Montezuma’s Revenge

“The analysis if you do not mind.” Sones was being firm. Lizveta Zlotnikova considered the apology, accepted it in the end with a disdainful sniff, then took the painting into the other room and slammed the door.

“What did you do that for?” Sones asked.

“I didn’t do anything, just made a comment. What is everyone being so touchy about anyway?”

“She thought you were accusing her of being a Soviet agent.”

“Well, I wasn’t, probably the last thought from my mind considering the fact that the FBI brought her here.”

Sones bent over the chair and cupped his hand, whispering,

“See that you do not do it again, we do not want her suspicious. It so happens that she is a Soviet agent.”

“And you brought her down on this operation!”

“Not so loud. Yes, it was all planned in advance. We do not want it known we have blown her cover, so we are letting her get information here that is of no importance to the Soviets.”

“Why not? Everyone else seems interested.”

“In this way the next information that we send through her they will assume is true but will in reality be false. So no more remarks about Stalin if you do not mind.”

“Could I please have another drink?”

“I’ll get it,” Billy squeaked.

“Join me?” Tony asked, ever the host since the previous evening.

“Never drink on the job, thanks.”

Well he certainly did, almost continuously it seemed. Not since the Army, either. He sipped deep. Was there meaning or a message in that? If there was it evaded him.

“How do I get the painting back to D’Isernia?” he asked.

“Arrangements are being made. Tomorrow ...”

The crash of breaking glass in the other room was clearly audible through the door.

Tony was nearest and the sudden noise sent him springing from the chair, whiskey sloshing, grabbing the handle. The other two agents were at his shoulder when he threw it wide; all of them were spectators of a silent tableau.

The window had been broken, it lay in slivers on the floor, and Lizveta Zlotnikova stood before it. Passing the painting through the raw opening in the glass.

There was a quick view of a man’s face on the other side. Then painting and face were gone.

Ten

“Keep her here, Hawkin,” Sones ordered, turning, bounding away, drawing his gun at the same time, following Billy Schultz who already had the outside door open.

They exited very fast, guns awave, while Tony turned to look at Lizveta Zlotnikova who showed no signs of any attempted escape. Instead she was wringing her hands before her, bending back and forth in the grip of strong emotion, gulping in breath after deep breath—so deep in fact that the heaving of her impressive bosom had burst another button from the moorings of her blouse—while a great tear formed at the corner of each eye.

“What happened?” he asked, but she only shook her head, the motion dislodging the burgeoning tears which ran slowly down her cheeks. They stood in this manner, facing each other across the room, until Sones returned, closing the door behind him but keeping the gun ready in his hand.

“Got away clean, no trace at all. Schultz is still looking, not that it will do much good.” There was anger behind every gas chopped-off word, the first emotion Tony had ever seen him display. “Now you, tell us who he was, why did you do it, speak up?”

Lizveta Zlotnikova brushed the tears away fiercely, no doubt angered at her display of weak emotion before a brace of Amen fascist swine, then stamped over to the end table and lighted a cigarette before she answered.

“I do not know the man and it is insult of you to suggest it. 1 passed the window and the glass broke, he must have been or watching me and waited for the moment when I was close, the painting in my hand. He ordered me in Russian to hand it over. I had no choice.”

“You could have refused, he would not have killed you, it would have gained him nothing.”

She drew herself up, jetting twin streams of angry smoke from her nostrils.

“You insult! To save this beautiful painting I would not mind to die. But he said he would shoot the painting first, then shoot me. I said I had no choice.”

Sones chewed at his lower lip, considering this. Billy Schultz returned and squeaked, “He got away.” Both men became aware of their guns at the same time and slid them out of sight, acknowledging at least temporary defeat.

“I think she is telling the truth,” Tony said. “Anyway, I recognized the man outside.”

Sones’s fingers twitched toward his gun again, then dropped reluctantly away. “You would not happen to care to tell me who it was—no, wait. Come with me.”

As he drew Tony into the next room he gave a quick nod to the other agent while jerking his thumb in Lizveta Zlotnikova’s direction. Schultz nodded in return and remained behind with the girl. Sones carefully closed the door before resuming the questioning, waiting impatiently while Tony replaced his spilled drink and sank back into the chair.

“I only had a glimpse, mind you, but I should remember the man. His name is Nahan, Nahum, something like that. He’s a sabra, works with Goldstein.”