Quint said dryly, “And he came to Spain seeking freedom of speech?”

There was a subtle difference in Garcia’s tone. “But there are no restrictions on freedom of speech pertaining to foreigners in Spain. The anti-Franco bugaboo you read in the foreign press is largely commie inspired.”

Quint said, “Ummm. But for some reason my agent doesn’t seem to be able to place my column in any Spanish papers, although it’s in just about every other country in Western Europe.”

The party swirled up and around them, and when it receded Quint found the Spaniard had disappeared and that Marty Dempsey had taken his place. Marty had, by this time, acquired a drink, which made her look more natural. Neither of the Dempseys looked normal unless they were wearing a glass in the right hand.

She said, “How’s the party going, dahling? Have you seen that drunken husband of mine?”

“It’s going fine,” Quint told her automatically. “He was somewhere around a moment ago.” He looked around the room, and tried to peer out onto the dark terrace. “Don’t see him now.”

Marty was looking about unhappily, as well. “That Ronald. He was supposed to be here by now.”

“Ronald Brett-Home?” Quint said.

She giggled archly. “It was his idea to give this party, you know. You’d think he was nothing but a playboy, wouldn’t you?”

Quint shrugged. “Guess so.”

She tapped him on the arm, and her voice dropped into a conspiratorial whisper. “He’s actually connected with the British Embassy.”

“Oh? Empties the wastebaskets, or something?”

“Dahling, you have no idea. Actually, I mean actually, Ronald is a very sinister type. Cloak and dagger and all that. He was very famous back during the war. Parachutes behind the lines and all that.”

It seemed unlikely to Quint. He’d met the Englishman a few times. The other seemed to be a quiet character. Soft spoken. Sort of gentle. Quint said, “How do you mean, his idea? Is there supposed to be something special about this party tonight, pet?”