Montezuma’s Revenge

“Don’t play the dummy with me. You people have trouble with a man so you eliminate him in my back yard and leave the dirty prehension for the knock on the door, this was when his eyes moved across the bar, halted then quickly returned. A drink, yes, a drink was decidedly in order. There was a fine selection here of most of the distilled biological poisons known to man, the bottles cool, multiformed, and comforting. Tequila? No, Mexico hovered too close as it was. Scotch then, the reassuring malt from the Highlands, memories of peat, heather and kilts in every sip, poured generously over ice cubes, drunk thirstily. A second drink followed the first and the level of the bottle dropped in equal measure as his spirits rose. In this manner the hours passed quickly until the appointed moment of door unlocking. After a certain amount of fumbling with the key and bolt Tony had it open and, no more than thirty seconds later, Higginson came in followed by a second man wearing a white uniform who was pushing a third in a wheel chair. The seated individual wore black gloves, a heavy overcoat turned up at the collar against the cool night, a scarf wrapped around his neck for further protection, dark glasses and a wide-brimmed hat. About all that could be told about him was that he was very old, if the thin white hair splayed across the collar meant anything.

It meant very little. Once the door was closed again a sturdy youth leaped from the chair and very quickly took off coat, hat, scarf, gloves and white wig. He was neatly dressed in sport shirt and dark trousers, and Tony nodded approvingly when he noticed that trousers and shoes resembled the corpse’s very closely. Higginson stood by and supervised while his minions did the dirty work. With a proficiency that hinted at long practice they pulled out the murderous knife and slapped a thick towel over the spot to absorb any excess of blood, then dressed the corpse in the thick overcoat. Now, buttoned into the muffling garment, the late FBI agent was propped up in the wheel chair and the rest of the disguise put into place. To a casual examination the same man was still sitting in the wheel chair and would be leaving the hotel after a brief visit.

“Very neatly done,” Tony said appreciatingly. Higginson leaned forward sniffing industriously and frowning.

“You have been drinking.”

“A few quickies in memory of our departed friend. Join me?”

“I never drink, and if I did drink I would never drink on duty.”

“Well, I drink and I’m not on duty. Duty done for the day.”

“You will want this, senor,” the pseudo attendant said, handing the washed and dried butcher knife to Tony with a certain degree of professional respect, a reminder of what they thought the duty had been. “Put it in my bag, if you please, in that room. Off duty.”

“No, you’re not,” Higginson said smartly. “I suggest you drink some coffee and have some exercise. We cannot have alcohol jeopardizing the operation tonight.”

“Operation? Tonight?”

“Yes, I’ve made the contact. We’ll make the meet at three a.m.”

“Order some coffee,” Tony said, sighing heavily.

Four

Memories of old grease hung in the air, aroma of potato and coleslaw long gone, odor of legions of chickens who had passed through and on to alimentary destiny. Tony sat on the high stool, elbows on the well-scrubbed wood of the counter, sipping the latest cup of coffee. The single light above threw long shadows across the empty kitchen and struck plastic highlights from Higginson’s wig. He sat across from Tony gnawing away steadily on a leg of cold fried chicken. Tony nodded over his cup and wished that he had used the hours for sleep rather than the drinking of all the coffee that Higginson had forced on him.

“Three minutes to three,” the CIA man said softly. “Get ready.”

“I’m ready, I’m ready,” Tony muttered wishing, not for the first time, that this were over with and he was nicely asleep in bed. Or better still back in Washington, at his old job away from all this unhappy business.

“Here he is ....” It was just three. The unlocked rear door opened silently and a man entered; apparently, the unlocked door gambit was the normal way of doing business in these circles. The newcomer had a shaven head, a broken nose, saber scars on his cheekbones and an outthrust bulldog jaw, all of which identified his nationality long before he opened his mouth.

“Which of you is the painting authority?” he said, or rather tried to say. But his which was more like a vich, the closer to der, and painting definitely started with a b.

“Your name?” Higginson asked, ignoring the question.

“You may call me Hans.”

“I may call you Kurt, much better. Kurt Robl. Born Gstadt, Germany, in nineteen ten, joined the Nazi party in ...”

“I know I am in your verdawrmte CIA book, so let’s get on with the business, Higginson. Is this the art man?”

“He is.”

Robl turned his attention to Tony, eying him up and down thoroughly before speaking again.

“You are acquainted with this painting?”