Montezuma’s Revenge

With slow majesty the great airplane tilted up on one wing to make the turn. The great bulk of Iztaccihuatl swam into view, the Sleeping Lady, a volcano long dead, guarded by her consort Popocatepetl, a volcano as well but still bubbling with life and sending a thin column of smoke up through the snow about its crater. In grand curves the smooth ash flanks of Popo fell down to the valley of Mexico, the green farms of Morelos on one side with the gritty high plain beyond. More and more of the plain came into view as the dive flattened and the landing gear thudded and humped into position under their feet, the outlying residential areas and factories growing dim in the smog. With a sudden rush the runway appeared before them and Tony drained the last of his Margarita and wished that there was time to order another. It was not that he minded flying, it was just that the landings gave a sort of tweaking sensation to his stomach ever since the time in the Army when a C-57 he had been in had run out of runway and ended up on its nose in the muskeg. No one had been badly hurt but the memory did linger on. It was a welcome relief when they touched down and the reversed jets pressed him hard against his safety belt. No sooner had they cleared the runway and entered the taxiway than the second pilot came into the cabin, nodding and smiling at the passengers. “Hope you enjoyed the trip,” he said to Davidson as he passed. This unusual solicitude was explained by the fact that, unseen by anyone but Tony in the adjoining seat, he had slipped a folded piece of paper into the agent’s hand.

“Radio,” Davidson said under his voice. “Been expecting this.”

Tony was impressed; he had not realized that private messages could be sent to a commercial airplane in flight. Though an FBI communication could hardly be called a private message. Davidson opened the paper inside his magazine, took one look, then slammed it shut.

“Damn!”

“Trouble? Has the bird flown the coop again?”

“Worse than that.” He passed the magazine to Tony who found the right page and the slip of paper on which was written Davidson’s seat number plus two words. CONTACT ROOSTER.

“Code?”

“Clear enough. We were afraid this would happen. Mexico is not our territory, but we gave it the old college try. But they found out about it, they always do, so now they want a piece of the action.”

“You've lost me. They?”

“The CIA. We’ll have to work through their local man down here, Higginson. I’ve met him before and he’s a bad one. Remember that name and this phone number, 25-13-17, in case something happens and I’m not there. He will ...”

“The Higginson I have, but not the number.” Tony had his pencil poised expectantly over his note pad until Davidson reached over and tore out the page.

“Nothing ever written down, remember that. Just memorize the information.”

The agent was glum and uncommunicative after this so that Tony turned his attention to the world outside. Not that he minded, in fact he was beginning to enjoy the trip now that they were safely down, looking forward to a paid-in-full holiday. Even though he had grown up on the border he had never visited Mexico very often. Too much of Tijuana of course, but that was more of a gringo sin city than real Mexico, and then a couple of weekends in Ensenada. Now, just a few hours from Washington, he was in a new world, standing on the filled-in lake bed where Cortez had trod, coming into Montezuma’s capital city. There was the sound of a warmer, softer language around them as they

disembarked and claimed their luggage, then had hieroglyphics chalked on their sides by stoically bored customs agents with Mongol faces right from the steppes of Asia. There was a general excitement and color to the crowd that was unknown in the north as the first salesmen pressed plaster pigs, tin masks, feather toy fighting cocks upon them. With some effort they made their way through the crowd to the cab rank where the driver, with a solicitude unknown in the north for fifty years or more, loaded in their luggage, ushered them to their seats, then closed the door behind them.

“jPa que rumbo, maestro?” he inquired with great interest.

“Take us to the Tecali Hotel,” Davidson said. No linguist, he referred to it as the 7>&-a-lee, yet the driver grasped his meaning and nodded enthusiastically.

“Si, maestro, pero si la onda es que es caro. Yo sS de otro hotel que no la muelan y es a todo dar?

“Oh, Christ, he doesn’t speak a word of English. Look, Jack, the ... hotel ... Tecali ... okay?”

“Si, ya sepo, el Tecali, con sus pinche precios. Pero si quieres ...”