Гарри Гаррисон - Montezuma’s Revenge

“Hello,” was all he could think of.

“Hello. I received your message.”

“That’s nice.” Would this sort of thing fool a five year old?

“The money is on the way from Washington and will be here in the morning, all used small bills, unmarked, just as they asked.”

“That’s good.”

“I have a room down the hall. Why did you pick this hotel for a rendezvous?”

“I didn’t. They made the reservation for me.”

“What! You did not tell me that in your message. The room must be bugged. We do not want them listening to us. Let me look, aha! there it is, there on the light. I will pull it down.”

He waved to Billy who reached up with a wire cutter and clipped an invisible strand then took something from behind the fixture and handed it down to Sones, who nodded approvingly.

“Swiss, the Steinhager 31, the same kind we use.” The metal button, no bigger than a dime, rested innocently on his palm. “Retail cost three hundred and eighty-seven dollars. We can turn this in, it will look good on the budget. Hawkin, this is Stocker, he is from Treasury.”

“Pleased tuh meet you,” Stocker said, making no effort to rise, to extend his hand or to put his gun away. He was big, solid, suspicious, noncommittal; his pale-blue eyes had no more expression or warmth than those of a lizard.

“Pleased to meet you too.” Tony lowered his half-raised hand. Sones pointed to the suitcase Stocker was using for a chair.

“Treasury always sends their own men on these kind of money transactions, people experienced in handling large sums and taking care of them. Stocker is a specialist. There is a million dollars in bills in that bag.”

“And A’hm keeping an eye on it.”

Stocker smiled, for the first time, wintry as it was, and took a grenade from his pocket and bounced it happily on his palm. So that was why his pockets bulged so! What could possibly be in all the others? Tony took a reflex step backward, not really wanting to know.

“Now here is the drill,” Sones said, once more in command. “Schultz and I are down the hall, in fourteen, we’ve signed in. No one—and I repeat, no one— knows that Stocker is here, nor will they find out about it. Lizveta Zlotnikova is in the room next to ours, fifteen. We are leaving our heavy equipment here and Stocker will stay here with the money.”

“Well, that’s fine by me,” Tony said. “But there is only the single bed.”

“Ah don’t sleep.”

“So that takes care of that. Put a do not disturb sign on the door when we go and leave it there. Even when you go out. If you want to get back into this room, and that goes for all of us, knock twice, wait, once more. When the door opens say, ‘Horsefly.’”

“If yo don’t, yo’re liable to be dead.”

“Right. Any questions?”

“Just one. What happened after I left Cocoyoc? There seemed to be a lot of police around.”

“Lieutenant Gonzales was very annoyed. And that means he is annoyed at us too and keeping an eye on our operation. This is a handicap.”

“Well, you talk like it was my fault! Look, I didn’t kill Davidson, so you can’t blame this on me. That CIA man Higginson is the one caused all the trouble by dropping the body like that.”

“A report will go in on him to his superiors, not that it will do any good. They never listen to what we say. But until the murderer is discovered you are Gonzales’s only suspect. And you have made him angry.”

There was very little that could be answered to that and Tony locked the door behind them with a feeling of intense gloom. In order to dissipate it he called room service and ordered a bottle of Madero brandy and some ice. Stocker followed his every motion with his cold, transparent eyes.

“Have a drink?” Tony asked, pouring the amber painkiller over the ice.

“Ah don’t drink on duty.” He had actually moved to the armchair, but the suitcase was tucked under his legs and he held the gun ready on his lap.

“Well, I’m not on duty, not yet, so if you don’t mind ...”

“Go raht ahead. Ah enjoy a little old panther sweat mahself from time to time.”

Tony retired early, knowing not what the morrow would bring, and sought solace in his panther sweat to help him get to sleep. The brandy worked wonders and he drifted off easily, but woke up a number of times during the night. Whenever he did he could see the dark outline of the Treasury man in the chair, the glint of steel in his hand, a shine of light from his eyes—or was he just imagining that. Sunlight and the ringing of the phone woke him early. He groped for the receiver and a voice growled in his ear.

“The car will be outside in thirty-five minutes. Be there.”

The line went dead before he could answer and he rose, yawning and scratching, to the sight of Stocker still in the chair, watching him as intently as he had the previous evening.

“You really don’t sleep, do you?”

“Ah make up for it ’tween jobs.”

Tony showered and shaved quickly and then, with some reluctance, dressed again in the same clothes that were now beginning to show marked signs of wear, as well as exhibiting a few food and drink stains down the front. But they were good enough for at least one more day, and skulking around with a crooked Italian art dealer and an ex-Nazi could not be called a major social occasion in any case. Stocker was standing by the door, gun ready, as always, in his hand.

“Ah’ll just lock this behind you.”

“See you later. Try to get some sleep.”

The only answer was a wintry, disdainful smile. Tony exited and the lock ground behind him. He needed coffee badly but he had to first tell Sones what was happening. What room had he said he would be in? Fourteen? Thirteen? He should have made a note, but note-making was one thing that was strictly forbidden in this work. Fourteen, it must have been fourteen. He tapped lightly, then louder when there was no response. There was a certain sadistic pleasure in waking up Sones. The safety chain rattled and clattered and the door opened. Sleepy-faced, long blond hair covering one eye, Lizveta Zlotnikova looked out at him, blinking in the light of the hall, then smiling warmly.

“Tony! I was worried about you, it is good you woke me up, come in.”

Protest died as she opened the door wide and pulled him inside, closing it behind his back. She was dressed in a thin silk gown which covered, obviously, nothing beneath, so that when she took a deep breath and sighed, the top of the gown rose up toward him, parting under the pressure, jiggling tremendously. He tore his eyes away, smiled, coughed, groped for the door handle behind him.

“Have to go, see the painting maybe, tell you first ...”

“How considerate, how I worry about those paintings. I worry about you too, you are not hard like the others, a man of art I think.” She moved closer, her voice huskier. “We are the same kind of people.”

“Must report to Sones. Car waiting ...”

“I will be waiting too. Waiting here for your safe return. Come to me and tell me what has happened. Go safely.” Her hands went behind his head and her lips engulfed his in a warm and exceedingly rich kiss. It lasted a long time and eventually, short of air, he pushed away, though it was hard to push her wit! pushing silk and full-rounded flesh. Once out of the room he found he was sweating, though the hallway was cool. Now which was Sones’s room, fifteen perhaps, the one next to Lizveta Zlot-nikova’s. She had a nice name, with a certain richness to it. She had a certain richness herself which had not been obvious at first. The door in front of him opened suddenly, startling him, and Sones peered out.

“Why are you just standing there in the hall? What do you want?”