avid Becker stood in the hallway outside suite 301. He knewthat somewhere behind the ornately carved door was the ring. Amatter of national security.

Becker could hear movement inside the room. Faint talking. Heknocked. A deep German accent called out.

"Ja?"

Becker remained silent.

"Ja?"

The door opened a crack, and a rotund Germanic face gazed downat him.

Becker smiled politely. He did not know the man's name."Deutscher, ja?" he asked. "German, right?"

The man nodded, uncertain.

Becker continued in perfect German. "May I speak to you amoment?"

The man looked uneasy. "Was willst du? What do youwant?"

Becker realized he should have rehearsed this before brazenlyknocking on a stranger's door. He searched for the rightwords. "You have something I need."

These were apparently not the right words. The German'seyes narrowed.

"Ein ring," Becker said. "Du hast einen Ring. Youhave a ring."

"Go away," the German growled. He started to close thedoor. Without thinking, Becker slid his foot into the crack andjammed the door open. He immediately regretted the action.

The German's eyes went wide. "Was tust du?" hedemanded. "What are you doing?"

Becker knew he was in over his head. He glanced nervously up anddown the hall. He'd already been thrown out of the clinic; hehad no intention of going two for two.

"Nimm deinen Fuß weg!" the German bellowed."Remove your foot!"

Becker scanned the man's pudgy fingers for a ring. Nothing.I'm so close, he thought. "Ein Ring!" Beckerrepeated as the door slammed shut.

David Becker stood a long moment in the well-furnished hallway.A replica of a Salvador Dali hung nearby. "Fitting."Becker groaned. Surrealism. I'm trapped in an absurddream. He'd woken up that morning in his own bed but hadsomehow ended up in Spain breaking into a stranger's hotelroom on a quest for some magical ring.

Strathmore's stern voice pulled him back to reality: Youmust find that ring.

Becker took a deep breath and blocked out the words. He wantedto go home. He looked back to the door marked 301. His ticket homewas just on the other side—a gold ring. All he had to do wasget it.

He exhaled purposefully. Then he strode back to suite 301 andknocked loudly on the door. It was time to play hardball.

The German yanked open the door and was about to protest, butBecker cut him off. He flashed his Maryland squash club ID andbarked, "Polizei!" Then Becker pushed his way into theroom and threw on the lights.

Wheeling, the German squinted in shock. "Wasmachst—"

"Silence!" Becker switched to English. "Do youhave a prostitute in this room?" Becker peered around theroom. It was as plush as any hotel room he'd ever seen. Roses,champagne, a huge canopy bed. Rocío was nowhere to be seen.The bathroom door was closed.

"Prostituiert?" The German glanced uneasily at theclosed bathroom door. He was larger than Becker had imagined. Hishairy chest began right under his triple chin and sloped outward tohis colossal gut. The drawstring of his white terry-cloth AlfonsoXIII bathrobe barely reached around his waist.

Becker stared up at the giant with his most intimidating look."What is your name?"

A look of panic rippled across the German's corpulent face."Was willst du? What do you want?"

"I am with the tourist relations branch of the SpanishGuardia here in Seville. Do you have a prostitute in thisroom?"

The German glanced nervously at the bathroom door. He hesitated."Ja," he finally admitted.

"Do you know this is illegal in Spain?"

"Nein," the German lied. "I did not know.I'll send her home right now."

"I'm afraid it's too late for that," Beckersaid with authority. He strolled casually into the room. "Ihave a proposition for you."

"Ein Vorschlag?" The German gasped. "Aproposition?"

"Yes. I can take you to headquarters right now…"Becker paused dramatically and cracked his knuckles.

"Or what?" the German asked, his eyes widening infear.

"Or we make a deal."

"What kind of deal?" The German had heard storiesabout the corruption in the Spanish Guardia Civil.

"You have something I want," Becker said.

"Yes, of course!" the German effused, forcing a smile.He went immediately to the wallet on his dresser. "Howmuch?"

Becker let his jaw drop in mock indignation. "Are youtrying to bribe an officer of the law?" he bellowed.

"No! Of course not! I just thought…" The obeseman quickly set down his wallet. "I… I…" He wastotally flustered. He collapsed on the corner of the bed and wrunghis hands. The bed groaned under his weight. "I'msorry."

Becker pulled a rose from the vase in the center of the room andcasually smelled it before letting it fall to the floor. He spunsuddenly. "What can you tell me about the murder?"

The German went white. "Mord? Murder?"

"Yes. The Asian man this morning? In the park? It was anassassination—Ermordung." Becker loved the German wordfor assassination. Ermordung. It was so chilling.

"Ermordung? He… he was…?"

"Yes."

"But… but that's impossible," the Germanchoked. "I was there. He had a heart attack. I saw it. Noblood. No bullets."

Becker shook his head condescendingly. "Things are notalways as they seem."

The German went whiter still.

Becker gave an inward smile. The lie had served its purpose. Thepoor German was sweating profusely.

"Wh-wh-at do you want?" he stammered. "I knownothing."

Becker began pacing. "The murdered man was wearing a goldring. I need it."

"I-I don't have it."

Becker sighed patronizingly and motioned to the bathroom door."And Rocío? Dewdrop?"

The man went from white to purple. "You know Dewdrop?"He wiped the sweat from his fleshy forehead and drenched histerry-cloth sleeve. He was about to speak when the bathroom doorswung open.

Both men looked up.

Rocío Eva Granada stood in the doorway. A vision. Longflowing red hair, perfect Iberian skin, deep-brown eyes, a highsmooth forehead. She wore a white terry-cloth robe that matched theGerman's. The tie was drawn snugly over her wide hips, and theneck fell loosely open to reveal her tanned cleavage. She steppedinto the bedroom, the picture of confidence.

"May I help you?" she asked in throaty English.

Becker gazed across the room at the stunning woman before himand did not blink. "I need the ring," he said coldly.

"Who are you?" she demanded.

Becker switched to Spanish with a dead-on Andalusian accent."Guardia Civil."

She laughed. "Impossible," she replied in Spanish.

Becker felt a knot rise in his throat. Rocío was clearly alittle tougher than her client. "Impossible?" herepeated, keeping his cool. "Shall I take you downtown toprove it?"

Rocío smirked. "I will not embarrass you by acceptingyour offer. Now, who are you?"

Becker stuck to his story. "I am with the SevilleGuardia."

Rocío stepped menacingly toward him. "I know everypolice officer on the force. They are my best clients."

Becker felt her stare cutting right through him. He regrouped."I am with a special tourist task force. Give me the ring, orI'll have to take you down to the precinct and—"

"And what?" she demanded, raising her eyebrows in mockanticipation.

Becker fell silent. He was in over his head. The plan wasbackfiring. Why isn't she buying this?

Rocío came closer. "I don't know who you are orwhat you want, but if you don't get out of this suite rightnow, I will call hotel security, and the real Guardia willarrest you for impersonating a police officer."

Becker knew that Strathmore could have him out of jail in fiveminutes, but it had been made very clear to him that this matterwas supposed to be handled discreetly. Getting arrested was notpart of the plan.

Rocío had stopped a few feet in front of Becker and wasglaring at him.

"Okay." Becker sighed, accentuating the defeat in hisvoice. He let his Spanish accent slip. "I am not with theSeville police. A U.S. government organization sent me to locatethe ring. That's all I can reveal. I've been authorizedto pay you for it."

There was a long silence.

Rocío let his statement hang in the air a moment beforeparting her lips in a sly smile. "Now that wasn't sohard, was it?" She sat down on a chair and crossed her legs."How much can you pay?"

Becker muffled his sigh of relief. He wasted no time gettingdown to business. "I can pay you 750,000 pesetas. Fivethousand American dollars." It was half what he had on him butprobably ten times what the ring was actually worth.

Rocío raised her eyebrows. "That's a lot ofmoney."

"Yes it is. Do we have a deal?"

Rocío shook her head. "I wish I could sayyes."

"A million pesetas?" Becker blurted. "It'sall I have."

"My, my." She smiled. "You Americans don'tbargain very well. You wouldn't last a day in ourmarkets."

"Cash, right now," Becker said, reaching for theenvelope in his jacket. I just want to go home.

Rocío shook her head. "I can't."

Becker bristled angrily. "Why not?"

"I no longer have the ring," she said apologetically."I've already sold it."