Гарри Гаррисон - Montezuma’s Revenge

“A pleasant rest, I hope?” Jacob Goldstein said from the doorway.

“Where are we?” Tony asked, looking out at dawn haze and green trees with the sun just glancing through the tops of them.

“We’ll be coming into Acapulco soon. Your friend Sones, and very agreeable he is once he relaxes, would like to see you. Anything new, Nahum?”

The Israeli shook his head. “On the road ahead, strong signal.” He had been at the set all night yet was as wide awake and alert as ever.

Tony disentangled the long blond hair from the buttons of his shirt and slipped from the enjoyable embrace. Yawning and Stretching himself awake he walked back to the Cadillac, which was parked on the shoulder of the road behind them. To his left, beyond the row of painted white stones that inadequately took the place of a guardrail, the hillside fell away in jungled curves to a distant river and the roofs of a habitation, morning fires sending up thin vertical columns of smoke. Three pairs of bloodshot eyes stared back at him from the shaded interior of the car.

“Take the wheel, Hawkin,” Sones ordered. “Schultz is bushed.”

“Othuh car still there?”

“Right ahead, signal loud and clear.”

Billy Schultz slid over, folded his arms, closed his eyes, and instantly went to sleep. Tony started the engine and pulled out when the truck moved away. There was silence from the back seat, either from sleep or sorrow, and Tony didn’t try to find out. He was still only half awake himself and needed all that const fraction of his consciousness for the road ahead, fiendishly snakelike, twisting and turning, with occasional rocks that had fallen from the cliffs above during the night.

Coming around a blind hairpin turn he saw the truck ahead, stopped dead in the road before him. He stabbed the brakes in instant fear, locking them, skidding with a great shrieking of peeled-off rubber to collide lightly with the rear of the truck. There were muffled curses from the back seat, but before they could be amplified the back door of the truck swung open and Goldstein stuck his head out.

“The radio signal has gone dead,” he called out. “Completely dead. I think we have lost them.”

Tony went in alone, carrying the forged painting, while the others waited outside in the car. The waiter, who had been indifferently sweeping the floor when he entered, took one look at him and instantly vanished into the kitchen. Very quickly a number of men, in shirtsleeves and bearing guns, rushed in and took up various positions of vantage around the dining room, behind chairs and tables, one to each side of the entrance, all of them giving him dark angry looks. When they were in position, Timberio himself appeared, unshaven and angry, his suspenders hanging from his waist, his collarless striped shirt looking as though it had been slept in. He placed his knuckles on the table and looked over Tony.

“You are in very bad trouble now, you know that,” he said, his breath rich with overtones of garlic and last evening’s meal.

“I’m sorry if I caused you any trouble, Timberio, and I admit that I was wrong—”

“Trouble and money, stealing Italian national treasures.”

“Let me talk, please. You’ll get the money back, and let us not forget as well that you have my wallet with all my papers, as well as my airline ticket.”

“They are being held to insure your good faith, and will be returned when the thousand pesos is returned.”

“All right, fine, you’ll get the money, I promise, I just don’t have it on me at the moment. But there is something more important. Here is the Da Vinci ‘Battle of Anghiari.’ It’s a forgery.”

“What is this all about?” Timberio examined the painting, eyes wide, fingering the cut corner. “A fake.”

“Absolutely. I have an expert to prove it if you are in any doubt. I don’t know where the real painting is, but the men who do know are right here in Acapulco now. And they have the Cellini ‘San’ Sebastiano’ with them as well. Now will you listen?”

“I listen, I listen. But the story should better be better than last time.”

“I give you my word, and my boss’s word too, and I had some job convincing him that we should let you in on this. But it’s either you or the police!”

“No police!”

“That’s just what he said, in the same tone of voice too. We’re on the same side now, working together to get the paintings back for Italy, that he agreed on. You can have them. These people have something else of ours, a little bit of money in a bag, ha-ha.”

“Start from the beginning, tell everything, you are confusing me.”

“The beginning you know. A man by the name of D’Isernia offered to sell the two paintings.”

“Carlo D’Isernia? He is wanted in Italy on a number of charges.”

“Look, if you are going to interrupt, how can I tell it? And do you think I could get a cup of coffee? Something spooked D’Isernia and he moved the operation to Mexico. Then it turns out that a Kurt Robl is involved. I was given the Cellini painting—as yon know—to test for authenticity. It’s real. But we had to return it to finalize the arrangements. Then came the exchange when we paid over a small deposit in cash for the Da Vinci. By the time we found out this was a fake the others were gone, but we traced them here by the hidden transmitter that was attached to their car.”

“Someone was showing good sense.”

Tony refrained from telling just whose good sense it was and sipped at the bitter brew of the black cup of espresso that had been placed by his elbow; grimaced and poured a number of spoonfuls of sugar into it. “It made sense all right and we followed them this far, but the transmitter conked out. Not an hour ago. That’s why we need help. We’re short of manpower and people who know the city.”

“And just who, might I ask, are the ive you talk about?”

“Well, the FBI, and then there’s the U. S. Treasury Department.”

“No CIA?”

“Not now. They were in the deal but there was trouble along the line and they sort of vanished. But the Israelis are helping.”

“Not Jacob Goldstein and his bunch?”

“Yes, do you know them?”

“You should have told me this earlier. Jacob and I have a number of interests in common. Where are all these people?”

“In the car, outside.”

“Get them in and we’ll talk.”

He shouted something very fast in Italian and the guns vanished. Tony went for the others and in a few minutes they were sitting around the table drinking the powerful coffee and were watching Timberio and Goldstein embracing and slapping each other on the back.

“Now to work,” Timberio said, joining the Americans at the table. “How many people you looking for, who are they, what kind of a car?”

“A black Packard,” Sones said. “Three men. Carlo D’Isernia, Kurt Robl, Adolf Hitler.”

Timberio’s eyebrows climbed up higher and higher and his hand dropped casually toward his pocket; Sones and Stocker dropped theirs as well.

“Patience,” Goldstein said. “Before we get started let’s not finish. This fake Hitler is a real Jakob Platz whom we know about. So let’s continue. We followed them here, then lost them. My man Nahum is at the airport in case they are thinking of leaving that way. He’s a good boy and he can stop them, so we have plugged one hole. How else can they get out of town?”

“Back the way you came?”

“The truck and driver are there keeping an eye on that. We’re in touch by radio.”

“South on the coast road to nowhere, a couple of villages and the road ends. North, there’s a good road to Zihuatanejo and there’s an airfield there where I happen to have a man working. He’ll be alerted. And then, of course, you got the port and the whole Pacific Ocean waiting outside of it.”