Montezuma’s Revenge

Tony sat, slightly dazed, still not sure how he had gotten this deeply involved. Everything had happened with a sure inevitability, but it was still hard to visualize himself as both an agent of the FBI and the Israeli underground. Goldstein returned with a large book, Terry’s Guide to Mexico, which he handed over.

“Don’t try to open it, all the pages are glued together and it’s hollowed out. Something better to carry around than a package, people notice. Just pry open the front cover to get the painting out. A very pretty hunk of art I must say.”

“You seem to have forgotten one thing.” Tony turned the book over and read “Capsule Guide to Cash and Communication for the Tourist in Mexico.”

“What do I tell Sones, my boss here for the FBI? I just walked in and you handed the painting back? Or better I had a shoot-out and took it away from you?”

“A cover story is what you’re talking about, and a cover story is what you got. Sones thinks we are trying to get Robl, that idea was planted with you the first time we met—we wanted you, not Robl, we knew who you were—as well as with some other people. So tell him that you promised to finger Robl for us in exchange for the return of the painting, he’ll believe that and will probably arrange to help you with the job once your painting business is finished. He has no love for these vermin and dislikes doing business with them. He’ll go along with the idea.”

“It gets very complicated.”

“It always does. How are you getting back?”

“I have to phone for a car.”

“Very good. You can always get in touch with me here, but I’ll have people close by keeping an eye on you. If anyone gives you the password gornischt, you answer hilfen. Then pass messages or ask for any help you might need. My people are very capable.”

“They certainly are. Your ape really frightened that poor Russian girl, Lizveta Zlomikova.”

“That poor Russian girl—but Georgian please, not Russian—is reporting straight to Moscow about your operation—or didn’t you know that?”

“Of course I knew that.” Smugly, a big international agent knowing the workings of all the cogs and wheels.

“Well, maybe then you didn’t know that she is in reality a double agent for the Albanians who pass the word directly to China. Let Sones know about that at the right time and it will get you in big, further your career.”

The ride back was very much like the ride out, silent and swift, Tony held tightly to the book and wondered just where it all would end. He was in this introspective mood when he emerged at Cocoyoc, accepted his salute, then found his way to a seven. The door was unlocked and he pushed it open and waJ through into the living room of the suite.

Sones, sitting on the couch, looked up at him, frowning fiercely. Sones’s visitor, seated in the overstuffed chair, turned around looked at him as well. He had a familiar face.

Police Lieutenant Ricardo Gonzales y Alvarez.

Eleven

It was a neat enough tableau that might well have been entitled “The Criminal Brought to Bay” or perhaps “Justice Triumphant.” The witness, Sones, twitching with apprehension, the detective ready with gun and handcuffs, the victim limp before his fate. Tony stayed in the doorway no more than a few seconds, the victory smile with which he had entered fading slowly from his face, then he started to back out, waving his fingers in a twitching gesture that was meant to indicate sorrow at interrupting, but please excuse.

“Be with you in a few minutes,” Sones called out. “A little busy right now.”

“No, do not disturb yourself,” Lieutenant Gonzales said, his cold, carnivorous eyes still on Tony, eating up every detail of his disguise which had suddenly become very transparent. “I will be leaving now, please have the gentleman come in.”

Tony had no choice. Clutching his book he entered the room with a great reluctance that he hoped did not show, flashing his two gold teeth in a very unrealistic smile. Gonzales’s eyes followed him about the room, tracking him like a gun turret.

“Do I know this gentleman?” the detective asked.

“I am sure you could not,” Sones replied, his eyes blinking at the RS of his own initials on the pocket of Tony’s borrowed shirt: He rose to the occasion. “This is an associate of mine who has just arrived, Mr. Raul Sanchez. Sanchez, this is Lieutenant Gonzales of the Metropolitan police.”

“jEres Mexicano?”

“Claro que no, Buey. Soy Puerto Riqueno” As he said it he tried to empty his voice of all nasal Mexican sounds and replace them with the staccato echoes of Puerto Rico. What was a P Rican accent like? In the panic of the moment he could not remember at all. The large caliber guns of the policeman’s eyes one last salvo through Tony before he turned away.

“Then I know I can count upon your co-operation and the co-operation of your department, Mr. Sones?”

“At all times, Lieutenant.”