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her living room to get things going with her new clients as quickly as possible. Now she could let relations develop at their own pace, without pushiness or humiliation. And now it was God’s honest truth that she did not accept invitations or presents. Now she was the one who treated, with her own money. Her enthralling charms, invigorated by money and a fine car, became lethally effective, practically without effort. The routine about “never offend me with gifts” and “our dignity is all we have left” had taken on the ring of devastating devotion to the cause. By the end of a week, the Johns were spending fortunes on her. That Fernando guy had even offered to take her to Buenos Aires.
    A few days later, she got a firm marriage proposal with the immediate prospect of moving to a luxurious pre-war apartment on Madrid’s La Castellana Boulevard.
    But Alicia was no longer in a hurry; she could afford to wait. With the stable situation she had with Victor and the new image of independent wealth she was projecting, she knew she could play out the game of lonely heart and love sincere. Accordingly, she had decided to be prudent. She would not accept the first Tom, Dick, or Harry with a few bucks to his name. The guy that was to take her away from all this would have to be a real millionaire, rolling in dough, re, mi.
    Both the Argentine and the Spaniard were put on the back burner.
    “You honor me with your proposal, but this is a big step …”
    “You must let me think about it …”
    Alicia had a well-rehearsed array of parries that invariably kept the Johns hotter than ever. And keeping the flame alive was precisely what she needed, because these guys were her strategic reserve, her escape hatch, just in case.
    If they came back, fine, she would receive them in her home and treat them with the expertise of a geisha. But it was decided, and her mother supported her decision—they had to wait for a guy with real money to come along.

Chapter
Sixteen

    “There’s a Mr. Polanco to see you, sir.”
    “Thank you, Julia, please ask him to come in.”
    Van Dongen looked at his watch. Right! He had asked Polanco to be there at one. Inexplicably, he had lost all track of the time.
    Captain Polanco, a former officer of the Policia Nacional Revolucionaria , had been, until his retirement, Cuba’s liaison with INTERPOL headquarters in Paris. Now the high command of the National Revolutionary Police had authorized him to do his own modest investigation work for foreign nationals and corporations.
    Two months earlier, when van Dongen had run his Financial Performance Evaluation Projection on the King Project, he had taken the initiative, without informing anyone, not even his boss, Hendryck Groote, of running a background check on their Mr. Victor King. He had no suspicions about him; in fact, he admired the man’s talent and had taken a liking to him from the very beginning. But when the King Project became the center of a nasty quarrel in the company ranks, Jan decided that he had best play the game with all the cards in his hands. The truth was that no one had any hard information on the man’s history. He had come into the company on the personal recommendation of Rieks, who found his lost-galleon project fascinating. That was fine for starters, but very soon this Victor King would be heading an operation worth hundreds of millions and not knowing anything about him could become a significant liability. It was not a question of mistrust or suspicion, only a matter of method, a mere prophylactic routine.
    When Jan van Dongen asked his contacts in Amsterdam to supply him with a contact in Cuba to perform a delicate piece of investigation, he was referred to an official in the Paris office, who, in turn, recommended Captain Polanco, Ret., who subsequently agreed to do the job. Not wanting to run the risk of smearing Victor King’s name without reason, Polanco was only given a set of fingerprints and asked to find