him gloomily. The black haired girl smiled derisively.

"There is no reason for you to detain us longer, Lieutenant, the words spat out of thin curled lips. She stood up, smoothing out her yellow, pleated dress, adjusting her black shoulder bag. Garcia's machine gun swivelled up to a point at her slim waist. She stood quite still and eyed Jofre cooly.

"We have to catch our plane in twenty minutes. To detain us past that time could incur the wrath of people whom you would not like to be angry with you, Lieutenant." Her whole manner was haughty, and she stood very straight, her breasts thrust enticingly forward.

"No," said Jofre hoarsely, feeling the eyes of his men watching him. "But you ought to have something to remember our beloved country for, shouldn't you?" His voice became savage. "Take off your clothes!"

He took out a revolver and walked around the desk, gloating at the frozen expression on the girl's face. "And your friend, too," he snarled. "Me and my men'll give you both. . .'

His words were cut off by the sudden, swift reactions of Davila and Sanchez. They sprang from the bench at the two guards facing them, Jiminez dropping instantly and silently under a lightning blow into his neck. Jofre's gun roared in the second before the Rodriguez woman's foot kicked viciously into his wrist. She came after him like a wildcat, scratching at his eyes, her nails gouging deep red weals from his forehead to his chin. Collapsing, he pulled her towards him with his free hand, spinning on one foot. They both went crashing towards the desk, she below him. She uttered only a tiny cry as her head struck the pointed edge of the desk top and she fell unconscious to the floor, a red stain smearing her short, curly hair.

Jofre jumped to his feet.

His automatic lay beside the inert body of Jiminez and the Lieutenant scampered to get it before taking stock of the rest of the room. The smell of the gun's discharge hung heavy in the still air of the room. The man known as Sanchez had discov- ered in Garcia an opponent worthy of himself. As he had grabbed Garcia's gun, the Interior policeman had brought his hand over in a short, chopping stroke into Sanchez' neck. He had died as quickly and unexpectedly as had Jiminez and Davila, the latter with Jofre's bullet embedded in his brain. Garcia had been cool enough to regain his gun and keep Elisabeta Vazquez from moving off the bench.

Jofre studied her. She was clearly terrified. Again, Again, her white-knuckled hands gripped the bench as she stared wildly, white showing about the brown irises of her eyes. "Stand up!" he barked.

She stood slowly. She was very thin, the wide, red belt tightly gripping the waist of her wine-red dress. Her pink sweater showed only small breasts, but that suited Jofre. He much preferred a too-thin woman to one who was too fat. She was swaying uneasily on the red, low-heeled shoes, as if she were about to faint. "Get 'em

off!" growled Garcia. "We'll have what we want before the warders at San Martino get theirs!"

She stood there, petrified, her slim fingers trembling. As her red lips quivered as if to speak, Jofre remembered that she couldn't talk, couldn't object to anything they did. And, after all, what else did a reactionary deserve? And, boy, did she ever resemble Irena Varga.

The thin, powdered nose, the perfectly shaped red lips, the carefully curved black brows, were characteristic of Irena, though she wore no eyeshadow, and her hair was a different

color. She stood unmoving, her lips quivering as the two police- men leered at her. Jofre stuck his gun back in its holster and stepped over Sanchez' body towards her. He pulled her roughly to him, biting fiercely at the soft, red lips. She struggled and tried to pull away. With Garcia on one side and Jofre on the other, the red skirt and petti- coats disintegrated under their attack. Her dark panti-hose and red panties likewise were no match for Garcia as Jofre held her hands out of the way. As Garcia pulled the panties away, it became clear that she was wearing some kind of sanitary napkin between her legs. She tried to kick at them, but the panties about her thighs, hampered her movements.

"Please don't," she croaked harshly.

Jofre grunted in surprise at the deep, harsh tone of her voice. Her laryngitis was pretty bad. Garcia's knife released the cords holding the sanitary belt and it fell away from between the girl's legs. The shock caused Jofre to release his hold as Garcia too snarled his rage and contempt. Elisabeta Vazquez had masculinity that Jofre himself would have been proud to rival. Then, with a flood of under- standing, the initials of her name jolted his memory. Elisabeta Vazquez-Esteban Varga. No wonder she resembled the President! She must be the President's brother!

"Pull your panties up," Jofre ordered bitterly to the cowering 'girl' in front of him. Garcia seemed about ready to smash his fist into Esteban's thin, lipstick-smeared face. The Lieutenant restrained his man. "Don't touch him! First of all, let me call the President's office!"

Jose Francisco Ordaz de known Portes,

Salluca