Next door, that room, too, had been stripped clean. Was Falkenberg here when Eckhardt did all this? Would he really stand by and watch? Hard to believe. Maybe.
Hawkins headed down the hall, checking each room. They were furnished and lived in, but that was all. At the end of the hall another door hung open. As he approached he felt an odd breeze. He looked in and up, following the draft.
There was a large hatch or skylight in the center of the ceiling. Through it stretched a mast extended by a large pulley and crank. At the top was a directional shortwave antenna that was flipped down into place with a cord, parallel to the earth. Another lever turned it, aiming it. A lone vulture sat on one of the rods warily looking down at him with mean little eyes. It decided it didn’t like the company, slowly unfurled a pair of huge wings, scrunched down for a small jump and flapped off.
Against the wall across a long rough plywood bench was a large collection of radio sets and transmitters. They appeared to be American made: a National Radio Company HRO with a large round dial in the center, a Hallicrafters Super Skyrider, an HT-4 transmitter, a big linear amplifier with a vacuum tube the size of a coffee can, headphones and telegraph keys, several voltage regulators, a row of car batteries and chargers under the bench. On the floor, all around, broken vacuum tubes. Someone had pulled them out and smashed them.
The sight didn’t sicken him like the spectacle downstairs, but nonetheless, another nasty, sobering surprise, Hawkins thought. Aust was hardly an amateur radio hobbyist, collecting continents and long-distance contacts, not with the hidden skylight and retractable antenna. No ham radio operator would bother with that. This was an Abwehr outpost, maybe even the nerve center of German intelligence in Mexico and possibly the rest of Central America. Top of the line gear, the latest, all bought on the open market. And why not? Easier to send the money over than cases of fragile gear and American companies made the best.
He carefully checked all around—no code machines or code books, only the empty spaces on the benches outlined by faint traces of dust. There were a few papers on the floor, including some scattered newspaper clippings. He began riffling through them. All were in German, some typed. A report on the 1940 Mexican national police budget. A report on Pemex production. One on the Mexican election. Unexceptional, all, and uninteresting. Nothing on Eckhardt, Falkenberg, their flight school, Corrialles. Whoever cleaned the place out—Hawkins now was guessing Falkenberg—undoubtedly took those away, too.
My assumption Aust was a dupe or cutout couldn’t have been more wrong, Hawkins realized. Should’ve followed my gut in the first place, he thought, and not talked myself out of listening to it. Fuck all … How did I miss it? He mulled that a quick second. Sure. I was taken in by his breezy and relaxed manner, falsely thinking he’d been assimilated into Mexico. But Aust had to have been the head of the Abwehr in Mexico. Long-term sleeper, most likely. Came over after the last war.
Then another thought. Where’d he get the money to create Seguro del Capitolio? Of course, they’d advanced him the cash. Maybe when Hitler came in. The Nazis had owned Aust, in a sense. Hawkins remembered the banter between Wilhelm and Elise over their boys going back to Germany to join the army, how she said she’d disown him, his easygoing response. Berlin knew the risks of agents drifting off in a foreign country, losing interest, focus, commitment. Even if they were now half-Mexican, the Abwehr had Wilhelm and Elise Aust in its pocket, they’d have to go along. Smart. Aust probably got orders to put Eckhardt and Falkenberg up in his and Elise’s house. And so they did, even if they didn’t like them or want to. They couldn’t escape the bargain they’d made.
He darted back down, checking the living room again. There, behind the piano, near the credenza, a small Walther automatic on the floor. He smelled it. It hadn’t been fired, not in a long time. A drawer in the credenza was open, a splatter of blood across it down to the floor. Then he noticed a gold bracelet in the middle of the puddle of blood. Damn, poor woman, he thought, a thoroughly decent sort. Didn’t get to the gun in time.
Hawkins pocketed the Walther and went back out into the courtyard, gazing up at the heads. Where’s the rest of Wilhelm Aust? He did another quick run-through of the house. Not a trace. He came back into the courtyard and went into the living room again, searching. Then he saw it, a bloody empty sack. Only Aust’s head is here, he realized. The body must be somewhere else.
When it happened was now clear, Hawkins realized. When Eckhardt was showing us his collection, Wilhelm had wanted to know how Eckhardt could afford such things: the mask, the obsidian skull. In truth, great treasures, pieces worthy of the world’s top museums. Eckhardt gave a nervous answer. Of course. The three missing paintings Corrialles didn’t get. Eckhardt had already diverted them, he was going private, at least partially, dipping into the goods to feed his obsession with the Aztecs.
The Austs had caught him. Reported it back. Taken together, the embezzling, the chaotic mess at the airport, it was too much. Berlin ordered Aust to kill Eckhardt. They were probably afraid to tell Falkenberg—or use the same channel for fear of tipping off Eckhardt—and so they ordered Aust to do it.
Only Herr Aust wasn’t a trained agent. Or he was rusty and bungled it. Eckhardt killed Aust instead. Brought Aust’s head with him, came back and slaughtered the whole household. Cleared out his things.
After that—and only after that—was when Falkenberg sent and received those telexes. The radios weren’t working, that was key, the decisive clue—Eckhardt smashed them first to keep Falkenberg from reporting him. Falkenberg had no choice but to send back a telegram in the open, and another returning telegram from Berlin to Mexico City was the only way to send Falkenberg an order, at least temporarily. Falkenberg was probably hunting Eckhardt now. Or more likely they were hunting each other.
No point in finding the rest of Aust now, Hawkins decided. Got to get the hell away from here. He hurried out, locking the old door behind him. The watching vultures ruffled their wings, waiting for the August heat and the high sun to ready their feast.
-69-
Hawkins set down the cardboard box with the burritos and cold bottles of Sidral Mundet. Riley was back working in her paint-splattered guayabera. It was hot out, late afternoon, the big door open on her garage studio. A slight breeze entered, cutting the reek of thinners used to hurry up the drying. The smell felt oddly good, cleansing the coppery odor of blood and the weighty reek of death from his throat.
“Here.” He handed her one of the apple-flavored beverages. She was holding a photo in one hand, carefully signing Marc Chagall’s name in the lower corner.
“There. Only a touch more,” she said. Hawkins took the photo and compared it to the canvas. Having seen the original, he knew.
“An amazing copy, Riley.”
“Muchos gracias.”
There were two others drying against the wall: an elegantly simple Matisse and the blue period Picasso with green lips. He turned it over.
“Looks old now.”
“I painted the frame and inside the canvas with acid. Turns the wood dark. Then you mix water and dust with a touch of water-based glue and spray it from a mister. The dust sticks that way, makes them appear to have been sitting for years.” She sat and began rapidly eating. “It’s good it’s warm out. That helps with the drying.” Hawkins took a burrito and began nibbling at it. It was very tasty.
“Also the thin air?”
“Maybe a little.” Mouth full, she eyed him carefully. “Aren’t you hungry?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t act like it.” He was chewing slowly and swallowing hard.
“I am.”
“I am an artist. I know how to look. Looking is my trade. I can see something is wrong with you.”
“It’s not something you’d want to paint.”
“Remember the vase I did? The sacrifice?”
He answered hard and fast, r
ather dismissively, a nervous edge or agitation in his tone. “That was from a long time ago. Long time. Not now.”
“I see. How—ah—”
“Very well. Yes, it was like that. Exactly like that. Vultures were waiting when I got to the Austs’. You can imagine the rest.” They sat in silence for a moment. A truck rumbled by the entrance.
“I hate those birds,” she said, “anything that waits for death.”
A laugh burst out. It felt so inappropriate and disrespectful, and yet, at the same time, he was laughing. It all tumbled out, “And I am alive. We are all alive. We must be alive. Do you understand?”
“Yes—my art—”
He seized the side of her face with both hands, leaned forward and kissed her, hard, holding for a long moment.
He let go. She gazed at him for a moment, then reached down and whipped her shirt off. In seconds they were back on the bed, in their haste ignoring the open door, shielded from the street only by her art.
-70-
The four days—or nights—were up, the street outside chaos. Diego, Frida and Riley’s friends were dropping off their contributions, then standing in the road, noisily, eagerly talking. Hawkins uneasily watched. Damn near like a convention, he thought, or the reunion of a very large family. No, a political rally is what it is, he decided, a gathering of the like-minded faithful, followers of the true cause. Crazy.
“Riley, if these people don’t shut up and get the hell out of here the whole city is going to know.”
“These people already know.”
“Yes, but they don’t know who else knows. Word spreads.” She looked at him for a second, half surprised, half leaning toward feeling put-upon. “You talk about looking? Seeing? See.” He gestured out the door.
She gazed out, taking it in.
“Oh, damn.” She put her scissors down, ran into the street, going from person to person, touching shoulders, whispering in ears, nudging along, por favor? Finally the crowd began dissipating, looking over their shoulders for one last glance at their fraudulent masterpieces.
One of Riley’s friends, Emilio, a tall, dark, curly-headed man with a small Trotsky-style goatee and a beret, easily loped in carrying a canvas on his shoulder, setting it down with a cheerful ¡Hola! and a little kiss on her cheek. Emilio had taken what was probably the toughest assignment: quickly duplicating the Rousseau, with its dense foliage and waiting animals. He shook Hawkins’s hand.
“Amazing job,” Hawkins said. “Gracias.”
“Por supuesto. Dé mis respetos a Diego y a Frida. And anything for Riley.”
Riley crossed it off the list, waving him away.
“¡Alejandro, ninguna hora!” Exactly, Hawkins thought, no time for chat. Emilio would be back later that night and there’d be plenty of time to talk. Of all of Riley’s friends and artists, he was the one she said she trusted the most. As chance would have it, his day job was driving a truck delivering furniture. With Hawkins he would be one of the two drivers that night. Emilio made an ostentatious bow—“Your wish, my command”—smiled and left.
They’d set up a worktable with a large bolt of heavy brown paper at one end, rolling it out, setting the paintings down, hurriedly wrapping each canvas, wetting and slapping on fake gallery labels, sealing them with brown tape, stacking them against the walls.
Another woman came in from the opposite direction, soberly holding her contribution in front like the reliquary of a saint, her children in single file behind her, a miniature holy day procession. A small van on the opposite side of the street disgorged two more, both from Diego’s friends. Riley’s garage studio was rapidly filling, the paintings now several deep along the far wall.
Nightfall came, the last fake was wrapped. Riley and Hawkins sat on the edge of her bed, contemplating the scene.
“My god,” Riley said, “all the paintings. We did it.”
“Yes,” Hawkins said. “The general has a surprise coming.” Outside, in the dark street, the rumbling of a heavy truck. Hawkins leapt up. “There’s Emilio.” Since his services as a neophyte art faker were not desired, while Riley, Diego, Frida and their friends had been frantically working, Hawkins had been combing the city for trucks. In the north he’d found exactly what he was looking for: two fairly new, perfectly matched heavy rental trucks, identical in every respect except for the license plates. Now Emilio had arrived with the other truck.
Half an hour later, Emilio swung the door shut, latching and locking it. They had a simple plan: Hawkins would drive his empty truck to General Corrialles’s army base and pick up the real paintings. He would then meet Emilio outside the city. They’d switch trucks and license plates. Emilio would come back to Riley’s with the real paintings, where they’d hide them.
“Remember, it’s not a synchromesh transmission like a car,” Emilio said. “You have to clutch both up and down.”
Hawkins nodded. “Righto. I go both ways. Thanks.”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to come and drive?”
“No. I have to go alone. Thanks, though. Meet you at the rendezvous in a few hours.”
Hawkins geared up and rumbled out of town.
General Corrialles was waiting at the gatehouse. He came right out, big smile, wearing a full-dress military uniform for the occasion, heartily pumping Hawkins’s hand, another hand on his elbow, congratulatory.
“An historic day. Hawkins, you are a real friend of Mexico.”
“A friend of Mexico. That’s all I ask. Well, and a commission.” They both laughed. The general hopped in an open car and escorted Hawkins to the storeroom. Corrialles waved a hand and his men began a bucket brigade of paintings, all also wrapped in brown paper to save space and weight on the plane, ready for shipment. The truck quickly filled. Hawkins and the general watched.
“The plane will go into Teterboro Airport in New Jersey. The paintings will be in Manhattan before lunch tomorrow.”
-71-
Hawkins drove the truck around a bend in the dirt road and behind a small grove of trees. He smelled trouble before he saw it, a strange burning odor. He instantly snapped off his headlights, killed the engine and slowly lifted the Hi-Power from his shoulder holster, ready, letting the truck quietly roll to a stop on the side of the road, two or three dozen yards behind Emilio’s truck. Something’s wrong, Hawkins thought, something’s very badly wrong. He tensed like a sprinter on the starting blocks, ready to leap, ready for whatever waited. Oh no. Oh no, no, no … can’t be, he thought.
Ducking down, he swung out to the far side of his truck below the door, moving as quietly as he could, slowly, carefully stepping down, checking the trees. If it was an ambush, they’d be firing already, he thought, knew. He ran into the grove, darting from tree to tree, searching as best as he could see in the moonlight, up into the branches and behind the trunks, waiting for shots, listening for voices, looking for someone, anyone. After several tense minutes he decided there was no one around, at least as far as he could tell—no cars, no shots.
Around the back, a fair amount of smoke was pouring from the rear of the truck. Ignoring that, he ran forward, low across the road, and slipped underneath it, almost on his hands and knees, checking the other side. Overhead he could feel intense heat. But there was no one around to that side, either, nothing but a vacant field and the cropped stubble of harvested corn.
He slid out from underneath, stepping away, giving himself some room, holding the pistol straight out, swinging it back and forth, looking hard into the gloom. Where was Emilio? He decided not to call out, instinct dictated that, don’t give yourself away.
He began circling the truck, looking, seeing nothing. Then a single thought struck him: Betrayal. Riley said Emilio was a close friend. We could trust him. A good camarada, too. Must not be true. Could not be true. But then where was he?
He reached the back, looking up and in. There was a strong s
mell of gasoline. Burning embers of wood and canvas covered the floor of the back, still glowing softly in the dark. Everything was destroyed, every last fake painting, suddenly gone. He edged up to the open door, watching the embers flicker as it all sank in, feeling the heat on his face.
My god, all gone, he thought. The whole plan, blown, all that incredible effort, destroyed, lost. All the canvases gone. And from the amount of ashes and burning embers of frames, all were here. Burned. No getting them back. A sickening sense of horror started to overcome him.
Emilio must’ve torched it, Hawkins thought. But why? Makes no sense. His own work was in there. He was an artist, an intellectual, whatever his day job was, not a man who would support a coup. Makes no sense at all, no rhyme or reason to it.
He came back around the front again and tripped over something, a soft object, and nearly fell. A body? Hard to see. He decided to risk it. He ran to the truck’s cab, reached in and turned on the headlights.
In the dirt, a few yards from the truck, Emilio lay on his back. His head seemed turned around, facing down, one arm at an odd angle.
Hawkins instantly called out, “Emilio! Emilio!” running forward, couldn’t help himself. He stumbled to a stop, almost falling over the other man in his haste. He started to lift him up, ready to check for a pulse. Emilio’s head didn’t follow. His neck was severed right through. Shuddering, he set the body down, and flinched back. Emilio’s forearm had been severed several inches below the elbow. He’d instinctively raised his arm protectively. The first blow severed that. The next his head. Clean, fast cuts. Hawkins had one instantaneous thought:
The Hungry Blade Page 27
