Montezuma’s Revenge

This was a time-consuming, though secure, way to travel. After Cuernavaca he continued on the local bus to Cuautla which let him off at the little village of Cocoyoc just after midnight. The town itself dozed, a solitary light in front of a bar under which sat a single man in a chair, drinking alone, but the Hacienda Cocoyoc blazed welcoming beacons a short way down a side road. Antonio the peasant walked with shuffling pace toward it, at least until he was out of possible sight of any watchers in the village. This was irrigated farm land and the road crossed the dark waters of a canal on a bridge, under which he took refuge, beside the canal, from where, a short time later, the gringo tourist Tony emerged. Feet clean and squelching in the damp sandals, the peasant outfit, cane knife, and painting all in the airline bag. Shoulders back lie marched with firm pace toward the ornate iron arch of the entrance and received the salute of the guard there with an airy wave of his hand.

Inside was luxury. The modern hotel had been built in and around the ancient sugar hacienda, a venerable array of thick-walled buildings dating back to the sixteenth century. Arched aqueducts still carried whispering water through the grounds, hidden lights played on purple-blossomed jacaranda trees backdropped by the dark stones of the walls. Tony took a path that led off through the smooth grass and airborne perfume of the gardens, away from the main building. For most of the day, as his transportation carried him closer to Mexico Gty—now just fifty miles away—he had become more and more conscious of the police and the grim fate they wanted to apply to him. Even in his pastoral guise he had rolled his eyes suspiciously at every badged officer and now, Yankee once again, he walked in no small amount of fear. Even the thought of bright-lit lobbies and argus-eyed clerks gave him the shakes. Sones had said they would be in casita seven, whatever that was, so he began prowling the extensive and complicated grounds, peering at indistinct numbers on doorways. The inevitable happened and, while lighting a match to read a gnomic inscription, a uniformed figure came around the corner.

“May I help you, sir?” the man said.

A hot rush of fear was allayed slightly when Tony realized that the uniform was one of hotel service, not of the law, and he swayed forward again, having leaned backward at the sudden startling appearance. The match burned his fingers and he dropped it with a muffled oath. His inquisitor waited. Sway and mumble brought quick memories of the previous night’s condition and he simulated it now in instant disguise.

“Can’t find room—went to zha bar and can’t get back. Want to find cazhetta number seven.” Another sway to add verisimilitude to the words.

“If you will be so kind as to follow me.”

Well trained, thou good and faithful servant; he trod in the other’s footsteps and dug out peso notes to overtip him when they reached a small building with a gilt seven under an iron-caged bulb. Money rustled, thanks were murmured, and he tried the knob with his face carefully turned from the light. The door was thankfully unlocked and he pushed through into the darkness beyond, closed it and fumbled at the wall looking for a light switch. As he did this something very hard was pushed deep into his side and an even harder, high-pitched voice hissed in his ear.

“Move or even twitch and you are a dead man.”

With a great effort he controlled the tendency to leap into the air generated by this shocking suggestion and stood stock-still instead. The hard object ground deeper into his kidney and the voice, apparently satisfied by his response, spoke again, this time calling out shrilly.

“All right, open up.”

The response was immediate. The inside door to the entrance hall was thrown wide and lights blazed. Tony blinked at them, then, through slitted eyes, looked at his captor. The hard object was a gun as he had suspected, a very large, blue-black, and deadly looking device. The young man who held it, while pink not blue-black, looked just as deadly, freckled, blank-faced redhead with his block-shaped head sat squarely on a weight-lifter’s thick neck of columnar muscle. Equally large muscles bulged his shirt and rose in corded knots from his forearm to thicken at his wrist: If he squeezed the trigger it appeared he would crush the gun like licorice.

“Put it away, Schultz, he is all right,” a familiar voice said. FBI agent Ross Sones rose from behind an overstuffed chair and holstered an equally impressive hand weapon.

“I thought you were expecting me?” Tony asked, angry now.

“Never hurts to take precautions. Agent Schultz, this is Agent Hawkin.”

“Name’s Billy,” Schultz said in his surprisingly tiny voice while extending a bulging and deadly looking hand. Tony took it gingerly, expecting to have his pulped, and it was like squeezing a log of wood. “You must be the Tony Hawkin we have been hearing so much about back in the Bureau.”