Гарри Гаррисон - Montezuma’s Revenge

She drew herself up, jetting twin streams of angry smoke from her nostrils.

“You insult! To save this beautiful painting I would not mind to die. But he said he would shoot the painting first, then shoot me. I said I had no choice.”

Sones chewed at his lower lip, considering this. Billy Schultz returned and squeaked, “He got away.” Both men became aware of their guns at the same time and slid them out of sight, acknowledging at least temporary defeat.

“I think she is telling the truth,” Tony said. “Anyway, I recognized the man outside.”

Sones’s fingers twitched toward his gun again, then dropped reluctantly away. “You would not happen to care to tell me who it was—no, wait. Come with me.”

As he drew Tony into the next room he gave a quick nod to the other agent while jerking his thumb in Lizveta Zlotnikova’s direction. Schultz nodded in return and remained behind with the girl. Sones carefully closed the door before resuming the questioning, waiting impatiently while Tony replaced his spilled drink and sank back into the chair.

“I only had a glimpse, mind you, but I should remember the man. His name is Nahan, Nahum, something like that. He’s a sabra, works with Goldstein.”

“How do you know this?” Most suspiciously.

“How do I know this? You know how I know this!” Fatigue, alcohol, and the waning echoes of the morning’s hang-over were taking their toll. “He was one of the men who grabbed me, very likely the one who hit me on the head. A toughie. Worked me over until Goldstein stopped him, then he dumped me back at the hotel. I have good reason to remember him.”

“What would he want with the painting?”

“Nothing, that’s the strange part. I told you, Goldstein is interested in Hochhande, whoever or whatever that is, I told you all about that. His men grabbed me by mistake, thinking I was Kurt Robl. He knew all about the painting deal, I didn’t have to tell him. He’s a Nazi hunter, not a painting thief.”

“He did steal the painting though—unless this man did it on his own.”

“No, I don’t think so. These people have other things on their minds. Goldstein wants something from us, that’s obvious. He is using the Cellini as a tool for bargaining. Get in touch with him and ask him. The phone’s right over there.”

“Security matters are not transacted on the public telephone. Someone will have to contact Goldstein, you are correct in that. 1 am heading this operation now, I cannot expose myself. This is not Schultz’s line of work. The contact is up to you.”

“Not me! The instant I show up in Mexico City the police grab onto me and that is the end of that. Have you forgotten the murder charge?”

“There are ways of getting around that.” He looked at his watch. “The operation is on for oh-eight-hundred in the morning. Get some sleep now, there is another bedroom through there. 1 want to talk to the girl some more.”

Tony downed the rest of the drink and went looking for the bed. Sleep, now that was a very good idea. They couldn’t force him to go into the city, that would be suicide, tell them that in the morning. But sleep first. He was dragging his clothes off as he thought this, falling backward with great pleasure into the bed, asleep as his head hit the pillow.

Waking up, it seemed like only instants later. The imperative hand of Sones was on his shoulder, dragging him back up to the surface from the deep pleasures of unconsciousness. Light burned in through the open window, loud birds called outside. His watch, when he had blinked enough sleep from his eyes to make it out, read seven o’clock.

“Eat your breakfast. You have ten minutes.”

He went out and Tony looked blearily at what appeared easily to be a one-hour breakfast. Pot of coffee, halved rolls backed with layered beans and cheese, eggs in hot green chili sauce, napkin-wrapped steaming tortillas, guava, melon, orange juice, too much. Though he should eat a little. He ate a lot, making up for a number of missed meals, meals drunk instead of ate. The breakfast demolished, he showered, shaved, dressed and emerged feeling much, much better, ready to tell Sones that he would not go into Mexico City.

“You will be disguised, no one will recognize you. You told me you speak Spanish. Well enough you think to pass as a Mexican instead of an American?”

“Possibly.” Sones should only know.

“It had better be positively. This part of the operation cannot fail or everything is down the drain. That painting has to be back here by six tonight. D’Isernia will contact me then with the final arrangements. Let me have the photograph, Schultz.”

The agent had opened a large suitcase that contained nothing but boxes and drawers. From one of these he took out a photographic print which he handed to Sones. Tony looked over his shoulder at a picture of himself, a candid snap, slightly downshot, very clear.

“Where did you get that?” he asked.

“The same place everyone else did, from the Chinese. This is the pic the police have. We have to change your appearance as much as possible from this. Being Mexican I think we can use the mustache gambit, don’t you think so, Schultz?”

“Yes, sir,” he piped in cheerful response, pulling out a drawer like a hairy nest. “Something thin and dark, not unlike yours.”

“Mine is an American mustache. We want a foreign one for him.”

“What do you mean Chinese?” Tony broke in. “What have they got to do with this?”

“They have an agent here, he lives right across from the Coronel Glanders Mississippi Fried Chicken place. He takes pictures of everyone who goes in there. A lot of people are interested in the CIA operation. He sells to whoever wants. We buy a lot from him. That is why you should not have gone near the place.”

“I’m afraid they polished off Davidson before he could tell me that. This is the photo the police have? And the Israelis, the Italians—everyone else? I’m surprised the People’s Republic of China would sell to them and us as well.”

“Not them, the other lot, Taiwan. They are always interested in what the CIA is doing. Here, try this on.”

It was too shaggy. However, there were many more and eventually Billy came up with one that matched Tony’s hair and had enough of a droop to the ends to satisfy Sones’s nationalistic preconceptions. With this essential prop in place Billy, who appeared to be a skilled disguise artist, took care of the further transformation. Adroitly applied pencil accentuated the lines around his mouth; inserted pads held in place by stickum changed the shape of his cheeks and lips.

“Taste funny,” Tony said, mufrledly.

“You’ll get used to them in no time at all. Now let me use this hot comb to bulk your hair up, change its shape, then put on a nice oily dressing.”

“You’re not overdoing it?”

“Not a bit. You just relax and wait and see.”

It had to be admitted that the final result was not bad, not bad at all. Tony admired the stranger in the full-length mirror. B pointy shoes, the kind he would never wear, full-kneed pinstriped trousers draped over a full, middle-class stomach—courtesy of a hotel pillow taped about his waist. One of Sones’s acetate sport shirts of a subtle dayglo orange, green “RS” initials on the pocket. A different face stared back, full-cheeked and oiled-haired, nostrils opened by ring inserts, a stranger’s smile emblazoned with two gold teeth, eyes hidden behind silver-mirrored sunglasses, the case for same at his belt.

“All right, listen closely, here are your instructions.” Tony felt a sudden rising panic. Everyone assumed he was going and it was too late now to file his protest. Sones handed him a piece of paper. “Walk out the front gate here. There is a car and driver waiting, this is the license plate number. Get in and tell him to take you to Mexico City. Don’t give him this address until after you are there. This last number is the phone you can reach the driver at when you want him to pick you up. Memorize this information now and wash the paper down the sink, it dissolves on contact with water.”