Montezuma's Revenge

by Harry Harrison

  “Here is what I suggest. Your man will bring the money out of the car. When he does Robl will bring out the painting. We will both approach the fence at the same time. Be careful

  with your guns, there are innocent people about, as you can see. Let us keep this exchange an honest one. When the money is put down, the painting will be put down. The exchange will take place. We will both leave in opposite directions. Is it agreed?”

  “Go ahead.”

  Slowly, as in some exaggerated mating dance, the exchange proceeded. Bag and bearer emerged, painting and porter followed suit. Hands were tense on guns. Step by step they approached, facing each other, staring at each other, slowly placing their valuable charges on the ground, rising once again.

  “Stop there!” a female voice cried out and in the instant six guns sprang into view, perhaps a seventh shimmered in the rear window of the Packard. Lizveta Zlotnikova emerged. “I wish to examine painting.”

  “She is right,” Sones said. “How about it.”

  Was there a reluctance in Robl’s voice when he agreed? The guns slid reluctantly from sight as the girl strode forward. Tension crackled in the air like heat lightning before an approaching storm. Every eye was on her as she knelt on the ground. Robl threw back the cloth on a corner of the painting and pushed it under the lower strand of wire.

  With slow precision Lizveta Zlotnikova drew a flat pa» from her purse and unwrapped it to disclose the sundered corner of the canvas. She laid this on the frame, took out a large magnifying glass and a flashlight and bent forward.

  “Quickly!” Robl ordered. “We cannot be about this all day.”

  “The cut threads match, the flakes of painting as well …”

  “Enough,” Robl ordered, throwing the cloth back over the painting again. “We must do this now.”

  “We will do it, but slowly. Wait until the girl is back in the car,” Sones said. “Good. Now, push that painting forward—slowly—no fast motions. You do it the same way, Stocker. Don’t let go of the bag until you have your hands on the painting.”

  They faced each other like two gladiators in the arena, tensed for instant battle. Forward, forward, Stocker reluctantly abandoning his hold on the pocketed gun to grab the painting. There

  was a silent tug of war for a moment, each pulling on painting and case, then giving way, the exchange made.

  “Good, good-by,” Robl said, pulling the bag to him as Stocker snatched in the painting. He dived for the open door of his car, D’Isernia climbing into the other, the Packard shooting forward in a cloud of dust while their legs were still protruding, its headlights sending yellow beams through the dusk. Stocker rushed to the safety of the car with the painting, his gun out now, as were all the others.

  The crowd had dispersed, there seemed no danger, the Packard disappeared around a turn, the alert agents relaxed though their guns were still ready.

  Lizveta Zlotnikova screamed loudly, again and again; the guns reappeared on the instant.

  She had thrown back the cover and her light was on the picture.

  “A fake!” she shouted. “A phony! a forgery!”

  The dust cloud settled; the other car was gone.

  Fourteen

  “Schultz, turn the car around ram this fence what do you mean it is a fake?” Sones was shouting, his cool very definitely gone. Billy jumped into the car while the others huddled around Lizveta Zlotnikova who had the painting fiat on the ground and was kneeling by it with the flashlight.

  “Look, so easy to see with all the covering cloth removed. ! scrape away the paint here, so, and it is obvious that a corner of the real painting was attached to this forgery. See where the edge of the original has been shaved down, then glued on. The whole thing is a fake. Not only that but a real art authority/5 she blazed a glance in Tony’s direction, “would have seen at once that this is an inferior forgery.”

  The events of the past few days suddenly became very, very clear to Tony. The entire slow build-up with all the suspense of foreign intrigue, the refusal to let a real expert examine the painting, the careful timing to enable him to witness the commemoratory rites, the darkened room, the man in the wheel chair to get his mind off the things it should have been on. Then the doubtlessly well-rehearsed bit of acting, the artistic Italian, the barbarian German, the flash of the knife that removed almost all of the original fragment of painting for examination and authentication. They had been conned, fooled, deluded exceedingly well, all of them, in a highly professional manner.

  A continuing sound penetrated his depressed aura of gloom, making itself known to all of them about the same time. They looked up, looked at the car, listened to the grind-grind-grmcl of

  the starter turning over and over with no result. The engine would not start.

  “The light,” Sones growled, tearing it from Lizveta Zlotnikova’s hand and throwing open the hood. Inside, even to the unmechanical eye, things were not quite as they should be. Torn ends of wires gleamed, half of the cables to the spark plugs were pulled loose and hung in a tangle. Sones reached in and pulled out a hooked length of heavy metal rod, of the kind used to reinforce concrete. “While we were all looking the other way someone crawled under the front of the car and pulled the wires loose with this thing. Fix it, Schultz.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Treasury is not gonna like this.”

  “No one likes it, Stocker.” Sones controlled his temper with an effort and rounded on Hawkin who raised his hands.

  “Now don’t start on me, Sones. I’m no more to blame than anyone else here. We were conned, but good. So now we have to go after these people and get the money back.”

  “Thu only way.”

  It took Billy Schultz ten long minutes to jury rig enough of the wires so the engine would start, though at least two cylinders kept missing and banging, while only one headlight came on, and it was frozen in the low beam position.

  “Go,” Sones ordered. This was, as were all of his recent orders, issued through tight-clenched teeth.

  They went. The Cadillac tore through the thin strands of barbed wire and lumbered down the dirt track that twisted through the outskirts of the village, ending at the graveled shoulder of the highway.

  “Which way?” Billy asked. There was no answer. Tony saw that there were people sitting outside the nearby house and he opened the door.

  “I’ll ask them.”

  Instead of running he forced himself into a slow stroll, feeling the daggers of the impatient eyes behind him burning into his back. But he could not rush; there is a different pace for all things in Mexico. As he drew close he saw the women and

  children withdraw within the mud-brick walls of the adobe house. Only the man remained, his face a dark blur under the wide brim of his hat, leaning against the pole that supported the roof.

  “Good evening,” Tony said.

  “Good evening.”

  “It should be a pleasant night.”

  “It usually is.”

  “Cigarette?”

  “It will be a pleasure.”

  They lit the cigarettes and Tony pointed back down the they had come.

  “There was a little accident there and the wire fence was torn near the bull ring. If I gave you money for its repair would you be so kind as to pass it on?”

  “But why not.”

  Tony paid him, then started away—only to call back over his shoulder.

  “The other car that went by a few minutes ago, did you happen to notice in what direction it went?”

  “I did. It went that way, toward the south.”

  “Adios.”

  “Adios.”

  “Well?” Sones’s temper had not improved with the delay.

  “South.”

  “You are sure?”

  “There is one way to find out.”

  They rushed on through the night, tearing down the dim yellow column of the single headlight, dark shapes of cactus swirling by on each side. There was a figure ahead, a solitar
y hitchhiker who turned and jerked his thumb in anticipatory gesture. Billy swung out to go around him, not slowing.

  “Stop the car!” Tony shouted and Billy hit the brakes L flex, sending them into a long squealing bucking slide.

  “Explain, Hawkin, it had better be good.”

  “That man, he’s their chauffeur.”

  They burst out of the car, running as they hit the ground,

  weapons in their hands, Stacker even ready with a tear-gas grenade. Their prey stood silently, hands at his side as they surroui him and the muzzles of guns prodded from all sides.

  “I am simple driver,” he said solemnly. “Hired, perhaps because of my German nationality, to do driving. I do as I am told. I am told to leave car and walk back to town. I leave car and walk back to town.”

  “The truth now, or else .. !”

  “Let me have him for ten minutes!”

  “There is sodium pentothal in the bag.”

  Tony drew a reluctant Sones away from the seekers after truth. “I can make him talk,” he said.

  “How?”

  “Simple enough, if you must know. You see he is, well, my contact with the Israelis. If I found out anything about Robl I was to tell Heinrich here.”

  “A Kraut!”

  “He’s Jewish, a chemist. Let me get him aside where the others can’t hear.”

  “Do you trust him?”

  “Do we have a choice? Don’t forget the million …” Soncs’s teeth could be clearly heard grating together.

  “Do it, fast, do it.”

  The flashlight was trained on them, guns clearly visible beneath it, as Tony took Heinrich over to the side of the road.

  “Would you please tell me what is happening.”

  “Just what I said, with the exception that I stopped your car. I was supposed to get off the road. They are on the run. They paid me off.”

  “Do you know where they are going?”

  “No. About that they were very closemouthed. But perhaps I can help you, but I will have to telephone Jacob Goldstein first. And don’t ask!” He raised his hands, palms outward. “Nothing more can I say until I talk to Jacob.”

  Tony waved Sones over to join them.

  “This man may be able to help us, but he has to make a phone call first,”

  “I do not like this, Hawkin.”

  “Do you have any better ideas? Short of torturing him, is there anything else we can do?”

  Sones ruminated all the way to Cuernavaca while Heinrich sat stolidly in their midst ignoring the guns that pressed into him from both sides. When the first street lights appeared Sones straightened up and looked around, then tapped Billy Schultz on the shoulder and pointed to the sign that read taller mecanico.

  “Pull in there, I want this car fixed up before we go any further.” He glowered a final glower at Heinrich. “You, get on the phone, but we will be with you all the time.”

  “Ah don’t like this.” Stocker was unhappy, caressing his gun.

  “Well, I do. And this is my operation. If you want that bundle back for Treasury you will do as I say.”

  Tony dialed the number himself while the others surrounded the driver. A familiar voice answered.

  “There has been some trouble. Heinrich is here and wants to talk to you.”

  “We all got troubles. Put him on.”

  The conversation was in guttural and incomprehensible Hebrew which Sones did not enjoy hearing. Tony went to talk to the master mechanic, who was shaking his head in amazement at the wanton damage, and encouraged him to do both rapid and excellent repairs. Lizveta Zlotnikova sat in the back of the car with the forged painting, examining it and muttering over it.

  “It could still be restored,” she said; there were tears in her eyes, “If we could find the rest of the painting. Why would they do a thing like this?”

  “I have no idea,” Tony said. “Maybe they want to pull this confidence racket three more times with the other corners of the painting.” They shuddered together at the thought. “Or maybe that corner of the painting was all they had.”

  “That does not make sense.”

  “Very little of what has been happening makes much sense.”

  Sones called to him and he joined the huddled group in the small office. A year-old calendar on the wall proclaimed the virtues of General Popo tires, the illustration of the General himself, his

  body apparently constructed out of tires, backing up these asserta-tions. Euzkadi tires had a stronger argument with a calendar of the current year as well as a colored photograph of a young woman naked except for an Aztec headdress. Heinrich blew his nose in a large red handkerchief and, when examination of the results satisfied him, spoke.

  “I have a message from Goldstein. He says he is happy to cooperate with the FBI and the Treasury Department of the United States to enable them to track this car and the men in it. He will be here within the hour.”

  “And what does he think he can do?” Sones asked, gun ready in pocket.

  “Lots. On his instructions I installed a device under the frame of the car that is attached to the radio. My understanding is that it is a high-powered transmitter that emits a very strong signal.”

  “Do you know the wave length?”

  “My knowledge ends there. All I know is that it is turned on. For the rest, ask Goldstein.”

  Waiting was not easy for any of them other than Heinrich who fell quietly asleep in the rear of the car. Tony felt a preliminary rumble of hunger in his stomach, he had been eating an awful lot in Mexico, must be the altitude, so he went to a nearby restaurant and bought a bag of sandwiches. They were received with little enthusiasm by the others, yet were still eaten. The repairs were finished and the bill discussed in detail, then paid, Heinrich slept on, snoring quietly; a truck pulled up in the street blocking the driveway, panaderia la aquila, the ornate lettering on the side read, decorated with a colorful portrait of the eagle himself bearing off a great loaf of bread in his talons as he would a lamb. Goldstein climbed down from the front seat.

  “Well, gentlemen,” he said to the hard-eyed men who slowly surrounded him, “I guess introductions are in order, but first let me guess. Tony I know, a nice boy. You must be Sones, the man in charge. And you are probably Stocker of the Treasury. That was a good job you did on those two gentlemen in the Liberia exchange.”

  “Ah had no choice, the little one went for his gun.”

  “Enough of this,” Sones said. “Are you tracking the car in question?”

  “Why should I tell you?” Hands flashed to hidden weapons, “Now don’t get me wrong, trouble I am not looking for. What 1 am looking for is the truth, a rare commodity in our chosen field of endeavor. Then we cooperate. We are interested in the same people but for different reasons. If we work together we all make out. If you will tell me everything that has happened so far, be frank since I know a good deal of it already, I will be happy to tell you all I know, and aid you in finding the car and its occupants.”

  They all looked at Sones who was grinding his teeth again, weighing all the factors.

  “A million dollars,” Tony said, just as a gentle reminder.

  “All right. We will do it.”

  “A wise decision. The radio equipment is in the truck. We triangulated from Mexico City and from here. The car is to the south, at least sixty miles away, and still moving. Either on 95D or the old road to Taxco.”

  “Schultz, start the car.”

  “A moment please. I suggest that your car follow behind the truck with the detection gear. I also suggest that my associate Heinrich be permitted to leave now. This is not his kind of operation. Then I can travel with you and we can chat.”

  “The Russian girl is in our car.”

  “No problem, she can travel in the truck so we can enjoy absolute candor in our conversation.”

  “Stay with her, Hawkin. Keep an eye on her.”

  The seating arrangements were getting complicated with much changing about and slammin
g of doors. Heinrich went by, yawning, and Tony waved.

  “Good luck. I hope you’ll be teaching again soon.”

  “And the same to you. You and I, both. Even the Arabs will look good after some of these people. My students should only know. They think I’m on a sabbatical at MIT. Hah!”

  Tony helped Lizveta Zlotnikova into the truck, still carrying the painting, and she stopped dead. “You!” she shouted.

  Nahum, the sabra agent, looked up from the radio apparatus and

  smiled, waving them toward the bench. “Get comfortable. The car we follow is still moving. Dobriy vyechyer, tovarisch oche chornyia?

  “Svinya!” Lizveta Zlotnikova hissed in return. “What is this about? Who are these people? What is happening?”

  “Patience, patience,” Tony said, suddenly weary, sitting down and taking the painting from her. “You know, it is still not obvious this is a forgery. Not to a quick examination with all this dirt on it The brushwork—”

  “Ignore the brushwork.” She hurled a last daggerlike glance at the smiling Israeli, then stabbed a finger at the painting. “It is stamped forgery all over. These fly specks, coffee grounds. The stained canvas, tea. It is more like a cheap menu than a painting,” She lurched against him, a gentle collision, as the truck started.

  Very quickly excitement gave way to fatigue; it had indeed been a long and trying day, and even thoughts of the million dollars could not keep Tony awake. He found his head falling onto Lizveta Zlotnikova’s shoulder, she made no protests, where he dozed fitfully. There were stops and starts and shouted instructions that woke him, and after that a continuous run that lulled him deeply asleep. It wasn’t until light poured in through the open rear door that he woke again, blinking and chomping, slowly becoming aware that he was sweetly entangled with Lizveta Zlotnikova who was still asleep.

  “A pleasant rest, I hope?” Jacob Goldstein said from the doorway.

  “Where are we?” Tony asked, looking out at dawn haze and green trees with the sun just glancing through the tops of them.

  “We’ll be coming into Acapulco soon. Your friend Sones, and very agreeable he is once he relaxes, would like to see you. Anything new, Nahum?”