Montezuma’s Revenge

“Very good. This man Hawkin is one of your employees, though of course on vacation in Mexico as are you and, I assume, your other associates, including Sanchez here. Hawkin must be taken questioned since he is the prime suspect in the slaying of another of your associates in this country. I hope nothing irregular is happening. We are both aware that the FBI has no jurisdiction out of the borders of its country, and my country would take a very harsh view indeed of any irregularities.”

“I am a servant of the law, Lieutenant, and I do not break It.”

“Very good. I will contact you again.”

Gonzales left, after sending one last ocular shell in Tony’s direction, and Sones quickly locked the door, put his finger to his lips for silence, then waved Tony ahead of him into the back bedroom, Billy Schultz and Lizveta Zlotnikova were sitting there in tense expectation.

“I guess he didn’t recognize me,” Tony said, once the door was closed.

“Of course he did, you fool, walking in like that! Schultz, get the M35 working on that window.”

“If he saw through the disguise why didn’t he arrest?”

“The painting, it is inside that book yes?” Lizveta Zlotnikova asked.

“Yes, it’s in here, but why—”

“Why? Because he did not wish to be involved personally ir sticky international situations. Inside of two minutes uniformed police will be here for a routine passport check and they will be the ones who will grab you. You have to get out.”

“Good-by,” Tony said, starting for the door.

“Not that way, the door is watched, of course. Open yet, Schultz?”

“Just about.”

The agent had produced a chunky hydraulic jack from his bag of equipment and fastened it to the window frame. Now, energized by the powerful pumps of his bulging biceps, the extending piston was quietly pushing the iron window bars from the wall. Sones nodded approval and turned back to Tony.

“Get out of here fast, and out of the hotel as well. We will cover for you as long as we can, run the shower, let them think you are in there, we can give you five minutes. You are to go to Cuautla and exactly at six this evening you will enter the drugstore there named Farmacia los Volcanes and will ask the clerk at the cash register for some Enterovioform.”

“In Spanish or English? It’s Enterovioforma, the specific for the Aztec Two-Step, as it is known, or Montezuma’s Revenge ...”

“Shut up. The instructions did not specify language. You will be informed then how to make contact.” There was a brisk knock at the front door. “Now out, out!”

Tony outed. The jack was removed and he slid easily through the gap and into the prickly hedges outside. Lizveta Zlotnikova, with a deep look of regret, passed him down the book and his Czechoslovakian airline bag, while Billy Schultz seized the bars and, with a single contraction of those great muscles, bent them back into place. Tony saw no more for, like a thief in the night—or rather the afternoon—he was fleeing for his life.

At a slow walk, for he dared do nothing to attract attention, he strolled through the parklike grounds toward the entrance. Happy couples beginning their weekend early came by arm in arm. Children laughed and ran, the sun shone with warm Mexican brilliance; Tony walked beneath a cloud of personal gloom. The welcoming arch of the gate lifted up before him, neatly framing the two police officers who were talking to Lieutenant Gonzales who, incredibly luckily, had his back turned at that moment. Without breaking pace Tony made a right angle turn and headed in the opposite direction. What now-over the wall? It was high and impassable looking wherever he could see; after dark perhaps, but certainly not now. And spacious as the grounds were, he certainly could not hide out all afternoon. The path he was following took him toward the entrance to the lobby of the Hacienda Cocoyoc where people were descending from cabs and cars, snapping lingers for bellboys and calling loudly one to the other. An empty cab pulled away down the drive and Tony, throwing a quick glance over his shoulder to be sure the trees were between himself and the entrance, stepped out before it and raised his hand in desperate improvisation.

“Yes?” the driver said, stopping the cab.

“You are for hire?”

“With great certainty.”

“I would like to go to Cuernavaca,” fumbling for his money, “but there is, what might be called, a little difference of familial opinion. There is a certain woman involved ...” He let his eyelid droop and raise slowly in a terribly conspiratorial manner while passing over a hundred-peso note at the same time. “This is of course in addition to the fare.”

“Command me!”

“I simply wish to dispose myself upon the floor of your fine vehicle until we are out of sight of the hotel. My wife ...”

“Understood, everything, enter please, we leave for Cuernavaca.”