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people. It is the only way we live. No, we will not talk about the Russian installation. Starvation of our entire country is too high a price to pay for one conversation with a drunken American ambassador."
"You said Estomago has a favorite girl here," Barney said. "Who is she?"
"She is a strange one. An American. I do not trust her."
"Why'd you take her on?"
"Estomago told me that I was to give her shelter and employment to customers of his choosing. She is not a regular working girl here. She is only for Estomago. And for others whom he selects."
"Like who?"
"The most prominent of your CIA men, usually. At first I thought she was a CIA agent herself, but I do not believe that is so. Her hatred for America is very deep. She slashed a young American visitor with a knife once."
"An agent?"
"No. Fortunately, he was a runaway soldier from the American army, so I was able to cover up the incident. But the girl is vicious. I dismissed her after the stabbing, but Estomago insisted that I take her back. He said he would close my house if I didn't. So she remains."
"I want to talk to her," Barney said, rushing to throw on a shirt and a pair of pants. "I want to see her right now."
"Be careful, darling," Denise warned. "She is Es-tomago's woman. And you are already being watched here, since you are the last American agent on the island. If she suspects that you know anything, Estomago will kill you."
"Tell her I'm on my last fling before heading home to the bad old USA."
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"But she must know that we're married."
"That's perfect. Say you married me to get a passport out of this stinkhole, and you'll be leaving with me, just as soon as I have my fill of young poon-tang."
Denise led him upstairs to the girl's room. The door was closed.
"She is very private," she said. "This one never chats with the other girls or even dines with us. Always alone."
She rapped sharply on the door. After a few minutes, it was opened by a young, platinum-haired, thin-faced girl dressed all in white, her thin lips stretched taut against her teeth to resemble a skull.
"Yes," she drawled sullenly, the hint of the American South drawing out her word.
"I have a visitor for you," Denise said crisply. The girl turned her back on them and walked wordlessly toward the bed, unbuttoning her blouse.
Denise closed the door behind her as she left. "What's your name?" Barney asked, still standing inside the door, his hands in his pockets.
"Gloria," the girl said with a bored half yawn. "Come on. Get this over with."
"Gloria what?"
"Sweeney," the blonde said. "You come here to talk or screw?"
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CHAPTER ELEVEN
Barney Daniels's arm jerked upward with such force that it shredded the gauze wrapping which held it to the I.V. board bolted to the side of the bed.
The lone nurse monitoring the small section of the clinic rushed over. She pressed a button over the bed that rang a bell in Dr. Jackson's office.
"It's Barney," Jackson said to Remo as he took off at a run.
"Let me talk to him, Doc. If he's conscious, I want to talk to him."
"I don't want you aggravating my patient with any CIA bullshit," Jackson said as he burst through the double doors into Barney's room.
Thrashing under the hands of the nurse, his plastic bag of plasma jiggling precariously above him, Barney Daniels screamed.
It was an unconscious scream, wild and frightened. "The map," he shrieked, his voice breaking. "The map."
The night nurse watched the video monitors frantically as Barney's life signals peaked in jagged, uneven mountains. "There, there," she said uncertainly.
"Move aside," Jackson said as he approached the
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bed. "Nurse, prepare two hundred thousand CC's of thorazine on the double."
He grabbed Barney by both flailing arms. "Settle down, Barney. It's Doc. I'm here."
"The map," Barney shrieked.
"Shut up, I said "
The nurse swung around to retie the gauze strips around Barney's arms as Doc's hands held them in place. Barney's hospital gown was drenched with sweat. His hair was matted with it, and it poured down his face in shiny streams.
"He's undergoing some kind of intense mental activity," the nurse said. "It's almost like a pentathol reaction."
"It's the curare," Jackson said as he accepted the needle from the nurse.
"No, Doc," Barney panted, his eyes rolling. "Listen to me. Listen . . . liss . . ." He forced his eyes to work.
"Let him talk," Remo said. "He could tell us something important."
Jackson looked over to Remo, his hypodermic poised in the air. "All right," he said. "Go ahead."
Remo touched Barney's arm. "The map,-Barney."
"Map," he croaked.