"It's been a wonderful day, Matt."

"When do we repeat it?"

"Can't tell. I'll leave a message for you tonight when I get back."

Hall ate alone after Jerry went to the laboratory, and then wandered around the dark streets of the waterfront, thinking how he could organize his work. That was the d.a.m.ned job, always. Planning your moves.

Deciding exactly what it is you're after and then organizing a method of getting it. The letter to Santiago. That was a good start. With luck, there would be an answer in a week. But was a week too far away? How sick was Tabio, and could he hold out for another week? And anyway, was Ansaldo a fascist?

The face of Varela Ansaldo would not leave Hall's mind. Maybe Fielding could find out something, anything. At this moment, Fielding was probably eating a little crow with his dinner at the British Emba.s.sy.

But would they tell Fielding anything? Did they know anything? And who the h.e.l.l was Fielding and how in h.e.l.l did he get the dope in his reports? _No, my fine impertinent friend, I am not a British agent._ He was the father of Sergeant Harold Fielding who hopped out of the wicker pony cart and picked up one of those thin rifles and died at Jarama.

Santiago's answer. There was the best bet. If the boys in Havana had no dope, at least they would tell him who to contact in San Hermano, and it was a safe bet that when Pedro de Aragon (or would it be a love letter from Maria de Aragon?) wrote, the letter would lead him to someone who would know Souza and Pepe Delgado. They were O.K., but just a little cautious, and this business of squiring Ansaldo's nurse would not set too well with them unless Ansaldo was not Gamburdo's man at all.

Hall was turning a corner when he first noticed the little man walking in the shadows of the opposite sidewalk. A little man in a black suit and a dirty stiff straw hat. Hall slowed his steps, waited for the man in the straw hat to walk closer to the yellowed street light. The man slowed down, too. Hall kept walking. He headed for an avenue, found a cab, told the driver to take him to La Perrichola. He looked around to see the little man get into the other cab at the stand.

"I changed my mind," Hall told the driver. "Take me to the Ritz instead."

He walked slowly into the lobby of the Ritz. It was one of the more modern hotels in New San Hermano. He found a phone booth and called Souza. "Where's Pepe?" he asked.

"Right outside. Do you need him?"

"Very much. Tell him to pick me up near the back entrance of the Ritz.

I'm too drunk to trust a strange driver."

Souza laughed. "You Americans," he said. "Pepe will be there in five minutes."

Hall went to the bar, had a short brandy. The little man was sitting behind a potted palm near the street doorway, his face buried in a magazine. Hall looked at his watch and walked to the elevator. "Sixth floor," he said.

He walked through the sixth-floor hall, took the back stairs to the fourth floor, and then looked out of the window at the landing. Big Pepe's LaSalle was parked near the servants' door. Hall listened for the sound of footsteps on the stairs above him. Quietly, he walked to the bas.e.m.e.nt, nodded at a waiter relaxing on a bench near the door, and walked slowly to the LaSalle.

"_Que pasa?_"

"Trouble. Drive a few blocks down and then come back slowly toward the front of the hotel."

"Sit with me," Pepe said. He tapped the pistol in his pocket.

"No." Hall got down on the floor of the back part of the car. "And take your white hat off."

The car shot down three streets, then Pepe turned the corner, rode a block, and started to crawl along the street on which the main entrance of the Ritz opened. "Souza said you were in trouble," Pepe said. "He says you are not a _borracho_."

"I was followed. Watch for a little man in a black suit and a stiff straw hat. Park a block from the entrance to the Ritz and keep your motor running."

"_Claro._"

"I think he tried to sell me perfume this afternoon when I was walking with that nurse."

"She needs no perfume," Pepe said.

"She is not my woman," Hall said.

"Did you see that other woman who came with the doctor?" Big Pepe snorted violently. "I hate _maricones_," he said.

"I hate them too, Pepe. Did you know that Franco is also a h.o.m.os.e.xual?"

"They are all _maricones_. Hitler, Franco. They are all the same."

"_Putas y maricones_," Hall said. "_La Nueva Espana!_"

Big Pepe cleared his throat and spat out of the window. "Arriba Espana."

Hall could feel the low, toneless laugh in the Asturian's throat.

"I think I see your dog," Pepe said. He described him for Hall. "He acts as if he lost something."

"Me."

"Falangista?"

"I don't know. Ever seen him before?"

"Who knows? _Mira!_"

"I can't look. What's he doing?"

"Hiring a car."

"Follow him. But ..."

"_Mira, chico_, that I can do with my eyes closed. And he won't know me for the offal on the streets."

"Don't lose him."

"I'd sooner lose my _cojones_." He started the car, slowly. "I am magnificent at this," he said.

"Good."

"During the war I did this all the time."

"When he stops, watch where he goes but don't stop yourself. Keep going after he stops."

"Don't worry," Pepe said. "I am not new at this."

"Very good."

"That girl with the nice hair, _companero_. Why don't you take her into your bed some night? I think she would be very good there."

"Forget the girl."

"That will be very hard."