Montezuma's Revenge

by Harry Harrison

  “I am Lizveta Zlotnikova.” Her accent was Russian, slight but still irrevocably there.

  “Tony Hawkin.” He thrashed slightly as if wanting to rise but did not, extending his hand upward instead. She seized it and shook it twice, and strongly, from the elbow, as though she were pumping water.

  “Miss Zlotnikova is our authority,” Sones said, handing the painting to her. “Co-opted from the Metropolitan Museum in New York. An authority on restoration and dating. Is the painting real?”

  She took it from him with great respect and held it under the light tilting it backward and forward slowly. The smoke curled up into her eye and, around the silver holder, she whispered, “Boshe-moir

  “What did you say?”

  “That was merely an expletive of appreciation drawn out of me involuntarily.”

  “Then this is the authentic thing?”

  “I cannot tell truthfully until I have examined samples of the wood and the paint chemically and by spectroanalysis. Also X-ray plates must be made. These assure positive identification.”

  “Which we will want. But can you tell us something, a rough professional guess or the like that we can operate on?”

  “I can do that. The color is incredible, the brushwork that of a genius. If it is a forgery it is so exceptional that the forger must be a master.”

  “Good enough. Do you agree, Hawkin?”

  “I do. Completely!”

  Lizveta Zlotnikova put the painting carefully back into its case and turned to face Tony, her open eye sighting across the tip of her cigarette as though the holder itself were a gun. “I did not know that you were an expert too, it was not told me. What museum are you associated with?”

  “It’s not that simple—”

  “Indeed? Please explain.”

  “Enough of that,” Sones broke in. “There is no need for you to have that information on a classified operation. Why don’t you start work on the analysis now?”

  “It is very late.”

  “Stalin used to work all night,” Tony said brightly. “Did his best work then they say.”

  “What is the meaning of that?” The cigarette gun aimed again, more deadly than ever. “Are you insinuating that I am an unconverted Stalinoid cult of personality non-revisionist?”

  “No, of course, nothing of the sort. Just that, you know, it seems to be in the Russian personality, night work, you know …” His voice ran down into silence under the arctic stare of those pitiless dark eyes.

  “I am not here to be insulted. I am Georgian not Russian as you seem to think. A legitimate refugee from artistic persecution, now alien resident in the United States of America. Apologies are in order.”

  “I apologize, sincerely, no insult intended.”

  “The analysis if you do not mind.” Sones was being firm. Lizveta Zlotnikova considered the apology, accepted it in the end with a disdainful sniff, then took the painting into the other room and slammed the door.

  “What did you do that for?” Sones asked.

  “I didn’t do anything, just made a comment. What is everyone being so touchy about anyway?”

  “She thought you were accusing her of being a Soviet agent.”

  “Well, I wasn’t, probably the last thought from my mind considering the fact that the FBI brought her here.”

  Sones bent over the chair and cupped his hand, whispering,

  “See that you do not do it again, we do not want her suspicious. It so happens that she is a Soviet agent.”

  “And you brought her down on this operation!”

  “Not so loud. Yes, it was all planned in advance. We do not want it known we have blown her cover, so we are letting her get information here that is of no importance to the Soviets.”

  “Why not? Everyone else seems interested.”

  “In this way the next information that we send through her they will assume is true but will in reality be false. So no more remarks about Stalin if you do not mind.”

  “Could I please have another drink?”

  “I’ll get it,” Billy squeaked.

  “Join me?” Tony asked, ever the host since the previous evening.

  “Never drink on the job, thanks.”

  Well he certainly did, almost continuously it seemed. Not since the Army, either. He sipped deep. Was there meaning or a message in that? If there was it evaded him.

  “How do I get the painting back to D’Isernia?” he asked.

  “Arrangements are being made. Tomorrow …”

  The crash of breaking glass in the other room was clearly audible through the door.

  Tony was nearest and the sudden noise sent him springing from the chair, whiskey sloshing, grabbing the handle. The other two agents were at his shoulder when he threw it wide; all of them were spectators of a silent tableau.

  The window had been broken, it lay in slivers on the floor, and Lizveta Zlotnikova stood before it. Passing the painting through the raw opening in the glass.

  There was a quick view of a man’s face on the other side. Then painting and face were gone.

  Ten

  “Keep her here, Hawkin,” Sones ordered, turning, bounding away, drawing his gun at the same time, following Billy Schultz who already had the outside door open.

  They exited very fast, guns awave, while Tony turned to look at Lizveta Zlotnikova who showed no signs of any attempted escape. Instead she was wringing her hands before her, bending back and forth in the grip of strong emotion, gulping in breath after deep breath—so deep in fact that the heaving of her impressive bosom had burst another button from the moorings of her blouse—while a great tear formed at the corner of each eye.

  “What happened?” he asked, but she only shook her head, the motion dislodging the burgeoning tears which ran slowly down her cheeks. They stood in this manner, facing each other across the room, until Sones returned, closing the door behind him but keeping the gun ready in his hand.

  “Got away clean, no trace at all. Schultz is still looking, not that it will do much good.” There was anger behind every gas chopped-off word, the first emotion Tony had ever seen him display. “Now you, tell us who he was, why did you do it, speak up?”

  Lizveta Zlotnikova brushed the tears away fiercely, no doubt angered at her display of weak emotion before a brace of Amen fascist swine, then stamped over to the end table and lighted a cigarette before she answered.

  “I do not know the man and it is insult of you to suggest it. 1 passed the window and the glass broke, he must have been or

  i

  watching me and waited for the moment when I was close, the painting in my hand. He ordered me in Russian to hand it over. I had no choice.”

  “You could have refused, he would not have killed you, it would have gained him nothing.”

  She drew herself up, jetting twin streams of angry smoke from her nostrils.

  “You insult! To save this beautiful painting I would not mind to die. But he said he would shoot the painting first, then shoot me. I said I had no choice.”

  Sones chewed at his lower lip, considering this. Billy Schultz returned and squeaked, “He got away.” Both men became aware of their guns at the same time and slid them out of sight, acknowledging at least temporary defeat.

  “I think she is telling the truth,” Tony said. “Anyway, I recognized the man outside.”

  Sones’s fingers twitched toward his gun again, then dropped reluctantly away. “You would not happen to care to tell me who it was—no, wait. Come with me.”

  As he drew Tony into the next room he gave a quick nod to the other agent while jerking his thumb in Lizveta Zlotnikova’s direction. Schultz nodded in return and remained behind with the girl. Sones carefully closed the door before resuming the questioning, waiting impatiently while Tony replaced his spilled drink and sank back into the chair.

  “I only had a glimpse, mind you, but I should remember the man. His name is Nahan, Nahum, something like that. He’s a sabra, works with Goldstein.”


  “How do you know this?” Most suspiciously.

  “How do I know this? You know how I know this!” Fatigue, alcohol, and the waning echoes of the morning’s hang-over were taking their toll. “He was one of the men who grabbed me, very likely the one who hit me on the head. A toughie. Worked me over until Goldstein stopped him, then he dumped me back at the hotel. I have good reason to remember him.”

  “What would he want with the painting?”

  “Nothing, that’s the strange part. I told you, Goldstein is inter—

  ested in Hochhande, whoever or whatever that is, I told you all about that. His men grabbed me by mistake, thinking I was Kurt Robl. He knew all about the painting deal, I didn’t have to tell him. He’s a Nazi hunter, not a painting thief.”

  “He did steal the painting though—unless this man did it on his own.”

  “No, I don’t think so. These people have other things on their minds. Goldstein wants something from us, that’s obvious. He is using the Cellini as a tool for bargaining. Get in touch with him and ask him. The phone’s right over there.”

  “Security matters are not transacted on the public telephone. Someone will have to contact Goldstein, you are correct in that. 1 am heading this operation now, I cannot expose myself. This is not Schultz’s line of work. The contact is up to you.”

  “Not me! The instant I show up in Mexico City the police grab onto me and that is the end of that. Have you forgotten the murder charge?”

  “There are ways of getting around that.” He looked at his watch. “The operation is on for oh-eight-hundred in the morning. Get some sleep now, there is another bedroom through there. 1 want to talk to the girl some more.”

  Tony downed the rest of the drink and went looking for the bed. Sleep, now that was a very good idea. They couldn’t force him to go into the city, that would be suicide, tell them that in the morning. But sleep first. He was dragging his clothes off as he thought this, falling backward with great pleasure into the bed, asleep as his head hit the pillow.

  Waking up, it seemed like only instants later. The imperative hand of Sones was on his shoulder, dragging him back up to the surface from the deep pleasures of unconsciousness. Light burned in through the open window, loud birds called outside. His watch, when he had blinked enough sleep from his eyes to make it out, read seven o’clock.

  “Eat your breakfast. You have ten minutes.”

  He went out and Tony looked blearily at what appeared easily to be a one-hour breakfast. Pot of coffee, halved rolls backed with

  layered beans and cheese, eggs in hot green chili sauce, napkin-wrapped steaming tortillas, guava, melon, orange juice, too much. Though he should eat a little. He ate a lot, making up for a number of missed meals, meals drunk instead of ate. The breakfast demolished, he showered, shaved, dressed and emerged feeling much, much better, ready to tell Sones that he would not go into Mexico City.

  “You will be disguised, no one will recognize you. You told me you speak Spanish. Well enough you think to pass as a Mexican instead of an American?”

  “Possibly.” Sones should only know.

  “It had better be positively. This part of the operation cannot fail or everything is down the drain. That painting has to be back here by six tonight. D’Isernia will contact me then with the final arrangements. Let me have the photograph, Schultz.”

  The agent had opened a large suitcase that contained nothing but boxes and drawers. From one of these he took out a photographic print which he handed to Sones. Tony looked over his shoulder at a picture of himself, a candid snap, slightly downshot, very clear.

  “Where did you get that?” he asked.

  “The same place everyone else did, from the Chinese. This is the pic the police have. We have to change your appearance as much as possible from this. Being Mexican I think we can use the mustache gambit, don’t you think so, Schultz?”

  “Yes, sir,” he piped in cheerful response, pulling out a drawer like a hairy nest. “Something thin and dark, not unlike yours.”

  “Mine is an American mustache. We want a foreign one for him.”

  “What do you mean Chinese?” Tony broke in. “What have they got to do with this?”

  “They have an agent here, he lives right across from the Coronel Glanders Mississippi Fried Chicken place. He takes pictures of everyone who goes in there. A lot of people are interested in the CIA operation. He sells to whoever wants. We buy a lot from him. That is why you should not have gone near the place.”

  “I’m afraid they polished off Davidson before he could tell mc

  that. This is the photo the police have? And the Israelis, the Italians—everyone else? I’m surprised the People’s Republic of China would sell to them and us as well.”

  “Not them, the other lot, Taiwan. They are always interested in what the CIA is doing. Here, try this on.”

  It was too shaggy. However, there were many more and eventually Billy came up with one that matched Tony’s hair and had enough of a droop to the ends to satisfy Sones’s nationalistic preconceptions. With this essential prop in place Billy, who appeared to be a skilled disguise artist, took care of the further transformation. Adroitly applied pencil accentuated the lines around his mouth; inserted pads held in place by stickum changed the shape of his cheeks and lips.

  “Taste funny,” Tony said, mufrledly.

  “You’ll get used to them in no time at all. Now let me use this hot comb to bulk your hair up, change its shape, then put on a nice oily dressing.”

  “You’re not overdoing it?”

  “Not a bit. You just relax and wait and see.”

  It had to be admitted that the final result was not bad, not bad at all. Tony admired the stranger in the full-length mirror. B pointy shoes, the kind he would never wear, full-kneed pinstriped trousers draped over a full, middle-class stomach—courtesy of a hotel pillow taped about his waist. One of Sones’s acetate sport shirts of a subtle dayglo orange, green “RS” initials on the pocket. A different face stared back, full-cheeked and oiled-haired, nostrils opened by ring inserts, a stranger’s smile emblazoned with two gold teeth, eyes hidden behind silver-mirrored sunglasses, the case for same at his belt.

  “All right, listen closely, here are your instructions.” Tony felt a sudden rising panic. Everyone assumed he was going and it was too late now to file his protest. Sones handed him a piece of paper. “Walk out the front gate here. There is a car and driver waiting, this is the license plate number. Get in and tell him to take you to Mexico City. Don’t give him this address until after you are there. This last number is the phone you can reach the driver at when

  you want him to pick you up. Memorize this information now and wash the paper down the sink, it dissolves on contact with water.”

  Tony memorized, all too quickly; then it was time to go. Billy was peeking out the front door to be sure his exit was unobserved.

  “See that the painting is not damaged, I beg. For it is the true original, passes all the tests,” Lizveta Zlotnikova said with real emotion. Tony felt put upon.

  “Is it okay if I’m not damaged either? It’s my neck in the noose, you know.”

  “Now,” Billy piped. “No one in sight.”

  “Do not let us down again,” Sones ordered.

  Tony slipped out wondering when he had let them down before. Not for the first time he yearned for the cool serenity of the National Gallery. This Mexican thing kept rolling downhill like a runaway trolley. Getting him involved more deeply all the time. The guard at the gate saluted him out, otherwise no one else saw him, then held the door open on the black Cadillac with the memorized number. The guard was also close enough to hear the spoken destination, which proved, if nothing else, that Sones at least knew the mechanics of his job. The trip on the toll road was swift, fine views of the valley and mountains far away, closer view of the nape of the uniformed chauffeur’s neck and the dandruff on his shoulders. All too soon they were in the automotive inferno of Mexico City and stopping close
to the multifunctional delicatessen. Not a word had been exchanged, other than the issuing of the two orders. Tony watched the car pull away, took a deep breath, then walked toward his destiny.

  Ornate gold letters on the plate-glass window read tolteg kosher delicatessen. Clearly visible seated inside was an elderly gentleman in dark coat and wide-brimmed hat who was straining soup through his full beard. At a longer table nearby an entire family was eating from plates of various sizes, apparently enjoying themselves, while toward the back a tourist couple sipped at beers and looked expectantly toward the glass-fronted delicatessen

  counter. A round young lady in white was dishing up portions of

  potato salad, coleslaw, hot chilies, while a familiar figure assembled thick sandwiches from smoking meat. He looked up when Tony came reluctantly through the door and nodded pleasantly.

  “Buenos tardes, senor. Agui hay una mesa para ti?”

  Tony nodded, impressed with the success of the disguise for the first time, remembering full well that the genial fat man had the keen eye of the spy catcher. Seating himself at a table away from the others, Tony read the menu with interest, breakfast, large as It had been, seemed to have slipped away leaving a vacuity. Jacob Goldstein brought over a glass and bottle which he set before Tony, smiling benevolently.

  “Be with you in a moment, Hawkin. Meanwhile, have a celery tonic on the house. That’s not too bad a disguise, all things considered.”

  No, not bad at all, Tony thought gloomily, sipping at the strangely flavored beverage. Instantly penetrated. Would the police see through it as easily as well? Goldstein reappeared, slapping down a glass of tea and dropping into the chair opposite.

  “Very nice of you to come by and see an old man, seeing how you are so busy these days. Our Italian friends are very hurt by your actions and say you stole some money from them.”

  “I did not! It was freely given—and how do you know about that anyway?”