Montezuma’s Revenge

Ten

“Keep her here, Hawkin,” Sones ordered, turning, bounding away, drawing his gun at the same time, following Billy Schultz who already had the outside door open.

They exited very fast, guns awave, while Tony turned to look at Lizveta Zlotnikova who showed no signs of any attempted escape. Instead she was wringing her hands before her, bending back and forth in the grip of strong emotion, gulping in breath after deep breath—so deep in fact that the heaving of her impressive bosom had burst another button from the moorings of her blouse—while a great tear formed at the corner of each eye.

“What happened?” he asked, but she only shook her head, the motion dislodging the burgeoning tears which ran slowly down her cheeks. They stood in this manner, facing each other across the room, until Sones returned, closing the door behind him but keeping the gun ready in his hand.

“Got away clean, no trace at all. Schultz is still looking, not that it will do much good.” There was anger behind every gas chopped-off word, the first emotion Tony had ever seen him display. “Now you, tell us who he was, why did you do it, speak up?”

Lizveta Zlotnikova brushed the tears away fiercely, no doubt angered at her display of weak emotion before a brace of Amen fascist swine, then stamped over to the end table and lighted a cigarette before she answered.

“I do not know the man and it is insult of you to suggest it. 1 passed the window and the glass broke, he must have been or watching me and waited for the moment when I was close, the painting in my hand. He ordered me in Russian to hand it over. I had no choice.”

“You could have refused, he would not have killed you, it would have gained him nothing.”

She drew herself up, jetting twin streams of angry smoke from her nostrils.

“You insult! To save this beautiful painting I would not mind to die. But he said he would shoot the painting first, then shoot me. I said I had no choice.”

Sones chewed at his lower lip, considering this. Billy Schultz returned and squeaked, “He got away.” Both men became aware of their guns at the same time and slid them out of sight, acknowledging at least temporary defeat.

“I think she is telling the truth,” Tony said. “Anyway, I recognized the man outside.”

Sones’s fingers twitched toward his gun again, then dropped reluctantly away. “You would not happen to care to tell me who it was—no, wait. Come with me.”

As he drew Tony into the next room he gave a quick nod to the other agent while jerking his thumb in Lizveta Zlotnikova’s direction. Schultz nodded in return and remained behind with the girl. Sones carefully closed the door before resuming the questioning, waiting impatiently while Tony replaced his spilled drink and sank back into the chair.

“I only had a glimpse, mind you, but I should remember the man. His name is Nahan, Nahum, something like that. He’s a sabra, works with Goldstein.”

“How do you know this?” Most suspiciously.

“How do I know this? You know how I know this!” Fatigue, alcohol, and the waning echoes of the morning’s hang-over were taking their toll. “He was one of the men who grabbed me, very likely the one who hit me on the head. A toughie. Worked me over until Goldstein stopped him, then he dumped me back at the hotel. I have good reason to remember him.”

“What would he want with the painting?”

“Nothing, that’s the strange part. I told you, Goldstein is interested in Hochhande, whoever or whatever that is, I told you all about that. His men grabbed me by mistake, thinking I was Kurt Robl. He knew all about the painting deal, I didn’t have to tell him. He’s a Nazi hunter, not a painting thief.”

“He did steal the painting though—unless this man did it on his own.”

“No, I don’t think so. These people have other things on their minds. Goldstein wants something from us, that’s obvious. He is using the Cellini as a tool for bargaining. Get in touch with him and ask him. The phone’s right over there.”

“Security matters are not transacted on the public telephone. Someone will have to contact Goldstein, you are correct in that. 1 am heading this operation now, I cannot expose myself. This is not Schultz’s line of work. The contact is up to you.”

“Not me! The instant I show up in Mexico City the police grab onto me and that is the end of that. Have you forgotten the murder charge?”

“There are ways of getting around that.” He looked at his watch. “The operation is on for oh-eight-hundred in the morning. Get some sleep now, there is another bedroom through there. 1 want to talk to the girl some more.”

Tony downed the rest of the drink and went looking for the bed. Sleep, now that was a very good idea. They couldn’t force him to go into the city, that would be suicide, tell them that in the morning. But sleep first. He was dragging his clothes off as he thought this, falling backward with great pleasure into the bed, asleep as his head hit the pillow.

Waking up, it seemed like only instants later. The imperative hand of Sones was on his shoulder, dragging him back up to the surface from the deep pleasures of unconsciousness. Light burned in through the open window, loud birds called outside. His watch, when he had blinked enough sleep from his eyes to make it out, read seven o’clock.

“Eat your breakfast. You have ten minutes.”

He went out and Tony looked blearily at what appeared easily to be a one-hour breakfast. Pot of coffee, halved rolls backed with layered beans and cheese, eggs in hot green chili sauce, napkin-wrapped steaming tortillas, guava, melon, orange juice, too much. Though he should eat a little. He ate a lot, making up for a number of missed meals, meals drunk instead of ate. The breakfast demolished, he showered, shaved, dressed and emerged feeling much, much better, ready to tell Sones that he would not go into Mexico City.

“You will be disguised, no one will recognize you. You told me you speak Spanish. Well enough you think to pass as a Mexican instead of an American?”

“Possibly.” Sones should only know.

“It had better be positively. This part of the operation cannot fail or everything is down the drain. That painting has to be back here by six tonight. D’Isernia will contact me then with the final arrangements. Let me have the photograph, Schultz.”

The agent had opened a large suitcase that contained nothing but boxes and drawers. From one of these he took out a photographic print which he handed to Sones. Tony looked over his shoulder at a picture of himself, a candid snap, slightly downshot, very clear.

“Where did you get that?” he asked.

“The same place everyone else did, from the Chinese. This is the pic the police have. We have to change your appearance as much as possible from this. Being Mexican I think we can use the mustache gambit, don’t you think so, Schultz?”

“Yes, sir,” he piped in cheerful response, pulling out a drawer like a hairy nest. “Something thin and dark, not unlike yours.”

“Mine is an American mustache. We want a foreign one for him.”

“What do you mean Chinese?” Tony broke in. “What have they got to do with this?”

“They have an agent here, he lives right across from the Coronel Glanders Mississippi Fried Chicken place. He takes pictures of everyone who goes in there. A lot of people are interested in the CIA operation. He sells to whoever wants. We buy a lot from him. That is why you should not have gone near the place.”

“I’m afraid they polished off Davidson before he could tell me that. This is the photo the police have? And the Israelis, the Italians—everyone else? I’m surprised the People’s Republic of China would sell to them and us as well.”

“Not them, the other lot, Taiwan. They are always interested in what the CIA is doing. Here, try this on.”

It was too shaggy. However, there were many more and eventually Billy came up with one that matched Tony’s hair and had enough of a droop to the ends to satisfy Sones’s nationalistic preconceptions. With this essential prop in place Billy, who appeared to be a skilled disguise artist, took care of the further transformation. Adroitly applied pencil accentuated the lines around his mouth; inserted pads held in place by stickum changed the shape of his cheeks and lips.

“Taste funny,” Tony said, mufrledly.

“You’ll get used to them in no time at all. Now let me use this hot comb to bulk your hair up, change its shape, then put on a nice oily dressing.”

“You’re not overdoing it?”

“Not a bit. You just relax and wait and see.”

It had to be admitted that the final result was not bad, not bad at all. Tony admired the stranger in the full-length mirror. B pointy shoes, the kind he would never wear, full-kneed pinstriped trousers draped over a full, middle-class stomach—courtesy of a hotel pillow taped about his waist. One of Sones’s acetate sport shirts of a subtle dayglo orange, green “RS” initials on the pocket. A different face stared back, full-cheeked and oiled-haired, nostrils opened by ring inserts, a stranger’s smile emblazoned with two gold teeth, eyes hidden behind silver-mirrored sunglasses, the case for same at his belt.

“All right, listen closely, here are your instructions.” Tony felt a sudden rising panic. Everyone assumed he was going and it was too late now to file his protest. Sones handed him a piece of paper. “Walk out the front gate here. There is a car and driver waiting, this is the license plate number. Get in and tell him to take you to Mexico City. Don’t give him this address until after you are there. This last number is the phone you can reach the driver at when you want him to pick you up. Memorize this information now and wash the paper down the sink, it dissolves on contact with water.”

Tony memorized, all too quickly; then it was time to go. Billy was peeking out the front door to be sure his exit was unobserved.

“See that the painting is not damaged, I beg. For it is the true original, passes all the tests,” Lizveta Zlotnikova said with real emotion. Tony felt put upon.

“Is it okay if I’m not damaged either? It’s my neck in the noose, you know.”

“Now,” Billy piped. “No one in sight.”

“Do not let us down again,” Sones ordered.

Tony slipped out wondering when he had let them down before. Not for the first time he yearned for the cool serenity of the National Gallery. This Mexican thing kept rolling downhill like a runaway trolley. Getting him involved more deeply all the time. The guard at the gate saluted him out, otherwise no one else saw him, then held the door open on the black Cadillac with the memorized number. The guard was also close enough to hear the spoken destination, which proved, if nothing else, that Sones at least knew the mechanics of his job. The trip on the toll road was swift, fine views of the valley and mountains far away, closer view of the nape of the uniformed chauffeur’s neck and the dandruff on his shoulders. All too soon they were in the automotive inferno of Mexico City and stopping close to the multifunctional delicatessen. Not a word had been exchanged, other than the issuing of the two orders. Tony watched the car pull away, took a deep breath, then walked toward his destiny.

Ornate gold letters on the plate-glass window read tolteg kosher delicatessen. Clearly visible seated inside was an elderly gentleman in dark coat and wide-brimmed hat who was straining soup through his full beard. At a longer table nearby an entire family was eating from plates of various sizes, apparently enjoying themselves, while toward the back a tourist couple sipped at beers and looked expectantly toward the glass-fronted delicatessen counter. A round young lady in white was dishing up portions of potato salad, coleslaw, hot chilies, while a familiar figure assembled thick sandwiches from smoking meat. He looked up when Tony came reluctantly through the door and nodded pleasantly.

“Buenos tardes, senor. Agui hay una mesa para ti?”

Tony nodded, impressed with the success of the disguise for the first time, remembering full well that the genial fat man had the keen eye of the spy catcher. Seating himself at a table away from the others, Tony read the menu with interest, breakfast, large as It had been, seemed to have slipped away leaving a vacuity. Jacob Goldstein brought over a glass and bottle which he set before Tony, smiling benevolently.

“Be with you in a moment, Hawkin. Meanwhile, have a celery tonic on the house. That’s not too bad a disguise, all things considered.”

No, not bad at all, Tony thought gloomily, sipping at the strangely flavored beverage. Instantly penetrated. Would the police see through it as easily as well? Goldstein reappeared, slapping down a glass of tea and dropping into the chair opposite.

“Very nice of you to come by and see an old man, seeing how you are so busy these days. Our Italian friends are very hurt by your actions and say you stole some money from them.”

“I did not! It was freely given—and how do you know about that anyway?”

“Word travels. We help each other. There are a lot of Nazis they have no love for either. I hear also you bumped off this Davidson because of a feud between the CIA and the FBI!”

“That’s not true!”

“I thought not, nice fellow like you would have a better reason.”

“Listen, Goldstein, let us get one thing clear. I did not kill Davidson. He was knifed while I was in the other room. I have no idea who did it or why. I have been framed.”

Goldstein nodded benevolently as he sipped his tea, spoon in glass threatening his eyeball. “You been pretty busy, like I said.”

“That is all beside the point. I’m here because of what you have done. You told me you weren’t interested in the paintings at all, yet you had one of your muscle-bound sabras steal it from us. Why? Or are you going to deny the whole thing?”

“Me, deny? Of course not. A very nice painting and it is put away in a safe spot.”

“Give it back, you crook.”

“Crook, surely, return painting, perhaps. That depends upon you.”

“I had that feeling all along. What can I possibly do for you?”

“We’ll get to that in good time, but first I have a little story to tell you.”

“Could you tell it to me while I’m eating? It is lunchtime.” Rich odor of pastrami, salami, corned beef, pickles, peppers, salad, rye bread, onion rolls, gave sweet torture to his nostrils. Goldstein nodded with sympathetic understanding and called out a rapid order to the girl behind the counter, then sipped his tea until a great sandwich had arrived, and Tony had worried a delicious corner off it, looking on with appreciation at his healthy appetite. The girl called for assistance as another table filled and by the time Goldstein had returned the plate was empty and Tony dabbing the last crumbs from his lips.

“I’m glad you ate first, because what I got to tell you won’t help your appetite, young and healthy as it is. It’s not a nice story about a man by the name of Hochhande.”

“So it is a man, the name I mean, I wondered.”

“Perhaps man is too nice a word to apply to Hochhande, you will judge when I am finished. I ask you to turn your mind back to a period that, to one your age, is becoming a part of history. Except that all the players have not yet vanished from the stage. The time is during what we call the Second World War, which the English more personally refer to as the Hitler War, in the south of Italy, the province of Salerno. There was a prison camp there outside the city of Sapri, commanded by one Kapitan Hippolyt Hochhande, known as Hippo to his close friends of which he had very few. Hochhande did such admirable work in this camp that toward the end of the war he was called back hurriedly to Germany by none other than the Fiihrer himself, with whom he had a slight acquaintance due to a mutual interest, and was given the immense responsibility of running an extermination camp. You have heard of these camps? I see by your complexion that you have.

In Gelsenkirchen, as in the other camps, the civilized Germans did their best to preserve the cultural world image of their nation by killing off all the victims who knew better. Hochhande, ever the efficient man, did away with over three hundred thousand people before he fled ahead of the advancing Allied armies. Most of the dead were Jews which explains, in case you are interested, why I have come here and now labor in the guise of a smiling delicatessen man. Enjoyable in many ways, except I am putting on weight, and far better than the time in Argentina when for three years I worked out of a hay, grain and feed shop.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t see the connection between Gelsenkirchen and Mexico.”

“I’m coming to that. The mutual interest that Hochhande shared with Adolf was art, Hochhande having been the operator of a Munich art gallery before the war. It is known that Hochh; actually obtained some paintings for Adolf, and for Goring as well. It is also recorded that he visited Monte d’Capitello many times to admire the paintings there, it is just a few kilometers from Sapri.”

“I’m beginning to see ...”

“I thought you might. The museum is destroyed, the pain vanish, presumably destroyed with it. Now strange things begin to happen. A Matisse painting from the Hitler collection reappears on the world market after many years. The Capitello paintings also come to light. I detect the spoor of Hochhande here. I will sniff him out.”

“But Kurt Robl is the man who is doing everything, that is what I was told. Is he Hochhande?”

“He is the jackal, not the man, Hochhande’s creature, someone unimportant. When Hochhande was recalled to Germany it was Robl who took over his command of the Sapri camp. He is small fry, like many others, and it is the big fish we are after. But since Robl is the pilot fish for the shark we seek, we make a point of keeping track of him, of furnishing information on his whereabouts to the CIA and others so they can watch him too. This has gone on for many years, patient waiting, until now when our watching seems to be paying off at last.”

“You are going to get Hochhande?”

“I am, if he is still alive, and I feel he is. This entire matter has his smell to it. His jackal is not smart enough to do what is being done; he is just a jackal. He has not the intelligence to find a man of international repute like D’Isernia to work with him, to arrange matters as well as this. He is being worked by strings, I know it, my instincts tell me so, and it is the puppet master I am after. And now we come to your role in this little drama.”

“Mine? It has nothing to do with me. I am an art authority, nothing more. All I want is the painting back.”

“Patience, you will have it. But you must aid us. Your part had become a very big one and it shall be larger still. You are going to work for me and help uncover Hochhande.”

“Look, Goldstein, let us be reasonable.” Tony sucked too deeply at the last dregs of his celery tonic so they went up his nose and he had to cough enthusiastically. He ignored this, wiping at his streaming eyes with his napkin. “How can you ask me to do a thing like that? I’m a federal employee, a drafted FBI agent, a loyal American. I can’t work for a foreign government at the same time, be an Israeli agent.”

“Patience, my friend, and listen closely. I ask you for nothing that will compromise your loyalties. You will leave here with the painting and return to your job. You will be involved in the transactions to purchase the painting of the ‘Battle of Anghiarf and will do all that you are paid for and more. You will not be compromised. At the same time you will be reporting to me everything that occurs to enable us to apprehend Hochhande. This will not interfere with your work, it might even aid it because I have various resources that will be at your disposal, and it will aid us in what is an effort to bring a great criminal to justice.”

“I’m sorry, I just can’t do it.”

“Think again. You are a minority member yourself, a descendant of the few survivors of the Indian slaughters of the past hundred years. You are talking to another minority descendant, except my slaughters are more recent. You must know what it feels like to be in our unenviable position. So I ask you to join me, help right one wrong of which there have been so many.”

Unordered, a glass of tea appeared at Tony’s elbow and he sipped at it, burning his mouth on the hot brew. There had to be a way out of this impossible situation.

“What if I refuse to co-operate?” he asked.

“Then I keep the painting, it is as simple as that. I play for keeps, Mr. Hawkin, as I am sure you are aware of.” The implacable hunter once more appeared in his voice, no longer concealed in the g of the pleasant old man. Tony shivered.

“I guess you would do that. So what if I take the painting back, what assurance do you have that I will help you?”

“None whatsoever—other than your word. When you play for high stakes, men’s lives, you are forced to understand people and to trust a very few. I think I understand you. You are essentially a man of peace, who will keep his word once freely given. The choice is yours.”

“Some choice,” Tony muttered into the tea, then looked up at Goldstein and smiled wryly. “You are a great chess player, aren’t you, Goldstein?”

“For you, you can call me Jake.”

“Every move planned from the beginning, Jake, pawns moved the way you want them, the checkmate clearly seen.”

“I bet you play a good game yourself, Tony. So—what’s the decision?”

“Did I ever have a choice? You are looking at the first American Indian Jewish agent. What will my friends think?”

“They’ll never know unless you tell them. This is strictly between you and me, a one-time arrangement, and none of it even goes in the record unless you want it to. But believe me, let me at least drop a word in the Top Secret files. That way when things work out as we hope and you ever make a trip to Israel, boy, have you got a great reception waiting!”

“Shalom,” Tony said, smiling broadly now, reaching out to take the agent’s hand.

“Shalom.”

“You have my word. As long as it doesn’t interfere with the work I am here to do I’ll do everything I can to help you get your hands on Hochhande.”

“I never for a moment doubted you, Tony. Here, just a minute, finish your tea while I fetch a package I got for you from the back room.”

Tony sat, slightly dazed, still not sure how he had gotten this deeply involved. Everything had happened with a sure inevitability, but it was still hard to visualize himself as both an agent of the FBI and the Israeli underground. Goldstein returned with a large book, Terry’s Guide to Mexico, which he handed over.

“Don’t try to open it, all the pages are glued together and it’s hollowed out. Something better to carry around than a package, people notice. Just pry open the front cover to get the painting out. A very pretty hunk of art I must say.”

“You seem to have forgotten one thing.” Tony turned the book over and read “Capsule Guide to Cash and Communication for the Tourist in Mexico.”

“What do I tell Sones, my boss here for the FBI? I just walked in and you handed the painting back? Or better I had a shoot-out and took it away from you?”

“A cover story is what you’re talking about, and a cover story is what you got. Sones thinks we are trying to get Robl, that idea was planted with you the first time we met—we wanted you, not Robl, we knew who you were—as well as with some other people. So tell him that you promised to finger Robl for us in exchange for the return of the painting, he’ll believe that and will probably arrange to help you with the job once your painting business is finished. He has no love for these vermin and dislikes doing business with them. He’ll go along with the idea.”

“It gets very complicated.”

“It always does. How are you getting back?”

“I have to phone for a car.”

“Very good. You can always get in touch with me here, but I’ll have people close by keeping an eye on you. If anyone gives you the password gornischt, you answer hilfen. Then pass messages or ask for any help you might need. My people are very capable.”

“They certainly are. Your ape really frightened that poor Russian girl, Lizveta Zlomikova.”

“That poor Russian girl—but Georgian please, not Russian—is reporting straight to Moscow about your operation—or didn’t you know that?”

“Of course I knew that.” Smugly, a big international agent knowing the workings of all the cogs and wheels.

“Well, maybe then you didn’t know that she is in reality a double agent for the Albanians who pass the word directly to China. Let Sones know about that at the right time and it will get you in big, further your career.”

The ride back was very much like the ride out, silent and swift, Tony held tightly to the book and wondered just where it all would end. He was in this introspective mood when he emerged at Cocoyoc, accepted his salute, then found his way to a seven. The door was unlocked and he pushed it open and waJ through into the living room of the suite.

Sones, sitting on the couch, looked up at him, frowning fiercely. Sones’s visitor, seated in the overstuffed chair, turned around looked at him as well. He had a familiar face.

Police Lieutenant Ricardo Gonzales y Alvarez.