Waking up, it seemed like only instants later. The imperative hand of Sones was on his shoulder, dragging him back up to the surface from the deep pleasures of unconsciousness. Light burned in through the open window, loud birds called outside. His watch, when he had blinked enough sleep from his eyes to make it out, read seven o’clock.
“Eat your breakfast. You have ten minutes.”
He went out and Tony looked blearily at what appeared easily to be a one-hour breakfast. Pot of coffee, halved rolls backed with layered beans and cheese, eggs in hot green chili sauce, napkin-wrapped steaming tortillas, guava, melon, orange juice, too much. Though he should eat a little. He ate a lot, making up for a number of missed meals, meals drunk instead of ate. The breakfast demolished, he showered, shaved, dressed and emerged feeling much, much better, ready to tell Sones that he would not go into Mexico City.
“You will be disguised, no one will recognize you. You told me you speak Spanish. Well enough you think to pass as a Mexican instead of an American?”
“Possibly.” Sones should only know.
“It had better be positively. This part of the operation cannot fail or everything is down the drain. That painting has to be back here by six tonight. D’Isernia will contact me then with the final arrangements. Let me have the photograph, Schultz.”
The agent had opened a large suitcase that contained nothing but boxes and drawers. From one of these he took out a photographic print which he handed to Sones. Tony looked over his shoulder at a picture of himself, a candid snap, slightly downshot, very clear.
“Where did you get that?” he asked.
“The same place everyone else did, from the Chinese. This is the pic the police have. We have to change your appearance as much as possible from this. Being Mexican I think we can use the mustache gambit, don’t you think so, Schultz?”
“Yes, sir,” he piped in cheerful response, pulling out a drawer like a hairy nest. “Something thin and dark, not unlike yours.”
“Mine is an American mustache. We want a foreign one for him.”
“What do you mean Chinese?” Tony broke in. “What have they got to do with this?”
“They have an agent here, he lives right across from the Coronel Glanders Mississippi Fried Chicken place. He takes pictures of everyone who goes in there. A lot of people are interested in the CIA operation. He sells to whoever wants. We buy a lot from him. That is why you should not have gone near the place.”
“I’m afraid they polished off Davidson before he could tell me that. This is the photo the police have? And the Israelis, the Italians—everyone else? I’m surprised the People’s Republic of China would sell to them and us as well.”
“Not them, the other lot, Taiwan. They are always interested in what the CIA is doing. Here, try this on.”
It was too shaggy. However, there were many more and eventually Billy came up with one that matched Tony’s hair and had enough of a droop to the ends to satisfy Sones’s nationalistic preconceptions. With this essential prop in place Billy, who appeared to be a skilled disguise artist, took care of the further transformation. Adroitly applied pencil accentuated the lines around his mouth; inserted pads held in place by stickum changed the shape of his cheeks and lips.
“Taste funny,” Tony said, mufrledly.
“You’ll get used to them in no time at all. Now let me use this hot comb to bulk your hair up, change its shape, then put on a nice oily dressing.”
“You’re not overdoing it?”
“Not a bit. You just relax and wait and see.”
It had to be admitted that the final result was not bad, not bad at all. Tony admired the stranger in the full-length mirror. B pointy shoes, the kind he would never wear, full-kneed pinstriped trousers draped over a full, middle-class stomach—courtesy of a hotel pillow taped about his waist. One of Sones’s acetate sport shirts of a subtle dayglo orange, green “RS” initials on the pocket. A different face stared back, full-cheeked and oiled-haired, nostrils opened by ring inserts, a stranger’s smile emblazoned with two gold teeth, eyes hidden behind silver-mirrored sunglasses, the case for same at his belt.
“All right, listen closely, here are your instructions.” Tony felt a sudden rising panic. Everyone assumed he was going and it was too late now to file his protest. Sones handed him a piece of paper. “Walk out the front gate here. There is a car and driver waiting, this is the license plate number. Get in and tell him to take you to Mexico City. Don’t give him this address until after you are there. This last number is the phone you can reach the driver at when you want him to pick you up. Memorize this information now and wash the paper down the sink, it dissolves on contact with water.”
Tony memorized, all too quickly; then it was time to go. Billy was peeking out the front door to be sure his exit was unobserved.
“See that the painting is not damaged, I beg. For it is the true original, passes all the tests,” Lizveta Zlotnikova said with real emotion. Tony felt put upon.
“Is it okay if I’m not damaged either? It’s my neck in the noose, you know.”
“Now,” Billy piped. “No one in sight.”
“Do not let us down again,” Sones ordered.
Tony slipped out wondering when he had let them down before. Not for the first time he yearned for the cool serenity of the National Gallery. This Mexican thing kept rolling downhill like a runaway trolley. Getting him involved more deeply all the time. The guard at the gate saluted him out, otherwise no one else saw him, then held the door open on the black Cadillac with the memorized number. The guard was also close enough to hear the spoken destination, which proved, if nothing else, that Sones at least knew the mechanics of his job. The trip on the toll road was swift, fine views of the valley and mountains far away, closer view of the nape of the uniformed chauffeur’s neck and the dandruff on his shoulders. All too soon they were in the automotive inferno of Mexico City and stopping close to the multifunctional delicatessen. Not a word had been exchanged, other than the issuing of the two orders. Tony watched the car pull away, took a deep breath, then walked toward his destiny.
Ornate gold letters on the plate-glass window read tolteg kosher delicatessen. Clearly visible seated inside was an elderly gentleman in dark coat and wide-brimmed hat who was straining soup through his full beard. At a longer table nearby an entire family was eating from plates of various sizes, apparently enjoying themselves, while toward the back a tourist couple sipped at beers and looked expectantly toward the glass-fronted delicatessen counter. A round young lady in white was dishing up portions of potato salad, coleslaw, hot chilies, while a familiar figure assembled thick sandwiches from smoking meat. He looked up when Tony came reluctantly through the door and nodded pleasantly.
“Buenos tardes, senor. Agui hay una mesa para ti?”
Tony nodded, impressed with the success of the disguise for the first time, remembering full well that the genial fat man had the keen eye of the spy catcher. Seating himself at a table away from the others, Tony read the menu with interest, breakfast, large as It had been, seemed to have slipped away leaving a vacuity. Jacob Goldstein brought over a glass and bottle which he set before Tony, smiling benevolently.
“Be with you in a moment, Hawkin. Meanwhile, have a celery tonic on the house. That’s not too bad a disguise, all things considered.”
No, not bad at all, Tony thought gloomily, sipping at the strangely flavored beverage. Instantly penetrated. Would the police see through it as easily as well? Goldstein reappeared, slapping down a glass of tea and dropping into the chair opposite.