CHOPIN’S Piano
Sonata No. 2 filled the small cottage, the notes scattering in the air like
a wish made on a spent dandelion. Garcia Quinones hunched over his piano, his
nose mere inches from the keys. He played with a lilting tenderness, his
delicate fingers choosing the notes as though guided by a far-away voice, an
angel perhaps, one who knew his artist’s soul. His hands raced across the ivory
surfaces with unrelenting passion, unaware that deep within those brilliant
hands, dormant and undisturbed, was an ability to kill.
Though quite famous across Europe, the Spaniard’s name had never
surfaced in the thousands of World War II espionage cases being worked at Whitehall, near London.
The British Secret Intelligence Service had no idea the tall, thin Catalonian
even existed…until their agent in Barcelona
sent a coded message: the farmer is on holiday.
The Gestapo was also unaware of Garcia Quinones. If they had been,
perhaps they would have made note of his unlikely link to Heinrich Himmler,
Reichsfuhrer of Nazi Germany. The connection was remote, but significant, for
throughout Berlin and Paris, Himmler flaunted a mistress, a woman
the pianist had known some ten years earlier, merely an acquaintance, coupled
with an occasional greeting. It was an unremarkable alliance, yet it would
catapult him out of the serenity of life in a remote village in northern Spain and into
the world of espionage.
Now, in his modest house on the outskirts of the village of Brasalia,
Garcia sounded the last notes of the sonata, oblivious to the burgeoning
scrutiny of His Majesty’s Secret Service as well as that of the feared Gestapo.
Both searched for him desperately – but for altogether different reasons.
Chapter One
THE Apartamentos
Magnificos del Puerto de Barcelona stood on Avenida de Madrid, only
four blocks west of the busy port where ships from across the world anchored in
the azure waters of the Mediterranean. It was
early evening, blustery, as it often is near the sea. Juan Castillo studied the
grand facade of the opulent apartments, an imposing structure that rose high
into the Barcelona
skyline. Manicured gardens, lush with purple lilacs, grew beneath the tall,
thin poplars surrounding the grounds. His eyes searched the avenue across the
tree-lined landscape leading to the square. The city crawled with Gestapo; he
could spot them in an instant, but none mingled with the Spaniards leisurely
walking along the avenue.
From the shadow cast by a high stone fence, he watched the
building for signs of anything out of the ordinary. The entrance doors shone
with a soft gold patina, the outer edges trimmed in an iridescent blue, the
same color as the sea. A cool wind whipped down the avenue, battering his worn
fedora. Suddenly chilled, he remembered a night in Paris when his boots had frozen to the
pavement while he waited in the snow for a late night rendezvous. Only a hard
tap from the butt of his gun had loosened the ice and allowed him to move. The
memory angered him. He had been inexperienced then; a young spy who wanted
desperately to stay alive as the Germans made plans to conquer Europe.
The Service saw him as a battle-hardened, covert warrior. His
lessons in tradecraft had been learned well; of course, they had. The bullet
entrance and exit hole in his shoulder branded him as an evader of death. Had
he not plunged from a bridge in the middle of the night in a city named Berlin, he would have
ended up in the cemetery of the unknown. He carried no identification when he
hit the water at roughly three meters per second. The blood he lost in the
half-kilometer swim to safety was significant enough that immediately upon
reaching the shore, he became unconscious.
Juan’s hand shook with cold as he struck a match to another
cigarette. He smoked only a few minutes, then left the shadows to walk across
the street and up the five steps to the portico. One last look down the street
before he knocked softly on the door.
He stiffened as he heard a woman’s high heels clicking across the
foyer. When the door opened, the woman stepped forward and looked at him rather
coldly, her eyes large and black as ripe olives. “Yes?” she said, through
lovely but unsmiling lips.
Juan observed her. Large turquoise earrings dangled almost to her
shoulders where a thin white gauze blouse, plumped with shoulder pads, draped
across her chest. The sleeves were capped with a split that folded loosely
together, revealing her slim arms. The lace camisole she wore beneath her blouse
was faintly visible, tantalizing to a man who appreciated beautiful women.
The woman lifted her chin, her expression haughty. She watched him
for a long moment, examining him carefully. “You need a bath,” she said,
turning from the doorway and into the house.
Juan followed her dutifully through the elegant entrance hall, up
the carpeted stairway and across a stone landing where they entered her private
chambers, rooms that smelled of French perfumes and fresh-cut lilies. Her slim
hips swayed slightly as she continued across the great room and entered her
boudoir. Candles flickered everywhere, casting soft shadows that promised a
fleeting moment of tranquility. Unhurried, she laid out towels and soaps. Her
lovely hands turned the faucets of the tub and the sound of running water
filled the room.
Silently, she moved toward him and deftly removed his worn jacket
and unbuttoned his shirt. In one swift movement, she unbuttoned the fly on his
trousers and in moments he was naked. She ignored his arousal and motioned him
into the large ornate tub. Again, he obeyed.
The warm water embraced him like thousands of white pearls,
pulling him down into its depths like the warm hands of a spirit. He rested his
head on a small pillow and smelled soap made by Arabian handmaidens, infused
with secret elixirs that promised more than sensual pleasure. With half-closed
eyes, he reached out for the glass of whiskey she had poured and held it to his
lips. Above him, the beautiful señorita unbuttoned her blouse and slid her
skirt from her hips, watching him all the while. She pulled the thin straps of
her camisole to her waist, revealing exquisite breasts with nipples like
perfect pink flowers awaiting the morning sun.
Across the room, wide mirrors mounted in ornate gold frames
reflected her nakedness and gave the illusion that there was more than one of
her in the room. Juan’s eyes traveled from one reflection to the other, and
then to the woman who stepped lithely into the tub with him. He was afraid to
speak; he knew she was angry.
Iliana Lanzarote picked up her own whiskey glass and tipped it
toward him. “Your timing amazes me. I have been waiting for you for days.”
Juan sipped and nodded slowly. “My line of work is not conducive
to a precise schedule. My heartfelt apologies.”
Still, the black eyes were angry. “I have had a belly full of your
apologies. It is only my love for you that keeps me from forgetting you
forever.”
He smiled at her, a sad smile that sent a message of regret. “It
is my love for you that keeps me coming back, despite my unacceptably
unreliable schedule.” He saw her face soften slightly, the lips part to reveal
the whiteness of her teeth and the pink of her tongue. “Come,” he said and
reached out his hand.
She obeyed and moved her body toward him. The wet of her skin and
the damp tendrils of hair on her neck again aroused him. He pulled her on top
of him and kissed her whiskey lips. Her hair smelled of the wild lilacs that
bloomed along the edge of the mountains. “Wash me,” he whispered.
At last, a smile. “You are like a baby.”
From a large porcelain bowl, she lifted a bar of ivory-colored
soap scented with almonds and lathered a cloth. Gently, she washed his neck and
ears. He watched as her breasts swayed back and forth in sensual rhythm only
inches from his face. Closing his eyes, he breathed deeply and fell into a
dream-like trance while the filth of war and the smell of death were washed
away by a beautiful woman whose hands were like an angel’s kiss.
The bed sheets were as soft as the skin of the woman beside him.
He carefully dried her hair and placed a pillow underneath her head. In the
yellow candlelight, he kissed her, his lips moving from her mouth to her neck,
to her breasts. He felt her hips rise, begging him to hurry.
Early morning light swept Iliana’s bedroom as she lifted her head
and reached out to touch him. “How long can you stay?”
“Not long.” He lit a cigarette and pulled her into his arms.
“Back to London?”
“Not yet,” he answered vaguely.
“Where?”
“Not sure.”
“Alone?” She raised her eyebrows.
“No.”
“Who?” she asked, not knowing if he would answer.
He paused and looked away. “I think I shall take Felipe with me.”
“Felipe?” she asked with surprise. “Why ever Felipe?”
“Your brother is a powerful man and I need him.”
“Does he know?”
“Not yet.” Juan smoothed hair away from her face and kissed the
smooth skin of her cheek. He could see she was flushed.
“He’s due back in court today, around ten o’clock. He’ll be here
for lunch, though.”
Juan fumbled for his watch. “That’s four hours from now. Can you
have him come sooner?”
“Perhaps. Sometimes, it is difficult when his court is in session.
But I’ll try.”
“Call now. It’s important.”
“Does he know you’re here?”
“Here in Barcelona
or with you?”
Iliana laughed. “How ridiculous. He knows very well that if you
are in Barcelona,
you will be with me.”
“No, he doesn’t know. Go now. Make the call.”
Iliana slid off the bed and picked up the telephone. Juan’s eyes
followed the long shapely legs and her lovely backside.
When the connection was made, Iliana handed him the telephone.
“I’m leaving for Brasalia tonight.”
“What about the farmer?”
Juan lowered his voice. “We’ll talk. Can you come for an early
lunch?”
The spy returned the telephone to Iliana, then slowly lifted his
head and captured the nipple of her right breast.
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