Montezuma’s Revenge

The FBI agent was sucking at a straw that projected up from what appeared to be an entire coconut, and he kept on sucking, evidencing by not the slightest twitch of a muscle that this aquatic encounter was in any way out of the normal. Only when he lowered the nut did he permit his eyes to flicker down once and away.

“I have been looking for you, Hawkin.”

“Well that’s just fine because I have been looking for you as well. What on earth is that thing you are drinking from?”

“You are in trouble you know. A coco preparado, sometimes called a coco-fuerte. It is a green coconut with the top sliced off and the milk inside laced with rum and chilled with ice.”

“It sounds like just what I need, please pass it down.”

“You know that—”

“I know that I say nothing until I get a drink. Give.”

Sones looked casually about, then quickly slipped the coconut into Tony’s waiting hand. He rested it on the tile and sucked deep. Wonderful. A purple flower tucked into the top of the coconut added a touch of gay color, the rum in the drink pumped the juice of life into his veins.

“When I say trouble, Hawkin, I mean big trouble. The CIA has leaked a report at a very high level that you murdered Davidson. Not only that but you exceeded orders and obtained a certain painting and the people who supplied it are very annoyed since they thought they were giving it to us.”

“Now just a minute. Us, we, the FBI do have it since, as far as I know, I am still an employee. As to the murder thing, it’s a frame.”

“There is a witness ...”

“I know, and he’s rich with my money too. But ...”

“You wish another drink, senor, since I see you have finished?” The waiter appeared silently out of the darkness and hovered expectantly. “What, yes, I suppose so.” For a fraction of a moment there Sones had lost his cool, but it was quickly re-established.

“The same? And your friend in the piscina—would he like one too?”

“Yes, by all means,” Tony said, the last dregs slurping in his straw. “I will join my friend.”

Sones nodded and waited until the waiter had withdrawn before he spoke. “You have the painting?”

“I know where it is. But if I am fired because I’m a murderer I am holding onto it.”

“I didn’t say ...”

“Yes you did. Look, is there any reason why I should have killed Davidson? The idea is madness. Someone was waiting in the room when we got there, knifed him and went out the front door. Period. I didn’t do it and I know nothing else about it. That two-timing CIA man Higginson knows a lot more. He’s the one who framed me by seeing to it that the corpse was found instead of making it vanish.”

“Yes, I can believe that. The CIA, I should have known. Though there is also the matter of your giving information to the Israelis.”

“What information? I was hit on the head and shlepped off by them. I didn’t tell them a thing that they didn’t know already.

What they were really interested in was this contact man, Kurt Robl, and Goldstein mentioned the name Hochhande, which means nothing at all to me. As to the paintings, they seemed to know all about them and couldn’t care less.”

“Our security cover has not been tight on this operation.”

“You can say that again—the understatement of the ages. And for your information a sinister group called the Agenzia Terza has also moved in.”

“I would not worry too much about them if I were you. They are not what you would call a major threat.”

“Major or not they caused me enough trouble. And they seem to have a point there about the paintings belonging to them.”

“In the long run the art will be returned to Italy, but when it goes it will be donated by the American Government. There has been trouble for years over this Monte Capitello thing and we want to clean the slate once and for all. Bring in the evidence that the entire mess was a Kraut plot and they blew up the museum and stole the paintings and here we are bringing them back after all these years to set the record straight. And when credit is given it will be seen that the FBI really carried the ball.”

“Great. Which raises a very important point. Come on, tell me quickly. Am I still a trusted employee of the Bureau or not?”

“There have been no orders about a change in status.”

“Exactly. And I do have the picture.”

“You are still with us.”

“Fine. Order up a couple more of these, they’re really good.” The second coconut was soon empty and as he cleaned up the few drops that hung to the meat inside, the rich fumes of the rum rose to his brain and, in a single flash, revelation came to him, an idea that his subconscious had been nurturing for a long time, awaiting only unlocking by an alcoholic key. “Then here is the plan. I’ll meet you wherever you want and bring the painting, and we’ll take up our former relationship where we left off.”

“This hotel is watched closely. Therefore downtown ...”