“That does not make sense.”
“Very little of what has been happening makes much sense.”
Sones called to him and he joined the huddled group in the small office. A year-old calendar on the wall proclaimed the virtues of General Popo tires, the illustration of the General himself, his body apparently constructed out of tires, backing up these assertations. Euzkadi tires had a stronger argument with a calendar of the current year as well as a colored photograph of a young woman naked except for an Aztec headdress. Heinrich blew his nose in a large red handkerchief and, when examination of the results satisfied him, spoke.
“I have a message from Goldstein. He says he is happy to cooperate with the FBI and the Treasury Department of the United States to enable them to track this car and the men in it. He will be here within the hour.”
“And what does he think he can do?” Sones asked, gun ready in pocket.
“Lots. On his instructions I installed a device under the frame of the car that is attached to the radio. My understanding is that it is a high-powered transmitter that emits a very strong signal.”
“Do you know the wave length?”
“My knowledge ends there. All I know is that it is turned on. For the rest, ask Goldstein.”
Waiting was not easy for any of them other than Heinrich who fell quietly asleep in the rear of the car. Tony felt a preliminary rumble of hunger in his stomach, he had been eating an awful lot in Mexico, must be the altitude, so he went to a nearby restaurant and bought a bag of sandwiches. They were received with little enthusiasm by the others, yet were still eaten. The repairs were finished and the bill discussed in detail, then paid, Heinrich slept on, snoring quietly; a truck pulled up in the street blocking the driveway, panaderia la aquila, the ornate lettering on the side read, decorated with a colorful portrait of the eagle himself bearing off a great loaf of bread in his talons as he would a lamb. Goldstein climbed down from the front seat.
“Well, gentlemen,” he said to the hard-eyed men who slowly surrounded him, “I guess introductions are in order, but first let me guess. Tony I know, a nice boy. You must be Sones, the man in charge. And you are probably Stocker of the Treasury. That was a good job you did on those two gentlemen in the Liberia exchange.”
“Ah had no choice, the little one went for his gun.”
“Enough of this,” Sones said. “Are you tracking the car in question?”
“Why should I tell you?” Hands flashed to hidden weapons, “Now don’t get me wrong, trouble I am not looking for. What 1 am looking for is the truth, a rare commodity in our chosen field of endeavor. Then we co-operate. We are interested in the same people but for different reasons. If we work together we all make out. If you will tell me everything that has happened so far, be frank since I know a good deal of it already, I will be happy to tell you all I know, and aid you in finding the car and its occupants.”
They all looked at Sones who was grinding his teeth again, weighing all the factors.
“A million dollars,” Tony said, just as a gentle reminder.
“All right. We will do it.”
“A wise decision. The radio equipment is in the truck. We triangulated from Mexico City and from here. The car is to the south, at least sixty miles away, and still moving. Either on 95D or the old road to Taxco.”
“Schultz, start the car.”
“A moment please. I suggest that your car follow behind the truck with the detection gear. I also suggest that my associate Heinrich be permitted to leave now. This is not his kind of operation. Then I can travel with you and we can chat.”
“The Russian girl is in our car.”
“No problem, she can travel in the truck so we can enjoy absolute candor in our conversation.”
“Stay with her, Hawkin. Keep an eye on her.”
The seating arrangements were getting complicated with much changing about and slamming of doors. Heinrich went by, yawning, and Tony waved.
“Good luck. I hope you’ll be teaching again soon.”
“And the same to you. You and I, both. Even the Arabs will look good after some of these people. My students should only know. They think I’m on a sabbatical at MIT. Hah!”
Tony helped Lizveta Zlotnikova into the truck, still carrying the painting, and she stopped dead. “You!” she shouted.
Nahum, the sabra agent, looked up from the radio apparatus and smiled, waving them toward the bench. “Get comfortable. The car we follow is still moving. Dobriy vyechyer, tovarisch oche chornyia?
“Svinya!” Lizveta Zlotnikova hissed in return. “What is this about? Who are these people? What is happening?”
“Patience, patience,” Tony said, suddenly weary, sitting down and taking the painting from her. “You know, it is still not obvious this is a forgery. Not to a quick examination with all this dirt on it The brushwork—”
“Ignore the brushwork.” She hurled a last daggerlike glance at the smiling Israeli, then stabbed a finger at the painting. “It is stamped forgery all over. These fly specks, coffee grounds. The stained canvas, tea. It is more like a cheap menu than a painting,” She lurched against him, a gentle collision, as the truck started.
Very quickly excitement gave way to fatigue; it had indeed been a long and trying day, and even thoughts of the million dollars could not keep Tony awake. He found his head falling onto Lizveta Zlotnikova’s shoulder, she made no protests, where he dozed fitfully. There were stops and starts and shouted instructions that woke him, and after that a continuous run that lulled him deeply asleep. It wasn’t until light poured in through the open rear door that he woke again, blinking and chomping, slowly becoming aware that he was sweetly entangled with Lizveta Zlotnikova who was still asleep.
“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.