Regina walked alongside the stretcher. She was impressed by the ultramodern facilities of the hospital. Everything was shining chrome and glass and antiseptic white. The place was the epitome of a modern medical institution. They came to a halt in front of a door marked “OPERATING THEATRE.”
“Please, Tex.” Regina tried one last time. “Won’t you tell me what your mantra is?”
“Ah’m sorry, Ma’am. Ah’d like to, but Ah can’t.”
Regina sighed and blew him a kiss as they wheeled him through the door. One of the attendants directed her to the glassed-in observation room from which she could watch the operation. He assured her that she would be able to see and hear everything that transpired clearly from there.
Regina looked down on a shining white operating table. Sterilized instruments gleamed in a tray. Nurses and interns huddled over Tex in antiseptic gowns and masks. The anesthetist checked out his ultramodern equipment. Regina heard one of the nurses assure Tex that the surgeon who was going to perform the operation would be there shortly. A moment later the door opened and the surgeon made his entrance.
He was a giant Sikh, over seven feet tall, completely bald, wearing only a dirty loincloth, bare-chested, with a large, golden hoop dangling from one pierced ear, and an ugly, jagged scar running the length of his left cheek. In one large hand he carried a huge, curved scimitar. Even from where she was sitting, Regina could detect nicks on the blade, and patches of rust. He strode directly over to the operating table, grabbed Tex’s penis by the tip and stretched it straight up in the air. With his other hand he took a few practice swings through the air with the sword.
“OYYYYYYYYYY—VEYYYYYYYYYY . . . OYYYYYYYYYY—VEYYYYYYYYYY . . . OYYYYYYYYYY-VEYYYYYYYYYY . . .”
Regina had to restrain herself to keep from clapping her hands. She had found out what she wanted to know. In his fear, Tex had instinctively grasped at his one consolation. He’d chanted his mantra!
“OYYYYYYYYYY-VEYYYYYYYYYY . . .”
Scratch one suspect. It was not the mantra of the killer. Her trip to Pakistan had been worthwhile. Regina settled back to watch the operation. The anesthetist was approaching Tex with the mask.
OYYYYYYYYYY-VEYYYYYYYYYY . . . OYYYYYYYYYY—VEYYYYYYYYYY . . . OYYYYYYYYYY-VEYYYYYYYYYY . . . OY . . .”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Dogstyle!
When Tex came out of the anesthetic, Regina was sitting beside his bed. She hadn’t wanted to leave without wishing him a speedy recovery. As it turned out, she was glad she waited for a quite different reason. Tex, as if trying. to reassure himself that the operation had been worthwhile, babbled freely to Regina about the wonders of Transcendental Meditation. “Ah come to Dacca from New York by way of Spain. Got an up-an’-cornin’ business there, you know. On the plane Ah run into this Spanish-American feller, an’ we got to talkin’, an’ it turns out he’s one of Sister Faith’s disciples, same as me. Name of José de Galindez,” he told Regina.
Her ears perked up. José de Galindez’ name was on the list. The word from ATOMICS was that he’d vanished the day after the murder and the police had been unable to locate him.
“This de Galindez feller, he raved to me ’bout how helpful Transcendental Meditation was in his line of work. Never did get around to sayin’ what it was he did though. Later, in Bilbao, Spain, Ah run into him again by chance, an’ it turns out he’s a bona fide Basque revolutionary. That young feller is up to his whatsis in the Basque separatist movement. Bought a shipment of grenades from me, he did, an’ paid in hot money from a bank robbery. Ah’m tellin’ you this to show how it don’t matter what a feller does, even revolution. Transcendental Meditation’ll show him the way.”
After she bid Tex goodbye, Regina wasted no time following up on what he’d told her. She located a telegraph office and shot off a wire to Angus MacTeague in New York. Decoded, it read as follows:
NEED CONTACT BASQUE UNDERGROUND, BILBAO, SPAIN. CAN ATOMICS SUPPLY? REPLY C/O AMERICAN EXPRESS, BILBAO.—REGINA BLUE.
The telegram sent, Regina set about making arrangements to get out of Dacca. It took two days before she was able to get on a flight to New Delhi. There she had to wait another two days before getting a seat on a plane to Barcelona. She spent a day in Barcelona replenishing the wardrobe lost in the Dacca plane crash. Altogether it was almost a week before she finally arrived in Bilbao.
MacTeague’s answer was waiting for her. She decoded it:
AFFIRMATIVE. REGISTER HOTEL EL MIRADOR. ATOMICS AGENT WILL CONTACT YOU. MEETING YOU REQUEST BEING ARRANGED.——MACTEAGUE.
Regina checked into the El Mirador Hotel. She unpacked her new clothes and laid them out in the bureau and hung them in the closet. She took a hot bath, soaking in it for a long time. Then she selected one of her new outfits and got dressed. She was combing her hair when the knock sounded at the door of her room.
Regina admitted a small man, darkly Spanish, not too friendly. “I came before, Senorita,” he told her, annoyed. “You did not answer my knock.”
‘Tm sorry,” Regina apologized. “I didn’t hear it. I was in the tub.”
“In the tub?” Disgust. Contempt. Indignation. Americans! Women! “And you are supposed to be a detective! At least that is what the message from New York said.”
“Now look here, Senõr—” Regina paused angrily, waiting for him to fill in the name.
“My name is of no matter. You shall not be contacting me again, nor I you. I want no part of the trouble in which you shall most surely become involved. Should the local authorities connect me with someone like you, it could jeopardize the whole ATOMICS operation here. Then MacTeague will send me to Poland, or some other damn place to freeze the blood. Thank you very much, but no thank you. I’ll tell you what I came to tell you, and then I shall leave. Nothing more need pass between us, and we need not meet again.”
“Ships that pass in the night,” Regina murmured.
“You wish to contact the Basque revolutionary movement.” He got down to business.
“That's right. I’m trying to locate a man named—”
“Do not tell me!” He held up a firm hand. “What I do not know cannot be squeezed out of me with hot pincers. Now I have here an address for you.” He handed her a torn piece of wrapping paper. It was the kind used locally to package bread. The name and address of a bakery were scrawled on it. “Ask for a loaf of Silvercup,” he told Regina.
“Silvercup?” She looked at him, surprised.
“Silvercup!” he repeated with emphasis. “Good day to you, Senorita.” He turned on his heel quickly and was gone.
His abrupt departure left Regina with unasked questions crowding her tongue-tip. No matter. She was sure he wouldn’t have answered them anyway. She donned the trenchcoat she had bought-it had started to drizzle outside-—pulled the belt tight, and set out for the address he had given her.
It was twilight and the drizzle had turned into a steady rain when she reached the bakery. She stood outside, under the awning, until the two customers being waited on had departed. Then she entered.
“I’d like a loaf of Silvercup,” Regina told the young girl behind the counter.
The girl’s dark eyes flashed briefly. She tossed her long black hair, nodding towards the rear of the shop. Regina passed through the curtain separating the two areas.
She found herself in a heated area lined with ovens. The smell of fresh-baked bread filled her nostrils. A fat man wearing a baker’s cap, his face white with flour, smiled at her questioningly.
“I’m looking for a loaf of Silvereup,” Regina told him.