Free Conspiracy by Dana Black Page A

to his feet, scooping the three orange-labeled cassettes into his brief case and holding out the fourth. “Cindy wants you to have this one for when you write your memoirs. It’s your original documentary on the Russians, before we had to cut.”
    Dan walked with Taggart to the studio, where they would tape the introduction and voice-overs for tonight’s broadcast. He talked about the game, about the shots that Taggart had included. Then he lowered his voice. “Hey, what’s all this about a twenty-one rating? Did you know about that before we came over here?”
    “No, I didn’t. Would have thought twice before coming to Spain if I had.”
    “You think there’s a risk?”
    “People don’t know my name the way they know yours, Dan.” Taggart scurried ahead a step to open the door to the studio. “If we wash out over here, people aren’t going to blame Dan Richards or Rachel Quinn. You’ve proven yourselves. But you know they’ll always blame the director.”
    “Don’t get rabbit ears, son—just get ratings.”
    Taggart laughed. “I guess that’s the bottom line, isn’t it? By the way, I like that documentary on the Russian team. Hard-hitting, controversial. That’s the kind of stuff that brings in the viewers.”

17
     
    The evening was almost over for Rachel Quinn. She felt very tired, washed out with the fatigue that always followed a session in front of the cameras. Her back hurt, partly from her fall on the mat earlier that evening, and partly, she suspected, from the effort of helping maneuver Alec from the taxicab to the sofa here in his room.
    She turned to the uniformed bellboy, a dour-faced, pallid man who reminded her of Bogart somehow made small and old. “I think he’s resting comfortably,” she said. “I hope you’ll see to it that no one else learns of Mr. Conroy’s illness.” Reaching into her purse, she extracted two five-hundred-peseta notes and held them so the bellboy could see them. “I would not like to have gossip in the hotel.”
    The man nodded. “No one saw us, Senõra. And you may depend on my discretion.” He spoke as though he were accustomed to giving the same assurance to others.
    She handed him the pesetas and watched him leave. Then she turned to the couch where Alec lay on his back, unconscious, his breath heavy with alcohol. One thing remained to be done. Before she could rest, Alec had to be properly put to bed.
    She loosened his belt, unbuttoned his shirt, slipped off his Gucci loafers and socks. Then it was time for the trousers. She took them by the cuffs and pulled slowly, so not to wake him, though she knew he would not wake now even if handled roughly. She treated him gently, always, for the same reason she put him to bed properly when he had drunk too much.
    As she lifted the trousers into the air, jerking them upward to fold them, a small roll of bills fell from the pocket. She recognized the bills as American money and was curious— why would Alec be carrying money he could not spend? More to the point, where had this money come from? She had not given him American bills, only Spanish peseta notes for walking-around money.
    When she counted the money, her curiosity became fully aroused. She decided to check the other pockets. It took only a moment or two to empty them, resulting in a meager yield of a white-enameled cigarette case, half full, a lavender pocket handkerchief with Alec’s initials in white, and a small green cocktail napkin. She remembered the style of the napkin—an “R” crest and scalloped edges—from the British suite at the Ritz. Thinking Alec had simply stuffed it carelessly into his pocket, she was about to throw the napkin away. Then she noticed something written inside the folds. In red ink, possibly with a felt-tipped pen, a flowing feminine hand had written three numerals: 702.
    She stared at the numerals, trying to recall each of the women at the British party. A number of them had talked with Alec after she had arrived.