“¡Viva la Revolución! Viva México!”
Hawkins and Riley pushed farther into the crowd, the people were cheering now, for something or someone.
“Look!” Riley said. She pointed at the center of the long Palacio Nacional. A tall man in a white suit appeared on the balcony. An incredibly excited whoooo went rocketing from one side of the square to the other, people waving their arms, flags and banners. Riley started waving her hat, then grabbed Hawkins’s sleeve, shouting in his ear before snatching his hat off his head, waving both hats overhead, jumping up and down.
“It’s Cárdenas! It’s Cárdenas!”
Hawkins watched her for a long, surprised moment, amused, starting to feel the contagious emotion of the crowd himself. There were tears in Riley’s eyes. He looked around at the others. There were tears in their eyes, sad, but smiling at the same time, and celebratory. I know that look, Hawkins thought. The masks have fallen. There’s love in their eyes. That’s what that is. Unselfconscious. Unforced. Spontaneous. They love this man. It was impossible not to feel it, to feel their emotion, to be caught up in it too. Cárdenas would leave office in December. That was sad for them, but there was joyousness, too, a joy that had vanished from Europe, and from much of the world. Who wouldn’t want to share in that joy? Hawkins felt it powerfully, too, and soon was smiling happily with Riley, applauding along, watching.
The crowd quieted down. El Presidente was speaking. But he was too far away. After a few minutes he finished, waved and went back inside to thunderous cheers. The crowd was breaking up. Riley began eagerly asking people coming back, “What did he say? What did he say?” She caught one man’s sleeve, quickly repeating to Hawkins, “A government that gives natural resources to foreign companies betrays the motherland.”
Another man passing by heard and called back, clapping his hands over head, “He affirmed the permanent abolition of the death penalty! There will be no more killing in Mexico.”
-33-
They began easily walking through the crowd and flowing along with it toward the car. Hawkins followed behind Riley trying to sort out what he thought and felt about the afternoon. Mexico was still seized with a revolutionary fervor. That was plain to see. The anti-Fascist atmosphere was fascinating, thrilling. ¡Ningunos fascistas! Wonderful to hear, Hawkins thought. Wonderful! These people are against what I’m against. We share the same cause. For a long happy moment he felt at one with them, a fulfilled feeling.
But, then—No, not exactly, he realized. On reflection it felt confusing and awkward—Britain was a great imperial power, ruled a quarter of the globe, and all this was very anti-imperialist. No bases, no oil company concessions. W, General Houghton, would be enraged. This revolution seized British assets at a terrible time and got away with it because of the international crisis. These people are against what I’m against, Hawkins thought, but are we for the same things?
The cab driver in Veracruz, Hawkins remembered, putting his hand over his heart. Mi presidente. Mi corazón. Someone obviously liked him—they gave up their jewelry for him. Abolished the death penalty permanently? To Hawkins, that was the most disturbing news, and provoked the deepest reflections. It was a great good thing, of course, abolishing the death penalty. What dictator since Caesar had done that? Never. None. They all wanted that power, that fear—every last one of them wanted to wear the mask of death.
But this man did not. Perhaps Cárdenas wanted to wear the mask of life? But, no, Hawkins thought, that was not it. The faces in the crowd had to be reflecting his, the masks fallen, each self unguarded—love for him, his for them, for the country, for Mexico. Dizzying, almost, the idea of it.
But not all were admirers of El Presidente. At the far end of the Zocalo, loud voices, men shouting, people started running toward the noise, then a few police officers began sprinting through the crowd trying to catch up. People began racing away, crashing into each other, pushing and shoving, crying out. What? Impossible to see, Hawkins thought. He ran to a fountain and climbed on the rim, stretching up. There was a line of scrimmage, of sorts, at the inlet of one of the avenues, a jousting of different flags, a few black, from a line of men pushing, grabbing and punching below them, indecipherable insults flying. Then a pair of gunshots, then another rang out, and another. The screaming and yelling rose.
“This way, out of here!” Hawkins jumped off and they began running away, toward the street they came in on and Hawkins’s rented Ford. As they bounded around the corner, rushing along with the tumbling crowd, people began screaming and turning back, a crush of bodies again, looking for a way out, fear and panic in their eyes. Then Hawkins and Riley saw them: a group of counterprotesters marching up the street, mainly young men, waving flags, too, and banners similar to the Nazi swastika—blood red with a white circle, except in the round field was a green outline of Mexico. Some were swinging sticks and clubs. About half the men were wearing gold shirts, along with black pants and boots. Each nation has its own Fascist color, Hawkins thought, like sports teams: brown in Germany, black in Italy, gold here. He grabbed Riley and pulled her back.
“Who are they?” he shouted above the crowd.
“It’s the Fascists and Sinarquistas. Unión Nacional Sinarquista! Acción Revolucionaria, they call them the Camisas Doradas, the Gold Shirts,” Riley shouted over the din. The surging, boiling crowd began running back, frantically trying to escape. The counterprotesters reached the edge of the protesters. Loud shouting. Then in seconds came the thud of clubs and cries of pain, people were falling, the rest struggling to stay on their feet, bodies and hands slamming into one another, the faces frightened, fighting to get away. The line of Fascists wasn’t that large, though—a row of young toughs maybe only two or three deep at most, but well organized, armed and ready to fight.
More men began running and pushing their way back through the crowd, toward the Gold Shirts and Sinarquistas, hurling things at them, trying to hit or stab them with flag poles or whatever came to hand. A shot rang out, then another. Damn! Someone has a gun, Hawkins thought. A man in front of him fell back, blood on his face. Through the blur of tumbling, swirling heads he spotted a pair of men in gold shirts with bolt action rifles. One ejected a shell, ready to shoot again.
Then in the middle of their rank he spotted it. A pair of swastika flags. That did it. Undercover he might be, Hawkins wasn’t turning away, nothing confusing, nothing ambiguous about anything now, he was struck by a sudden and overwhelming clarity, totally focused. These were the people he lived to fight, the reason he lived, this was the one thing he knew above all—this was what he was against. He knew the risk. He didn’t care. He didn’t think, reason it out. He knew it in the marrow of his bones. At the sight his own mask fell, the carefully constructed neutral facade of the secret agent. He turned and pushed Riley, shouting, “Go!”
The crowd swirled back, leaving him momentarily close to the edge of the front row. Hawkins looked quick. Riley was nowhere behind him. Hawkins squatted down, half prostrate, as if he had been shot, drew his Browning Hi-Power, holding it low under him, hiding it, the sides of his coat falling down. Firing almost prone, one hand on the pavement, he aimed a pair of shots at the man snapping the bolt shut, into the gut, to wound. The men in front and to the sides moved. He lost sight of the gunmen for a split second then, shooting between a man’s legs in front of him, he put a third round into the second man. They both crumpled and started going down. The Gold Shirts’ heads spun around, looking up, scanning the windows and rooftops, not down, confused where the echoing shots were coming from in the enclosed street, shocked, angry. In the crazed tumult no one saw him shoot. The Gold Shirts paused, several looking behind them.
That face, Hawkins thought, is that … He reholstered the gun, and partially rose, grabbing another man’s shoulders in the ricocheting bodies, glancing from behind his head and neck. It’s Eckhardt, he realized. Eckhardt! Can I shoot—no—should I shoot? Damn—damn! No.
No. Can’t. Need to know what they’re doing—bloody hell! What’s he doing here now?
Eckhardt jerked his head back and vanished into the opposing crowd. The men in front seized their wounded and began running out of the street, carrying them by the arms and legs. Realizing the Camisas Doradas were retreating, the crowd began racing after them with a roar, screaming threats and insults. Hawkins turned and began running in the opposite direction. A few dozen yards into the square he spotted Riley, straightened up and began strolling calmly toward her, hands in his pockets. A phalanx of what Hawkins guessed were members of Cárdenas’s new militia wearing armbands ran into the street, carrying a mixed assortment of old rifles and pistols.
“We need to get back to the car,” he said.
“What happened?”
“Nothing. They decided to run away.”
“¡Bastardos! This way.” They doubled back up to the corner of the Zocalo, around to another avenue, cutting across to the car. Within minutes they were driving out of the area. They stopped at a sidewalk café, waiting for the streets to clear and the nervous shopkeepers to raise and stow their shutters. The waiter, in a black jacket and bow tie with a white apron around his waist, slowly set the coffee and empanadas down, glancing at Riley, then Hawkins, then back, obviously uncomfortable seeing Riley in his café.
Probably wonders if she’s a rioter, Hawkins realized. If I wasn’t here they’d never seat her. This isn’t going to work, he decided. When they were finished he gestured across the street at a haberdasher’s.
“Come, on, Riley. A man needs a proper suit. On me. It’s the least I can do.”
“No, we must be one with the people, our traditions, to make our art. Many artists here dress like this, it is part of our art, to be what we are.” She realized that might seem a rebuke, although Hawkins didn’t mind, quickly adding, “But I am very appreciative.”
“Would you rather have a dress? Something floral?”
“No.”
Time for a white lie, he thought. “Then when you show at the Alpert Gallery in Manhattan, you will need a suit. All the major artists wear suits. And shoes. Besides, do you want to keep slapping pennies away?” It took a second or two to absorb that, then she was on her feet, ready to run.
“A suit now. Maybe a dress later.”
-34-
It was a wrenching shift, going on to the galleries. From the joyous crowd. From the lives of the average people in the square. From the exhilaration of a real living revolution still underway, the fresh possibilities of a world made new. And then the riot and shooting, and seeing Eckhardt—it was wrenching, indeed, to end up in the peaceful enclaves of the rich and comfortable, people who not only could afford it, but had the leisure time to collect art. Jarring, all in one day.
They descended from the most prestigious galleries in wealthy neighborhoods that could’ve been in Belgravia, Sutton Place or Le Faubourg Saint-Germain. And ended at dealers in artes y antigüedades next to grimy, noisome bars on narrow streets, shops that clearly specialized in the wares of considerably less-talented fakers than Riley.
The drill was the same at all of them. First, the introduction, then the card. Perhaps you are familiar with us? Some enthusiastically replied, “The famous Alpert Galley? Of course, honored to have you! ” Or in some there’d be a blank look, maybe a tiny shrug. A simple response to that: “Oh no? Hmm. Oh, wait, I have my copy of the Times.” A look of surprise at seeing the ad for the Alpert Galley, then “Thank you for coming! How can I help? ” And so on. There were, Hawkins reflected, interesting similarities between the art business and espionage.
Then the focus would drift to Riley. It often took a minute or two to recognize her. She looked good in her suit. Dark, double breasted, narrow chalk stripes—her pick. Hawkins selected the tie: striped regimental, very British, his little joke. With her hair pomaded, and the white straw fedora tipped at a rakish angle, she looked only a touch androgynous, rather tough with her hands in her pockets. It helped she was on the tall side.
“Yes, we are considering a showing of Señor Riley’s work at our gallery in Manhattan,” Hawkins said. “Most interesting paintings, the Mexican Movement.” The surprised mental recalculation—augmented by a good suit—was then interrupted by Hawkins’s query, “We’re also interested in modern European works. We are aware that refugees from the fighting in Europe are on occasion bringing works by modern masters with them to Mexico and—well, it’s a sad reality—many of them are now financially embarrassed and looking to sell. We would be interested in helping them. Would you be interested in helping us help them?” Help. “Of course we want to help … them. Help … Oh yes. Of course.” So earnest.
Ah, yes, many similarities between the spy business and the art business, Hawkins thought. They would definitely keep an eye out and make discreet inquiries where possible. It’d be an honor. Of course.
But no one had seen anything. Not particularly surprising, Hawkins thought. Eckhardt and Falkenberg are probably still looking to get those cases to New York somehow, and the big American not-at-war money.
It wasn’t a completely unproductive day, however. Riley certainly benefited from it. One private collector who’d taken a painting to see if “it worked” in their home suddenly managed to produce a check, telling Riley how much they now loved it. They were riding back to Riley’s garage studio in Coyoacán after stopping at a bank. She was re-counting the cash, an exultant expression on her face.
“Maybe I should open a collection agency,” Hawkins said.
“Go around and stick them up!”
Well … he thought, there’s two pounds of warm steel in my armpit that explains why I didn’t go into the bank with you.
“If only I spoke Spanish.”
“I will teach you.” She started right in: “¿Dónde está el baño? Where is the toilet?”
After checking with Kahlo’s maid—“Madame is still in custody,” they were told—he dropped her off at her studio and returned to the Hotel Imperial. The desk clerk waved him over. A small note.
-35-
“And I lost four pounds!” Lilly said. “Eh, bien, didn’t eat for two days. Didn’t feel like it.”
“That can’t be good for you.”
“Likely not. I ached all over. Probably from lying like a log for fourteen maybe fifteen hours. I was so groggy when I woke, I wasn’t sure.”
“Ah, no doubt. What do you have?”
“A flash last night from BSC New York. Here …” She began slowly reading:
To: 48700
From: 48100
2030 hours EDT
Postal airmail interception received today IPTCS Bermuda. References Gen. Miguel Corrialles, identified by us, commander of military district southeastern Mexico between capital city and Veracruz. Artworks under investigation to be sold sequentially through MXC dealer Galería Esteban and others to Corrialles. Purpose, create record of ownership, paper trail, prior to sale, meeting requirements of PB Gallery, others, in NYC. Nature Corrialles Nazi ties or if only sympathizer, unknown at this time. Proceed with your investigation, include Corrialles, determine his role, interest, possible political security orientation, affiliation, galleries used, etc. —48100
“Not sure what all that is,” she said.
“IPTCS is General Houghton’s Imperial Posts and Telegraph Censorship Station. 48100 is W’s code number. Mine is 48700. You’ve heard what we call the States? In the SIS?”
“No, what?”
“Forty-eight land—”
“From the forty-eight American states! Oh, that’s funny-clever.”
“Righto, forty-eight plus one hundred is the top listing.”
“What’s that about a paper trail?”
“The big New York galleries and auction halls won’t accept the paintings for sale unless they can show where they came from. The US Neutrality Laws are quite
strict—”
“Oh, them and their precious neutrality!”
“Ah, but those laws are working for us now. Eckhardt, Falkenberg, this Corrialles fellow, they have to prove these things aren’t looted, which is quite the problem because they are. To be fair, good for the Yanks, they don’t want to be fencing stolen merchandise. What the Nazis are doing makes sense. No record of ownership? Create one! Drop the works in a gallery, maybe run them through another gallery, maybe more—”
“Oh, I get it. Voila! Sales receipts! Records!”
“Exactly, the collector—Corrialles—comes in and buys the paintings, he ships them to Manhattan, there’s now a paper trail, everyone is happy.”
“Except us! They get the money—”
“Not really. Good news, actually. Eckhardt and Falkenberg can’t do this in a day or two. It buys us time. Ready for the report back?”
“I’m dying to hear.”
“Don’t use that word!” She quietly laughed. He listed it off quickly: Meeting Trotsky. His assassination. Rivera and Kahlo. Her father, from Germany. Knew Aust. Another small knowing laugh.
“In like Flynn, Hawkins!”
“Yes. Unexpected, that was nice.” He added Aust. Dinner in San Ángel. Another encounter with Eckhardt and Falkenberg. Eckhardt’s collection. The Cuauhtémoc Academia flight school. The Focke-Wulf and Bücker trainers, the Ar 68 fighter—she needed to check on the Mexican Air Force. Riley and the riot. He left out his shooting.
“That’s a big mess of Nazi agents.”
“It’s possible, but we can’t assume that. Most of these people—especially General Corrialles and the galleries—don’t have to be Nazis, or sympathizers, or have any notion of what’s going on, including Aust. He could easily be a contractor looking for a nice commission. Aust seems quite deferential to Eckhardt, more like the way you’d talk to a client. A spy? With a kid in college in Texas? Well, maybe. And spies who know what they’re doing start getting worried any time money or spending questions come up. He could be a dupe, we’ll have to wait and see. I am sure Eckhardt’s in charge of whatever is going on.”
The Hungry Blade Page 15
