Montezuma’s Revenge

“How do you know this?” Most suspiciously.

“How do I know this? You know how I know this!” Fatigue, alcohol, and the waning echoes of the morning’s hang-over were taking their toll. “He was one of the men who grabbed me, very likely the one who hit me on the head. A toughie. Worked me over until Goldstein stopped him, then he dumped me back at the hotel. I have good reason to remember him.”

“What would he want with the painting?”

“Nothing, that’s the strange part. I told you, Goldstein is interested in Hochhande, whoever or whatever that is, I told you all about that. His men grabbed me by mistake, thinking I was Kurt Robl. He knew all about the painting deal, I didn’t have to tell him. He’s a Nazi hunter, not a painting thief.”

“He did steal the painting though—unless this man did it on his own.”

“No, I don’t think so. These people have other things on their minds. Goldstein wants something from us, that’s obvious. He is using the Cellini as a tool for bargaining. Get in touch with him and ask him. The phone’s right over there.”

“Security matters are not transacted on the public telephone. Someone will have to contact Goldstein, you are correct in that. 1 am heading this operation now, I cannot expose myself. This is not Schultz’s line of work. The contact is up to you.”

“Not me! The instant I show up in Mexico City the police grab onto me and that is the end of that. Have you forgotten the murder charge?”

“There are ways of getting around that.” He looked at his watch. “The operation is on for oh-eight-hundred in the morning. Get some sleep now, there is another bedroom through there. 1 want to talk to the girl some more.”

Tony downed the rest of the drink and went looking for the bed. Sleep, now that was a very good idea. They couldn’t force him to go into the city, that would be suicide, tell them that in the morning. But sleep first. He was dragging his clothes off as he thought this, falling backward with great pleasure into the bed, asleep as his head hit the pillow.

Waking up, it seemed like only instants later. The imperative hand of Sones was on his shoulder, dragging him back up to the surface from the deep pleasures of unconsciousness. Light burned in through the open window, loud birds called outside. His watch, when he had blinked enough sleep from his eyes to make it out, read seven o’clock.

“Eat your breakfast. You have ten minutes.”

He went out and Tony looked blearily at what appeared easily to be a one-hour breakfast. Pot of coffee, halved rolls backed with layered beans and cheese, eggs in hot green chili sauce, napkin-wrapped steaming tortillas, guava, melon, orange juice, too much. Though he should eat a little. He ate a lot, making up for a number of missed meals, meals drunk instead of ate. The breakfast demolished, he showered, shaved, dressed and emerged feeling much, much better, ready to tell Sones that he would not go into Mexico City.

“You will be disguised, no one will recognize you. You told me you speak Spanish. Well enough you think to pass as a Mexican instead of an American?”

“Possibly.” Sones should only know.

“It had better be positively. This part of the operation cannot fail or everything is down the drain. That painting has to be back here by six tonight. D’Isernia will contact me then with the final arrangements. Let me have the photograph, Schultz.”

The agent had opened a large suitcase that contained nothing but boxes and drawers. From one of these he took out a photographic print which he handed to Sones. Tony looked over his shoulder at a picture of himself, a candid snap, slightly downshot, very clear.

“Where did you get that?” he asked.

“The same place everyone else did, from the Chinese. This is the pic the police have. We have to change your appearance as much as possible from this. Being Mexican I think we can use the mustache gambit, don’t you think so, Schultz?”

“Yes, sir,” he piped in cheerful response, pulling out a drawer like a hairy nest. “Something thin and dark, not unlike yours.”

“Mine is an American mustache. We want a foreign one for him.”

“What do you mean Chinese?” Tony broke in. “What have they got to do with this?”

“They have an agent here, he lives right across from the Coronel Glanders Mississippi Fried Chicken place. He takes pictures of everyone who goes in there. A lot of people are interested in the CIA operation. He sells to whoever wants. We buy a lot from him. That is why you should not have gone near the place.”

“I’m afraid they polished off Davidson before he could tell me that. This is the photo the police have? And the Israelis, the Italians—everyone else? I’m surprised the People’s Republic of China would sell to them and us as well.”

“Not them, the other lot, Taiwan. They are always interested in what the CIA is doing. Here, try this on.”