Montezuma’s Revenge

“So that takes care of that. Put a do not disturb sign on the door when we go and leave it there. Even when you go out. If you want to get back into this room, and that goes for all of us, knock twice, wait, once more. When the door opens say, ‘Horsefly.’”

“If yo don’t, yo’re liable to be dead.”

“Right. Any questions?”

“Just one. What happened after I left Cocoyoc? There seemed to be a lot of police around.”

“Lieutenant Gonzales was very annoyed. And that means he is annoyed at us too and keeping an eye on our operation. This is a handicap.”

“Well, you talk like it was my fault! Look, I didn’t kill Davidson, so you can’t blame this on me. That CIA man Higginson is the one caused all the trouble by dropping the body like that.”

“A report will go in on him to his superiors, not that it will do any good. They never listen to what we say. But until the murderer is discovered you are Gonzales’s only suspect. And you have made him angry.”

There was very little that could be answered to that and Tony locked the door behind them with a feeling of intense gloom. In order to dissipate it he called room service and ordered a bottle of Madero brandy and some ice. Stocker followed his every motion with his cold, transparent eyes.

“Have a drink?” Tony asked, pouring the amber painkiller over the ice.

“Ah don’t drink on duty.” He had actually moved to the armchair, but the suitcase was tucked under his legs and he held the gun ready on his lap.

“Well, I’m not on duty, not yet, so if you don’t mind ...”

“Go raht ahead. Ah enjoy a little old panther sweat mahself from time to time.”

Tony retired early, knowing not what the morrow would bring, and sought solace in his panther sweat to help him get to sleep. The brandy worked wonders and he drifted off easily, but woke up a number of times during the night. Whenever he did he could see the dark outline of the Treasury man in the chair, the glint of steel in his hand, a shine of light from his eyes—or was he just imagining that. Sunlight and the ringing of the phone woke him early. He groped for the receiver and a voice growled in his ear.

“The car will be outside in thirty-five minutes. Be there.”

The line went dead before he could answer and he rose, yawning and scratching, to the sight of Stocker still in the chair, watching him as intently as he had the previous evening.

“You really don’t sleep, do you?”

“Ah make up for it ’tween jobs.”

Tony showered and shaved quickly and then, with some reluctance, dressed again in the same clothes that were now beginning to show marked signs of wear, as well as exhibiting a few food and drink stains down the front. But they were good enough for at least one more day, and skulking around with a crooked Italian art dealer and an ex-Nazi could not be called a major social occasion in any case. Stocker was standing by the door, gun ready, as always, in his hand.

“Ah’ll just lock this behind you.”

“See you later. Try to get some sleep.”

The only answer was a wintry, disdainful smile. Tony exited and the lock ground behind him. He needed coffee badly but he had to first tell Sones what was happening. What room had he said he would be in? Fourteen? Thirteen? He should have made a note, but note-making was one thing that was strictly forbidden in this work. Fourteen, it must have been fourteen. He tapped lightly, then louder when there was no response. There was a certain sadistic pleasure in waking up Sones. The safety chain rattled and clattered and the door opened. Sleepy-faced, long blond hair covering one eye, Lizveta Zlotnikova looked out at him, blinking in the light of the hall, then smiling warmly.

“Tony! I was worried about you, it is good you woke me up, come in.”

Protest died as she opened the door wide and pulled him inside, closing it behind his back. She was dressed in a thin silk gown which covered, obviously, nothing beneath, so that when she took a deep breath and sighed, the top of the gown rose up toward him, parting under the pressure, jiggling tremendously. He tore his eyes away, smiled, coughed, groped for the door handle behind him.

“Have to go, see the painting maybe, tell you first ...”

“How considerate, how I worry about those paintings. I worry about you too, you are not hard like the others, a man of art I think.” She moved closer, her voice huskier. “We are the same kind of people.”

“Must report to Sones. Car waiting ...”