Montezuma's Revenge

by Harry Harrison

  “Operation Buttercup,” Sones said at once and the gun was lowered and they were waved silently on. Another guard, almost a twin of the first in dullness of eye and strength of jaw, opened another door for them and they entered the large conference room where a number of men already waited around the long table. They were uniformly dressed in grayish black suits and dark neckties, white shirts and, presumably, all wore the same kind of shoes though the table prevented the verification of this assumption. Pads and pencils were arranged neatly before each chair as well as little signs at every place, each with a different letter of the alphabet upon it. X sat at the head of the table and looked on severely as Sones led Tony toward two vacant chairs.

  “You are J,” Sones whispered. “Top security. Sit here.”

  No sooner had they found their places than X coughed deeply and rapped on the table with his knuckles.

  “All right, let’s get down to it. K, have you checked J’s security?”

  “He is clean. He needs upgrading, but he is clean enough for a prelim.”

  “That is encouraging. Pass me his dossier.”

  “I do not have the key to this case.”

  “Who has it?”

  “C.”

  “Then pass the case to C.”

  “I cannot. I do not have the key to the handcuff. The key is held by . , .”

  “I don’t care about that” There was the hint of a biting edge of

  exasperation in X’s heretofore controlled voice. “Just walk over to C so he can unlock it and give me the dossier.”

  The others waited in silence while this was done and X flipped through the pages of the file. What he read apparently satisfied him for he closed it and turned to Tony for the first time.

  “Welcome to Operation Buttercup, J. You are the man we need.” Before Tony could ask the question that hung ready to his lips, X raised his voice and said, “Roll it!”

  Instantly a projection screen dropped from the ceiling behind him and a small window opened in the far wall. The lights went out a fraction of a second later and the beam of a projector shot across the room and a colored picture flashed on the screen, a painting.

  “Do you know what that is?” X’s voice came from the darkness. “I’m talking to you, J,” he added when there was no answer.

  “Yes, sir, I do, a painting.”

  “Do you know the identity of this painting?”

  There was the sudden feeling of tension in the room and Tony wondered why. There was no secret about it—he even sold prints of this particular canvas in the National Gallery.

  “Of course. That is the ‘Battle of Anghiari’ by Leonardo da Vinci.”

  The lights blazed on again and the picture vanished; Tony blinked at the sudden glare and became slowly aware that every eye in the room was on him.

  “And where is that painting now?” There was a feeling of strain in X’s voice as he spoke.

  “Nowhere. It was destroyed during the war when the museum in Capitello, Italy, was bombed during an air raid.”

  This bit of information, known to any art major who had passed his first year, caused an excited stir in the room as the men shifted in their chairs and one or two murmured to their neighbors. The sharp rap of X’s knuckles restored order instantly.

  “That is it then, gentlemen. Operation Buttercup is off and rolling. J and E will make the contact. It will be far easier now with one of our own agents on the job—we don’t want

  to co-opt outsiders. We all know the trouble that happens when we do.”

  “Pardon me,” Tony broke in. “Would you mind telling me what this is all about?”

  “Not at all. We have evidence, strong evidence I can assure you, that this painting was never destroyed. There is a man in the country now who is attempting to sell the painting and the whole operation has landed in our laps. And we can handle it. But before we do anything else, we need verification that this is indeed the painting in question and that is where you come in, J. We are putting a specialized team in the field, yourself and E. You are the art man, you let us know if this thing is the real McCoy or not. E is a specialist in keeping his eyes open, he’s our bunco operator and knows all the people in the business. Now—get out there and get a report back here as soon as you can. At once, since we are under a bit of time pressure.”

  “Just a minute! I can’t do that. I’m an art historian, a shop manager, not a specialist. I don’t know a thing about this kind of work, I’ve never even seen the painting in question and I don’t know about testing the paints and all ….”

  “You’re good enough for us, you’re part of the bunch, J, and that is what counts. We can bring in those specialists later, but right now we are in a hurry and we want to keep this right in the shop, so to speak. There are complications, international complications as well as some with other agencies, and we don’t want word of what is happening to leak to anyone, understand? You’ll do the job. E will brief you on the operation.”

  For the first time Tony looked closely at the man sitting behind the E sign and found him quite familiar.

  “Yes, I know him, that is …”

  “No names!” X snapped and a censorious rumble muttered around the room. “We do not break security here. Meeting adjourned.”

  There was the scrape of chairs and louder voices now as they rose to leave and Tony’s protest went unheard. X was already

  out of the room through a small door and there was nothing

  more that could be done. “Congratulations,” Sones said before

  leaving and Tony wondered just what had happened and how he had become involved. Art expert? Well, he certainly knew more about painting than anyone else in this room, and apparently the entire Bureau as well. And perhaps the whole operation wasn’t a bad idea after all; he would certainly not mind being away from the gilt G-man badges and the ubiquitous Sophie Feinberg for a while. He had never even had a chance to ask where the painting was supposed to be, maybe it wasn’t in Washington, it could even be as far away as New York City where all the big galleries were. It would be pleasant to take a trip. All in all, there was really nothing to complain about. When E-Davidson came up to him he was actually smiling at the prospect ahead.

  “Welcome aboard,” Davidson said with a hint of equality, almost respect, in his voice. “We’ll make this a clean operation.”

  Once they were sealed in Davidson’s office Tony began to have his doubts,

  “You have been checked out on weapons?” Davidson asked.

  “What weapons! I’m an art historian …”

  “A good cover, stick to that story. But never forget you are a member of the Bureau with clearance and with that goes responsibility. You were in the Army, good training, mortars and the kind of heavy stuff we don’t usually use.”

  “Mortars? Please, I was a radar technician. Sure, I did the bayonet course and the dummy grenade thing in basic training, you can’t avoid it, but the bayonet is not of much use in a radar installation. I barely qualified as low marksman on the Mi.”

  “We generally carry smaller weapons than a rifle, hard to conceal, but being a military man you will have no trouble changing around. This is our standard weapon, the snub-nose .38 Smith & Wesson.”

  Davidson did a very quick thing with one hand and a singularly deadly looking revolver appeared, pointing a round eye at Tony who moved back unhappily.

  “Let’s get down to armaments and check you out on yours,” Davidson said, rising, as the gun disappeared as quickly as it had arrived.

  “Hold on one second, please. Art specialist is one thing, gunman something else altogether different.”

  “A good act, keep it up, wonderful cover. A little briefing and you will be all right.” He led the way to the door with a friendly hand on Tony’s back to keep him moving. “Old Fred will check you out. If there is anything to know about weapons he knows it, a great guy. You being a military man you may have weapon experience that we don’t so there is no need to stick with
the .38 just because we do. Old Fred will know.”

  Old Fred, a Michelangelo sanguine study in wrinkles, liver spots, drooping eyelids, toothless gums and Punch nose reaching to protruding chin, radiated an aura of palpable disgust the instant Tony gingerly took up the preferred revolver.

  “Not with the finger tips, blast it, grab and clutch firmly like you was shaking hands, a real firm handshake. Keep the arm straight with the elbow slightly bent, raise above the head, your profile to the target, drop down onto the target, squeeze your whole hand not just your trigger finger and …” BLAM BLAM BLAM “… put the slugs right through the blasted bull just like that. Now you try.”

  Tony took up the still smoking weapon gingerly, then grabbed it too tightly at the growled command so that the first shot went off while it was still pointed at the ground, screaming and ricocheting away down the concrete length of the shooting range, curses muttered in his ear as they grabbed his arm and pointed it in the right direction. His next shot caused the gun to jump in his hand so the web of flesh between his thumb and forefinger tore. This hurt and it distracted his attention so he held the revolver even more loosely for the next shot and this time it leaped from his hand and clattered on the floor. This released him to suck at his wounded member while the morose men looked down in gloom that bordered on despair upon the discarded weapon.

  “I can’t see how close I came.” He peered hopefully over his hand at the distant target.

  “One hit the ceiling, one hit the blasted wall,” Old Fred said,

  bending arthritic limbs to scoop up the .38. “Probably because you had your eyes closed when you pulled the trigger.”

  “I know,” Tony said apologetically, wrapping his handkerchief around the wound. “But I licked that habit with the Mi. I could show you if you had an Mi one here.”

  “We do,” Old Fred said and, after a measured amount of puffing and clatter, he produced it from a cluttered armory apparently hung with all the weapons of destruction known to man.

  “I usually use a sling.” Tony took the wood and blue steel weight of the rifle and hefted it gingerly, trying to remember the drill instilled in his youthful synapses so many years earlier. “The clip goes here?”

  “That’s right, very blasted good, and here’s the sling.”

  “Prone position was the only way I could fire and qualify.”

  “Prone position,” Old Fred agreed in a hollow voice.

  It took a while to attach the sling and adjust it to the correct position, to set the sights—Old Fred finally did this himself, muttering under his breath while he did so, load and lock, to sprawl on the hard concrete and keep the wavering target in the sights, to eventually squeeze off the shots at a fresh target. It was with a feeling of satisfaction that Tony climbed to his feet again, rubbing a bit at his sore shoulder. When the target came whizzing back along the wire Old Fred took one look then went into his shop and began rattling tools. Davidson examined it more closely, on both sides in case he had missed something.

  “Good?” Tony asked.

  “One bullet hit the target, nicked the edge.”

  “I’m a little rusty. If I had a chance to brush up …”

  “No, I don’t think that is possible. Not enough time. In any case, the old Mi rifle isn’t the sort of thing that can be hidden in your hip pocket. Any other weapons you are familiar with?”

  “Not really.”

  “Wait! You’re an Indian, I almost forgot, probably a gee whiz with the tomahawk?”

  “Davidson, please, I grew up on a farm, then in a small town. The only tomahawks I ever saw were in a western movie.”

  “The bow and arrow maybe or,” still hopeful, “the scalping knife?”

  “And maybe the bow and arrow will fit in my hip pocket? The same goes for that scalping knife, which I never heard of before this instant.”

  “No knife?”

  “Not really. I used to whittle …”

  “That’s it, Fred! The French cigar case, that’s the one we need.”

  It dropped onto the counter top with a heavy thud, its weight out of keeping with its innocent appearance. A pocket case of nicely tanned leather, smooth as though from long use. Davidson slipped it open so that the greenish ends of four cigars could be seen and held it out to Tony.

  “I normally don’t smoke cigars, but …”

  He pulled at a cigar but it would not come free.

  “They are dummies. What you really want to do, as you hold it out, is to press with your thumb here.”

  There was a nasty snicking sound and a shining blade, at least six inches long, snapped out of the end of the case causing Tony to start and jump back.

  “Very handy thing to have.” Davidson put the point of the knife on the counter and leaned all of his weight upon the case to force the blade back up into position. “A seventy-five-pound spring behind that blade. Just jam it against your target’s side, below the rib cage so it doesn’t get hung up in the bones, and press the release. The spring does all the rest. It will give you security.”

  “I would feel far more secure without it.”

  This unprofessional remark was ignored and the zip knife-cigar case became his property after he had signed the proper form. Old Fred showed far more enthusiasm as he checked over Davidson’s .38 and oiled the springs on the agent’s fast-draw holster.

  “When do we leave?” Tony asked.

  “In about an hour.”

  “Will I have time to pack a bag?”

  “What for? We are just going across the river to McLean, Virginia, to make our contact.”

  So much for the travel plans, Tony thought. McLean. The phone rang and Old Fred answered it. In a way it was probably better. Get the matter over with and done and back to work. Fred called Davidson to the phone then entered his shop and closed the door behind himself. Open the G-man badge and fingerprint-kit shop and get it rolling, then ask to be reassigned back to the National Gallery. Anyone could take over once things were rolling, even Sophie for that matter. And it would be a pleasure to see the last of her. Davidson had hung up and stood, frowning with thought.

  “McLean has been scrubbed. Our contact took off and they lost him.”

  Tony could not help but feel a decided sensation of relief, he had never been enthusiastic about any of this, but his relief was instantly dispelled.

  “But he did leave a message. We will receive more information when we get there so it looks as though you can pack that bag after all because we are going on a little trip.”

  “New York?”

  “Of course not—what gave you that idea? As soon as arrangements are made we are going to Mexico City.”

  Three

  With slow majesty the great airplane tilted up on one wing to make the turn. The great bulk of Iztaccihuatl swam into view, the Sleeping Lady, a volcano long dead, guarded by her consort Popocatepetl, a volcano as well but still bubbling with life and sending a thin column of smoke up through the snow about its crater. In grand curves the smooth ash flanks of Popo fell down to the valley of Mexico, the green farms of Morelos on one side with the gritty high plain beyond. More and more of the plain came into view as the dive flattened and the landing gear thudded and humped into position under their feet, the outlying residential areas and factories growing dim in the smog. With a sudden rush the runway appeared before them and Tony drained the last of his Margarita and wished that there was time to order another. It was not that he minded flying, it was just that the landings gave a sort of tweaking sensation to his stomach ever since the time in the Army when a C-57 he had been in had run out of runway and ended up on its nose in the muskeg. No one had been badly hurt but the memory did linger on. It was a welcome relief when they touched down and the reversed jets pressed him hard against his safety belt. No sooner had they cleared the runway and entered the taxiway than the second pilot came into the cabin, nodding and smiling at the passengers. “Hope you enjoyed the trip,” he said to Davidson as he passed. This unusual solic
itude was explained by the fact that, unseen by anyone but Tony in the adjoining seat, he had slipped a folded piece of paper into the agent’s hand.

  “Radio,” Davidson said under his voice. “Been expecting this.”

  Tony was impressed; he had not realized that private messages could be sent to a commercial airplane in flight. Though an FBI communication could hardly be called a private message. Davidson opened the paper inside his magazine, took one look, then slammed it shut.

  “Damn!”

  “Trouble? Has the bird flown the coop again?”

  “Worse than that.” He passed the magazine to Tony who found the right page and the slip of paper on which was written Davidson’s seat number plus two words. CONTACT ROOSTER.

  “Code?”

  “Clear enough. We were afraid this would happen. Mexico is not our territory, but we gave it the old college try. But they found out about it, they always do, so now they want a piece of the action.”

  “YouVe lost me. They?”

  “The CIA. We’ll have to work through their local man down here, Higginson. I’ve met him before and he’s a bad one. Remember that name and this phone number, 25-13-17, in case something happens and I’m not there. He will …”

  “The Higginson I have, but not the number.” Tony had his pencil poised expectantly over his note pad until Davidson reached over and tore out the page.

  “Nothing ever written down, remember that. Just memorize the information.”

  The agent was glum and uncommunicative after this so that Tony turned his attention to the world outside. Not that he minded, in fact he was beginning to enjoy the trip now that they were safely down, looking forward to a paid-in-full holiday. Even though he had grown up on the border he had never visited Mexico very often. Too much of Tijuana of course, but that was more of a gringo sin city than real Mexico, and then a couple of weekends in Ensenada. Now, just a few hours from Washington, he was in a new world, standing on the filled-in lake bed where Cortez had trod, coming into Montezuma’s capital city. There was the sound of a warmer, softer language around them as they

  disembarked and claimed their luggage, then had hieroglyphics chalked on their sides by stoically bored customs agents with Mongol faces right from the steppes of Asia. There was a general excitement and color to the crowd that was unknown in the north as the first salesmen pressed plaster pigs, tin masks, feather toy fighting cocks upon them. With some effort they made their way through the crowd to the cab rank where the driver, with a solicitude unknown in the north for fifty years or more, loaded in their luggage, ushered them to their seats, then closed the door behind them.