Гарри Гаррисон - Montezuma’s Revenge

“I am being honest. It is, well, a little complicated. A business deal, that’s all, the hat sort of identification, nothing else. There was something in the trunk, it was unlocked, that I had to look at, something important, and I must say your sabras wrecked that deal as well as wrecking my head. They are going to be in trouble, Goldstein, you can be sure of that.”

The Nazi catcher seemed undisturbed by the threat; he lit a second cigarette from the still glowing end of the first. “What kind of business?”

“That is confidential.”

“It should be. Three a.m. meetings with known war criminals engaged in with the aid of a well-known CIA man. The law looks dimly upon this sort of monkey business.”

“It was entirely harmless, I assure you.”

“I find that hard to believe since you were carrying these.”

He produced a revolver and the cigar-case knife and held them up for inspection. The gun bore more than a slight resemblance to Davidson’s gun that Tony had put in his pocket and forgotten about. He fought a strong impulse to groan aloud.

“That can be explained. Personal protection, nothing more.”

“Why did you need personal protection? What is this harmless business you are engaged in that required you go armed?”

“I am afraid I cannot say. A matter of national secrecy, to be exact.” He could say that at least, they knew the CIA was involved.

“Since when does the stealing of an Italian national treasure by Nazi crooks become a matter of American national secrecy?”

Tony opened his mouth, then shut it again, started to stand but changed his mind and sat down again. Goldstein smiled warmly.

“That’s a good one, isn’t it? What used to be called in the good old days of the faked quiz games the $64,000 question. You think about the answer. I’ll make a little nosh, give us strength. Nice hot pastrami sandwich and a glass of tea.”

He went out, humming to himself, and left the door ajar. After a moment Tony rose, as quietly as he could, and tiptoed over and peered through the crack. Goldstein was behind the counter of the delicatessen dining room beyond, industriously slicing smoking meat on a whirring machine. Was there another way out of here? Moving quickly he looked behind the tiered boxes and crates until he found the back door. There appeared to be no lock on it but it was closed tight by a large bolt that sealed it to the jamb. A well-oiled bolt he discovered as he eased it over, then turned the doorknob. It was time to leave. The door opened as noiselessly as the bolt and Tony found himself staring into the cold green eyes of one of the sabras. He slammed the door shut and bolted it quickly and went back to sit on the bed again. Goldstein returned carrying a tray with thick sandwiches that were framed in the cool green of sliced pickles, flanked by steaming glasses of tea, each with a wedge of lemon slipped over the rim. Appetite struck with a grumble of internal lightning as he realized he had not eaten since the previous afternoon aboard the plane. He ate.

“This is very good. The tea too.”

“It should be. The meat is flown in once a week direct from the supplier in Brooklyn. So you have had time to think, so now you can tell me about your dealings with Robl.”

Tony had been thinking and had decided that a certain amount of candor might be needed; Goldstein knew a good deal as it was. He was in over his head through no fault of his own and if he had to violate security to get out of this, well, security would just have to enjoy being violated.

“I told you truthfully, I never saw him before this evening. I arrived in Mexico today, right from the United States, about this painting you mentioned. I am, well, an art expert.” B.A., San Diego State, they should only know. “I was supposed to look at this painting and identify it, nothing more, and Robl said he had the painting in the back of his car. After that I had no idea what was going to happen, I swear that’s the truth.”

Goldstein nodded slowly and sipped noisily at his tea.

“Art expert, huh? Possible. Tell me, Mr. Expert, what year was Mr. Michelangelo born?”

“Michelangelo? I’m not good on dates really. Fifteenth century of course. Almost ninety when he died, fifteen sixty something, which would have him born fourteen seventyish. Right?”

“Perhaps. And who painted ‘A View of Toledo’?”

“El Greco. Must we do this twenty-question thing?”

“Just one more. Where is Hochhande?”

“All right, so you win. I don’t know. And to tell you the truth I don’t know if it is a painting or an artist since I have never heard the name before this moment.”

“For some reason I believe you, Mr. Hawkin. But I want you to remember that last name and think about it. It is late and you will need some rest. Nahum, who you met outside the back door a few minutes ago, has a car there and will drive you back. Good-by.” And just as Tony reached the door, he added, “We’ll meet again.”

Not if I can help it Tony thought as the cold-faced Israeli pointed to the car. The interview had not been an easy one and he felt that he definitely had not gotten the better of it. With a quick rush of hindsight he realized that Goldstein had extracted far more information than he had delivered. Tony, in exchange for being hit on the head, had told almost everything he knew about Operation Buttercup. His career as a secret agent had an auspicious beginning. One thing he hadn’t talked about at least was Davidson’s death.

Dead. He had forgotten about the murder in the rush of events and he now became thoroughly depressed again. What to do next? Get in touch with the CIA man Higginson and ask for further instructions? Contact the FBI? What about a quick little flight back to Washington to ask for orders on the spot? That seemed like a fine idea, the best produced yet tonight, and he cradled it to him as the car stopped around the corner from his hotel. Still without a word the Israeli sped away and, coldly lit by the first glimmer of dawn, Tony walked most wearily to the hotel.

Was that a suspicious look the night clerk delivered along with the key? Or were his nerves eroded to the point where all men were suspect? He yearned after the comforts of his bed. The elevator was a long time coming and it only rose one floor before stopping again. A bellboy—no, the bellboy got on, smiling warmly, and did something with the controls so that the doors stayed shut but the car did not move.

“I have some free information for you,” the bellboy said.

“That’s very nice. Could you tell me while the elevator takes us up?”

“Certainly not or it will be known I have talked to you. You have been kind to me so I will be kind to you. There is a police officer now waiting in your room.”

“Yes, Christ, that’s land of you. I really did need that news. Perhaps I ought to just go back down and make my exit peacefully.”

“That is not to be recommended since another officer sits in the lobby and has witnessed your entrance.”

“Well, the police don’t worry me!” Hollow bravado indeed. “So start this thing up and let me get it over with and get to bed.”

“In a little-little moment. First I thought you might be happy to pay some recompense for my continued interest in your security. With all the policemen so thickly around my silence is surely appreciated.”

“Yes, I think you might appreciate a hundred pesos.”

“I would appreciate two hundred more.”

Tony paid in silence and watched his grateful employee exit. The elevator rose again, though his spirits fell, and he walked to his room as a man to his execution.

When he unlocked the door and went in he saw the man sitting at ease in the armchair, leafing through Tony’s passport and the contents of his attache case. Surprise, which he was prepared to simulate, was replaced by real anger.