"So what did you tell him, man?" Chepe Munoz said. "Or maybe I should put it like this: How little did you guys have to tell him?"
They were finishing a buffet lunch that Margo had set out in her studio, and while the men were alternately showering, shaving, catnapping, and eating, Margo herself became busy on the telephone.
"He knows everything we know short of LT," Carter said. "I let him think I was a bounty hunter for multinational insurance companies. He thinks I'm after some missing diamonds."
"That's what I needed," Margo said. "That's a perfect edge to get you in."
While the men continued with their eating, Margo made phone calls, wheedled, cajoled, and frankly traded on favors owed her. She came up with a list of three places where Piet Bezeidenhout had been for meetings during his recent visit to Mexico City.
"Robert Silver, out in Coyoacán," she said in triumph. "Silver actually hosted a gathering of wealthy people to hear Bezeidenhout speak." She wrote the address and gave it to Carter. Munoz drew a man named Porfirio Gaston, a wealthy merchant. Zachary was to see Enrique Benvenidez, an investments broker. Margo wrote directions to each location on sheets of paper and Carter had the distinct impression that the one she dealt him was the one she believed would prove the most profitable.
It was Zachary who first raised the issue that was on all their minds. "Margo, you'd better keep a weapon close at hand from now on. All the people you've been calling are aware of your interest in Bezeidenhout. Any of them or their associates could want you silenced."
"Listen," the fiery Margo said with an arrogant toss of her head, "I've been associated with struggles of one sort or another for years. You think this is the worst danger I've ever been in?"
Without hesitation, all three men nodded.
"All right," she said contritely, "I'll be careful."
While Carter was finishing a large plate of shrimp and rice, Margo cleaned and redressed the handiwork of Dr. Hakluyt on his left shoulder, building in a bit of padding and support. "You listen to me, Carter," she said, sitting herself down on his lap when the taping and bandaging was completed. "You and I — we have unfinished business, you understand? Several days of it?" She stood and tossed Carter a fresh shirt she'd picked up for him.
The Killmaster, Zachary, and Chepe Munoz set up contingency plans for where they would meet if they could not regroup before Captain Alvarado's thirty-six-hour deadline.
"Seems to me there's only one logical place," the CIA man said, looking approvingly at the remains of the buffet.
Carter. Munoz, and Zachary agreed, and discussed strategy. "Just in case," Carter said, "we should each memorize the connection given the other two. That way, if one of us fails to return, the others will have a strong clue."
"Strange bedfellows we are," Zachary said. "But it appears we all trust one another."
Chepe Munoz shook his head in disbelief. "Dr. Castro would have my ass if he knew I was getting on so famously with a couple of capitalists."
Carter nodded at Margo. "Just in case we can't regroup here, you'd better join us at the rendezvous too."
The flamboyant artist liked that very much, and winked conspiratorially at Carter.
Carter was out the door first, noting that Zachary was hurriedly building himself a sandwich to take along.
Nick Carter's next stop was the wealthy suburb of Coyoacan. He stopped to call Hawk and give him the names of all three places Margo Huerta had learned about.
"I'm going in as a member of the South African diamond cartel security."
"Good idea," Hawk said. "Get them to doubt this Bezeidenhout as much as possible without seeming too obvious."
Carter could tell that Hawk was growing impatient with the way the LT activity was developing. "A bit of an irony in your going out to Coyoacan, Nick. Leon Trotsky lived and was assassinated there. The famed painter. Diego Rivera, lived there. Both are associated with the politics of the left."
There was a pause while Hawk thumbed the wheel of his lighter and puffed at one of his cigars. Then he continued. "Whatever happens, we want to know what Lex Talionis is, what it's doing, and who is behind it. Any we want it soon. The pressure on me has become unbelievable. I don't need to tell you where it comes from, either."
Carter quickly found a cab and gave the instructions to Coyoacan, an attractive suburb with numerous parks, broad, cobbled streets, and a sense of quiet, refined good taste.
As in so many large cities where there was a high rate of crime and poverty, the area had its share of high fences, barbed wire, and elaborate security measures.
Following the instructions given him, Carter directed the driver past the Plaza Hidalgo, turned right at the Church of San Juan Bautista, and came upon one of the innumerable streets named after Mexican political or religious martyrs. In this case, it was the street of the child heroes: La Calle de los Niños Héroes.
The Silver home appeared to be only modestly affluent when Carter sounded the bell at a small wrought-iron gate, but he was soon greeted by a servant who had him follow her through a small bricked courtyard and onto a much more lavish lawn that was part of an elaborate tropical garden.
Traveling along a neat gravel path, Carter noted two large, snarling mastiffs, ready to pounce. He was ushered into a white stone building with tall, soaring ceilings, a tile floor of immense complexity, and several large pre-Columbian pieces, notably a dog that was larger than any pre-Columbian ceramic animal Carter had ever seen.
"Cortez, the conqueror of Mexico, once had a kingly palace right here in Coyoacan."
This was said by a short balding man with a large head and seemingly bulging eyes who then stepped into the foyer and introduced himself. Shaking hands with Robert Silver, Carter tried to get some kind of impression of him. For the most part, it was one of a barely concealed arrogance in a man in his late forties or early fifties.
"I must tell you that it took a great deal of pressure from Margo Huerta to induce me to agree to this meeting, Señor Carter. I am not particularly pleased at your visit. As you will see when we step inside, I am fond of works of art. Senorita Huerta's works among them — and I would hardly want to put myself in a position of having someone whose work I admire not want me to have any more."
"I understand that I am here at your sufferance," Carter said in a cultivated monotone. "This is a very delicate matter."
Dressed casually in gray flannels, a white shirt, and a fawn-colored sweater vest, Silver led the way down a hallway and into what must have been the man's private study. "At least you have wit and sensitivity. I can appreciate that, perhaps." He motioned Carter to a large overstuffed club chair and for himself chose an equally large Eames chair.
A servant came scraping at the door and with her was, Carter saw immediately, a major reason for Silver's arrogance. Mrs. Silver was still in her thirties, her tawny complexion, wide-set dark eyes, and high cheekbones linking her back over the centuries to the original peoples of Mexico. Unlike Silver, her Spanish was fluid, melodic Mexican. Her thick dark hair, if allowed to fall free, would most likely reach her knees, Carter estimated. He admired the lacquered beauty of it as it was knotted and braided artfully to display an elegant neck.
Carter felt a strong twinge of desire as her eyes met his, filled with a different kind of pride than her husband's. She may indeed be yet another of his fabled possessions, but she had a luster and determination of her own. As she offered Carter the choice of Mexican chocolate or coffee and cognac, he could see in the soft light the one anomaly to her otherwise stunning presence. There was a definite trace of a welt beginning to form on her left cheek. It was clear to Carter that Mr. Silver had been responsible and equally clear that Mrs. Silver intended to do something about it. While the servant was preparing the drinks, Silver produced a large ebony cigar box and extended it to Carter. "A great civilized pleasure, the tobacco of our friends in Cuba. As it so often happens, those who produce the civilized pleasures are least likely to enjoy them."