Гарри Гаррисон - Montezuma’s Revenge

“First shake em up. Now some tear gas to quiet em down.”

“But how do we get them back. Look—they’re beginning to row.”

“That headland, those rocks,” Billy called out, pointing, “They’re beyond the boat. We can swim in from there, head them off.”

“I don’t swim,” Higginson said.

“Tony and me will be enough,” Billy said. “Let’s go.”

“Hand tuh hand,” Stocker said. “Take this.” He produced a combat knife which he handed to Tony, and a second for Billy Schultz. They were triangular bladed, very sharp, with knuckleduster hilts studded with sharp spikes.

“Get that tear gas in and keep us covered,” Higginson ordered, gunning the car to life.

“Clothes off,” Billy ordered, and they did a struggling Laocoon disrobement in the back seat as the Lincoln bounced down the beach. Higginson did not spare the car, going at full speed over the gravel and boulders, dodging the largest so that the men in the back fell into each other, pants caught on feet, shirts flapping, revolvers tumbling. With a final last grinding thud the Lincoln impaled itself on a fang of rock and would go no further.

Billy led the way, bounding from rock to rock like a demented mountain goat, tastefully clad in orange undershorts and combat knife. Tony followed, wincing at the sharp ridges, peeling down to more proletarian white shorts as he went. There was much shouted activity from the boat as well as a number of shots, some of which came close. Another explosion showered water on the craft as well as engulfing it in a white cloud. Billy seized the knife between his teeth, pirate fashion, and dived into the water. There were rocks under the surface that he barely missed so Tony entered more hesitatingly, climbing in, then biting onto the knife which promptly cut the corner of his mouth, swimming after Billy’s muscular back and thrashing arms.

A great deal of coughing and multilingual cursing could be heard from the boat as they came close, a metallic hammering followed by the sound of an electric starter. The engine gasped twice, then subsided. The high wooden side rose above them and Tony followed Billy around to where a ladder was built into the stern. Billy Schultz surged up it—then dropped quickly back as a bullet dug a chunk of wood out of the transom.

“Stay here for a diversion,” he whispered to Tony. “I’ll go around behind and over the side. If I can reach the rail I can pull myself up.” He bulged a massive biceps to prove it, then churned away.

Diversion, what did he mean? Sitting duck would be more truthful. Tony shivered and looked up, expecting a gun to be pointed over the side to blow his brains out. A wisp of gas blew past and his eyes began to burn and tear. He dived under to wash them out then thought What the hell! and surged out of the water and up the ladder with a rush.

The cockpit was a shambles; his eyes took the whole scene in on instant. Floor boards up while a dark-skinned man in a striped shirt dug into the engine’s innards. Beyond him Robl and D’Isernia huddled low, ugly-looking Lugers ready in their hands. Tony grabbed the knife and threw it, shouting wordlessly at the same time. The knife skidded across the deck and bumped harmlessly into Robl's leg. The German raised his gun, shouted an oath, leveled it at Tony, certain death this close. A muscular form rose over th beyond him, too far away to help.

D’Isernia raised his gun too, then shoved the barrel into the side of Robl’s neck.

“Don’t shoot or I will kill you. We are caught, no murders at least.”

Robl shouted and swung the butt of the pistol at the Italian, but before it could hit, a powerful hand reached down and plucked it easily from his grasp and viced fingers clamped onto his neck. Tony climbed all the way into the boat, saw the crewman huddling in the other side of the cockpit and the closed doors to the cabin. Unthinking, carried away by excitement, he raced to the threw them open, and dived in.

Two shots sounded like cannon rounds in the cabin, the bullets tearing through the wood where he had been an instant sooner. Unplanned, he dived forward and crashed into the man sec the table, carrying him down with him. The gun went spinning, the old man cursed feebly in German and thrashed on the deck stood, blinking smoke and tear gas from his eyes, and retrieved the gun. A familiar-looking suitcase lay on the bunk to one side. It was unlocked and opened to his touch. Money, dollars, greenbacks, packed solid, and exuding the rich odor of wealth. One of the packs had been broken into, greedy, greedy, but the bills should n gone very far. Qosing the suitcase again he took it and the gun and went back on deck. Billy Schultz had organized everything swiftly; D’Isernia and Robl sat by the dead engine under die watchful barrel of his pistol while the two boatme craft toward shore.

“The money’s here,” Tony said. “And Adolf is down there as well.”

“Couldn’t be better. Why don’t you hold up the suitcase so they can see it on shore, before Stocker drops any more of those rifle grenades on top of us.”

Tony raised the case over his head and there was a lusty cheer from the beach where the population had grown considerably. A number of Lambretta motor scooters were parked on the sand, with more arriving every moment, and the Cadillac was bumping down the road as well. Tony shouted and waved back and his stomach dropped as a thought finally penetrated the haze of excitement.

“Wait, I almost forgot, everything happening at once. Where is the Cellini painting?”

“Permit me,” D’Isernia said, and his fingers twitched slowly toward his inner jacket pocket under the unwavering muzzle of Billy Schultz’s gun. He withdrew a flat, wooden box and passed it over to Tony. “All is as it should be. It is a beautiful piece.”

Tony looked inside and relaxed. “It’s all right. Everything is all right I guess.”

Willing hands pulled the boat in until it grated on the sand; many guns were leveled as the prisoners emerged. Adolf Hitler-Jakob Platz was carried ashore and his canes were restored to him. Stocker dived onto the suitcase like a hound dog on its prey and looked up coldly after a quick perusal.

“Some of thu money’s missing!”

“Relax,” Tony said, mission accomplished, at peace with the world. “Search the prisoners, it must be on them. Nothing to worry about.”

“A well-done FBI operation,” Sones said.

“Impossible without the CIA,” Higginson snapped in answer, which offended Timberio.

“You are not forgetting the Agenzia Terza to whom you came for aid when all was lost?”

“Please, gentlemen,” Tony said. “There is glory enough for all. Let us not spoil this victory by squabbling. Look at Jacob Goldstein, his people deserve as much credit as any of you and he’s making no claims.” Goldstein was silent, his eyes fixed coldly on the prisoners. “All’s well that ends well, as the quote goes. We’ve done it, tied this one up neatly, there’s nothing more to worry about.”

“Absolutely correct,” a new voice said.

Detective Lieutenant Ricardo Gonzales y Alvarez emerged from the undergrowth followed by two sunglassed policemen who carried drawn guns. “I shall now close the final curtain on this little drama by arresting you, Antonio Hawkin, for the murder of your FBI colleague Davidson.”

He advanced, grimly, handcuffs ready.

“Now wait a minute, just a minute, hold on,” Tony said, backing away. “This is all a mistake.”

“Drop the gun. Do not resist.”

Tony became aware that he still held the captured Luger and he threw it hastily from him, suddenly feeling very naked and exposed in his sopping underwear. “I did not kill Davidson,” he protested.