The Hungry Blade

by Lawrence Dudley

  It only took a split second for her to consider that, she breathlessly burst out, “Right. We don’t have years.” She hurriedly began reading it back to him when a man passed by their phone booths to one on the end. Hawkins leaned out checking. It was one of the men in the photos in Eckhardt’s safe.

  “Lilly,” he whispered, “don’t hang up.”

  “What?”

  “That’s one of the men in the photos.”

  He could hear the rustling of her pad.

  “You said two of them were staying here? Which one?”

  “Don’t know the name, just the photo. I’ll have to follow him, keep talking.” He glanced down the aisle again and switched to French, to be safe, “Je suppose qu’il y a de bons clubs à Montréal?”

  “Oui, nous avons de grandes boîtes de nuit à Montréal, we’re half French you know, ooh la la, et tous!” The man went back out. Lilly saw him, too. “Bonne chance, Roy.” Hawkins stepped out, looked down, winked at her and followed.

  In the lobby the FBI man headed straight for the door. Another man abruptly stuck his folded copy of La Prensa under his arm, jumped up and made for the door, too, studiously not looking at the agent. Hawkins instinctively held back, giving man number two some room. Outside, on the Paseo, the second man quickly leaned in the window of a parked car without taking his eyes off the FBI agent. Another man got out and followed man number two. The car started and pulled into the traffic.

  Hawkins walked along behind, no longer really needing to keep the Bureau man in sight at all. The Mexican cops, if the file in Eckhardt’s safe was any indication, were almost certainly officers from the Policía Judicial Federal. The officers were executing a perfectly competent tail, switching back and forth between the two men on the sidewalk, alternating in the lead, occasionally changing places with the three officers in the car. Their target, and Hawkins’s, clearly had no idea he was being followed, or that he ought to be taking the standard precautions from time to time to be sure he wasn’t being tailed.

  The odd parade proceeded down several blocks and around two corners whereupon it stopped. The FBI man stationed himself on a corner opposite a house with a crimson banner floating out front. Hawkins walked by all of them to a shoeshine stand on the far corner. He sat down, gave the bootblack several pesos and settled in to watch.

  The house was the office of a Communist newspaper. The red flag was square with a large, blocky stylized hammer and sickle filling the center, not the crimson banner of the Soviet Union. Headlines about Trotsky’s assassination were pasted up in the windows—¡camarada trotsky muerto! ¿era stalin?

  Hawkins started to laugh. The shoeshine man looked up, startled.

  “No, no usted,” Hawkins said. “Not you.” The man went back to snapping his rag on Hawkins’s loafers. Ludicrous, Hawkins thought. He bent his head to his chin, trying not to laugh, or at least not be seen laughing. The British Secret Service watching the Mexican Policía Judicial Federal watching the American FBI watching a bunch of Commie writers. Like one of the silent comedies where a cop gets a cat out of an old lady’s tree by shooting it and then handing it to her.

  What a monumental exercise in cluelessness, he thought. In fairness, though, the PJF seemed rather good at what they were doing. One could hardly blame them for wanting to know what the hell was going on in their own capital city.

  And the FBI. Did it not understand the implication of the headline right in front that man’s eyes? ¿era stalin?—Was it Stalin? That Communism was ripping itself apart? And Stalin was systematically murdering the losers? J. Edgar Hoover and the FBI probably think Mexico is full of Communists, but Cárdenas had broken relations with the Soviet Union and … nothing happened. Communism wasn’t a threat here, and if it didn’t have a future in Mexico, with the vast poverty-stricken slums surrounding its cities, it didn’t have a future anywhere. The Bureau was chasing its own fevered imagination.

  And meanwhile, the Nazis … they had to have a source in the Policía Judicial Federal. How else did Eckhardt get that list? Hawkins mulled that a minute. Could be a sympathizer. Also might be a mole they inserted long ago. Didn’t have to be a field agent or supervisor. A government minister? Possible. Or might be someone small—a secretary or clerk. Eckhardt and Falkenberg could be bribing someone with them having no idea where the money came from. Maybe that’s why they had to sell the second painting, to pay someone off.

  But does it matter? Hawkins thought. Probably not, or at least not much. What counted was that Eckhardt and Falkenberg had found a credulous conduit to Washington. That was the missing piece Hawkins knew had to be there.

  From the photos and list of agents’ names in Eckhardt’s safe, their plan was perfectly obvious. Once Corrialles was installed in power and restored relations with Berlin, Eckhardt and Falkenberg would leak, or drop, or expose the treaties, the command center, the Bf 109 trainer, all the kit and caboodle in the flight school to one or more of the FBI agents—maybe this man right in front of him surveilling a two-bit Trotskyite newspaper. They’d lap it up like hungry kittens, flash it back to Washington and then the real fun and games would start.

  The bootblack finished, snapping his rag with a large flourish.

  “Perfecto!” Hawkins said, and gave a him a big tip.

  Time to get back to work, Hawkins thought. At least I know who I ought to be fighting against even if the Americans, or last least some Americans, don’t.

  -50-

  “I am not a spy.”

  “Of course, you would say this,” Rivera said. He looked over at Kahlo, that magical look lovers had dancing between them as they both began to laugh.

  “Comrade Trotsky did not agree,” Kahlo said.

  “I am not,” Hawkins said.

  “That’s why you carry that expensive-looking gun,” Riley said, “a mild-mannered art dealer,” tapping her chest in the manner of a delicate lady with the vapors, going oohhh.

  “The world’s a dangerous place.”

  “Indeed, on that we can agree,” Rivera said. “Real Nazis.”

  “Real Nazis.”

  “So is it the Yankees?” Kahlo said.

  “No, I am not an employee of the US government.”

  “That would make sense. Camarada Trotsky thought you were working for the British,” Rivera said.

  “How could he know that? We barely met. Will you help or not?”

  “Of course, Hawkins,” Rivera said, suddenly serious. “No matter what that pig Corrialles is doing with the Germans, it will not be good for Mexico, for its people. We are through with caudillos, at least in this country.”

  “Good. And thank you. I want to tip Corrialles off about something, preferably by someone in the German community here.”

  “What do you want to tip him off about?” Riley said.

  “I’d rather not say.”

  “You are a spy! A secret agent. With secrets,” Kahlo said, a little exuberant, a big joke.

  “Must I repeat myself?” Hawkins said.

  “Never mind,” Rivera said. “Frida, por favor?”

  “I am thinking along the lines of a credible go-between who might know something about Eckhardt and Falkenberg. A person who would want to confidentially warn Corrialles about something.”

  “Not sure—” Kahlo said.

  “Anyone in the Policía Judicial Federal?”

  “Why them?” Rivera said.

  “The American Federal Bureau of Investigations has officers here in Mexico City. The Policía Judicial are following them, watching every move.”

  “You might say we know the federales—they interrogated us only a few days ago, remember?” Kahlo said. “About Leon’s death. It was quite unpleasant. I would not recommend such an encounter.”

  “I would not, either,” Rivera said. “I think I know a man. He is German, but he is a comrade, a supporter of Trotsky�
�s, not one of the Stalinists. He joined the International Brigades—the Thälmann Battalion—and fought in Spain under an assumed name, to protect his family in Berlin. When Spain fell he came here and kept quiet. Ah, well, he has been despondent for a long time. He cannot return home. And he took the fall of the Republic very hard. The German volunteers fighting the Fascists took terrible casualties, most of his friends died. Then Franco executed the wounded from the hospitals they captured.”

  “I think I may know who actually did the shooting.”

  “Who?”

  “Eckhardt. Corrialles told me he was an executioner.”

  “Madre de dios …” Kahlo said. She covered her mouth with her hands. “And he is here in Mexico?”

  “Yes.” He turned back to Rivera. “This man of yours?” Hawkins said.

  “I think he will help,” Rivera said. “Can you meet us later?”

  “Yes. I was wondering also … I need some film developed. Someone discreet. Can you recommend anyone?” Kahlo smiled and held her hand out. “What?”

  “Give them to me. I used to develop Papa’s film. Do you know how I got started as an artist? I retouched his photos. I am very good at that. Want a mole or cowlick removed? I will make it vanish.”

  Rivera looked at her then him and started to laugh. “This is why I love her. She surprises everyone.”

  Hawkins handed her the foil-wrapped film rolls and she slowly led them down the hall, carefully stepping along, swinging her skirt with one hand to hide her limp. Twenty minutes later she was spooling the first of the developed negatives into the printer as Hawkins and Rivera waited in the red light. She clicked on the printer. A crystal-clear image of the command center filled the platter. She and Rivera leaned over, gaping at it. She began winding the crank, slowly rolling the images over the plate. She stopped at the little Nazi flags on the bases in Yucatán and softly gasped, “Dios mío.”

  She and Diego leaned back, looking at him.

  “I hope you have a plan,” Rivera said.

  “I do.”

  -51-

  Hawkins drove in, slowing past a row of light tanks—tankettes, actually, mounted with machine guns, little two-man jobs. On a battlefield they might be useful if properly supported by covering infantry, although the lightest shell would rip them inside out. But on a city street? Well … it depends, Hawkins thought, on what your intentions are. Under buildings? In Mexico City’s ancient, narrow streets? Nothing more than ovens for any two men unlucky enough to be caught inside. But on the big boulevards? They could sweep them clear with those machine guns, then fire down the side streets, clearing them. Deadly enough for Corrialles’s purposes.

  The armed guard at the warehouse wore a French-style steel helmet, the kind the Republican troops wore in the civil war in Spain, rather like the domed helmets steelworkers in Manhattan sometimes wore, only with a brass infantry arms medallion on the front. But underneath, the serious face of an Aztec warrior looked out. He sharply saluted, grounded his carbine and stepped aside. The general—now in uniform—unlocked the door and gestured in.

  Corrialles wasn’t taking any chances. The Campo Militar where he had his headquarters was at the far edge of the Valle de México, a good distance from the city, surrounded by truck farms. What’s more, the warehouse was in the middle of the base. And he had this armed guard on duty. No, no chances here. Corrialles had finished buying up all the paintings Eckhardt and Falkenberg had dropped in various galleries around Mexico City—including, for the moment, his own gallery, and brought them here for safekeeping. The legal paper trail the people in New York were looking for was complete, the taint of looting washed away. It’d been a merry game of musical chairs. Now Aust needed to see them to know what he was insuring and Hawkins ostensibly needed to photo them for the Alpert Gallery, although he also had Lilly’s photos from Bermuda if he needed them.

  Hawkins motioned for Aust to follow Corrialles. Can I flip him? Hawkins thought. Why not bet the daily double? Hawkins looked down the aisle. There they were, ten wooden cases.

  “How many paintings are there?” Hawkins said.

  “Thirty-seven,” Corrialles said.

  Thirty-seven? Hawkins thought. We counted forty in Bermuda. He doesn’t know the Rousseau is missing? And two others? Does Aust? There didn’t seem to be any reaction in the insurance agent’s face. Maybe not. Maybe he never counted them. Or maybe they never let him.

  “Thirty-seven!” Hawkins said. “It’s too bad we don’t have that much space in the Alpert Gallery. I think what we’ll do is have a wall with photos of the rest. We could rotate the paintings on request.”

  “I will need a copy of these pictures,” Aust said.

  “If you don’t object, General, I’ll make sets of prints,” Hawkins said. He unlimbered his Rolleiflex, drew out the first painting, the Braque again. “Can I take them out in the light?”

  “Of course.” Corrialles ordered a pair of sergeants to begin carrying out the paintings and set them on a bench against a white wall. The setup was perfect. Hawkins was shooting with the new Agfachrome stock he’d bought from a camera shop downtown. It might be German made but it could be developed with prints made locally, not shipped to Rochester like Kodachrome. Plus he could have as many copies made as he wanted.

  They made methodical work of it, a steady rhythm, the sergeants carefully bringing the paintings out, the general hovering around, checking on his soldiers, Hawkins snapping photos. Aust wrote a short description of each painting, checking the labels on the back.

  They’d gone through thirty paintings when an adjutant, a wad of photo prints in hand, came up behind the general and touched Corrialles’s elbow, whispering in his ear. Corrialles nodded, listened more. His eyes seemed to darken a moment, then a blank professional look. He took the papers, slowly flipping through them.

  “Sí, aquí,” he said. Hawkins had picked up enough Spanish to know that meant, Yes, here.

  Two paintings later Rivera’s contact, a man named Fischer—a tall balding German with a prematurely aged face arrived. His suit hung on him, he’d lost serious weight, his cheeks gaunt over a dark five-o’clock shadow that made them even more sunken. Corrialles led the adjutant and Fischer inside. Hawkins, Aust and the sergeants kept working. Off and on Hawkins could hear distant voices inside. Three more paintings later the adjutant emerged with Fischer following. They disappeared up the company street.

  General Corrialles came and stood in the door a moment, arms folded, the papers in one hand, watching carefully. Then stepped out of the way and sat on a bench as Hawkins and Aust worked, looking at the papers occasionally. When they finished Corrialles rose and brushed Hawkins on the shoulder, gesturing for him to follow inside. He spread the papers on top of one of the cases, very serious.

  “Señor Hawkins. That man you saw here brought me these papers, wanting a reward. He is a German refugee. As you probably know, there are quite a few in the capital today. Also he is probably a Communist, he admits he fought with the Reds in Spain, which is not good. I do not trust him. You speak German. Please look at these photos of papers for me.”

  Hawkins began going down the photos of the treaty he’d found in Eckhardt’s desk, slowly, carefully reading as if he’d never seen them before. When he got to the end he stopped, then leaned over, looking carefully at the signature: General Miguel Corrialles, Presidente. Then he slowly leaned back and raised his eyebrows.

  “You’re getting a promotion … should I congratulate you?”

  Corrialles burst out laughing, a hard laugh driven by emotional tension.

  “No.”

  “Then—I’m not sure I understand. Why did you sign that?”

  “I didn’t. But does this look real to you otherwise?”

  “Yes, it looks very authentic. A treat of alliance between Mexico and Germany.”

  “I agree.”

  “What’s
going on?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You said that man’s a Red?”

  “He says he’s not. It’s possible. S-2—excuse, that’s our military intelligence branch—says the majority of the foreign volunteers who went to Spain weren’t Commies. Many—very many, actually—of the survivors came here. They were investigated, of course. We were also interested in their experiences. They learned many things of military, tactical importance during the civil war there. Naturally we want to draw on that.” He set the rest of the folder on the case and opened it. “He says he got this from a photographer here in the city.” Hawkins flipped through the photos, stopping at one of the outside of the Cuauhtémoc Academia de Vuelo.

  “This is Eckhardt and Falkenberg’s business—”

  “It is? I thought they were in Centro, near the Zocalo.”

  “That’s Aust’s office.” Hawkins was ready for that. He got his wallet, got both Eckhardt’s and Aust’s business cards and held them up together. “The real office is south of the city. There are no airplanes downtown. Didn’t you know?” Corrialles tightly shook his head, eyes locked on the cards. “Ask Aust.” Corrialles abruptly stepped outside.

  “Señor Aust. Who owns the Cuauhtémoc Academia de Vuelo?”

  Aust hesitated. That’s interesting, Hawkins thought. The German’s on the spot. He doesn’t know what General Corrialles knows.

  Aust carefully answered, “Eckhardt and Falkenberg.”

  The adjutant had returned. The general spun about and gave a quick, firm order, “Forme el regimiento para arriba. Consiga los carros. Marchamos.” He turned back to Hawkins. The sound of shouted orders and men running came from outside. “You’re coming with me. I need someone who speaks German I can trust.”

  -52-

  The sun was getting low in the sky. The column split going in the entrance road, encircling and enveloping the airfield, rushing along the far sides of the runways as the final few training flights of the day landed. More of Corrialles’s men surrounded the flight school, then pressed in, guns drawn, and herded all the students, instructors and other personnel into the large hangar next to the school. As he got out of the car with the general, Hawkins could see them lined up against the hangar wall, hands raised, frightened expressions on their faces.