Montezuma's Revenge

by Harry Harrison

  “Word travels. We help each other. There are a lot of Nazis they have no love for either. I hear also you bumped off this Davidson because of a feud between the CIA and the FBI!”

  “That’s not true!”

  “I thought not, nice fellow like you would have a better reason.”

  “Listen, Goldstein, let us get one thing clear. I did not kill Davidson. He was knifed while I was in the other room. I have no idea who did it or why. I have been framed.”

  Goldstein nodded benevolently as he sipped his tea, spoon in glass threatening his eyeball. “You been pretty busy, like I said.”

  “That is all beside the point. I’m here because of what you have done. You told me you weren’t interested in the paintings at all, yet you had one of your muscle-bound sabras steal it from us. Why? Or are you going to deny the whole thing?”

  “Me, deny? Of course not. A very nice painting and it is put away in a safe spot.”

  “Give it back, you crook.”

  “Crook, surely, return painting, perhaps. That depends upon you.”

  “I had that feeling all along. What can I possibly do for you?”

  “We’ll get to that in good time, but first I have a little story to tell you.”

  “Could you tell it to me while I’m eating? It is lunchtime.” Rich odor of pastrami, salami, corned beef, pickles, peppers, salad, rye bread, onion rolls, gave sweet torture to his nostrils. Goldstein nodded with sympathetic understanding and called out a rapid order to the girl behind the counter, then sipped his tea until a great sandwich had arrived, and Tony had worried a delicious corner off it, looking on with appreciation at his healthy appetite. The girl called for assistance as another table filled and by the time Goldstein had returned the plate was empty and Tony dabbing the last crumbs from his lips.

  “I’m glad you ate first, because what I got to tell you won’t help your appetite, young and healthy as it is. It’s not a nice story about a man by the name of Hochhande.”

  “So it is a man, the name I mean, I wondered.”

  “Perhaps man is too nice a word to apply to Hochhande, you will judge when I am finished. I ask you to turn your mind back to a period that, to one your age, is becoming a part of history. Except that all the players have not yet vanished from the stage. The time is during what we call the Second World War, which the English more personally refer to as the Hitler War, in the south of Italy, the province of Salerno. There was a prison camp there outside the city of Sapri, commanded by one Kapitan Hippolyt Hochhande, known as Hippo to his close friends of which he had very few. Hochhande did such admirable work in this camp that toward the end of the war he was called back hurriedly to Germany by none other than the Fiihrer himself, with whom he had a slight acquaintance due to a mutual interest, and was given the immense responsibility of running an extermination camp. You have heard of these camps? I see by your complexion that you have.

  In Gelsenkirchen, as in the other camps, the civilized Germans did their best to preserve the cultural world image of their nation by killing off all the victims who knew better. Hochhande, ever the efficient man, did away with over three hundred thousand people before he fled ahead of the advancing Allied armies. Most of the dead were Jews which explains, in case you are interested, why I have come here and now labor in the guise of a smiling delicatessen man. Enjoyable in many ways, except I am putting on weight, and far better than the time in Argentina when for three years I worked out of a hay, grain and feed shop.”

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t see the connection between Gelsenkirchen and Mexico.”

  “I’m coming to that. The mutual interest that Hochhande shared with Adolf was art, Hochhande having been the operator of a Munich art gallery before the war. It is known that Hochh; actually obtained some paintings for Adolf, and for Goring as well. It is also recorded that he visited Monte d’Capitello many times to admire the paintings there, it is just a few kilometers from Sapri.”

  “I’m beginning to see …”

  “I thought you might. The museum is destroyed, the pain vanish, presumably destroyed with it. Now strange things begin to happen. A Matisse painting from the Hitler collection reappears on the world market after many years. The Capitello paintings also come to light. I detect the spoor of Hochhande here. I will sniff him out.”

  “But Kurt Robl is the man who is doing everything, that is what I was told. Is he Hochhande?”

  “He is the jackal, not the man, Hochhande’s creature, someone unimportant. When Hochhande was recalled to Germany it was Robl who took over his command of the Sapri camp. He is small fry, like many others, and it is the big fish we are after. But since Robl is the pilot fish for the shark we seek, we make a point of keeping track of him, of furnishing information on his whereabouts to the CIA and others so they can watch him too. This has gone on for many years, patient waiting, until now when our watching seems to be paying off at last.”

  “You are going to get Hochhande?”

  “I am, if he is still alive, and I feel he is. This entire matter has his smell to it. His jackal is not smart enough to do what is being done; he is just a jackal. He has not the intelligence to find a man of international repute like D’Isernia to work with him, to arrange matters as well as this. He is being worked by strings, I know it, my instincts tell me so, and it is the puppet master I am after. And now we come to your role in this little drama.”

  “Mine? It has nothing to do with me. I am an art authority, nothing more. All I want is the painting back.”

  “Patience, you will have it. But you must aid us. Your part had become a very big one and it shall be larger still. You are going to work for me and help uncover Hochhande.”

  “Look, Goldstein, let us be reasonable.” Tony sucked too deeply at the last dregs of his celery tonic so they went up his nose and he had to cough enthusiastically. He ignored this, wiping at his streaming eyes with his napkin. “How can you ask me to do a thing like that? I’m a federal employee, a drafted FBI agent, a loyal American. I can’t work for a foreign government at the same time, be an Israeli agent.”

  “Patience, my friend, and listen closely. I ask you for nothing that will compromise your loyalties. You will leave here with the painting and return to your job. You will be involved in the transactions to purchase the painting of the ‘Battle of Anghiarf and will do all that you are paid for and more. You will not be compromised. At the same time you will be reporting to me everything that occurs to enable us to apprehend Hochhande. This will not interfere with your work, it might even aid it because I have various resources that will be at your disposal, and it will aid us in what is an effort to bring a great criminal to justice.”

  “I’m sorry, I just can’t do it.”

  “Think again. You are a minority member yourself, a descendant of the few survivors of the Indian slaughters of the past hundred years. You are talking to another minority descendant, except my slaughters are more recent. You must know what it feels like to be in our unenviable position. So I ask you to join mc, help right one wrong of which there have been so many.”

  no

  Unordered, a glass of tea appeared at Tony’s elbow and he sipped at it, burning his mouth on the hot brew. There had to be a way out of this impossible situation.

  “What if I refuse to cooperate?” he asked.

  “Then I keep the painting, it is as simple as that. I play for keeps, Mr. Hawkin, as I am sure you are aware of.” The implacable hunter once more appeared in his voice, no longer concealed in the g of the pleasant old man. Tony shivered.

  “I guess you would do that. So what if I take the painting back, what assurance do you have that I will help you?”

  “None whatsoever—other than your word. When you play for high stakes, men’s lives, you are forced to understand people and to trust a very few. I think I understand you. You are essentially a man of peace, who will keep his word once freely given. The choice is yours.”

  “Some choice,” Tony muttered into the te
a, then looked up at Goldstein and smiled wryly. “You are a great chess player, aren’t you, Goldstein?”

  “For you, you can call me Jake.”

  “Every move planned from the beginning, Jake, pawns moved the way you want them, the checkmate clearly seen.”

  “I bet you play a good game yourself, Tony. So—what’s the decision?”

  “Did I ever have a choice? You are looking at the first American Indian Jewish agent. What will my friends think?”

  “They’ll never know unless you tell them. This is strictly between you and me, a one-time arrangement, and none of it even goes in the record unless you want it to. But believe me, let me at least drop a word in the Top Secret files. That way when things work out as we hope and you ever make a trip to Israel, boy, have you got a great reception waiting!”

  “Shalom,” Tony said, smiling broadly now, reaching out to take the agent’s hand.

  “Shalom.”

  “You have my word. As long as it doesn’t interfere with the work I am here to do I’ll do everything I can to help you get your hands on Hochhande.”

  hi

  “I never for a moment doubted you, Tony. Here, just a minute, finish your tea while I fetch a package I got for you from the back room.”

  Tony sat, slightly dazed, still not sure how he had gotten this deeply involved. Everything had happened with a sure inevitability, but it was still hard to visualize himself as both an agent of the FBI and the Israeli underground. Goldstein returned with a large book, Terry’s Guide to Mexico, which he handed over.

  “Don’t try to open it, all the pages are glued together and it’s hollowed out. Something better to carry around than a package, people notice. Just pry open the front cover to get the painting out. A very pretty hunk of art I must say.”

  “You seem to have forgotten one thing.” Tony turned the book over and read “Capsule Guide to Cash and Communication for the Tourist in Mexico.”

  “What do I tell Sones, my boss here for the FBI? I just walked in and you handed the painting back? Or better I had a shoot-out and took it away from you?”

  “A cover story is what you’re talking about, and a cover story is what you got. Sones thinks we are trying to get Robl, that idea was planted with you the first time we met—we wanted you, not Robl, we knew who you were—as well as with some other people. So tell him that you promised to finger Robl for us in exchange for the return of the painting, he’ll believe that and will probably arrange to help you with the job once your painting business is finished. He has no love for these vermin and dislikes doing business with them. He’ll go along with the idea.”

  “It gets very complicated.”

  “It always does. How are you getting back?”

  “I have to phone for a car.”

  “Very good. You can always get in touch with me here, but I’ll have people close by keeping an eye on you. If anyone gives you the password gornischt, you answer hilfen. Then pass messages or ask for any help you might need. My people are very capable.”

  “They certainly are. Your ape really frightened that poor Russian girl, Lizveta Zlomikova.”

  “That poor Russian girl—but Georgian please, not Russian—is

  reporting straight to Moscow about your operation—or didn’t you know that?”

  “Of course I knew that.” Smugly, a big international agent knowing the workings of all the cogs and wheels.

  “Well, maybe then you didn’t know that she is in reality a double agent for the Albanians who pass the word directly to China. Let Sones know about that at the right time and it will get you in big, further your career.”

  The ride back was very much like the ride out, silent and swift, Tony held tightly to the book and wondered just where it all would end. He was in this introspective mood when he emerged at Cocoyoc, accepted his salute, then found his way to a seven. The door was unlocked and he pushed it open and waJ through into the living room of the suite.

  Sones, sitting on the couch, looked up at him, frowning fiercely. Sones’s visitor, seated in the overstuffed chair, turned around looked at him as well. He had a familiar face.

  Police Lieutenant Ricardo Gonzales y Alvarez.

  Eleven

  It was a neat enough tableau that might well have been entitled “The Criminal Brought to Bay” or perhaps “Justice Triumphant.” The witness, Sones, twitching with apprehension, the detective ready with gun and handcuffs, the victim limp before his fate. Tony stayed in the doorway no more than a few seconds, the victory smile with which he had entered fading slowly from his face, then he started to back out, waving his fingers in a twitching gesture that was meant to indicate sorrow at interrupting, but please excuse.

  “Be with you in a few minutes,” Sones called out. “A little busy right now.”

  “No, do not disturb yourself,” Lieutenant Gonzales said, his cold, carnivorous eyes still on Tony, eating up every detail of his disguise which had suddenly become very transparent. “I will be leaving now, please have the gentleman come in.”

  Tony had no choice. Clutching his book he entered the room with a great reluctance that he hoped did not show, flashing his two gold teeth in a very unrealistic smile. Gonzales’s eyes followed him about the room, tracking him like a gun turret.

  “Do I know this gentleman?” the detective asked.

  “I am sure you could not,” Sones replied, his eyes blinking at the RS of his own initials on the pocket of Tony’s borrowed shirt: He rose to the occasion. “This is an associate of mine who has just arrived, Mr. Raul Sanchez. Sanchez, this is Lieutenant Gonzales of the Metropolitan police.”

  “jEres Mexicano?”

  montezuma’s revenge

  “Claro que no, Buey. Soy Puerto Riqueno” As he said it he tried to empty his voice of all nasal Mexican sounds and replace them with the staccato echoes of Puerto Rico. What was a P Rican accent like? In the panic of the moment he could not remember at all. The large caliber guns of the policeman’s eyes one last salvo through Tony before he turned away.

  “Then I know I can count upon your cooperation and the cooperation of your department, Mr. Sones?”

  “At all times, Lieutenant.”

  “Very good. This man Hawkin is one of your employees, though of course on vacation in Mexico as are you and, I assume, your other associates, including Sanchez here. Hawkin must be taken questioned since he is the prime suspect in the slaying of another of your associates in this country. I hope nothing irregular is happening. We are both aware that the FBI has no jurisdiction out of the borders of its country, and my country would take a very harsh view indeed of any irregularities.”

  “I am a servant of the law, Lieutenant, and I do not break It.”

  “Very good. I will contact you again.”

  Gonzales left, after sending one last ocular shell in Tony’s direction, and Sones quickly locked the door, put his finger to his lips for silence, then waved Tony ahead of him into the back bedroom, Billy Schultz and Lizveta Zlotnikova were sitting there in tense expectation.

  “I guess he didn’t recognize me,” Tony said, once the door was closed.

  “Of course he did, you fool, walking in like that! Schultz, get the M35 working on that window.”

  “If he saw through the disguise why didn’t he arrest 1

  “The painting, it is inside that book yes?” Lizveta Zlotnikova asked.

  “Yes, it’s in here, but why—”

  “Why? Because he did not wish to be involved personally ir sticky international situations. Inside of two minutes uniformed police will be here for a routine passport check and they will be the ones who will grab you. You have to get out.”

  “Good-by,” Tony said, starting for the door.

  “Not that way, the door is watched, of course. Open yet, Schultz?”

  “Just about.”

  The agent had produced a chunky hydraulic jack from his bag of equipment and fastened it to the window frame. Now, energized by the powerful pumps of his bulging b
iceps, the extending piston was quietly pushing the iron window bars from the wall. Sones nodded approval and turned back to Tony.

  “Get out of here fast, and out of the hotel as well. We will cover for you as long as we can, run the shower, let them think you are in there, we can give you five minutes. You are to go to Cuautla and exactly at six this evening you will enter the drugstore there named Farmacia los Volcanes and will ask the clerk at the cash register for some Enterovioform.”

  “In Spanish or English? It’s Enterovioforma, the specific for the Aztec Two-Step, as it is known, or Montezuma’s Revenge …”

  “Shut up. The instructions did not specify language. You will be informed then how to make contact.” There was a brisk knock at the front door. “Now out, out!”

  Tony outed. The jack was removed and he slid easily through the gap and into the prickly hedges outside. Lizveta Zlotnikova, with a deep look of regret, passed him down the book and his Czechoslovakian airline bag, while Billy Schultz seized the bars and, with a single contraction of those great muscles, bent them back into place. Tony saw no more for, like a thief in the night—or rather the afternoon—he was fleeing for his life.

  At a slow walk, for he dared do nothing to attract attention, he strolled through the parklike grounds toward the entrance. Happy couples beginning their weekend early came by arm in arm. Children laughed and ran, the sun shone with warm Mexican brilliance; Tony walked beneath a cloud of personal gloom. The welcoming arch of the gate lifted up before him, neatly framing the two police officers who were talking to Lieutenant Gonzales who, incredibly luckily, had his back turned at that moment. Without breaking pace Tony made a right angle turn and headed in the opposite direction. What now-over the wall? It was high and impassable looking wherever he could see; after dark perhaps, but

  certainly not now. And spacious as the grounds were, he certainly could not hide out all afternoon. The path he was following took him toward the entrance to the lobby of the Hacienda Cocoyoc where people were descending from cabs and cars, snapping lingers for bellboys and calling loudly one to the other. An empty cab pulled away down the drive and Tony, throwing a quick glance over his shoulder to be sure the trees were between himself and the entrance, stepped out before it and raised his hand in desperate improvisation.