Montezuma’s Revenge

“That is not to be recommended since another officer sits in the lobby and has witnessed your entrance.”

“Well, the police don’t worry me!” Hollow bravado indeed. “So start this thing up and let me get it over with and get to bed.”

“In a little-little moment. First I thought you might be happy to pay some recompense for my continued interest in your security. With all the policemen so thickly around my silence is surely appreciated.”

“Yes, I think you might appreciate a hundred pesos.”

“I would appreciate two hundred more.”

Tony paid in silence and watched his grateful employee exit. The elevator rose again, though his spirits fell, and he walked to his room as a man to his execution.

When he unlocked the door and went in he saw the man sitting at ease in the armchair, leafing through Tony’s passport and the contents of his attache case. Surprise, which he was prepared to simulate, was replaced by real anger.

“Just who the hell are you and what do you think you are doing?”

The man nodded in a most friendly manner, a handsome dark-haired man dressed in a conservative brown suit, putting the papers on the table and rising.

“You are of course the Mr. Tony Hawkin of the photo in the passport. My pleasure. I am Ricardo Gonzales y Alvarez and I am a lieutenant of the police.”

“Does being a lieutenant give you the right to enter here and go through my papers without a search warrant?”

“Yes, indeed, it does in Mexico. Particularly when the occupant of the room has been associating with known foreign agents.”

What an understatement—he had met more of them in the few hours he had been in the country than he had Mexicans.

“That is a nasty allegation, Lieutenant, and certainly not true.”

“I fear it is. For a witness we respect, you would call him an informer, tells us that the agent George Higginson came to your room tonight, more than once, and that you left with him.”

“Higginson is not a foreign agent, he’s an American.”

“Mr. Hawkin, please. In this country an American is a foreigner. And the CIA a secret foreign organization. Now I would appreciate your telling me just what your business is with this Higginson. Be brief and more important, be truthful.”

“I don’t have to answer your questions.”

“Of course not. Nor do we have to have you in our country.”

“Yes, there is that, I’m sorry. It has been a long night. Been drinking, no sleep. Drinking, that’s all. Never knew that Higginson was a CIA man, news to me certainly. Friend of my father’s, asked to look him up, that sort of thing.”

Gonzales was not convinced; he pursed his lips and tapped his fingers on the papers. “Yet isn’t it interesting that he is a CIA man and you an FBI agent? A certain suspicion attaches to this relationship, does it not?”

You're fishing, Lieutenant. You know something is going on but not what it is. “Not really. Washington is populated almost completely by government employees, they know one another, they meet when abroad, it is as simple as that. And, if you have gone through my papers as well as you seem to, you will have discovered that I am not an FBI agent but an employee of the agency who runs a souvenir stand there. Will that be all?”

“For the moment.” Gonzales stood up and started for the door. “Just one other question. Where is your roommate, Mr. Davidson?”

Tony had been waiting for this question and was not put off by the casual approach. “I’m sure I don’t know.” True enough! “He is a grown man and undoubtedly can take care of himself. We are just casual acquaintances and sharing the room for economy’s sake. We both have separate plans for our vacation, I assure you.”

Lieutenant Gonzales looked into his eyes for a long, silent moment before nodding slowly. “That will be all for now, Mr. Hawkin. I will perhaps be seeing you again. For your own sake I hope you are involved in nothing that is in violation of our Mexican laws.”

“Good night, Lieutenant.”

That was that. At least for the moment. Tony discovered that his hand had a distinct shake to it when he locked and bolted the door. The thought of a scotch whiskey loomed large as a trembler killer. He poured one, a healthy one, drained most of it, then slipped off his jacket and went to the closet to hang it up. Fatigue was clutching at him.

The man who stared back at him from inside the closet was holding a pointed gun in his hand.

“Now we can have our talk, Signore Hawkin,” he said.

Five

There was very little Tony could do other than stand and gape, for this encounter was the absolutely final straw, the nightcap to an evening that he would be having bad dreams about for the rest of his life. It was too much. He was too exhausted, too shocked to even be frightened at this point and even had to struggle slightly to hold back what might prove to be an hysterical giggle. There was nothing he could say, nothing he could do; he stood there in a state of semi-paralysis with his eyes wide and round as saucers.