Montezuma’s Revenge

Thirteen

“How do you do?” Tony managed to say after a considerable time had passed during which he considered saying Pleased to ? you, but he wasn’t, really. The man in the wheel chair nodded happily, and proceeded to take Tony’s greeting literally, answering him in English with a thick German accent.

“I do quite well, really, all things considered, my age, I’ll be eighty-three years old soon, just think of that. My appetite is not good, too much wind in Mexican food, and I have trouble walking, as you see. The old trouble coming back, paresis they call this stage, the folly of youth. But you did not come here to talk about me. The painting, the best in my collection, you like it. Jar

“Excellent, the finest of its kind, Da Vinci never did another like it.”

“The horse filled with the battle lust, you see. The heroic killing and dying. But it is obvious why. Research has proved that Da Vinci is a corruption of da Von Giesel, that is of the family of Von Giesel, a Gothic family from Germany, so the man is proven of good Aryan stock.”

“I hadn’t heard that—”

“You doubt what I am saying? You think I He!” The old man’s hand pounded the arm of the chair; spittle dribbled unnoticed down his chin. “What do you, a mongrel Amerikaner dog, know about great art?”

“I know enough about it to pay a million dollars for it!”

The thought of this money had a quieting effect. He sat back in his chair, rubbing at his mouth, then almost smiled. “Quite right, a million dollars. No less for this, the pride of my collection. In fact, finish this deal and I might just offer you a bargain of equal worth. Look at this.” He fumbled under the blanket and brought up a creased roll of heavy paper which he flattened on his lap to disclose a watercolor painting. “I have been dabbling a bit, still. An original of mine, quite valuable in certain circles, I can assure.”

Robl held the flashlight and Tony looked at the painting. It was a badly executed view of a Bavarian or Austrian village, done in the worst possible taste, the perspective haphazard, the washes muddy. The initials in the corner, A.H., were picked out daintily in brown.

“We cannot stay any longer,” D’Isernia said. “It is not wise.”

The watercolor vanished back under the blanket, and with Robl’s firm guiding hand under his elbow, Tony was moved quickly out of the room and rushed back up the aisle of the church. The Packard was waiting at the portal as ordered, rear doors open and motor muttering, and it moved swiftly away as soon as they were inside.

“You are a very lucky young man,” Robl said, giving Tony a comradely pat on the knee at the same time. “He usually never sees strangers, you can understand why.”

“Yes, sure.” There was very little else he could say. Holding the wrapped fragment of painting carefully in both hands, Tony stared out unseeingly at the mountainous landscape moving by, the twisting road that crossed and recrossed the narrow gauge railroad tracks. He blinked at it, then glanced back over his shoulder with apprehension.

“Aren’t we going in the wrong direction?”

“That might be said,” D’Isernia answered. “What we are doing, if you do not mind, is going for a little drive toward Amecameca so that our mutual acquaintance can leave safely. A little precaution. As I am sure you can understand, he does not go out much, and when he does it is with trepidation and the utmost caution. He Could not resist attending the ceremonies today, so with a single stone we killed two birds, enabling you to meet him as well.”

The car pulled off the road under the giant pines and they smoked cigarettes while they waited. An occasional car passed on the road behind them, the only sound other than the wind stirring the pine needles high above. Across the valley below the lower slopes of the dormant volcano Popocatepetl rose up to the distant summit with a banner of cloud flying from it. Robl consulted his watch and the return trip began. There was no conversation. D’Isernia looked out at the scenery and whistled an aria from Madama Butterfly, Robl stared sternly ahead, Tony guarded the sundered piece of painting. They halted finally a block from the Hotel Vasco.

“Emerge now,” Robl ordered. “Have the examination made. The money is here?”

“It should be here this afternoon.”

“It had better be. Remember, you will be contacted at four this afternoon. If all is well the exchange will be made tonight.”

They were all waiting in Sones’s room when Tony returned, all except Stocker that is, who was undoubtedly still sitting insomniacly over his charge.

“Report,” Sones ordered.

“I saw the painting, it looked authentic enough.” Tony opened the folded handkerchief while he talked. “I was going to scrapings but Robl thought some kind of butchery was more in order. He cut a corner from the painting.”

Lizveta Zlotnikova looked at the fragment as at a fresh-slain corpse and screamed shrilly. “Beasts, swine,” she snarled through her teeth as she gently took up the canvas, adding even more insulting-sounding terms in richly throbbing Russian. Bearing the sundered canvas like a newborn, she left the room.

“They will be contacting me at four this afternoon to make sure that the money is here by then, I didn’t let them know it had already arrived. If the painting checks out the exchange will be made tonight. And there is one other thing ...” He hesitated,

“What?”

“I met—the man who owns the painting. He said it was from his collection. And there was a memorial Mass there, sort of funny, because he wasn’t dead and ...”

“Have you been drinking, Hawkin?”

“No I haven’t, not a drop, nor have I had coffee or breakfast either.” His stomach emitted a dreadful growl at this realization. “I’m going to order something up now.”

“Not before you explain just what it is you are talking about. Or who. What man?”

Tony clenched his fists at his side. “Adolf Hitler, that’s who. I’ve been talking with him. The picture is from his collection, you told me so yourself. He’s alive and well in a wheel chair.”

A thoughtful silence fell. Billy Schultz gaped. Sones opened his eyes wider and wider nor did he take them off Tony who crossed to the phone and contacted room service fairly swiftly, then ordered a club sandwich with turkey, a side of fried beans, a large guacamole salad with tortillitas, a jug of coffee and a bottle of Bohemia ale.

“Just repeat that,” Sones said when he hung up.

“Adolf Hitler. I have been talking with him about the purchase of one of his paintings.”

“He’s supposed to be dead,” Billy squeaked.

“The reports must have been exaggerated.”

“You are sure of this, Hawkin? Washington will want to know everything.”

“I’m not sure of anything. He had a little white mustache and hair over his eye. And he offered to sell one of his own watercolors. It was bad enough to be real.”

“I must contact Washington.”

“In school, you know, they told us he was dead.”

“I hope this is the food,” Tony said, hurrying to the door to answer the knock, saliva beginning to flow in anticipation.

“Absolutely authentic,” Lizveta Zlotnikova said, coming in, doing some quick work with her handkerchief at her reddened eyes. “The pigments, canvas, characteristic of the period. The brush strokes even more evidence, the hand of the master, what sureness. What kind of creature could deface such a masterpiece?”

She raised the sodden handkerchief again and Tony f back a sudden desire to comfort her, perhaps hold her to his manly bosom, sudden warm memories of her female one burning strongly before him.

“Then the meet is on. Get back to your room, Hawkin, and tell Stocker about this. And if I were you, I would not mention to anyone, repeat anyone, about whom you met today.”

Tony opened the door, then closed it again and turned.In the rush of the morning’s events he had completely forgotten what he had been told earlier.

“I’m sorry, but what was the password to get back into my room?”

“Two knocks, space, one more knock. Password Horsefly. You had better shape up, Hawkin, start catching on to things.”

Good news in the form of a tray-bearing waiter appeared in the hall outside and Tony intercepted his lunch, stopped, tipped and dismissed the man, then went through the ritual of admittance to his own quarters. The chill eye at the crack in the door ac~ cepted “Horsefly” and let him in. The curtains were drawn, the room dark, the bed unmade.

“Want some of this?” Tony asked.

“Don’t drink on thu job, nor eat either.”

Thus admonished, Tony sat down to clear the platter himself, attempting to ignore the watchful eyes and ready gun. “The painting had been authenticated. The exchange will probably take place tonight.”

“Ahm ready.”

Tony chewed over thoughts of responsibility with his food* He had made certain promises to Jacob Goldstein when the Cellini had been returned to him. He had no information about Hochhande yet, but, somehow, he felt the Israeli underground might be just as interested in Adolf’s return. Yes, he would positively have to report this to Goldstein, who would also be interested in the attendees at the commemoratory Mass. Finishing the last of the beer he belched lightly with satisfaction.

“I’m going down for cigarettes. Do you want some he asked, and framed the answer to himself as the other spoke.

“Don’t smoke on thu job.”

“Be just a few minutes.”

Everlasting suspicion if not vigilance seemed to be the motto of the foreign agent, at least that much had been proven to him by the past days’ activities. Since the other side had arranged his stay at this hotel it could safely be assumed that someone in the establishment—everyone in fact for all he knew—was in contact with Robl or D’Isernia, and would report and probably listen to any phone calls he made from the premises. The sun was hot, the air clear and cool as always, when he left the Vasco and strolled down Avenida Reforma. A neon-tubed cocktail glass, international symbol, beckoned over a doorway and he entered and ordered a Margarita and obtained permission to use the telephone, all charges going on his check, happily, senor. It rang a long time before it was answered, lunchtime, waiting appetites, mounds of meats being sliced, and Goldstein himself spoke.

“Toltec Kosher Delicatessen.”

“Operator X-o here.”

“I’m busy, Hawkin, so make it quick.”

“Now wait a minute, I don’t have to call, you know. I have information I want to give you. Did you hear about the commemorative services for Adolf?”

“I got the word, but too late to do anything about it. Were you there?”

“I was, and your man Heinrich too. He took a long look at everyone and if he remembers faces he has a lot to tell you.”

“A fine memory, a scholar, we’ll show him our photographs. Anything else?”

“Just one tiny thing.” Smugly. “Hitler was there himself, I talked to him.”

“By, by, I got to go to work and no time for jokes.”

“But I mean it, Jake, really. He was there with the painting, an old man in a wheel chair, and he even offered to sell me one of his watercolors.”

“That one again. Don’t worry too much about him. He is a nut case by the name of Jakob Platz, though I guess in some ways he is Stupid like a fox. He commanded an SS panzer corps on the eastern front, not a nice man but there are worse. We ran across him some years ago. Apparently he wasn’t a big enough wheel to steal much money, so he does this Hitler thing and sells his true-life stories to journalists, they always need copy for their magazines. All those alive-and-well stories, they come from him. Anything else.”

“Nothing, I guess, except the exchange for the painting may come off tonight.”

“Good luck. Don’t trust these bums too far. Keep in touch,”

“By,” Tony said into the dead receiver, then hung up. Well, he had reported, done his duty. A fake Hitler. Well, it had to be. But it would have been nice to have a real one. Not nice, but interesting. He should tell Sones about this, but where would he say he got the information? A second Margarita produced no answers, so he bought his cigarettes, paid his bill and went back to his room. Knock-knock, knock, “Horsefly,” and the constant gaze of the guardian.

Precisely at four the phone rang.

“Did you find the painting was authentic?” D’Isernia’s voice asked.

“It is.”

“You have the money?”

“Yes.”

“Bring it to the front door of your hotel now and you will receive further instructions.” The line went dead but rang again as soon as he had hung up. This time it was Sones who spoke.

“We heard all that. Just hold there and wait for us.”

Tony did not bother to ask by what devious bit of electronic horseplay they had tapped his phone, but instead bent to put his shoes on.

“Is this it?” Stocker asked, eagerly alert.

“It certainly is. The time is now.”

They were all crowded into the room which necessitated an appreciable amount of milling about which disturbed Stocker so that he moved back against the wall, suitcase behind him, gun ready, eyes darting from one to the other. Billy Schultz went directly to one of the heavy suitcases which, when he opened it, proved to contain a small armory. Pistols, grenades, entrenching tools, tear-gas bombs, thermite charges, knives, land mines. Stocker patted the lumps in his suit at the sight, no doubt reassuring himself that he had a better selection about his person.

“Thirty-eight or forty-five?” Sones asked Tony.

“I’m really not much of a pistol shot.”

“Take the forty-five then. Hit a man anywhere and you stop him.”

“I do not wish a weapon,” Lizveta Zlotnikova said.

“I had no intention of offering you one.”

Billy Schultz and Sones managed to distribute a good portion of the suitcase’s contents about their persons. Sones buttoned his jacket over his bulging waist and snapped orders with a military precision.

“Schultz, take point. I will ride shotgun on Stocker’s left flank to keep his gun hand clear. Hawkin, rear guard. The lady will stay well back but first I would like to check your purse if you do not mind.”

“I mind,” Lizveta Zlotnikova said. “I do not carry weapon.”

“Right, you do not,” Sones said as, ignoring her protests, he rifled quickly through the contents of her largish bag. “Move out.”

For public appearances Stocker kept his gun in his jacket pocket, still clutched in his hand, but there could be little doubt of what he had there. In fact, all of them generated an aura of hostility, moving down the hall and through the lobby, half crouched, eyes busily everywhere. Mexico, and this state of Morelos in particular, being no stranger to violence, all present quickly detected that something was afoot and guests left abruptly while the clerks decided that they had business in the office with the door closed. This happened very quickly until the only one left was D’Isernia at the front door, casually smoking a cigarette.

“You see, I present myself as hostage of fortune. If we might go in your automobile I will issue instructions as we proceed.”

“The car, Schultz,” Sones said out of the corner of his mouth, not taking his eyes from D’Isernia.

It arrived quickly. Lizveta Zlotnikova rode in the front seat with Billy, while D’Isernia sat in the middle of the back seat flanked by the ominous forms of Stocker and Sones. Tony had the dubious pleasure of the jump seat where he could rub knees with the others. The suitcase was hard-clamped between Stocker’s knees and he had now, in the security of the Cadillac, drawn his gun and had it trained on D’Isernia.

“South out of the city on the Oaxaca road,” the Italian said, seemingly unimpressed by the threatening weapon. “If it is not asking too much I would like to check through the contents of the suitcase. A necessary prelude to any negotiations, you 1 admit?”

“Any cars following us, Schultz?” Sones asked.

“No, sir.”

“All right. Open it up, Stocker.”

With great reluctance the Treasury man pocketed his gun arid withdrew a four-sided key of complex design. Setting the suitcase upon his knees he unlocked it and threw the top open under Tony’s nose, disclosing the solidly packed bundles of greenbacks inside. Stocker’s big automatic appeared again and was trained on D’Isernia as he took a bundle out, counted it, rummaged through the other piles to make sure that it was money all the way down, then restored it to its lucrous nest.

“Very much in order,” he announced as Stocker closed the case far more readily than he had opened it. “I’ll have the key, if you please.”

“Give it to him,” Sones ordered, beating down the Treasury man’s obvious reluctance.

They traveled for about an hour, doubling back on their tracks at times, then hurtling down dirt roads that had the Cadillac billowing upon its shock absorbers like a ship upon the waves.

“I wish to be sure we are not followed,” D’Isernia said. “I wish to be sure we meet at the appointed place at the correct time with just this car, no police or helicopters or such devices,”

“We would not consider such a thing,” Sones said.

“I would in your place, so let us not be hypocrites. Very soon now.”

The sun was a dusty orange disc burning on the horizon when they came to a medium-sized village, Yecapixtla, the sign by the roadside read, memorializing the memories of departed Aztecs. Men in wide-brimmed sombreros were here in great numbers, accompanied, a dutiful two paces behind, by re bozo-wrapped wives who led the larger children by the hand, carried the smaller ones. The car slowed, going in the same direction as the growing crowd, toward a small grandstand and fenced ring.

“A provincial bullfight,” D’Isernia said. “A simple spectacle enjoyed by a simple people. Turn right down that track there. Now, stop here. Please to turn the vehicle about and back it toward that fence visible beyond the burros.”

On both sides the rural population of Yecapixtla moved slowly by, only the children noticing the large black car in their midst, the adults practicing a stern indifference. One of the burros onnk-ahnked a long and loud cry before growing silent, then peering sideway at the car out of a suspicious eye.

It was dusk now, but the other car could clearly be seen on the far side of the barbed-wire fence, also backing slowly into place behind them.

“Take positions,” Sones snapped the order. “Schultz, right flank, Hawkin, left, Stocker, shoot through the back window if you have to. I will negotiate. Move.”

“If I might go to the other car ... ?” D’Isernia asked, not moving until he had received Sones’s abrupt nod.

They walked to the fence together and D’Isernia lifted the strands delicately and slipped through. Lizveta Zlotnikova shrank down, just her eyes visible over the back of the front seat. The agents waited, watching, hands heavy in pockets. A few of the local citizenry still passed, the scene was peaceful.

Robl emerged from the rear of the enemy Packard where someone else was visible, a wrapped and heavily hatted form. The solid bulk of the driver’s head suggested Heinrich, but Tony could not be sure. Robl and D’Isernia conferred briefly and the Italian returned to the fence to face Sones.

“Here is what I suggest. Your man will bring the money out of the car. When he does Robl will bring out the painting. We will both approach the fence at the same time. Be careful with your guns, there are innocent people about, as you can see. Let us keep this exchange an honest one. When the money is put down, the painting will be put down. The exchange will take place. We will both leave in opposite directions. Is it agreed?”

“Go ahead.”

Slowly, as in some exaggerated mating dance, the exchange proceeded. Bag and bearer emerged, painting and porter followed suit. Hands were tense on guns. Step by step they approached, facing each other, staring at each other, slowly placing their valuable charges on the ground, rising once again.

“Stop there!” a female voice cried out and in the instant six guns sprang into view, perhaps a seventh shimmered in the rear window of the Packard. Lizveta Zlotnikova emerged. “I wish to examine painting.”

“She is right,” Sones said. “How about it.”

Was there a reluctance in Robl’s voice when he agreed? The guns slid reluctantly from sight as the girl strode forward. Tension crackled in the air like heat lightning before an approaching storm. Every eye was on her as she knelt on the ground. Robl threw back the cloth on a corner of the painting and pushed it under the lower strand of wire.

With slow precision Lizveta Zlotnikova drew a flat pa» from her purse and unwrapped it to disclose the sundered corner of the canvas. She laid this on the frame, took out a large magnifying glass and a flashlight and bent forward.

“Quickly!” Robl ordered. “We cannot be about this all day.”

“The cut threads match, the flakes of painting as well ...”

“Enough,” Robl ordered, throwing the cloth back over the painting again. “We must do this now.”

“We will do it, but slowly. Wait until the girl is back in the car,” Sones said. “Good. Now, push that painting forward—slowly—no fast motions. You do it the same way, Stocker. Don’t let go of the bag until you have your hands on the painting.”

They faced each other like two gladiators in the arena, tensed for instant battle. Forward, forward, Stocker reluctantly abandoning his hold on the pocketed gun to grab the painting. There was a silent tug of war for a moment, each pulling on painting and case, then giving way, the exchange made.

“Good, good-by,” Robl said, pulling the bag to him as Stocker snatched in the painting. He dived for the open door of his car, D’Isernia climbing into the other, the Packard shooting forward in a cloud of dust while their legs were still protruding, its headlights sending yellow beams through the dusk. Stocker rushed to the safety of the car with the painting, his gun out now, as were all the others.

The crowd had dispersed, there seemed no danger, the Packard disappeared around a turn, the alert agents relaxed though their guns were still ready.

Lizveta Zlotnikova screamed loudly, again and again; the guns reappeared on the instant.

She had thrown back the cover and her light was on the picture.

“A fake!” she shouted. “A phony! a forgery!”

The dust cloud settled; the other car was gone.