Montezuma’s Revenge

Nine

Tony vanished in the crowd, another drop of water in the ocean of Mexican citizens, his clothes neutral, his wide-brimmed hat like all the others. A turn into a side street, a small market with stands along the sidewalk and in the road. When he stopped running, and even walking, slowed to a reluctant halt by the savage blows of his waning hang-over, his pursuers had vanished. A nearby stall dispensed the cooling drink of pineapple juice, papaya juice, coconut milk—no rum this time!—and orange juice all whipped to a froth in a blender. He ordered a large one of these and while drinking it thought he saw one of the distraught Italians run by, but it was only a glimpse and he couldn’t be sure.

Refreshed, his throat cooled, the hang-over under control, he penetrated deep into the market that he had visited the day before and followed his nose to the food stalls where a booming morning trade was in progress, sliding onto a stool as its previous owner vacated it. There was the quick gush of saliva in his mouth at the richness of the odors, accompanied by a stabbing pang of hunger. A brace of goat enchiladas smothered in rich red gravy and flanked by a healthy portion of fried beans did a good deal toward alleviating this sensation.

“The sauce if you please,” his companion at the narrow board said. They sat shoulder rubbing shoulder, leaning forward so that the parcels of the people pushing by behind did not jar into them. Tony slid over the requested dish swimming with fresh chopped chilies, tomato, garlic and onion, then helped himself as well as soon as the other had done.

“I am looking for the little town where my cousin lives,” he told his eating companion who was diligently pursuing the last drops of goodness around his metal plate with a half tortilla. He was a gaunt old man, somewhere between fifty and ninety years of age, with a few white wisps of beard. He nodded at the interesting information so freely given, but felt no real need to comment. “He said it is on the road to Chilpancingo just outside of Acapulco.”

“That will be Las Graces.”

“No, that is not the name I remember.”

The old man swallowed the last of his tortilla, wiped his finger tips gently on the side of his pants leg, then counted on his fingers, worn scarred and permanently hooked from a lifetime of labor.

“That is first. Then you find El Quenado and El Treinta.⁵’

“The last, that is the very name. Do you know where the bus stops for this place?”

“Two blocks down and one to the right.”

“A thousand thanks for the information.”

Feeling a good deal better, Tony strolled the two blocks down and the one right and was greeted by the sight he had hoped to see. A small crowd of farmers returning from the market, parcels and crates of unsold chickens held high, milling slowly toward the entrance of the third-class bus, a venerable, rusty, dented, crack-windowed, smooth-tired veteran of a fading lifetime of service proudly bearing the name La Nave del Olvido. Tony joined the crowd and became a part of it, swimming with it toward the bus and aboard.

The life line of Mexico; the third-class bus. They went everywhere that there were roads, paved or unpaved, or a mixture of both. They connected every small town with the larger cities at infinitesimal fares to enable the farmers to bring their corn, eggs, chickens, pigs, beans to the markets and return with cloth, salt, rebozoSy coffee, nails. Given diligence and a great deal of patience, as well as a total indifference to discomfort, a man could travel the length and breadth of Mexico in these buses for their trails cross everywhere. What better way to leave Acapulco than in this manner! Lost in the crowd, one more simple farmer, rattling out of the city at a spanking twelve miles an hour, past the keen-eyed servants of the law who were searching for the murderou American, grinding up the hills in low gear and away.

Within the hour the bus squealed to a halt in El Treinta and Tony stepped shakily down. If there had been any police at the city’s exits they had been invisible from his position within the vehicle between an armful of pendant, fearful-eyed chickens, and two men who argued the entire time about the local football team and attempted to involve him in the discussion. It had indeed been an adventure and he walked with unsure step toward the nearest miscelanea that bordered the road. Bottles were ranked neatly on the shelves inside and he let his eyes flit quickly over the mezcal and tequila, enough of that, thank you, to last quite a while, to settle on the aguardiente. This is a transparent, dangerous distillate of sugar cane, potent beyond belief. He selected a medium-sized bottle sealed with a black cork, paid for it and sampled its fiery potential before leaving the premises, the storekeeper nodding with approval at his happy sigh and pleasurable wipe of the back of his hand across his lips.

Outside the April sun burned with the heat of August. The town was stretched along the highway on both sides, two-dimensional, two single rows of buildings. Glittering tourist cars and smoke-belching diesel trucks thundered by on the pavement; children played unheeding on each side on the packed dirt that was the only street of the town. A palm-leaf-covered stand sold bright tropical fruit and an American couple was haggling over the price of mangoes in high-school Spanish. They reduced the asking price considerably and carted their bargains away in triumph as Tony bought the same fruit at a quarter of the price; all parties concerned were happy. The machete carved sweet slices of the mango, w blended very well indeed with the aguardiente. The wait the next bus arrived was pleasant, the bus itself not crowded so that he actually found a seat. The man who joined him also joined him in drinking from the bottle and in return shared still-warm tortillas stuifed with beans from his bag. Upward, grinding in low about the turns, the jungle falling away on each side, plunging into the clouds that hung like fog across the road, they made i way. The bottle was soon finished and the two travelers slept peacefully, leaning one against the other. So did the morning pass and a good deal of the afternoon. Mountains and road and the stop at every village, or parada, where the waiting customers waved their hands. Over the highest pass finally and the steady drop into the immense bowl and high plain of the state capital, Chilpancingo.

It was here that Tony decided that he had had enough of this rustic form of travel. Not to complain, he had had many interesting conversations, shared more than one bottle and enjoyed some excellent home cooking in exchange. But his feet hurt and his fundament had been battered into black and blue surrender; these vehicles were never intended for extended voyaging. Surely there could be no police here on the alert for him. In any case they would be watching the cars and the first-class buses, if at all, while the second-class buses were comfortable and speedy enough. Since the Cuernavaca bus he wanted did not leave for an hour he strolled through the market until it was time to depart. This gave him the opportunity to make a few purchases, a razor and ancillary equipment, a large red handkerchief, a paperback book of witch’s dream analysis that promised frightening insights, a pack of cigarettes, a box of wax matches, and finally a plastic airline bag to hold everything. It was in good condition, hardly used at all, and he wondered what chain of circumstances had brought this memento of the Czechoslovakian State Airlines to such a remote corner of Mexico. Perhaps it was best not to know, even the dream book said that there were many mysteries for which answers should not be sought. When the bus pulled out he had a cozy window seat and was deeply involved in the true meaning, at last, of snakes and umbrellas in the same dream.

This was a time-consuming, though secure, way to travel. After Cuernavaca he continued on the local bus to Cuautla which let him off at the little village of Cocoyoc just after midnight. The town itself dozed, a solitary light in front of a bar under which sat a single man in a chair, drinking alone, but the Hacienda Cocoyoc blazed welcoming beacons a short way down a side road. Antonio the peasant walked with shuffling pace toward it, at least until he was out of possible sight of any watchers in the village. This was irrigated farm land and the road crossed the dark waters of a canal on a bridge, under which he took refuge, beside the canal, from where, a short time later, the gringo tourist Tony emerged. Feet clean and squelching in the damp sandals, the peasant outfit, cane knife, and painting all in the airline bag. Shoulders back lie marched with firm pace toward the ornate iron arch of the entrance and received the salute of the guard there with an airy wave of his hand.

Inside was luxury. The modern hotel had been built in and around the ancient sugar hacienda, a venerable array of thick-walled buildings dating back to the sixteenth century. Arched aqueducts still carried whispering water through the grounds, hidden lights played on purple-blossomed jacaranda trees backdropped by the dark stones of the walls. Tony took a path that led off through the smooth grass and airborne perfume of the gardens, away from the main building. For most of the day, as his transportation carried him closer to Mexico Gty—now just fifty miles away—he had become more and more conscious of the police and the grim fate they wanted to apply to him. Even in his pastoral guise he had rolled his eyes suspiciously at every badged officer and now, Yankee once again, he walked in no small amount of fear. Even the thought of bright-lit lobbies and argus-eyed clerks gave him the shakes. Sones had said they would be in casita seven, whatever that was, so he began prowling the extensive and complicated grounds, peering at indistinct numbers on doorways. The inevitable happened and, while lighting a match to read a gnomic inscription, a uniformed figure came around the corner.

“May I help you, sir?” the man said.

A hot rush of fear was allayed slightly when Tony realized that the uniform was one of hotel service, not of the law, and he swayed forward again, having leaned backward at the sudden startling appearance. The match burned his fingers and he dropped it with a muffled oath. His inquisitor waited. Sway and mumble brought quick memories of the previous night’s condition and he simulated it now in instant disguise.

“Can’t find room—went to zha bar and can’t get back. Want to find cazhetta number seven.” Another sway to add verisimilitude to the words.

“If you will be so kind as to follow me.”

Well trained, thou good and faithful servant; he trod in the other’s footsteps and dug out peso notes to overtip him when they reached a small building with a gilt seven under an iron-caged bulb. Money rustled, thanks were murmured, and he tried the knob with his face carefully turned from the light. The door was thankfully unlocked and he pushed through into the darkness beyond, closed it and fumbled at the wall looking for a light switch. As he did this something very hard was pushed deep into his side and an even harder, high-pitched voice hissed in his ear.

“Move or even twitch and you are a dead man.”

With a great effort he controlled the tendency to leap into the air generated by this shocking suggestion and stood stock-still instead. The hard object ground deeper into his kidney and the voice, apparently satisfied by his response, spoke again, this time calling out shrilly.

“All right, open up.”

The response was immediate. The inside door to the entrance hall was thrown wide and lights blazed. Tony blinked at them, then, through slitted eyes, looked at his captor. The hard object was a gun as he had suspected, a very large, blue-black, and deadly looking device. The young man who held it, while pink not blue-black, looked just as deadly, freckled, blank-faced redhead with his block-shaped head sat squarely on a weight-lifter’s thick neck of columnar muscle. Equally large muscles bulged his shirt and rose in corded knots from his forearm to thicken at his wrist: If he squeezed the trigger it appeared he would crush the gun like licorice.

“Put it away, Schultz, he is all right,” a familiar voice said. FBI agent Ross Sones rose from behind an overstuffed chair and holstered an equally impressive hand weapon.

“I thought you were expecting me?” Tony asked, angry now.

“Never hurts to take precautions. Agent Schultz, this is Agent Hawkin.”

“Name’s Billy,” Schultz said in his surprisingly tiny voice while extending a bulging and deadly looking hand. Tony took it gingerly, expecting to have his pulped, and it was like squeezing a log of wood. “You must be the Tony Hawkin we have been hearing so much about back in the Bureau.”

“I suppose I must be,” Tony answered, suddenly very tired. He dropped gratefully into the soft chair as Sones sidled out from behind it, letting his airline bag slide to the floor. Sones looked down at it.

“Is the Cellini painting there?”

“It is. Make me a drink, large scotch and soda, plenty of ice, and I’ll dig it out for you.”

They exchanged favors, each more happy to receive than to give. Sones unwrapped the box while Tony drank deep.

“And don’t think it was easy bringing that thing here.”

“I am sure that it was not. How did you manage to get by the police?”

“Professional secret. What is more important at this moment is how are you going to get this to Washington, get the authenticity checked, then have it back here in time to deliver to D’Isernia by tomorrow night?”

“Have you been drinking? I told you in Acapulco that we were getting a specialist down here.”

“Yes, of course, forgot in the rush of events.” Forgot in the rush of drink was more truthful. Sones was pretty close to the target there; the entire evening still had a number of blank spots.

Sones carefully took the painting from the box and held it to the light, with Billy looking over his shoulder.

“Simply amazing color,” the muscular agent said in his tiny voice.

“And what are the other arrangements?” Tony finished the last of the drink, gratefully, and chewed an ice cube.

“We have brought the specialist here.”

“Who is it? Billy Schultz?”

Billy smiled happily with the assumption and Sones brushed it off.

“No. He is our operational backup man. A specialist. The painting authority is in the other room.”

“And wondering very much when you were going to let me out,” the husky voice said from the doorway.

“Come in, I was just going to call you. The ‘St. Sebastian’ is here.”

She entered. A wide-hipped, long-legged, short-skirted young woman with a wealth of blond hair that dropped well below her shoulders. Her face was full-featured and attractive, in a large Slavonic way, her bosom full, also in the Slavonic way, so much so that the top button of her white blouse had opened under the strain. She looked dark-eyedly at Tony from under long lashes, one eye closed halfway because of the smoke that rose from the cigarette that projected straight up from a silver holder shaped like a small pipe that she held between her teeth.

“I am Lizveta Zlotnikova.” Her accent was Russian, slight but still irrevocably there.

“Tony Hawkin.” He thrashed slightly as if wanting to rise but did not, extending his hand upward instead. She seized it and shook it twice, and strongly, from the elbow, as though she were pumping water.

“Miss Zlotnikova is our authority,” Sones said, handing the painting to her. “Co-opted from the Metropolitan Museum in New York. An authority on restoration and dating. Is the painting real?”

She took it from him with great respect and held it under the light tilting it backward and forward slowly. The smoke curled up into her eye and, around the silver holder, she whispered, “Boshe-moir!”

“What did you say?”

“That was merely an expletive of appreciation drawn out of me involuntarily.”

“Then this is the authentic thing?”

“I cannot tell truthfully until I have examined samples of the wood and the paint chemically and by spectroanalysis. Also X-ray plates must be made. These assure positive identification.”

“Which we will want. But can you tell us something, a rough professional guess or the like that we can operate on?”

“I can do that. The color is incredible, the brushwork that of a genius. If it is a forgery it is so exceptional that the forger must be a master.”

“Good enough. Do you agree, Hawkin?”

“I do. Completely!”

Lizveta Zlotnikova put the painting carefully back into its case and turned to face Tony, her open eye sighting across the tip of her cigarette as though the holder itself were a gun. “I did not know that you were an expert too, it was not told me. What museum are you associated with?”

“It’s not that simple—”

“Indeed? Please explain.”

“Enough of that,” Sones broke in. “There is no need for you to have that information on a classified operation. Why don’t you start work on the analysis now?”

“It is very late.”

“Stalin used to work all night,” Tony said brightly. “Did his best work then they say.”

“What is the meaning of that?” The cigarette gun aimed again, more deadly than ever. “Are you insinuating that I am an unconverted Stalinoid cult of personality non-revisionist?”

“No, of course, nothing of the sort. Just that, you know, it seems to be in the Russian personality, night work, you know ...” His voice ran down into silence under the arctic stare of those pitiless dark eyes.

“I am not here to be insulted. I am Georgian not Russian as you seem to think. A legitimate refugee from artistic persecution, now alien resident in the United States of America. Apologies are in order.”

“I apologize, sincerely, no insult intended.”

“The analysis if you do not mind.” Sones was being firm. Lizveta Zlotnikova considered the apology, accepted it in the end with a disdainful sniff, then took the painting into the other room and slammed the door.

“What did you do that for?” Sones asked.

“I didn’t do anything, just made a comment. What is everyone being so touchy about anyway?”

“She thought you were accusing her of being a Soviet agent.”

“Well, I wasn’t, probably the last thought from my mind considering the fact that the FBI brought her here.”

Sones bent over the chair and cupped his hand, whispering,

“See that you do not do it again, we do not want her suspicious. It so happens that she is a Soviet agent.”

“And you brought her down on this operation!”

“Not so loud. Yes, it was all planned in advance. We do not want it known we have blown her cover, so we are letting her get information here that is of no importance to the Soviets.”

“Why not? Everyone else seems interested.”

“In this way the next information that we send through her they will assume is true but will in reality be false. So no more remarks about Stalin if you do not mind.”

“Could I please have another drink?”

“I’ll get it,” Billy squeaked.

“Join me?” Tony asked, ever the host since the previous evening.

“Never drink on the job, thanks.”

Well he certainly did, almost continuously it seemed. Not since the Army, either. He sipped deep. Was there meaning or a message in that? If there was it evaded him.

“How do I get the painting back to D’Isernia?” he asked.

“Arrangements are being made. Tomorrow ...”

The crash of breaking glass in the other room was clearly audible through the door.

Tony was nearest and the sudden noise sent him springing from the chair, whiskey sloshing, grabbing the handle. The other two agents were at his shoulder when he threw it wide; all of them were spectators of a silent tableau.

The window had been broken, it lay in slivers on the floor, and Lizveta Zlotnikova stood before it. Passing the painting through the raw opening in the glass.

There was a quick view of a man’s face on the other side. Then painting and face were gone.