Len Deighton - Mexico Set

She was shouting at Moskvin, but he smiled without even bothering to look back at her. So that was how it had been done. Moskvin had been monitoring the whole thing through Zena. But she wasn't KGB material. There was no need to ask what she was getting out of it; the box of money. Nice going, Moskvin. But if my wife Fiona wasn't behind that notion I'd eat the money bill by bill.

We could hear the footsteps as someone reached the top of the stairs and paused on the landing. 'You promised,' said Zena. She was almost incoherent with anger. 'I love him. I told you.' She stiffened as she recognized their total indifference, and her face had gone livid under the bright make-up.

Neither Moskvin nor his machine-gun man bothered with Zena. Their eyes were on the door where Stinnes was expected any minute.

There is always some damned possibility that lies beyond every probability. Perhaps the only thing I'd never considered was that Zena could be infatuated with Stinnes. There was a strong streak of romanticism in her complex personality, and there was that old Prussian rectitude that made her record every broken teacup in a notebook. Zena would allow Stinnes to be betrayed but not killed.

Ignoring the machine-pistol, Zena flung herself across the room like a human cannon-ball. She collided with the boy, her feet kicking and fingernails gouging. He bent, and almost fell, under the momentum of her attack, and there was a crash as their two bodies smashed against the wall. Trying to defend himself against her fingernails, the boy dropped his machine-gun and tried to grab her hands. An ear-splitting bang echoed round the room as the bullet in the chamber was fired by the impact. But by that time Zena had her nails into the boy's face and he was yelling at her to stop. He was frightened of her, and it was to be heard in his yells. Thus encouraged, she stopped only long enough to grab his long hair and use it to swing his head against a sharp corner of a filing cabinet.

Had Moskvin reached into his pocket for a pistol, or stooped to pick up the machine-gun, he might have regained control. But he used his huge fists. It was the reflex action of a man who'd spent his life throwing his weight around both literally and figuratively. He gave Zena's small body a mighty blow to the kidneys and followed it with a left hand to the side of her head.

The punches landed with sickening force. They took care of little Zena all right. She was only half conscious as she fell to the floor, arms flailing. Then Moskvin could not resist a kick at her. But it took time. There was lots of time, and I pushed my pistol back into my belt as I watched Tiptree bring a small Browning automatic from his pocket and with commendable speed fire two shots at Moskvin. The first bullet went wild – I heard it ricochet and hit a typewriter in the next room – but his second bullet hit Moskvin in the leg. Moskvin stopped kicking Zena and screamed. I guessed he was an amateur. Now he demonstrated the way in which an amateur is efficient only while all goes well for him. Once injured, Moskvin lost interest in killing Stinnes. He lost interest in the money. He lost interest in the boy who'd had his face shredded by Zena's nails and his cranium gashed on the sharp corner of the filing cabinet. He even lost interest in the machine-pistol on the floor.

The Mexicans all remained very still, hands on heads and their faces impassive. I put my hands back on my head too. There was no sense in getting killed, but I got ready for the aftermath by stepping slowly to one side so that I could plant my foot on the machine-pistol. That was the trump card.

Moskvin fell back on to a chair and pressed his palm against the copious bleeding. He nursed his pain and wanted everything to stop. He clamped his hands to his wounded leg and crooned and wept with the pain of it. The pain could not have been very great but he was frightened. He'd probably convinced himself he was going to die. Even people hardened to the sight of blood can be very deeply affected by a glimpse of their own.

Now Tiptree found time enough to look around to see where I'd gone. 'Open the door,' he told me, with a superiority that bordered on contempt. 'And take your hands off your head. It's all over.' When I didn't move fast enough, he looked down to where I had my foot on the machine-pistol and said, 'Oh, you've got that, have you? Good.'

Loudly Moskvin said, 'I must go to hospital. I'm bleeding to death.'

'Shut up,' I said.

Despite the changed situation, the Mexicans kept their hands on their heads. They were taking no chances. I picked up the machine-gun, went to the door and slid back the hatch, expecting to see Stinnes. Instead, a small child whispered, 'I have a message. It is only for Senor Samson.'

'I'm Senor Samson,' I said.

The child looked at me for a long time before deciding to confide his very guarded message. He whispered, 'Your friend is waiting for you at the place you arranged.'

'Thank you,' I said.

'You are to give me one hundred pesos,' said the child. Stinnes knew how to get his messages delivered. I passed a note through the hatch to him, and then closed it.

'I must go to hospital,' said Moskvin. His voice became lower and more forceful as a little of his confidence returned to him.

'If he says another word about anything, shoot him,' I told Tiptree in English. They won't ask him questions in the morgue.'

Tiptree nodded solemnly. I think he would have done it too; you never can be sure with enthusiasts like Tiptree.

Moskvin went suddenly quiet. He obviously understood enough English to know what was good for him.

The onetime machine-gunner was sitting on the floor covered in blood. He was only half conscious and his eyes were closed with the pain. He'd discovered that the filing cabinet can be a formidable weapon.

'What's next?' said Tiptree. His voice was shrill. He was excited and over-confident and still waving his pistol around.

'You're staying here to make sure no one leaves until I phone you from you know where.'

'Wait a minute,' said Tiptree, his voice revealing a sudden concern. 'This all has to be sorted out. This Russian shot, the Mexican boy badly hurt and the girl unconscious. The police may come. How do I explain the guns?'

I dialled the freight office at the airport. Werner answered immediately. 'We're ready this end,' he said. 'Is everything all right with you?'

I looked at Zena. There was no point in alarming Werner; there was nothing he could do. 'So far, so good,' I said, and hung up the phone. To Tiptree I said, 'The success of this operation will be measured according to whether we get our man to London; nothing else counts for much. You told me that. London are relying on you, Henry. Don't let them down. I'll get someone to call you at this number to tell when we are safely airborne. Meanwhile keep them here. This is your big chance. They're very dangerous agents.'

'I'll go. You stay,' suggested Tiptree.

'You don't know where I arranged to meet our friend,' I said.

'And you won't tell me,' said Tiptree.

I didn't bother to answer. I looked at them. The stupid peasant Moskvin, with his trouser-cuff rolled up, winding his tie round his leg to stop the bleeding, and frightened for his life. And the onetime machine-gunner, now sitting on the floor groaning, eyes closed, staunching blood from his lacerated face and head with a great handful of paper tissues.

And there was tiny Zena, the astounding little fireball whom I would never understand. How typical that as she began to regain consciousness her fingers were searching out the rips and torn seams in her expensive Paris suit.

Well, even Tiptree should be able to deal with those 'dangerous agents'. But how he'd deal with the police was something I didn't intend to stay long enough to find out.