"But you know I can do something for you, Marcia." It was the voice of the younger man who had been stage-managing the nude model scene. I could see the glow of two cigarettes, low down, as if the smokers were sitting on a couch or divan. "I brought you in to tell you that you came through on the glossies twice as good as Edna or Ginger."
"You only brought me in because you want to bang me. Why should I let you?"
"I'll tell you why, kid." The man's tone had hardened. "Because I can make it tough for you if you don't. If you want to get along in this business. Now quit stalling. I've got to be crosstown in an hour."
One of the glowing cigarettes described a downward swoop and then disappeared. I had a picture of the girl stubbing it out in an ashtray. "All right," she said, "but
I'm warning you, Ted. If floodlights come on while we're doing it so you can take pictures, I'll rip your face with my fingernails."
"What do you think I am, baby?" The protesting voice sounded injured. "A lot of things I might be but an exhibitionist I'm not." The second lighted cigarette described a downward arc similar to the first and disappeared. "Okay, Marcia, peel it. Ever since the first day you walked into the office I've had the feeling you'd make a great lay."
An idea began to form in the back of my mind. I closed the door, found the light switch, and turned it on. I hurried to the bench with the tape-recording equipment, picked up a long-snouted directional microphone, plugged it into the already set-up recorder, and unreeled the cord toward the door.
I put out the light again, cracked open the door, and aimed the rifle-barrel of the microphone directiy at where I'd seen the lighted cigarettes. Then I eased back to the tape recorder and turned it on, increasing the monitor level gradually.
Ted's voice came through the monitor suddenly. "- great legs, Marcia. Just great. Now roll over and let me play with your ass. That's what really turns me on."
"Nothing fancy, now," Marcia's voice said. The microphone was so sensitive I could hear the rustle of clothing and the sound of hand-pats on bare flesh. "I don't go for-hey, that's not in the contract-what are you DOING? Ohhhh!"
"Dee-licious!" Ted's voice said huskily. "You taste just like clam chowder. Stop squirming."
"Cut it-OUT!" Marcia exclaimed breathlessly. "I said nothing-FANCY! Ooooh! STOP-it!"
There was the prolonged slithering, fleshy sounds of bodies in semi-combat. "You know you love it," Ted's voice said after an interval. "Okay. Spread your wings."
The voices stopped, but not the sounds. In increasing degree the microphone picked up hoarse breathing, sibilant sighs, muffled squeals, and inelegant grunts. The slap-slapping sound of bare bodies became metronomic. I was standing there, picturing the reaction of whoever was called upon to transcribe this particular tape when the buzzer sounded indicating that Erikson wanted me in his office.
I lingered beside the monitor while the tape recorded sounds reached a frantic climax. "Okay, baby," Ted's voice said after an interval in which heavy breathing gradually lessened. "You're better'n a short arm inspection."
Marcia's sniff was plainly audible. "Thanks for nothing. Listen, I've got to use your bathroom. I'm not on the pill."
"Hell, I thought all you broads were on the pill from kindergarten. But go ahead."
The buzzer sounded again.
I switched off the recorder, retrieved the microphone, closed and bolted the door again, and went into Erikson's office. "I thought you'd fallen asleep in there," he greeted me.
"Not quite. What's the good word?"
Erikson vacated the chair behind his desk. Piled in its center was a stack of file folders, some thick, some thin. "Sit down here. These contain photos and identity information on the UN guides. If the girl from the Alhambra really works at the UN, you should find her here."
I opened the top folder. There were head and shoulder shots, profile views, and full length photos of a creamy-skinned girl in street clothes, in a flowing robe, and in a bathing suit. The other folders contained more of the same. It was like looking over the candidates for a Miss International Beauty Contest. They were all young and attractive.
A printed sheet of paper slipped out of the folder which held photographs of a beautiful Eurasian girl. Across the top of the sheet, in bold red letters, was the word CONFIDENTIAL. There were only two paragraphs on the page, but both were specific about aspects of the girl's after-business-hours activities. It was documented evidence that she engaged in frequent sexual moonlighting.
Erikson removed the paper from my hand and replaced it in the folder. "Is being a UN guide just a sideline?" I asked.
"Living in New York is expensive for nationals whose countries suffer from a poor exchange rate," Erikson explained. "Some girls tutor in foreign languages, some model, some work in nightclubs."
"And some peddle it instead of sitting on it. Does UN stand for Uninhibited Nymphs?"
"Using a young woman to charm information from a diplomat isn't restricted to the CIA or to Embassy Row in Washington, Earl. Many of these girls aren't averse to using sex for their countries."
"Patriotic pussy, hmm?"
"You're wasting time," Erikson pointed out.
I returned to the folders. I found three more CONFIDENTIAL slips, but Erikson wouldn't give me time to read them. When I finished the stack of folders, I had two set aside for a second look. Erikson placed the photos side by side. Both girls had dark hair, beautiful high-cheekboned faces with liquid-looking dark eyes, and inviting mouths with promising full hps. Seeing them together, I couldn't be mistaken. "That's the girl," I said, tapping the glossy print on the left.
Erikson leaned down for a closer look. "You're sure?"
"Positive." I cupped my hands around the face, concealing part of the shoulder-length hair. "She's wearing her hair shorter now, but that's the girl."
"Did you hear her speak?"
"Only when she said hello and how are you to a few people while she was walking through the UN lobby. She has quite a voice, though. Foreign-sounding. Memorable."
Erikson opened the file folder to the back cover. He extracted a folded, narrow strip of paper from a small brown envelope stapled to the cover, and stretched it into a long ribbon. One side was blank, the other printed with a small grid similar to cross-section drawing paper. Across the grid ran an uninterrupted, squiggly line.
"An electocardiogram?" I asked. "I didn't get to feel her heartbeat."
"This is a voice print." Erikson threaded one end of the strip of paper into a slot in the side of a boxlike machine on a shelf behind his desk. It looked something like an automatic telephone-answering device. "Listen to this," Erikson said as he flipped a switch.
At first I heard only scratchy noises until he adjusted a control knob. Then a voice came through clearly. The deep, throaty sound and slight, husky accent were unmistakable. "Check and doublecheck," I confirmed. "That's our bird."
"Talia Rhazmet," Erikson read from the folder. "Born in Ismir, Turkey, December 29, 1942. That makes her twenty-eight. Five foot seven and one hundred and thirty-three pounds. A girlish armful, obviously. Speaks Turkish, Greek, Arabic, and English fluently. Been in this country four months. I'll go to another source to get a more complete dossier on her."
"Let's have another look," I said, taking the folder from him. The bathing-suit photo of Talia Rhazmet was a beauty. She stood on a sandy beach in a micro-bikini with drops of water dotting her smooth, olive skin. A tiny pool trapped in her navel reflected sunlight like a many-faceted diamond. The white bikini was almost transparent when wet, and it showed plainly her erect nipples and the dark triangle of her pubic hair.