-80-
When she came around the corner Hawkins was sitting half in and half out of the phone booth. It was late afternoon, almost dinnertime.
“Lilly. I’m sick of this routine. Go to the ladies room, take four or five minutes. I’ll come and wait for you outside. Make it look natural. We’ll go eat.”
“Right.”
Five minutes later he casually strolled through the sleek, modern lobby at the Reforma and loitered outside the ladies room like he was expecting her, a regular couple, swinging his keys impatiently on a finger.
Lilly emerged.
“The restaurant. This way,” Hawkins said, escorting her in on his arm, the maître d’ seating them in a circular leather booth at an angle to each other. At the far end a small combo was tuning up.
“Start with a cocktail?” she said.
“I should think so.” They ordered a pair of margaritas. There was excitement in her face.
“Well?” he said, eager. “Anything?”
“His name is Benedict Reemer. And, yes, they know who he is! The request did the circuit in a flash. Because it was daylight I had to use the twenty-one meter shortwave bands, could barely reach Jamaica. They relayed it to Bermuda and it went by cable from there. The Mounties in Ottawa put a standard police request for the license plate on the wire to the Yanks, they got it back in an hour. He lives in Houston. Then Stephanie at BSC in New York remembered an article a year or two ago in Life magazine about oil wildcatters. They ran down to the Forty-Second Street library to check. There was a picture of him wearing a tin hat, covered head to toe with crude oil. There’d been a blowout and he saved several of his men by catching a flying drill pipe in midair.”
“So he’s not a cattleman.”
“Nooo. They call him Bull Reemer. He used to settle claims disputes with his fists and a six-shooter. He owns Pan-Texas Petroleum.”
“Good lord. Pan-Texas? Their gas stations are all over.”
“They are? We don’t have them in Canada.”
“Can’t miss them in the States.” The waiter brought the cocktails and they clinked glasses. “It just struck me. Their signs are a red square with a white star—the Lone Star of Texas—crossed by a black bull’s head. It looks like the swastika flag.”
“Oh my … Then here’s the big part. London says they are now reasonably sure he was illegally selling oil to Franco and the Fascists in Spain during the civil war. Several million tons, oiled the coup. Did it through subsidiaries in Latin America, probably Argentina. All in violation of the American Neutrality Laws, of course. Franco probably would’ve been crushed without him. Bull Reemer helped destroy the Spanish Republic.”
“And Washington didn’t know.”
“I guess not.”
Hawkins thought that over a second.
“No, of course. They don’t have an intelligence service. How would you know if your own companies are breaking the law once they pass the three-mile limit? So—who’s Reemer working with? The Nazis? Or is he one of the American companies London connected with that wanted their properties here back, wanted that … friendly coup? Did they say?”
“No, they didn’t.”
“Damn. Could be either one. Or he could be talking to both.”
“Easily. He must’ve lost oil fields, too, when the government nationalized them. Shall I ask?”
“No! Let’s not give them any ideas.” The little orchestra started playing, a lively Son jarocho tune. “Wanna dance while we wait for dinner?”
“Sure!” Big smile. He took her hand and they began a quick-step alone on the floor.
“You dance well. And fast!”
“Thanks. We do that in Canada too.”
“And after ten.”
“Oh, tard dans la nuit, joyeux Montréal.”
“Ah, la joie de vivre.”
“Oui. Les peintures, bien que? Could Reemer have the paintings?”
“No. Not with the US Neutrality Laws. And the Continent is almost completely cut off. The Royal Navy is blockading Europe. Germany has a submarine war against Britain. Italy has now entered the war. France and most of Western Europe are under German Occupation. There are only a handful of neutral countries left where the paintings might transit. When I was in New York, W told me that there are now only two DC-3 flights a week in and out of Switzerland, and the outgoing plane is completely filled with mail and watch parts to be put in cases elsewhere. There are only a couple dozen long-range planes that can fly the Atlantic, and they all belong to Pan Am and TWA. They’d have to go by sea straight here to Mexico.”
The waiter came pushing a cart with a pair of plates covered with chrome domes. They half danced back. They’d hurriedly ordered off the menu: a chop for Hawkins, a roast squab for her that was obviously not an iguana. After a couple of mouthfuls of the “international” food he glanced at her and shrugged.
“I had a taco earlier.”
“Um. A little boring, isn’t it? This could stand some mole sauce.”
“Yes. I’ve mainly been on the run since I got here, grabbing food from stands or small cafés. The street taquerias are more tasty and interesting.”
“I’ve been doing that, too! Go down, bring it back to the room, save on my per diem. Is that chiseling?”
“Naw, we all do it. You have to.”
“So now what?”
“Get back to W and General Houghton right away. Tell them to look for another ship. And tell them to send the Dendrobium back to Veracruz. Fast. I may need Blake and his men.”
“Will do. Our mission goes on.”
“So it does.” Then a fact suddenly struck Hawkins—Eckhardt and Falkenberg are still out there. Let’s not take a chance on anything else going wrong. He reached into his pocket and loosely dropped Elise Aust’s unused Walther into Lilly’s lap, keeping it under the tablecloth, out of sight. She felt it out with one hand and made a slight humming noise.
“I gather things have gotten more … hairy?”
“Maybe. Have you ever fired one?”
“Sort of. They gave us a half-hour training. Everyone got it.”
“Half an hour? Better than nothing, I guess. Do you have strong hands?”
“I think so.”
“Then leave the hammer down. You can cock it by pulling the trigger through. Make sure the safety is off. You don’t actually have to use that if the hammer is down. I would buy some more bullets. It’s a .32.”
“Am I a real secret agent now?”
“You’ve been that since you crossed the border.”
-81-
It was a short walk up the road in Chapultepec Park to the large white stucco house. Hawkins presented a letter of introduction he’d gotten from Diego Rivera, asking El Presidente to see him right away, as a favor, then added the letter from Trotsky he’d retrieved from Kahlo—she’d hated to part with it, it was Trotsky’s last letter. He was escorted from one secretary to another staff officer, who looked over the two letters with some surprise and curiosity, then told Hawkins he could sit and wait in an anteroom. El Presidente is a very busy man, we will try to get you a moment, he was told.
Three hours later the aide came to the door and gestured for Hawkins to follow. He led him down the hall to a surprisingly simple office, not much on the white walls, a plain mahogany office desk and chairs, the only color a silk Mexican flag. Compared to the Salon Doré in the Élysée or the Oval Office of the American White House, jammed, as news photos revealed, with Roosevelt’s ship models, it had an almost monastic quality. But it was brilliantly lit by large picture windows overlooking the verdant Chapultepec Park, bringing in greenery and Mexico City’s high, brilliant sun intensified by the white walls and the president’s white suit, an almost blinding haze of light.
Cárdenas rose from behind the desk, suit buttoned up all the way, hiding a heavy frame, exten
ding one hand, the other holding the letters, a simple Hola. He looked tired, but curious and relaxed. He spoke English quite well, as Rivera had said.
“Mr. Hawkins, welcome. I have not heard from my friend Mr. Rivera lately. Did you know Leon Trotsky? My condolences if you were friends.”
“No, I only met him once.”
“I see. Is this about artistic matters? I find Diego’s letter mysterious.”
“No. It isn’t.” Hawkins took a deep breath. “Mr. President. I’m an officer of the Secret Intelligence Service of the United Kingdom. I hold the reserve rank of group captain in the Royal Air Force—a colonel. I am here because I am in possession of information critical to the safety of this country.”
Cárdenas rocked back in his chair, contemplating him with some interest and amusement, hands flat on his desk, eyebrows raised.
“I am not surprised England has spies here. Most big nations have spies. I am surprised you have come to me. Why would you trust me? I could have you thrown in jail for what you have told me.”
“Because I know you want to do the right thing, too. Trotsky told me you were the most honest politician in the world. I thought that was a joke. But I now know he was right. Since coming to Mexico I have seen that, again and again.”
“I’m flattered. You are young for a colonel.”
“The uniform fit. We were in a hurry.”
“Truly?”
“Yes.”
“What is this information?”
“Under the direction of the SS, the new Nazi German governments for the territories they have occupied are seizing prominent art collections, particularly those belonging to Jewish collectors. Objects of very great value, including works by major modern artists.” At that Cárdenas’s mien totally shifted, back to the serious expression of his official appearances and portraits, leaning forward, picking up a pen, a mental readiness, then frowning.
“That kind of looting is prohibited by the Geneva and Hague Conventions.”
“Exactly.”
“I suppose that is not surprising. Go on. How does this concern Mexico?”
“They are trying to bring a collection of these art objects here, modern art they don’t want.”
“Why?”
“At first we thought they wanted to finance espionage activities against Britain, Canada and the United States. We assumed they were shipping them through Mexico to New York to evade the American Neutrality Laws. That was my original mission, to stop that. But we have now learned they are attempting to finance the overthrow of the government of this country, very much the way they did to the republic in Spain, and—”
“Who are their accomplices?” Crisp, right to the essential point.
“General Miguel Corrialles. There are others involved. But he is the leader, or is to be the leader.”
“Ah, of course. Stolen artworks.” The president paused, thinking. “And he recently opened a gallery. These are very serious charges. Can you prove them?” Hawkins drew one of the Spanish-language copies of the treaty from his coat, flipped to the signatory page and pointed.
“Yes, Mr. President. Please look closely at this first. That actually is Adolf Hitler’s signature.”
The president reached for glasses, squinted hard at the signatures, holding the paper against a desk lamp, then carefully flattened the treaty out and read from beginning to end. After several minutes he flipped the glasses aside. Apparently it was all so obvious no questions were required.
“Where are these artworks?”
“I—we, are attempting to find that out. Only days ago they sent a decoy shipment through, to throw us off the trail. The real ones could be here already, probably through the Port of Veracruz.”
Cárdenas’s expression toughened, mouth tightening first.
“We are aware of elements who would seek to block the coming peaceful transition to my friend Manuel Camacho. I am saddened to learn this about my old compatriot in arms Miguel. We fought many battles together in the old days, during the civil war, but he has changed. We cannot go backward. Mexico has a great destiny and we must seize it, but only if we have justice. Why are you doing this?”
“I can’t live with it.”
“That is an opinion, not an explanation.”
“I came here to fight the Nazis. I only wanted to beat them. That is no longer enough.”
“Ah, I understand.” He intensely, rather uncomfortably studied Hawkins for a long moment, as if he could see through to his bones. “Yes. A man must fight for things, not against them. That always has been my ambition, to be for the people, and why I have been successful. When you are in the position of being against, you are always reacting to the actions of others. In a way, they control you because you give them the initiative, and you can never catch up. Only when you are for something can you control events and not be at their mercy. To stand for something is the essential thing in life. There are no great men without great ideals.”
“It’s more than that. I have learned—no, I see now that if you don’t know what you are for, if you only know what you are against, you can end up doing things that horrify you. You wake up one morning and wonder how you got to where you are, how you went in a circle and became like the people you’re fighting.”
“Yes. I sense a missing element, though. What horrified you so that you had to come to me?”
“There are some people who thought a coup a good idea.”
“And?”
“Mr. President, I’d rather not get into all the details and we may not have time. But they are lost in this dilemma. They are against the Nazis. And they are for Britain’s survival, which is right. But I am—and I believe all of us are, ultimately—for the rule of law, democracy, civilian rule, freedom … and, I suppose, also, at least for me, the success of the Mexican Revolution.”
“Ah. I see.” Another long, penetrating pause, then Cárdenas’s head rose with a quiet uh-huh. No illusions what that meant. “I will not press further. When you are done, will you be leaving my country? I respect and appreciate your concern for Mexico, but your presence is ultimately unacceptable.”
“Of course. And I agree.”
“What do you expect of me?”
“Do you have regiments loyal to you?”
His head lowered, an eyebrow raised. “You mean loyal to the Constitution—”
“Excuse me, sir, right.”
He smiled. “There are.”
“I can’t do this alone. I need help. I want these artworks to go into your hands. They need to stand ready.”
“Because you think I am honest?”
“In part. You must seize them, to be sure they cannot be misused. Of course, they should be returned to their rightful owners when the war is over.”
“I will be gone by then, but Camacho is an honest man, too. He will do his best. You seem certain you are going to win.”
“I met a German agent here, an air force officer. He’s slightly conflicted over what they are doing, but the interesting thing is that he’s very worried the air battle over Britain is taking longer than expected. He senses something is wrong. He’s right. The Royal Air Force will prevail.”
“Only men and women who have conviction, who love their country, their people, will have the heart to make the sacrifices needed for victory.” He made a small, happy grunting noise. “That is good news. Like you, I am relieved.”
-82-
When the elevator opened Lilly was leaning out her hotel room door, an excited, slightly flushed expression on her face. She must’ve been ready to leave. She had her latest hat on, an elegant confection of fine black palm, with big silk ribbons and a very long orange feather on a stem, dancing and waving. Her note he’d found waiting at the Imperial had said Urgent—come up at once. She grabbed his sleeve, pulling him inside, closing the door quickly, feather caressing his
face. Her words tumbled out in a rush.
“Falkenberg has reestablished contact with General Corrialles.”
“What? How—”
“Bermuda intercepted another burst of telegrams. Like before, they’re piecing together several different telexes to a couple of different addresses to get this intel. They say it’s quite confusing, some of them almost seem to contradict each other.”
“How so?”
“Berlin’s redoubled their orders to kill Eckhardt. Mentioned him by name this time.” She checked her pad. “Demanded to know, ‘Why no progress on Horst Street property closing …’ ”
“They must badly want him dead.”
“Yes. Also ‘Second installment payment on way.’ ”
“The paintings. Same message?”
“Yes.”
“Any mention where they are?”
“No. And another one, after some filler about fertilizer sales—”
“Bullshit!”
She laughed. “Yes. Someone said put in some BS so they did. Anyway, ‘Remit Banco National de Cuba to Credit Suisse.’ Yet another says, ‘Congratulations on successful meeting with General Cor.’ ”
“That’s Corrialles.”
“Right. We don’t have the ones going out from here, only the ones coming in, we can’t see the full conversation.’’
“That’s it, then. The general’s back in with the Nazis.”
“Right.”
“What the hell’s all that stuff about banks in Cuba and Switzerland?”
“Unknown. Could be more filler.”
“Any mention of Bull Reemer or Pan-Texas?”
“No.”
“If he was illegally selling oil to the Fascists in Spain it’s a safe bet Berlin contacted Reemer and sent him in to patch it up with Corrialles, get the train back on the tracks, get him working with Falkenberg. And these orders to kill Eckhardt, that means those two aren’t working together. The paintings must be going to Falkenberg.”
“Yes. And you were right. That means the first set had to be a decoy. W, General Houghton, the staffs, they agree, too—what else could it be?”
The Hungry Blade Page 31
