Montezuma’s Revenge

“He’s Jewish, a chemist. Let me get him aside where the others can’t hear.”

“Do you trust him?”

“Do we have a choice? Don’t forget the million ...” Soncs’s teeth could be clearly heard grating together.

“Do it, fast, do it.”

The flashlight was trained on them, guns clearly visible beneath it, as Tony took Heinrich over to the side of the road.

“Would you please tell me what is happening.”

“Just what I said, with the exception that I stopped your car. I was supposed to get off the road. They are on the run. They paid me off.”

“Do you know where they are going?”

“No. About that they were very closemouthed. But perhaps I can help you, but I will have to telephone Jacob Goldstein first. And don’t ask!” He raised his hands, palms outward. “Nothing more can I say until I talk to Jacob.”

Tony waved Sones over to join them.

“This man may be able to help us, but he has to make a phone call first,”

“I do not like this, Hawkin.”

“Do you have any better ideas? Short of torturing him, is there anything else we can do?”

Sones ruminated all the way to Cuernavaca while Heinrich sat stolidly in their midst ignoring the guns that pressed into him from both sides. When the first street lights appeared Sones straightened up and looked around, then tapped Billy Schultz on the shoulder and pointed to the sign that read taller mecanico.

“Pull in there, I want this car fixed up before we go any further.” He glowered a final glower at Heinrich. “You, get on the phone, but we will be with you all the time.”

“Ah don’t like this.” Stocker was unhappy, caressing his gun.

“Well, I do. And this is my operation. If you want that bundle back for Treasury you will do as I say.”

Tony dialed the number himself while the others surrounded the driver. A familiar voice answered.

“There has been some trouble. Heinrich is here and wants to talk to you.”

“We all got troubles. Put him on.”

The conversation was in guttural and incomprehensible Hebrew which Sones did not enjoy hearing. Tony went to talk to the master mechanic, who was shaking his head in amazement at the wanton damage, and encouraged him to do both rapid and excellent repairs. Lizveta Zlotnikova sat in the back of the car with the forged painting, examining it and muttering over it.

“It could still be restored,” she said; there were tears in her eyes, “If we could find the rest of the painting. Why would they do a thing like this?”

“I have no idea,” Tony said. “Maybe they want to pull this confidence racket three more times with the other corners of the painting.” They shuddered together at the thought. “Or maybe that corner of the painting was all they had.”

“That does not make sense.”

“Very little of what has been happening makes much sense.”

Sones called to him and he joined the huddled group in the small office. A year-old calendar on the wall proclaimed the virtues of General Popo tires, the illustration of the General himself, his body apparently constructed out of tires, backing up these assertations. Euzkadi tires had a stronger argument with a calendar of the current year as well as a colored photograph of a young woman naked except for an Aztec headdress. Heinrich blew his nose in a large red handkerchief and, when examination of the results satisfied him, spoke.

“I have a message from Goldstein. He says he is happy to cooperate with the FBI and the Treasury Department of the United States to enable them to track this car and the men in it. He will be here within the hour.”

“And what does he think he can do?” Sones asked, gun ready in pocket.

“Lots. On his instructions I installed a device under the frame of the car that is attached to the radio. My understanding is that it is a high-powered transmitter that emits a very strong signal.”

“Do you know the wave length?”

“My knowledge ends there. All I know is that it is turned on. For the rest, ask Goldstein.”

Waiting was not easy for any of them other than Heinrich who fell quietly asleep in the rear of the car. Tony felt a preliminary rumble of hunger in his stomach, he had been eating an awful lot in Mexico, must be the altitude, so he went to a nearby restaurant and bought a bag of sandwiches. They were received with little enthusiasm by the others, yet were still eaten. The repairs were finished and the bill discussed in detail, then paid, Heinrich slept on, snoring quietly; a truck pulled up in the street blocking the driveway, panaderia la aquila, the ornate lettering on the side read, decorated with a colorful portrait of the eagle himself bearing off a great loaf of bread in his talons as he would a lamb. Goldstein climbed down from the front seat.

“Well, gentlemen,” he said to the hard-eyed men who slowly surrounded him, “I guess introductions are in order, but first let me guess. Tony I know, a nice boy. You must be Sones, the man in charge. And you are probably Stocker of the Treasury. That was a good job you did on those two gentlemen in the Liberia exchange.”

“Ah had no choice, the little one went for his gun.”