Гарри Гаррисон - Montezuma’s Revenge

It was here that Tony decided that he had had enough of this rustic form of travel. Not to complain, he had had many interesting conversations, shared more than one bottle and enjoyed some excellent home cooking in exchange. But his feet hurt and his fundament had been battered into black and blue surrender; these vehicles were never intended for extended voyaging. Surely there could be no police here on the alert for him. In any case they would be watching the cars and the first-class buses, if at all, while the second-class buses were comfortable and speedy enough. Since the Cuernavaca bus he wanted did not leave for an hour he strolled through the market until it was time to depart. This gave him the opportunity to make a few purchases, a razor and ancillary equipment, a large red handkerchief, a paperback book of witch’s dream analysis that promised frightening insights, a pack of cigarettes, a box of wax matches, and finally a plastic airline bag to hold everything. It was in good condition, hardly used at all, and he wondered what chain of circumstances had brought this memento of the Czechoslovakian State Airlines to such a remote corner of Mexico. Perhaps it was best not to know, even the dream book said that there were many mysteries for which answers should not be sought. When the bus pulled out he had a cozy window seat and was deeply involved in the true meaning, at last, of snakes and umbrellas in the same dream.

This was a time-consuming, though secure, way to travel. After Cuernavaca he continued on the local bus to Cuautla which let him off at the little village of Cocoyoc just after midnight. The town itself dozed, a solitary light in front of a bar under which sat a single man in a chair, drinking alone, but the Hacienda Cocoyoc blazed welcoming beacons a short way down a side road. Antonio the peasant walked with shuffling pace toward it, at least until he was out of possible sight of any watchers in the village. This was irrigated farm land and the road crossed the dark waters of a canal on a bridge, under which he took refuge, beside the canal, from where, a short time later, the gringo tourist Tony emerged. Feet clean and squelching in the damp sandals, the peasant outfit, cane knife, and painting all in the airline bag. Shoulders back lie marched with firm pace toward the ornate iron arch of the entrance and received the salute of the guard there with an airy wave of his hand.

Inside was luxury. The modern hotel had been built in and around the ancient sugar hacienda, a venerable array of thick-walled buildings dating back to the sixteenth century. Arched aqueducts still carried whispering water through the grounds, hidden lights played on purple-blossomed jacaranda trees backdropped by the dark stones of the walls. Tony took a path that led off through the smooth grass and airborne perfume of the gardens, away from the main building. For most of the day, as his transportation carried him closer to Mexico Gty—now just fifty miles away—he had become more and more conscious of the police and the grim fate they wanted to apply to him. Even in his pastoral guise he had rolled his eyes suspiciously at every badged officer and now, Yankee once again, he walked in no small amount of fear. Even the thought of bright-lit lobbies and argus-eyed clerks gave him the shakes. Sones had said they would be in casita seven, whatever that was, so he began prowling the extensive and complicated grounds, peering at indistinct numbers on doorways. The inevitable happened and, while lighting a match to read a gnomic inscription, a uniformed figure came around the corner.

“May I help you, sir?” the man said.

A hot rush of fear was allayed slightly when Tony realized that the uniform was one of hotel service, not of the law, and he swayed forward again, having leaned backward at the sudden startling appearance. The match burned his fingers and he dropped it with a muffled oath. His inquisitor waited. Sway and mumble brought quick memories of the previous night’s condition and he simulated it now in instant disguise.

“Can’t find room—went to zha bar and can’t get back. Want to find cazhetta number seven.” Another sway to add verisimilitude to the words.

“If you will be so kind as to follow me.”

Well trained, thou good and faithful servant; he trod in the other’s footsteps and dug out peso notes to overtip him when they reached a small building with a gilt seven under an iron-caged bulb. Money rustled, thanks were murmured, and he tried the knob with his face carefully turned from the light. The door was thankfully unlocked and he pushed through into the darkness beyond, closed it and fumbled at the wall looking for a light switch. As he did this something very hard was pushed deep into his side and an even harder, high-pitched voice hissed in his ear.

“Move or even twitch and you are a dead man.”

With a great effort he controlled the tendency to leap into the air generated by this shocking suggestion and stood stock-still instead. The hard object ground deeper into his kidney and the voice, apparently satisfied by his response, spoke again, this time calling out shrilly.

“All right, open up.”

The response was immediate. The inside door to the entrance hall was thrown wide and lights blazed. Tony blinked at them, then, through slitted eyes, looked at his captor. The hard object was a gun as he had suspected, a very large, blue-black, and deadly looking device. The young man who held it, while pink not blue-black, looked just as deadly, freckled, blank-faced redhead with his block-shaped head sat squarely on a weight-lifter’s thick neck of columnar muscle. Equally large muscles bulged his shirt and rose in corded knots from his forearm to thicken at his wrist: If he squeezed the trigger it appeared he would crush the gun like licorice.

“Put it away, Schultz, he is all right,” a familiar voice said. FBI agent Ross Sones rose from behind an overstuffed chair and holstered an equally impressive hand weapon.

“I thought you were expecting me?” Tony asked, angry now.

“Never hurts to take precautions. Agent Schultz, this is Agent Hawkin.”

“Name’s Billy,” Schultz said in his surprisingly tiny voice while extending a bulging and deadly looking hand. Tony took it gingerly, expecting to have his pulped, and it was like squeezing a log of wood. “You must be the Tony Hawkin we have been hearing so much about back in the Bureau.”

“I suppose I must be,” Tony answered, suddenly very tired. He dropped gratefully into the soft chair as Sones sidled out from behind it, letting his airline bag slide to the floor. Sones looked down at it.

“Is the Cellini painting there?”

“It is. Make me a drink, large scotch and soda, plenty of ice, and I’ll dig it out for you.”

They exchanged favors, each more happy to receive than to give. Sones unwrapped the box while Tony drank deep.

“And don’t think it was easy bringing that thing here.”

“I am sure that it was not. How did you manage to get by the police?”

“Professional secret. What is more important at this moment is how are you going to get this to Washington, get the authenticity checked, then have it back here in time to deliver to D’Isernia by tomorrow night?”

“Have you been drinking? I told you in Acapulco that we were getting a specialist down here.”

“Yes, of course, forgot in the rush of events.” Forgot in the rush of drink was more truthful. Sones was pretty close to the target there; the entire evening still had a number of blank spots.

Sones carefully took the painting from the box and held it to the light, with Billy looking over his shoulder.

“Simply amazing color,” the muscular agent said in his tiny voice.

“And what are the other arrangements?” Tony finished the last of the drink, gratefully, and chewed an ice cube.