Montezuma's Revenge

by Harry Harrison

  The Israeli shook his head. “On the road ahead, strong signal.” He had been at the set all night yet was as wide awake and alert as ever.

  Tony disentangled the long blond hair from the buttons of his shirt and slipped from the enjoyable embrace. Yawning and Stretching himself awake he walked back to the Cadillac, which

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  was parked on the shoulder of the road behind them. To his left, beyond the row of painted white stones that inadequately took the place of a guardrail, the hillside fell away in jungled curves to a distant river and the roofs of a habitation, morning fires sending up thin vertical columns of smoke. Three pairs of bloodshot eyes stared back at him from the shaded interior of the car.

  “Take the wheel, Hawkin,” Sones ordered. “Schultz is bushed.”

  “Othuh car still there?”

  “Right ahead, signal loud and clear.”

  Billy Schultz slid over, folded his arms, closed his eyes, and instantly went to sleep. Tony started the engine and pulled out when the truck moved away. There was silence from the back seat, either from sleep or sorrow, and Tony didn’t try to find out. He was still only half awake himself and needed all that const fraction of his consciousness for the road ahead, fiendishly snakelike, twisting and turning, with occasional rocks that had fallen from the cliffs above during the night.

  Coming around a blind hairpin turn he saw the truck ahead, stopped dead in the road before him. He stabbed the brakes in instant fear, locking them, skidding with a great shrieking of peeled-off rubber to collide lightly with the rear of the truck. There were muffled curses from the back seat, but before they could be amplified the back door of the truck swung open and Goldstein stuck his head out.

  “The radio signal has gone dead,” he called out. “Completely dead. I think we have lost them.”

  Fifteen

  Tony went in alone, carrying the forged painting, while the others waited outside in the car. The waiter, who had been indifferently sweeping the floor when he entered, took one look at him and instantly vanished into the kitchen. Very quickly a number of men, in shirtsleeves and bearing guns, rushed in and took up various positions of vantage around the dining room, behind chairs and tables, one to each side of the entrance, all of them giving him dark angry looks. When they were in position, Timberio himself appeared, unshaven and angry, his suspenders hanging from his waist, his collarless striped shirt looking as though it had been slept in. He placed his knuckles on the table and looked over Tony.

  “You are in very bad trouble now, you know that,” he said, his breath rich with overtones of garlic and last evening’s meal.

  “I’m sorry if I caused you any trouble, Timberio, and I admit that I was wrong—”

  “Trouble and money, stealing Italian national treasures.”

  “Let me talk, please. You’ll get the money back, and let us not forget as well that you have my wallet with all my papers, as well as my airline ticket.”

  “They are being held to insure your good faith, and will be returned when the thousand pesos is returned.”

  “All right, fine, you’ll get the money, I promise, I just don’t have it on me at the moment. But there is something more important. Here is the Da Vinci ‘Battle of Anghiari.’ It’s a forgery.”

  “What is this all about?” Timberio examined the painting, eyes wide, fingering the cut corner. “A fake.”

  “Absolutely. I have an expert to prove it if you are in any doubt. I don’t know where the real painting is, but the men who do know are right here in Acapulco now. And they have the Cellini ‘San’ Sebastiano’ with them as well. Now will you listen?”

  “I listen, I listen. But the story should better be better than last time.”

  “I give you my word, and my boss’s word too, and I had some job convincing him that we should let you in on this. But it’s either you or the police!”

  “No police!”

  “That’s just what he said, in the same tone of voice too. We’re on the same side now, working together to get the paintings back for Italy, that he agreed on. You can have them. These people have something else of ours, a little bit of money in a bag, ha-ha.5’

  “Start from the beginning, tell everything, you are confusing me.”

  “The beginning you know. A man by the name of D’Isernia offered to sell the two paintings.”

  “Carlo D’Isernia? He is wanted in Italy on a number of charges.”

  “Look, if you are going to interrupt, how can I tell it? And do you think I could get a cup of coffee? Something spooked D’Isernia and he moved the operation to Mexico. Then it turns out that a Kurt Robl is involved. I was given the Cellini painting—as yon know—to test for authenticity. It’s real. But we had to return it to finalize the arrangements. Then came the exchange when we paid over a small deposit in cash for the Da Vinci. By the time we found out this was a fake the others were gone, but we traced them here by the hidden transmitter that was attached to their car.”

  “Someone was showing good sense.”

  Tony refrained from telling just whose good sense it was and sipped at the bitter brew of the black cup of espresso that had been placed by his elbow; grimaced and poured a number of spoonfuls of sugar into it. “It made sense all right and we followed them this far, but the transmitter conked out. Not an hour ago. That’s why we need help. We’re short of manpower and people who know the city.”

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  “And just who, might I ask, are the ive you talk about?”

  “Well, the FBI, and then there’s the U. S. Treasury Department.”

  “No CIA?”

  “Not now. They were in the deal but there was trouble along the line and they sort of vanished. But the Israelis are helping.”

  “Not Jacob Goldstein and his bunch?”

  “Yes, do you know them?”

  “You should have told me this earlier. Jacob and I have a number of interests in common. Where are all these people?”

  “In the car, outside.”

  “Get them in and we’ll talk.”

  He shouted something very fast in Italian and the guns vanished. Tony went for the others and in a few minutes they were sitting around the table drinking the powerful coffee and were watching Timberio and Goldstein embracing and slapping each other on the back.

  “Now to work,” Timberio said, joining the Americans at the table. “How many people you looking for, who are they, what kind of a car?”

  “A black Packard,” Sones said. “Three men. Carlo D’Isernia, Kurt Robl, Adolf Hitler.”

  Timberio’s eyebrows climbed up higher and higher and his hand dropped casually toward his pocket; Sones and Stocker dropped theirs as well.

  “Patience,” Goldstein said. “Before we get started let’s not finish. This fake Hitler is a real Jakob Platz whom we know about. So let’s continue. We followed them here, then lost them. My man Nahum is at the airport in case they are thinking of leaving that way. He’s a good boy and he can stop them, so we have plugged one hole. How else can they get out of town?”

  “Back the way you came?”

  “The truck and driver are there keeping an eye on that. We’re in touch by radio.”

  “South on the coast road to nowhere, a couple of villages and the road ends. North, there’s a good road to Zihuatanejo and there’s an airfield there where I happen to have a man working. He’ll be

  alerted. And then, of course, you got the port and the whole Pacific Ocean waiting outside of it.”

  “My thought exactly,” Sones said, sipping at the coffee and grimacing. “If it was just an airfield they wanted they could have been at the Mexico City one in less than an hour after the exchange and clear out of the country by now. But they did not go there. Instead they drove all night, something one does not do in Mexico without a good reason, to come to Acapulco. Now what does this tell us? It tells us that they were in a hurry—they drove all night. It tells us they wanted to be in a seaport. These two t
ogether tell us that they wanted to be in a seaport by a certain time which in turn tells us that they are here to meet a ship which is leaving.” He smiled to himself in frank praise of his clear-cut logic, “So the next question is—which ship is leaving today and that is the one they are on?”

  “None,” Timberio said, one hand over his mouth as he wielded a toothpick with the other. “No ships due to leave for the next three days.” Sones’s smile vanished and the scowl returned.

  “Enough theory,” Goldstein said, rapping on the table as tin to bring them to order. “Grab them first, theorize afterward. Let us find the car and then we will find these crooks. Can you do this, Timberio?”

  “Easily enough. Do I get the Cellini painting when we grab them?”

  “Free and clear,” Sones said, resigned now. “Though we would like a statement that it was returned with the aid of the American Government. The FBI should be mentioned.”

  “And the Treasury.”

  “That’s fine by me, boys.” He sent a cold glance in Tony’s direction. “There is also the matter of some thousand pesos that Hawkin owes me.”

  “That is between you two,” Sones said. “This operation is way over budget already.”

  “You’ll get it,” Tony said. “I promise, cross my heart.”

  “You had better.” Timberio looked skeptically at Goldstein. “And are you doing all this out of kind generosity, Jacob?”

  “Hardly. I am very interested in Kurt Robl and his associates. I am looking forward to a good chat with him.”

  “As far as I am concerned he is all yours. If the others agree?”

  Sones waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal. “Just thu money/’ Stocker said.

  “Then we are agreed. My men will leave. There is the Lambretta agency next door, we operate from there. If you will excuse me.”

  As he turned to issue his orders there was a scuffle at the door and at least twenty revolvers sprang into sight upon the instant, trained upon the opening. A tall, leathery man in a slightly askew black wig was pushed through the door, arms pinioned behind him by Billy Schultz.

  “Snooping around outside,” Billy said.

  “Tell this fool to let me go—oww!” He writhed as Billy gave a twitch at his imprisoned arms. Sones looked at him distastefully and shook his head in apparent disgust.

  “We do not need you here, Higginson. Let him go, Schultz. He wants to leave.”

  “No, I don’t, Sones, not on your life.” He brushed his crumpled sleeves and straightened his tie. “This is a CIA job, out of the country, not FBI. Your jurisdiction ends at the border.”

  “My jurisdiction ends where I say it does. Out. That is the door behind you.”

  There was the sharp cascading roar of motors from beyond this mentioned door and an instant later a small fleet of Lambretta motor scooters zipped by, the wasplike buzz of their engines drowning all conversation until they had passed.

  “There is nothing you can do to stop me, Sones. You may not remember, but this is a joint operation. We work together. You can use my help.”

  “The kind of help you gave me?” Tony asked, quite bitter.

  “Accidents happen, Hawkin, you can’t blame me.”

  “I certainly can …”

  “Gentlemen,” Goldstein interrupted. “There is room enough for everyone in this game. Sit, Higginson, sit. You wouldn’t mind if I asked you how you got here?”

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  “Followed you. Been onto you ever since you knocked Hawkin on the head outside my place.”

  “A regrettable error over which I have lost sleep …”

  The phone rang, long and stridently and the room fell every eye on Timberio as he hurried over and lifted the receiver.

  “Pronto” He listened briefly, dropped it back into place and turned about, smiling quietly. “That was one of my men. He has seen the car. Going past the bull ring.”

  “Where is that?” more than one voice asked.

  Timberio issued more shouted orders, then dug th tered sideboard until he found a map of the city, rattled it open and jabbed his finger on the northern end.

  “The bull ring is here. You will notice that this city is spread along the shores of a fish-hook-shaped bay, the point of wiiich curls up to the right in the form of a peninsula. If the car continues onto the point of the hook it is trapped, for there is no way out. Except by sea, of course there are numerous private docks along the harbor side. If they do not go onto the peninsula there are only two other roads they can take. This one here that continues on a few miles to the small resort of Pie de la Cuesta, but it ends at the Army air base there so they can go no farther. But here, at this turnoff, begins the road to Zihuatanejo and the north.”

  “Do you have a man at this junction?” Higginson asked.

  “But of course. Yesterday I was born not.”

  “What if they change cars?” Tony asked, and instantly regretted it as he received a number of cold looks. Timberio shrugged broadly.

  “We must hope they do not. In any case I have my men | to auto rental agencies and monitoring the police frequencies to note stolen cars. We are doing all that we can. I have men also here on the docks to observe any attempt to leave by sea.” Tony followed the pointing finger and had an instant vision of those docks, of embarking there for his scuba diving tour, of later swimming among the moored boats.

  “These power boats that are moored here. What do they do?” lie asked.

  “Fishing, deep-sea fishing for the tourists, and after sailfish for the most part.”

  “How far out do they go?”

  “Fifty, a hundred miles, depends where the fish are.”

  Then, in that moment, it all became very clear to Tony. The parts fell into place with a sharp click and he knew exactly what the fleeing confidence men had in mind.

  “Look, listen,” he said with rising excitement, pulling the map to him. “Let us just try to think like these crooks we are after. They pull a con deal and race away, in a big rush so we can’t grab them and get our money back. But once they are in the clear they are in no hurry, or they should be in no hurry. They could just go into hiding and we would never be able to find them. But they keep driving, all night, in a country where night driving is very dangerous. We have ruled a plane out, there is no particular need to go to Acapulco to find an airport. But they do come here, moving very fast, although up until the time they arrive they have no idea they are being followed. Acapulco is a dead end as far as roads go, you have to leave by either air or sea unless you retrace your steps. Air is out—”

  “And so is the sea,” Sones said. “There are no ships leaving.”

  “Just a moment, hear me out. Look, here is the city and here is the entire Pacific Ocean, filled with ships for all we know. What is to prevent a freighter from stopping outside the territorial limit here and picking up people from a boat? International waters, no laws broken. And these big fishing boats can get out there and back without trouble.”

  “It is possible but …”

  “It’s the only thing possible. But listen, plans must change, there is an alarm, they find the radio, they know they are being followed. But they are pros, they don’t panic. They change cars. They do not board the boat in the harbor because they do not know how many eyes are watching, but arrange to be picked up away from the city. To the north perhaps?”

  “No,” Timberio said, “wrong kind of coast.”

  “Then to the south. A secluded inlet, a quick boarding, off to

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  sea, no witnesses, no one the wiser. They get clear away. What do you think?”

  “Hogwash,” Sones grunted, in a hoggish manner. “Just empty theory.”

  “But if it’s true we have to move fast. If we don’t act now and head south and search the coast it may just be too late.”

  “We cannot scatter our forces. We hole here until we have further information.”

  “Makes sense to me,” Higginson said, tugging contemplatingly at
his wattled neck. “I think your contract man may be right, Sones.”

  “I did not kill …”

  “We hold here.”

  “Your choice. But I don’t see why I can’t just mosey along up there and see what is going on.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Tony said, instantly.

  “Me too,” Stocker added.

  Sones looked back and forth from one of them to the other, eyes red with suspicion. “This is a combined operation and leave us not forget that. Schultz, you go with them as well.”

  “Take one of these,” Timberio said, digging two civilian band handy-talky radios out of the cupboard. “Let us know if you find anything. We will call you about developments at this end.”

  “What is happening?” Lizveta Zlotnikova called out from the Cadillac as they passed. “I am told nothing.”

  “No time,” Tony called back. “In the restaurant, ask them.”

  The bright red Lincoln Continental was parked around the ner. It had a portrait of a bearded octogenarian painted on the door and was labeled in gold leaf coronel glanders Mississippi fried chicken. The engine surged to life under Higginson’s touch when they climbed in, then squealed about in a sharp turn and headed north.

  “There’s the sign,” Tony called out, “to highway 200.”

  They climbed up out of the port and through the reside areas on the hillside; children looking up from their play at the roadside and gaping at the great red form that hurtled through

  their midst. They bobbed through the craterlike potholes and veered onto the better paved highway, then picked up speed.

  “Slow down when we get back to the shore again,” Tony called out.

  Higginson nodded, eyes on the road, the car a carmine thunderbolt hissing around the bends, narrowly missing bullock carts and burro riders. A flicker of emerald blue was visible through the trees off to the left, then a tiny bay with jutting headlands opened up to view.

  “This place looks ideal,” Tony said. “And that looks like a road leading down to the water.” He pointed to the dusty track among the trees.

  “But no boats here,” Billy piped.

  “We’ll go on,” Higginson decided and stamped on the accelerator.