The Hungry Blade

by Lawrence Dudley

  Hawkins climbed to the bridge. Captain Lopez brightened when he saw him. With a small gesture he invited Hawkins back to his cabin.

  “Been a pleasure, Captain Perez.” Hawkins handed him a small, white, slightly sweaty envelope. The captain looked in, to see, without counting. There were ten one-hundred-dollar US banknotes. He smiled.

  “Thank you. Rule Britannia.”

  “Yes. Rule Britannia.” Big smile. “And those men?”

  “Yes, when they come aboard I will hang a light in the window on the port-side bridge.”

  They shook hands and Hawkins left. So far … so good. We’ll see, he thought. A very lucky man, and he knows it. Maybe General Houghton slapped some sense into him. Maybe he remembers how he went to sea in the first place. Must be the “Rule Britannia.” I hope he doesn’t fuck this up. I do rather like the old coot.

  It would be several hours before the tires were unloaded. Hawkins quickly collected his things, disembarked and passed through a cursory and efficient customs, the agent quickly stamping his American passport. The only delay came as the agent inspected Hawkins’s suitcase radio, humming softly in curiosity and admiration. The set was in fact a considerable technical achievement, packing that kind of power into something as small as a suitcase, the best any secret service could produce anywhere in the world.

  “Many stations?” he said.

  “Yes. Very many.” Hawkins had a fiver in his pocket, just in case, for the bribe he’d heard was routinely expected in Latin America. In conversations about foreign travel in Britain and America you always heard sighs about the corruption of South American officialdom. It went like a well-rehearsed litany: What can you do … or … What do you expect? Sad expressions, head-shaking reflections on the ethically lazy Latin character. The hand was supposedly always out, one needed to expect a sneering, hostile demand of largess from gringos. And sometimes the refrain was, You have to make allowances! And finally, the patronizing a simple, sleepy people, you know?

  But clearly, not only was no bribe expected, the sense of crisp professionalism the agent conveyed—despite the withering heat—was such that the mere suggestion of a bribe would constitute a gross affront, and probably very serious legal trouble. The man smiled and carefully closed it.

  “¡Recepción a México!” the agent said, adding, “Enjoy your stay.” The efficiency did have its limits. The agent missed the double bottom in the case hiding his Browning Hi-Power, ammo, lockpick set and other tools. But then, customs in the US had never spotted it, either.

  He hailed a waiting taxi outside, quickly checking his phrase book for the words for “good hotel” and “bath.” Really want that bath, he thought.

  “¿Un buen hotel? ¿Un baño?” The driver nodded, took him a short distance along a large seaside esplanade, the Avenida Malecón, and around a corner to the nearest decent hotel with a bath, a fairly new facility on a wide, long modern boulevard lined with palm trees, their trunks painted white partway up.

  “Estacion?” Hawkins said, pointing to a large building with high windows at the end of boulevard.

  “Sí,” the driver said. “Ésa es la estación de tren.”

  Hawkins knew he was going to need transport. He checked the phrase book again.

  “¿Vuelve? Come back? ¿Aquí? Here? ¿Noventa minutos?”

  “Sí. Pick up. One hour and one half.” Better, he spoke some English.

  “Hire you for the night?”

  “Sí. For night, yes? Tourist?”

  “No. Business. ¿Cuánto?” The man looked confused. Maybe I’m not pronouncing it right, Hawkins thought. “How much?”

  “Well—”

  “Twenty?”

  “Sí. Twenty. Bueno.”

  Hawkins promptly gave him a ten. “Your name?”

  “Raul. One hour and one half.”

  “Roy.” They shook hands. “Gracias.”

  Hawkins quickly checked in, changing some dollars for pesos at the desk, then hurried up to the room. It had a high ceiling and was painted an odd bright blue enamel, but very clean and neat. He unpacked, pausing to take the small photo Daisy sent in her last letter, rested it against the lamp on the nightstand, and gazed at it for a long moment, then quickly settled into the cool water of the tub, happy with relief from the heat.

  -17-

  Ninety minutes later he emerged from the hotel, thoroughly refreshed, and found Raul waiting. It was getting dark. A cooling breeze was coming in from the ocean and people were coming out onto the streets and into the cafés and shops. Raul quickly whisked him to the head of the street, waiting and idling outside.

  The train station was an impressive Spanish colonial style building, with pinkish red walls, white stone columns and tall arched windows. Very traditional. If it’d been built by British or American railroad companies, it certainly didn’t look it—no Georgian brick or Greco-Roman marble. Inside was more of the same Spanish colonial style, with a large portrait several feet high of a very determined-looking man with a high collar and forehead, a full mustache and a double chin coming on—El Presidente Lázaro Cárdenas del Río.

  All over Europe today one saw portraits of the Dictator: Hitler, Mussolini, Stalin, Franco. Stern miens all, often angry and belligerent, harshly glaring down at you. He studied the photo a moment. So this was W’s nemesis. In contrast to all the others, this Cárdenas fellow didn’t seem very menacing. The image had a different feel—softer, dreamier, in some way, Hawkins thought, gazing up and off, to the horizon, perhaps.

  He checked the board. The last train for the day had left half an hour earlier, the next, for Mexico City, first thing in the morning. Good.

  Raul quickly whisked him to the harbor. Longshoremen were still lifting bales of tires from the hold, piling them in a small hill on the pier. Hawkins had him park up the street, after a while sending him for some agua minerals from one of the ubiquitous push carts. Hawkins got in the front seat, gesturing at the ship. They sat quietly watching, sipping the cool, sweaty bottles.

  Occasionally a tattered beggar, face heavily lined and tired, would come up to the car, cupped hand held out. Raul would reach into the ashtray and toss them two or three centavos—Mexican pennies—and the man or woman would shuffle and scrape and bow away. Raul seemed to do this in a rather automatic way, not paying much attention, apparently very routine.

  Sitting in silence was a trifle awkward, the language barrier making small talk impossible. Then Hawkins noticed Raul’s mustache. It was exactly the same shape and size as Presidente Cárdenas’s. Hawkins brushed his empty upper lip, pointed at Raul’s and said, “Mustache. El Presidente.”

  Raul warmly smiled. “Sí. Presidente Cárdenas.” He put his palm over his chest, then made a fist, lightly tapping his chest like a heartbeat. “Mi presidente. Mi corazón. Umm … heert?”

  “Ah. Sí. In your heart.” He checked the phrase book. “Entiendo.” The word for “understand.”

  Hard to know what to make of that, Hawkins thought. As Blake and Houghton had observed in Bermuda, Hawkins knew quite a few Nazis and Fascists in Germany and Italy. None of them ever put their hands over their hearts like that in reference to Hitler or Mussolini, nor would such a sentiment probably ever occur to them. But … now I’m in Mexico, he thought. Maybe dictators have a friendlier face here.

  An hour later the longshoremen were done with the Mexican part of the shipment. They and most of the Santa Lopez’s crew headed for the usual nearby bars and brothels. Hawkins saw Chief Farley on the deck, slowly and carefully coiling a rope, killing time.

  Lieutenant Commander Blake had carefully chosen and briefed this contingent of sailors. What was often overlooked about the Royal Navy was that it was also an imperial navy, with men from all over the vast expanse of the Empire. One of the sailors was from Trinidad, another Gibraltar, a third Malaya. These were men who would not arouse suspicion. Farley himself
was from Belfast and aptly managed a powerful Irish brogue. Most were fairly seasoned and reliable. On orders none had gone ashore.

  A pair of men in white suits arrived and climbed the gangway, then two more men in work clothes arrived at the dock with a cutting torch on a dolly. A light appeared in the port window of the bridge. Eckhardt and Falkenberg, if those were their names, were aboard. A large box truck with big gold letters f de m on the side—he’d seen that at the train station, short for Ferrocarriles Nacionales de México, the Mexican national railway—arrived and pulled up to the gangway. Good, Hawkins thought. And predictable, sending that much by rail. Really the only safe way to do it.

  Some time later Chief Farley and three of his men emerged on deck, carefully carrying the first of the cases. Hawkins stared in disbelief as they made their way down to the pier. Dear god, the Royal Navy is offloading the Nazis’ loot, he thought. Then it overtook him, he couldn’t help it, he began laughing so hard he had to lean on the dash to steady himself. Oh, too rich … dare I put that in a report? He imagined Blake’s face when he heard, then W’s and General Houghton’s. Incredible.

  Raul looked up from his newspaper, watching him laughing, puzzled. “Roy?”

  But there was no explaining, or letting him in on the joke, either. Instead Hawkins held his palms up to the heavens. Raul smiled, shrugged and returned to his paper.

  A customs inspector arrived, checking the cases, opening them and looking inside, then pasting them with stickers, waving at the men to load them on the truck. One … two … three … it took about an hour and the trucks were full. The sailors were loitering around. Then one of the men in white suits, presumably one of the Germans, went over, took out his wallet and tipped them. That brought on another laughing jag for Hawkins. The Nazis tipped the Royal Navy! Oh, too, too much!

  The trucks shortly left. Captain Perez and the two men in white suits came back down the gangway, all smiles, and shook hands again. The pair in white briskly walked away, probably heading for a nearby bar. When they were out of sight Farley came down the gangplank, jogging along the pier. He’d spotted Hawkins at the far end of the ship, watching. Hawkins met him partway, circling around the mound of tires. Farley instinctively started to salute, then caught himself, instead jerkily reaching into his pocket for four 100,000-peso notes, excited, laughing too.

  “Group Captain! They tipped us! What’s this worth?”

  “About two pounds.”

  “Oh.” His face fell, disappointed, then brightened. “Oh well, draughts on the Führer!”

  “They didn’t suspect anything.”

  “No. All we Irishmen hate the English, don’t you know?” in a perfect Galway lilt.

  “Righto. Hear any names? Eckhardt or Falkenberg?”

  “Yes. Both of them.”

  “They tip, so to speak, that customs agent?”

  “No. No duties on artworks, it seems.”

  Oh. Another surprise, Hawkins thought. He reflected a second, then realized, Well, no … Of course not. I never paid duties on the old things I carried around. No one collects customs duties on art and antiquities. Why on earth did I—no, we—we automatically, unthinkingly assume the Nazis would be bribing Mexican officials? The hidden compartment was for the Royal Navy, nothing more. Once they made it to Mexico they were fine. No need to bribe anyone. Why did we assume that?

  No time to be thinking that over, he knew, mentally brushing it away.

  “Get the address?”

  “Yes.” Farley handed Hawkins a small scrap of paper. Wilhelm Aust, Calle Matamoros 81, San Ángel, Ciudad de México, Distrito Federal. Which made sense.

  “Perfect. You better get back. Enjoy those drinks.”

  “What? These lads aren’t going anywhere until we get to Panama!”

  “Of course. In Panama.”

  But who was this Aust? A cover? Or a real name? Either was possible. Or were Eckhardt and Falkenberg themselves merely cutouts? Not in the know? Time will tell, Hawkins thought. He ran back to the cab.

  “La estación—”

  “¿Los carros? Ummm—trucks?” Raul said, pointing at the F de M van. Hawkins pointed, too.

  “Sí. Los carros.”

  “Understand.”

  When they got to the main entrance, instead of dropping Hawkins at the door, Raul gestured around the back. Hawkins nodded in assent. Raul quickly sped around to the side of the station. The van was parked next to a set of tracks. Railroad workers were lifting the cases into the baggage car of a train.

  “Ah-ha!” Raul pointed. “El Jarocho Expreso. A Ciudad de México!” Hawkins had seen that on the board on his first trip to the station: an express train leaving for the capital at 8:00 a.m. They watched for a few minutes, then the men closed the back of the truck and drove off. Moments later, the yard workers closed and locked the doors to the baggage car. While they waited, Hawkins gave Raul the second ten, and then another five as a tip, holding a finger up to his lips for silence.

  “Raul, gracias.”

  Raul winked back. “Mi placer.”

  -18-

  As they drove past to the hotel entrance Farley was waiting at the near corner. When Raul was out of sight Hawkins walked around and past him, gesturing for Farley to follow. He wordlessly handed Hawkins a note. There was an address on the front and a message on the back.

  Wir wurden vor Bermuda gestoppt. Sie werden von einem Mann gefolgt, der Hawkins benannt wird. Treffen um acht Uhr? Viel Glueck! Heil Hitler.

  “What’s it say, sir?”

  “We were stopped off Bermuda. We’re being followed by a man named Hawkins. Meet at eight? Good luck. Heil Hitler.”

  Farley repeated the last in a soft whisper, “Heil Hitler.”

  Hawkins silently read it again, then a third time, a sense of disgust and disappointment rising. Heil Hitler? Heil Hitler! So the goddamn bugger waited until he thought we weren’t looking, then made his move. Damn fool, to think we weren’t watching. I was right, though, he flipped back.

  “Aw fuck. Did you take this from Captain Perez?”

  “No. One of the original sailors. Perez sent him.”

  “Does Perez know you nicked his man?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Down on the dock.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Jorge.”

  Hawkins’s mind, moments ago ready for rest, was now racing over what happened, assessing the possibilities. The note isn’t signed, Hawkins realized, and Farley didn’t see Perez. Bloody hell. That’s a serious problem. Perez could’ve sent it. Or, the sailor could be lying, blaming the captain. Then Hawkins realized there was still another possibility: that Marinescu was lying and there was yet another man on the ship. All were dangerous—once they got to Panama a simple telegram could blow the cover on the entire operation. Got to find out, Hawkins thought.

  After a hurried walk back to the dock, Farley led Hawkins behind a large stack of tires. Two of Farley’s men were standing over a sailor sitting on the ground, their hands on pistols in their pockets. The seated man looked scared, breathing hard.

  “Jorge. Is this yours? Tell me the truth.” He looked back in complete incomprehension. Is he German? Hawkins wondered. He repeated himself in German, “Dieses ist Ihr? Sagen sie mir die wahrheit,” Hawkins waved the note, pointing at it, “Dieses,” and then the man, “Ihr? Sprechen!” Jorge finally got it.

  “No. No. El capitan—”

  “Francaise?” Another head shake. He tried to remember the phrase book. “¿Hable inglés?”

  “No.”

  Still have to be sure, Hawkins thought. Then another realization—someone could be pressuring Perez, or blackmailing him, another possibility, a fourth. Have to get him off the ship in that case, alone, away from the others. He looked around. The was a truck emblazoned hermanos de
gonzález parked right on the edge of the dock, the tail almost over the water. At night the harbor was desolate, not a soul around, no passing cars or trucks, no streetlights. Only the moonlight and a few lights on some distant ships.

  Hawkins wrote a quick message on the back of the note, Treffen sie uns in der halben stunde an den González-Bruder-Packwagen and handed it back to Jorge.

  “Al capitán. ¿Entiendes?” He nodded. Hawkins stepped away with Farley. “Take him and make sure he gives that to Perez, then get out of sight. After Perez leaves, launch a boat and come down behind the Lopez brothers truck here. I told him to meet me in half an hour.”

  “Right.” With a few gestures Farley sent Jorge back, following at a discreet distance.

  Half an hour later Captain Perez came around into the dark on the far side of the Hermanos de González truck. Hawkins coughed slightly to disguise his voice and said, half in a whisper, “Guten Abend.”

  “Ach! Guten Abend,” Perez said. It was dark but the uplifting tone of voice said he was smiling. Aw bloody hell, Hawkins thought, anger and annoyance rising now. Goddamn son of a bitch! Make me have to do this. Bloody idiot, walk into a trap and … smile. No questions now. I know what I have to do. Steel yourself, go cold. You can do this, he told himself, you can do what you have to do. He had his Hi-Power, but a gunshot on this deserted quay wouldn’t do.

  A deep breath and Hawkins swung hard and hit the older man over the head with a steel bailing hook he’d found among the stacks of tires. Perez went down without a cry, he didn’t weigh much, only a soft thump. Hawkins grabbed his hand and started to drag him. Perez roused, raising one hand up. Hawkins swung down again. Perez caught the hook, pulling and holding it for a second. Hawkins ripped it free, slammed it down again on his head. Perez slumped, a bare moan, then a shudder again. Hawkins pulled the captain’s blazer around his head as he started to stir, wrapping his head up, and then began pounding away, just to be sure, or so he told himself, all semblance of control slipping away, a released fury rising with each blow, harder and harder until he could feel the skull bones giving and crunching, the unexpected explosion of a dormant volcano, a one-man Vesuvius. Everything he had to hold down, all the numbed-out feelings, what was safely deeply buried under the careful facade of the confidential agent blew out in one mad eruption.