eñor Roldán was sitting behind his desk at EscortesBelén congratulating himself for deftly sidestepping theGuardia's newest pathetic attempt to trap him. Having anofficer fake a German accent and request a girl for thenight—it was entrapment; what would they think of next?

The phone on his desk buzzed loudly. Señor Roldánscooped up the receiver with a confident flair. "Buenasnoches, Escortes Belén."

"Buenas noches," a man's voice said inlightning-fast Spanish. He sounded nasal, like he had a slightcold. "Is this a hotel?"

"No, sir. What number are you dialing?" SeñorRoldán was not going to fall for any more tricks thisevening.

"34-62-10," the voice said.

Roldán frowned. The voice sounded vaguely familiar. Hetried to place the accent—Burgos, maybe? "You'vedialed the correct number," Roldán offered cautiously,"but this is an escort service."

There was a pause on the line. "Oh… I see. I'msorry. Somebody wrote down this number; I thought it was a hotel.I'm visiting here, from Burgos. My apologies for disturbingyou. Good nigh—"

"Espére! Wait!" Señor Roldáncouldn't help himself; he was a salesman at heart. Was this areferral? A new client from up north? He wasn't going to let alittle paranoia blow a potential sale.

"My friend," Roldán gushed into the phone."I thought I recognized a bit of a Burgos accent on you. Imyself am from Valencia. What brings you to Seville?"

"I sell jewelry. Majórica pearls."

"Majóricas, reeaally! You must travel quite abit."

The voice coughed sickly. "Well, yes, I do."

"In Seville on business?" Roldán pressed. Therewas no way in hell this guy was Guardia; he was a customer with acapital C. "Let me guess—a friend gave you our number? Hetold you to give us a call. Am I right?"

The voice was obviously embarrassed. "Well, no, actually,it's nothing like that."

"Don't be shy, señor. We are an escort service,nothing to be ashamed of. Lovely girls, dinner dates, that is all.Who gave you our number? Perhaps he is a regular. I can give you aspecial rate."

The voice became flustered. "Ah… nobody actually gave me this number. I found it with a passport. I'mtrying to find the owner."

Roldán's heart sank. This man was not a customer afterall. "You found the number, you say?"

"Yes, I found a man's passport in the park today. Yournumber was on a scrap of paper inside. I thought perhaps it was theman's hotel; I was hoping to return his passport to him. Mymistake. I'll just drop it off at a police station on my wayout of—"

"Perdón," Roldán interrupted nervously."Might I suggest a better idea?" Roldán pridedhimself on discretion, and visits to the Guardia had a way ofmaking his customers ex-customers. "Consider this," heoffered. "Because the man with the passport had our number, heis most likely a client here. Perhaps I could save you a trip tothe police."

The voice hesitated. "I don't know. I should probablyjust—"

"Do not be too hasty, my friend. I'm ashamed to admitthat the police here in Seville are not always as efficient as thepolice up north. It could be days before this man'spassport is returned to him. If you tell me his name, I could seethat he gets his passport immediately."

"Yes, well… I suppose there's no harm…"Some paper rustled, and the voice returned. "It's aGerman name. I can't quite pronounce it… Gusta…Gustafson?"

Roldán didn't recognize the name, but he had clientsfrom all over the world. They never left their real names."What does he look like—in his photo? Perhaps I willrecognize him."

"Well…" the voice said. "His face is very,very fat."

Roldán immediately knew. He remembered the obese face well.It was the man with Rocío. It was odd, he thought, to have twocalls about the German in one night.

"Mr. Gustafson?" Roldán forced a chuckle."Of course! I know him well. If you bring me his passport,I'll see he gets it."

"I'm downtown without a car," the voiceinterrupted. "Maybe you could come to me?"

"Actually," Roldán hedged, "I can'tleave the phone. But it's really not that far ifyou—"

"I'm sorry, it's late to be out wandering about.There's a Guardia precinct nearby. I'll drop it there,and when you see Mr. Gustafson, you can tell him where itis."

"No, wait!" Roldán cried. "The police reallyneedn't be involved. You said you're downtown, right? Doyou know the Alfonso XIII Hotel? It's one of the city'sfinest."

"Yes," the voice said. "I know the Alfonso XIII.It's nearby."

"Wonderful! Mr. Gustafson is a guest there tonight.He's probably there now."

The voice hesitated. "I see. Well, then… I suppose itwould be no trouble."

"Superb! He's having dinner with one of our escorts inthe hotel restaurant." Roldán knew they were probably inbed by now, but he needed to be careful not to offend thecaller's refined sensibilities. "Just leave the passportwith the concierge, his name is Manuel. Tell him I sent you. Askhim to give it to Rocío. Rocío is Mr. Gustafson'sdate for the evening. She will see that the passport is returned.You might slip your name and address inside—perhaps Mr.Gustafson will send you a little thank you."

"A fine idea. The Alfonso XIII. Very well, I'll takeit over right now. Thank you for your help."

David Becker hung up the phone. "Alfonso XIII." Hechuckled. "Just have to know how to ask."

Moments later a silent figure followed Becker up Calle Deliciasinto the softly settling Andalusian night.