Гарри Гаррисон - Montezuma’s Revenge

“There is, but I prefer to get out in the town square.”

“A wise man needs no instructors!”

The driver lifted both hands skyward in a gesture of appreciation irregardless of the fact that the cab then proceeded to slew across the road in the direction of an irrigation ditch, regaining control only at the last instant. In this heartily enthusiastic manner they proceeded to Cuernavaca where Tony paid and tipped again, then sought the solace of the nearest bar for a large brandy. There were some hours yet before he had to be in Cuautla, which necessitated passing the entrance to Cocoyoc again, so prudence dictated that he remain here as long as possible. It was not hard to do. The bartender produced a gratuitous plate of cacahuates picantes, peanuts rolled in red pepper, which did fine things for his thirst necessitating beer as well as brandy to slake the fires below. As the sun crept down toward the mountainous horizon his spirits rose in counterpoint until, when he went to find the Cuautla bus, he was feeling no pain at all. The trip was an easy one, and even had one moment of bittersweet pleasure when they stopped at Cocoyoc and he peeked out at the stir and bustle of police cars from behind the security of Terras Guide to Mexico. Lieutenant Gonzales must be very annoyed.

Cuautla was bursting with people as the siesta ended and the sleepers emerged for the joys of evening. Without much difficulty he located the drugstore of the two volcanoes, early as it proved, leaving more than enough time for another brandy. At six precisely he walked through the wide-open front of the store and addressed himself to the gray-haired woman with the purple birthmark who sat behind the cash register.

“Enterovioform, if you please.”

She coughed moistly in response, took the slim white package from the shelf behind her without rising, then wrapped it in a square of brown paper. “Six pesos, fifty.”

He fumbled for his money, not realizing beforehand that a 1 mate purchase would be involved, paid and left with his regulatory prize. Farther down the street he found a doorway in which he could unwrap the box, nor was he very surprised to find within the paper.

WALK NORTH ON AVENUE FIFTH OF MAY

Since he was already on that street, proceeding in the indicated direction, he continued on his way, pills in pocket, bag in hand, book clamped under arm, feeling that unseen eyes were following his every motion. As indeed they were. Two blocks farther on he crossed a street, sealed off for vehicular traffic by an excava and stacked pipes, where a firm hand seized his arm and an e firmer voice grated in his ear.

“Into that car, schnell!”

As they jumped in, the black Packard pulled out, even before the doors were closed. A neat ploy, anyone following on foot would be left behind, while there was no way for a pursuing car to follow at all. Tony glanced sideway at a familiar bulldog jaw, scarred cheeks, shaven head.

“Is the painting in there?” Robl asked, jerking a thick thumb at the airline bag.

“No. Inside this book. You want to see it?”

His only reply was a negative grunt as the car squealed around a corner and out of the back streets, sped down the highway and across a bridge spanning wide sandy flats cut by a small stream in the middle, then rushed through the outskirts of town. It v faster now through the cornfields, then spun left at a fork where a sign indicated the road to Agua Hedionda. Stinking water? Tony remembered, sulphur baths here, favored spot of the Aztecs, Spanish spa, still valued by the tourists, great curative powers theoretically lurking in their sulphurous depths.

“Nummer?” the driver asked, turning his head to throw the word over his shoulder, as solid-necked and shaved-headed as Robl; only his scars were in different places.

“Dm?’

This information was received with a Teutonic grunt of affirmation and the car passed through the public parking lot of the baths and went on to a smaller lot labeled albercas privadas, clientes solamente, this sign being set next to a high wall pierced with numbered doors. Robl pushed Tony ahead of him when they stopped outside number three, reaching over his shoulder to knock loudly on the door. It opened a crack while a dark eye looked them over, then it swung wide.

Inside was a private swimming pool, rentable by the hour for those who took no pleasure in sharing their bath water with the common masses. It was equably suitable for clandestine meetings. D’Isernia, who had admitted them, slipped his shiny revolver inside the towel he was carrying and sprawled back comfortably on a lounge chair. He was dressed for the occasion in swimming trunks patterned with multichrome seashells; the white hair on his chest and legs matching in quantity that of his full beard and flowing locks.

“Join me, if you please, Signore Hawkin. Many things have happened since we last met. Is the door secured, Kurt? Good. Now, sit here by me. Might I assume that the book you are carrying contains the Cellini painting?”

“Yes. You get it open by prying the front cover, carefully though.”

“Your knife, Kurt.”

Robl produced a large knife from his hip pocket which snicked open wickedly when he pressed a button. With a delicate touch D’Isernia worked the point around the cover until it was free and he could open it. Inside, on a bed of soft cloth, lay the wooden panel of the painting.

“Lovely, simply lovely. I am really quite relieved to see it again, since for a while there I was afraid that it and you were both gone forever. You were not exactly frank at our last meeting, were you, Hawkin?”

“I didn’t hide anything.”

“I beg to differ.” Behind him Robl snorted and smiled coldly. “As our friend here suggests, concealing the fact that you killed your associate Mr. Davidson is more than a little something. Had I known that within hours you would be a fugitive from the police I would never have entrusted this valuable painting to you.”

“Look, I did not kill Davidson, and I wish people would stop thinking that I did.” He took out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead. Though it was almost dark the walled enclosure still held the heat of the day. “And I did return the painting as promised and on time.”

“Wearing the disguise of a Mexican bourgeois? But, that is all beside the point, and the painting is here as I said. My duty is not to enforce the Mexican law and you may decimate your FBI ranks completely with your knife work for all I care. But please wait until our little business deal is completed. While you have been playing your games with the police I have been dealing with your associate, Mr. Sones, and we have agreed upon terms. He will provide a million dollars in used bank notes of v denominations; in exchange for this you will receive the painting of the heroic and historical ‘Battle of Anghiari.’”

“And what about the painting here, the Cellini ‘St. Sebastian'?”

“I will retain possession of it until the other sale is completed. A hostage to good fortune, you might say, just to make sure that nothing goes wrong. Then this will be sold to your government as well. Sones and I are still discussing the price, which shall be high. But the first transaction is what we care about now. Yon will examine the painting to assure your superiors of its authenticity.”

“Did Sones say I should do that?”

“Reluctantly, I assure you. He had another authority he wanted to send instead, a Lizveta Zlotnikova ...”

“Rote Schweine! Kormnunistr Robl banged one hard fist into his open palm angrily, a fine spray of saliva blowing out with every word. “We will not have her.”

“There seems to be some belief in certain quarters that she is a Soviet agent, and we did not feel it would be wise to inform the U.S.S.R. of our activities at the present time. However, we will permit you to take samples of the paint and canvas for her examination. Ours is a straightforward business deal and we take pride in our product and want to have only satisfied customers.”