Гарри Гаррисон - Montezuma’s Revenge

“Thirty-eight or forty-five?” Sones asked Tony.

“I’m really not much of a pistol shot.”

“Take the forty-five then. Hit a man anywhere and you stop him.”

“I do not wish a weapon,” Lizveta Zlotnikova said.

“I had no intention of offering you one.”

Billy Schultz and Sones managed to distribute a good portion of the suitcase’s contents about their persons. Sones buttoned his jacket over his bulging waist and snapped orders with a military precision.

“Schultz, take point. I will ride shotgun on Stocker’s left flank to keep his gun hand clear. Hawkin, rear guard. The lady will stay well back but first I would like to check your purse if you do not mind.”

“I mind,” Lizveta Zlotnikova said. “I do not carry weapon.”

“Right, you do not,” Sones said as, ignoring her protests, he rifled quickly through the contents of her largish bag. “Move out.”

For public appearances Stocker kept his gun in his jacket pocket, still clutched in his hand, but there could be little doubt of what he had there. In fact, all of them generated an aura of hostility, moving down the hall and through the lobby, half crouched, eyes busily everywhere. Mexico, and this state of Morelos in particular, being no stranger to violence, all present quickly detected that something was afoot and guests left abruptly while the clerks decided that they had business in the office with the door closed. This happened very quickly until the only one left was D’Isernia at the front door, casually smoking a cigarette.

“You see, I present myself as hostage of fortune. If we might go in your automobile I will issue instructions as we proceed.”

“The car, Schultz,” Sones said out of the corner of his mouth, not taking his eyes from D’Isernia.

It arrived quickly. Lizveta Zlotnikova rode in the front seat with Billy, while D’Isernia sat in the middle of the back seat flanked by the ominous forms of Stocker and Sones. Tony had the dubious pleasure of the jump seat where he could rub knees with the others. The suitcase was hard-clamped between Stocker’s knees and he had now, in the security of the Cadillac, drawn his gun and had it trained on D’Isernia.

“South out of the city on the Oaxaca road,” the Italian said, seemingly unimpressed by the threatening weapon. “If it is not asking too much I would like to check through the contents of the suitcase. A necessary prelude to any negotiations, you 1 admit?”

“Any cars following us, Schultz?” Sones asked.

“No, sir.”

“All right. Open it up, Stocker.”

With great reluctance the Treasury man pocketed his gun arid withdrew a four-sided key of complex design. Setting the suitcase upon his knees he unlocked it and threw the top open under Tony’s nose, disclosing the solidly packed bundles of greenbacks inside. Stocker’s big automatic appeared again and was trained on D’Isernia as he took a bundle out, counted it, rummaged through the other piles to make sure that it was money all the way down, then restored it to its lucrous nest.

“Very much in order,” he announced as Stocker closed the case far more readily than he had opened it. “I’ll have the key, if you please.”

“Give it to him,” Sones ordered, beating down the Treasury man’s obvious reluctance.

They traveled for about an hour, doubling back on their tracks at times, then hurtling down dirt roads that had the Cadillac billowing upon its shock absorbers like a ship upon the waves.

“I wish to be sure we are not followed,” D’Isernia said. “I wish to be sure we meet at the appointed place at the correct time with just this car, no police or helicopters or such devices,”

“We would not consider such a thing,” Sones said.

“I would in your place, so let us not be hypocrites. Very soon now.”

The sun was a dusty orange disc burning on the horizon when they came to a medium-sized village, Yecapixtla, the sign by the roadside read, memorializing the memories of departed Aztecs. Men in wide-brimmed sombreros were here in great numbers, accompanied, a dutiful two paces behind, by re bozo-wrapped wives who led the larger children by the hand, carried the smaller ones. The car slowed, going in the same direction as the growing crowd, toward a small grandstand and fenced ring.

“A provincial bullfight,” D’Isernia said. “A simple spectacle enjoyed by a simple people. Turn right down that track there. Now, stop here. Please to turn the vehicle about and back it toward that fence visible beyond the burros.”

On both sides the rural population of Yecapixtla moved slowly by, only the children noticing the large black car in their midst, the adults practicing a stern indifference. One of the burros onnk-ahnked a long and loud cry before growing silent, then peering sideway at the car out of a suspicious eye.

It was dusk now, but the other car could clearly be seen on the far side of the barbed-wire fence, also backing slowly into place behind them.

“Take positions,” Sones snapped the order. “Schultz, right flank, Hawkin, left, Stocker, shoot through the back window if you have to. I will negotiate. Move.”

“If I might go to the other car ... ?” D’Isernia asked, not moving until he had received Sones’s abrupt nod.

They walked to the fence together and D’Isernia lifted the strands delicately and slipped through. Lizveta Zlotnikova shrank down, just her eyes visible over the back of the front seat. The agents waited, watching, hands heavy in pockets. A few of the local citizenry still passed, the scene was peaceful.

Robl emerged from the rear of the enemy Packard where someone else was visible, a wrapped and heavily hatted form. The solid bulk of the driver’s head suggested Heinrich, but Tony could not be sure. Robl and D’Isernia conferred briefly and the Italian returned to the fence to face Sones.

“Here is what I suggest. Your man will bring the money out of the car. When he does Robl will bring out the painting. We will both approach the fence at the same time. Be careful with your guns, there are innocent people about, as you can see. Let us keep this exchange an honest one. When the money is put down, the painting will be put down. The exchange will take place. We will both leave in opposite directions. Is it agreed?”

“Go ahead.”

Slowly, as in some exaggerated mating dance, the exchange proceeded. Bag and bearer emerged, painting and porter followed suit. Hands were tense on guns. Step by step they approached, facing each other, staring at each other, slowly placing their valuable charges on the ground, rising once again.

“Stop there!” a female voice cried out and in the instant six guns sprang into view, perhaps a seventh shimmered in the rear window of the Packard. Lizveta Zlotnikova emerged. “I wish to examine painting.”

“She is right,” Sones said. “How about it.”

Was there a reluctance in Robl’s voice when he agreed? The guns slid reluctantly from sight as the girl strode forward. Tension crackled in the air like heat lightning before an approaching storm. Every eye was on her as she knelt on the ground. Robl threw back the cloth on a corner of the painting and pushed it under the lower strand of wire.

With slow precision Lizveta Zlotnikova drew a flat pa» from her purse and unwrapped it to disclose the sundered corner of the canvas. She laid this on the frame, took out a large magnifying glass and a flashlight and bent forward.

“Quickly!” Robl ordered. “We cannot be about this all day.”

“The cut threads match, the flakes of painting as well ...”

“Enough,” Robl ordered, throwing the cloth back over the painting again. “We must do this now.”

“We will do it, but slowly. Wait until the girl is back in the car,” Sones said. “Good. Now, push that painting forward—slowly—no fast motions. You do it the same way, Stocker. Don’t let go of the bag until you have your hands on the painting.”