Гарри Гаррисон - Montezuma’s Revenge

“Just who the hell are you and what do you think you are doing?”

The man nodded in a most friendly manner, a handsome dark-haired man dressed in a conservative brown suit, putting the papers on the table and rising.

“You are of course the Mr. Tony Hawkin of the photo in the passport. My pleasure. I am Ricardo Gonzales y Alvarez and I am a lieutenant of the police.”

“Does being a lieutenant give you the right to enter here and go through my papers without a search warrant?”

“Yes, indeed, it does in Mexico. Particularly when the occupant of the room has been associating with known foreign agents.”

What an understatement—he had met more of them in the few hours he had been in the country than he had Mexicans.

“That is a nasty allegation, Lieutenant, and certainly not true.”

“I fear it is. For a witness we respect, you would call him an informer, tells us that the agent George Higginson came to your room tonight, more than once, and that you left with him.”

“Higginson is not a foreign agent, he’s an American.”

“Mr. Hawkin, please. In this country an American is a foreigner. And the CIA a secret foreign organization. Now I would appreciate your telling me just what your business is with this Higginson. Be brief and more important, be truthful.”

“I don’t have to answer your questions.”

“Of course not. Nor do we have to have you in our country.”

“Yes, there is that, I’m sorry. It has been a long night. Been drinking, no sleep. Drinking, that’s all. Never knew that Higginson was a CIA man, news to me certainly. Friend of my father’s, asked to look him up, that sort of thing.”

Gonzales was not convinced; he pursed his lips and tapped his fingers on the papers. “Yet isn’t it interesting that he is a CIA man and you an FBI agent? A certain suspicion attaches to this relationship, does it not?”

You're fishing, Lieutenant. You know something is going on but not what it is. “Not really. Washington is populated almost completely by government employees, they know one another, they meet when abroad, it is as simple as that. And, if you have gone through my papers as well as you seem to, you will have discovered that I am not an FBI agent but an employee of the agency who runs a souvenir stand there. Will that be all?”

“For the moment.” Gonzales stood up and started for the door. “Just one other question. Where is your roommate, Mr. Davidson?”

Tony had been waiting for this question and was not put off by the casual approach. “I’m sure I don’t know.” True enough! “He is a grown man and undoubtedly can take care of himself. We are just casual acquaintances and sharing the room for economy’s sake. We both have separate plans for our vacation, I assure you.”

Lieutenant Gonzales looked into his eyes for a long, silent moment before nodding slowly. “That will be all for now, Mr. Hawkin. I will perhaps be seeing you again. For your own sake I hope you are involved in nothing that is in violation of our Mexican laws.”

“Good night, Lieutenant.”

That was that. At least for the moment. Tony discovered that his hand had a distinct shake to it when he locked and bolted the door. The thought of a scotch whiskey loomed large as a trembler killer. He poured one, a healthy one, drained most of it, then slipped off his jacket and went to the closet to hang it up. Fatigue was clutching at him.

The man who stared back at him from inside the closet was holding a pointed gun in his hand.

“Now we can have our talk, Signore Hawkin,” he said.

There was very little Tony could do other than stand and gape, for this encounter was the absolutely final straw, the nightcap to an evening that he would be having bad dreams about for the rest of his life. It was too much. He was too exhausted, too shocked to even be frightened at this point and even had to struggle slightly to hold back what might prove to be an hysterical giggle. There was nothing he could say, nothing he could do; he stood there in a state of semi-paralysis with his eyes wide and round as saucers.

“That is very wise,” the man said, emerging from the closet, circling warily around Tony who turned his head to watch. He was an individual of advanced middle age with flowing white hair and neatly trimmed white beard and mustache, dressed in a green suit of impeccable cut, wearing a waistcoat under it that appeared to be made of hand-done brocade. His shoes were highly polished as was the nickel-plated barrel of the gun in his hand. Carefully, from behind, he patted Tony quickly and professionally to see if he was armed. Apparently satisfied, he seated himself in the armchair so recently vacated by the police lieutenant and waved Tony toward the couch.

“Please, accommodate yourself, Signore Hawkin, so we can have a nice chat.”

“Would you mind if I asked just who the hell you are?” Tony dropped heavily onto the couch well aware of the unwinking eye of the muzzle still trained upon him.

“Of course. My name is Carlo D’Isernia. You know of me?”

“No.”

“I am surprised. It has been said you are the art authority and it is to be supposed that therefore you have heard of the Sapri altar-piece ... ?”

“Wait, yes of course, you know this is not the first time tonight I’ve played this twenty-question thing. Famous altarpiece, vanished, sold to Oil-rich sheik, famous dealer involved, Italian Government still looking for him, D’Isernia. You?”

“The name. You did remember, that is very nice. I am so sorry you had that little difficulty earlier tonight.”

“So am I. Did you arrange that?”

“Quite the contrary. I was driving the car and was forced to leave when there was a sudden rush of tough young men from an alleyway. My associates feel that this has—what is the expression— blown the operation. But I think differently. I thought we might have a chat so I could determine what did occur. My belief still is that the Americans can produce the correct sum despite tonight’s fiasco.”

“I’ll be happy to tell you—but how do I know you are whom you say you are?” After the events of the night the security bug was beginning to nibble at Tony as well.

“A fair question. I will use a name. Operation Buttercup. It means something to you? And I will show you this.”

He took a photograph from an inside pocket and threw it spinning so it landed near Tony’s feet where he could pick it up. A color print of an unframed painting, leaning against what appeared to be a rock wall. The “Battle of Anghiari.”

“That looks like it all right. If you were in the car you know more about what happened at that point than I do. I was hit on the head. I woke in the back of a restaurant and was questioned thoroughly about art matters by a man named Jacob Goldstein ...”

“ Who?” The gun sagged, forgotten, as D’Isernia leaned forward.

“Goldstein? You know the name? The famous Nazi catcher.”

“I have heard the name before. Continue.” He appeared as calm as ever; Tony knew that he wasn’t.

“He seemed to know more than a bit about this operation and I answered his questions, telling him as little as I could. He seemed satisfied then and they brought me back here.”

“That was all?”

“Just a name that he asked me, I never heard of it before, he told me to remember it and think about it. Hochhande. Does that mean anything to you?”

“Nothing. Well, you seem to have been honest with me, Mr. Hawkin. Perhaps we can resume our business association that was so rudely interrupted. May I presume that if I put my weapon away, you will attempt no violence upon my person?”