, it was too easy to trace the vehicle back to Harold—and erasing any tracks that could lead to him was worth any price at this point.

Harold's last stop in Córdoba was at a photographic supply house where he purchased the items that George had noted on a list of things that he would need. He loaded the supplies in the trunk of the Torino and began the long drive back to La Cumbre.

George Munroe, the man that Harold had chosen for the photography part of this caper, was becoming a source of concern to Harold. George was nobody's fool. The fact that he had managed to survive for years in the dog-eat-dog world of commercial photography attested the man's cunning and shrewdness. Some of the idle, casual questions that George had asked in the past several days alerted Harold to the fact that that the photographer was looking for a way to make more than the agreed-upon ten thousand dollars for his part in this assignment.

It's too late to replace him now, Harold mused to himself as he drove through the lake village of San Carlos and headed for the mountain retreat at La Cumbre, so I'll have to watch George-like a hawk. Harold knew that the one thing that he had to guard against was George making duplicates of any of the films taken of Debby.

The sun had set and it was dark when Harold pulled the Torino up behind the chalet. He gathered up the supplies and locked the car.

"Well, our fearless leader has returned," Hank said when Harold walked into the living room. "And how is the outside world?"

"Calm and quiet," Harold returned. "Anything going on here?"

"The phone rang this afternoon," Danny Sedonisa said.

"You didn't answer it?" Harold demanded.

"No," George Munroe replied as he helped Harold sort out the supplies. "But in case you didn't know, that's a lot easier said than done. A phone ringing triggers an urgent desire to answer it. It's sort of a compulsion to pick the damned thing up, but we remembered your warning and exerted will over the compulsive desire."

"For a minute," Hank added, "we thought it was you with the code, but it just went on ringing."

"Who the hell would be calling here?" George asked.

"I was wondering the same thing," Harold said quietly. "It might have been a friend of the owner of the chalet checking to see if he was up here for the weekend."

"Or it might have been the agent you rented the joint from," Danny added.

"In any event," Harold said, "I think that it's time to get on with the show and wrap this thing up as soon as possible. I talked to our client and he'd like to get things moving tomorrow."

"That suits me," Hank said. "I'm starting to get cabin fever in this joint, and I've got plans for my ten grand back in the States."

"Me, too," Danny agreed. "I've had my eye on a little bar in the Mission District and with this ten grand I can just about handle it."

"But are we ready?" George Munroe asked, checking the items that Harold had purchased off his list.

"That depends," Harold said. "Did you cut that hole in the closet wall upstairs?"

"Yeah," Hank replied. "Like you suggested, we had the broad down here in the living room all afternoon and George and me cut the holes and set the cameras up while Danny watched her. We even set up a makeshift lighting rig. All we got to do now is screw those flood lamps in, isn't it, George?"

"Right," George responded. "I'll need about five minutes to make some meter readings and we're set to shoot. But from what Danny says, the broad was real uptight down here this afternoon. Nervous as a cat and brooding."

"Yeah," Danny added, "she couldn't seem to sit still, and a couple of times she had tears in her eyes. You know how women are."

"Okay," Harold said, "I'll go up and talk to her. You get your equipment ready, George. If we can go tonight, we'll go. And you two get ready, Danny and Hank."

"That's one part of this I don't mind at all," Danny said with a laugh. "She's got some figure on her!"

"It wouldn't hurt to take up some booze to loosen her up a little," George added.

"She don't drink," Danny said. "She told me that today."

"She might take wine," Harold commented. "That's not a bad idea, George. There's a fresh bottle of that good burgundy in the kitchen."

He took the bottle and climbed the stairs to unlock the door to the master suite.

"Hi," Debby!" he greeted her as he walked in and closed the door.

"Hi," she responded listlessly as she sat stark naked in the chair by the dresser.

"Sounds like you're down in the dumps," Harold remarked. "Here, let's have a glass of wine. That should lift your spirits."

"I don't drink," she said quietly.

"Neither do I," Harold said with a smile. "Not liquor, anyway. But wine is different. It relaxes you without intoxicating you. Ever try it?"

"No."

"Well, come on, let's have a glass together and talk about what's bothering you." He poured two glasses of the rich burgundy and handed one to the depressed girl. She accepted the glass and automatically placed it to her lips.

"Umm! That's good," she said, showing a small spark of enthusiasm for the first time since he had entered the room.

"I think these Argentine wines are as good as I've tasted in my life," Harold remarked as he sat down on the arm of her chair. "Now tell me what's bugging you."

"Everything! What's going to become of me? You know, when you're all alone like this you have plenty of time to think. You can't run out and lose your problems by going to a movie or mixing with a bunch of people at some party. You have to face them, and believe me that's no fun."

"Things aren't that bad, Debby," Harold said soothingly, pleased to see that she was taking long swallows of wine.

"Oh, that's easy for you to say! When this is all over, you'll go on with your life. You'll be richer from the ransom you collect, I suppose, but you have your life all planned. What happens to me? I can't go back to my old life. There's nothing left. You've destroyed that. Can I have some more wine, please? You're right, it's very good."

Debby pulled herself out of the chair and began walking around the room nervously, sipping regularly from the glass that she held in her hand.

"What is there for me?" she said. "I couldn't even become a successful prostitute. I'm too old!"

Harold felt an itch begin in his balls as he watched the lovely girl's naked body while she walked idly about the room, but he forced the erotic thoughts from his mind. The telephone call at the chalet that afternoon bothered him and he wanted to wrap this thing up as quickly as he could.

"You'd make a great whore, Debby," he laughed, "and you're by no means too old, but that's no life for you. Why can't you return to your old life, spicing it up a little with some sex?"

"You don't know my father!" she replied, draining her glass and bringing it to him for another refill. "Besides, I'm through being a dull, vapid hypocrite! Say, this wine is wonderful! As usual, you were right. I feel much more relaxed. You know, I think you know more about me than I do. Where will you go when this is all over, Harold?"

"I don't know, Debby," Harold remarked as he again filled her glass. She was getting high and he was beginning to feel that the wine might put her in the mood for what he had planned for her. "I can't explain right now, but this whole thing has turned out to be something different than what I originally thought. So I'm not sure what I'm going to do."

"You mean my father won't pay the ransom?" Debby laughed. "It would serve you right. He's tight when he wants to be."

"No, that's not it. The ransom will be paid in the next couple of days," Harold replied.

"That's too bad," she laughed. "I thought that maybe you'd be stuck with me. Poetic justice! Wow, I'm a little dizzy. Are you sure you can't become intoxicated on wine?" she asked, sitting down on the edge of the bed to clear her head.

"You'd have to consume a hell of a lot of it," Harold chuckled. "And getting stuck with you wouldn't be the worst thing that ever happened to me, young lady. You're one hell of a girl."

"I wish I believed that," she returned. "Is there any more wine?"

"Oh, I imagine we can squeeze one more glass out of the bottle," Harold replied, picking up the sex magazine that he had carefully selected from the stack on the dresser and carrying it along with the wine to sit next to her on the bed. He filled her glass and began flipping casually through the magazine. This particular one was devoted to a series of photos of two men and one girl.

Debby drained her glass in two swallows and giggled when she looked at the magazine that Harold held in his hands.

"Wow, I've got an urgent call," she exclaimed. "Must be the wine. I'll be right back."

"Hey," Harold called after her, "why don't you take a nice hot shower to relax. I have to go downstairs, but I'll be back."

"It's not very polite to tell a girl that she stinks," Debby laughed over her shoulder. "But a hot shower sounds good."

As soon as she closed the door to the bathroom, Harold carefully placed the magazine on the bed and went quickly to the door. He waited until he heard the water running in the shower, then whistled for his team.