For the next couple of hours such worries were tucked away in the back of my mind as I directed the placement of the signal fires. There was plenty of dry brush around, and I had six fires set in a circular pattern to outline the landing area.
Once the fires were burning well and the clearing illuminated, I sat down to wait. And wait. And wait.
With the State Department involved, I should have known it wouldn’t go smoothly. By the time I heard the sound of the helicopter rotor, dawn was breaking and my crew of fire-builders were definitely unhappy with the delay. The pilot spotted our little party and brought his craft in, raising a great cloud of thick red-brown dust.
The pilot’s name was Martin. He was a thin young man with a sharp nose. We exchanged identification while the villagers clustered around, eying the helicopter with intense suspicion.
“I hope they sent some money with you,” I said.
“Money? What for?”
“To get help with the signal fires I had to promise these people some payment.”
Martin squinted up at the brightening sky. “I don’t know what you needed signal fires for; it’s almost full daylight.”
“When I asked for a helicopter,” I said coolly, “it was dark. I had hoped that the State Department would respond with a fair amount of speed and get me out of here before dawn. I’m on rather a tight schedule, old pal.”
“Nobody said anything about bringing money,” he grumbled.
There was an uneasy muttering from the people standing around us, and I was afraid they were catching the gist of our conversation.
“Did you bring any money of your own?” I asked.
“Well… some,” he said cautiously.
I was losing my temper. “So get it out, goddammit! I promised these people money, and I have a hunch they’ll break your bones if they don’t get it.”
Looking pained, Martin dragged a battered wallet out of his hip pocket and began leafing through the bills. In exasperation I grabbed the wallet away from him and stripped out the greenbacks. It added up to a little over fifty dollars in U.S. bills. I handed it to the head man who counted it solemnly then nodded without smiling. He spoke to the villagers, who moved away, clearing a path for us.
As we got into the helicopter, Martin said, “Did you have to give them all of it? Those Indians would probably have been satisfied with half.”
“Maybe,” I said. “And maybe they would’ve been unhappy — until they put a spear through your throat. Would that be worth twenty-five bucks to you?”
He kicked the engine to life without comment
“Don’t worry,” I told him. “I’ll make a full report of your contribution, and you’ll be reimbursed through the usual State Department channels. If you’re lucky, you’ll get your money back by Christmas. Maybe not this Christmas…”
For the first time, Martin relaxed a bit and even managed a small grin. “Okay,” he said. “I’ve got to admit it’s cheaper than a spear in the gullet. Where to?”
“Veracruz,” I told him, and we sprang into the air.
Fourteen
Hernando Cortes came ashore at Veracruz in 1519, the first Spaniard to set foot on Mexican soil. Since then, the city has been captured in various wars by the Americans and twice by the French.
As we skimmed in over the Gulf of Campeche and I squinted down at the sunlit city, it was plain that Veracruz was now, at least, a prize worthy of all that blood and thunder.
We settled onto a pad behind the American Consulate, where I turned down an invitation to stay for lunch. I was feeling stiff and sticky from my exertions, wiped out for want of sleep, and I didn’t feel like making small talk over martinis with some of our foreign service types. I shook hands with Martin, assured him again that he’d get his money back, and used an outside telephone to call for a taxi.
The cab ride to the Hotel Bahia Bonito twisted through some of the city’s ancient cobblestone streets lined with quaint old houses, and zoomed along the wide modern thoroughfares next to steel and glass skyscrapers.
My hotel was antiquated but comfortable, the kind with a big center courtyard open to the sky and three tiers of rooms around it I told the driver to wait and went inside. When I gave my name, the man at the desk handed me a room key, a thick, sealed envelope, and a package the size of a clarinet case. I slit the envelope and found, in various sizes and colors: dollars, pesos, quetzales, cordobas, colons, lempiras, balboas, bolivars, gourdes, pounds, francs, and guilders. I pulled out the pesos, paid the driver, and with the package under my arm, went up to my room on the third floor. There wasn’t any message from Pilar or from anyone else.
I took a long, steamy bath followed by a cool shower, then unwrapped the package of gum-cleaning equipment and went to work on the Luger. I could have asked Hawk to get me a new pistol, but Wilhelmina was an old and reliable friend.
I stripped the Luger down and examined all the parts. Since it had been well-oiled and protected by the waterproof covering, the salt water hadn’t yet cor-roded the metal. I used solvent on every part, even the tiny screws, and ran patches through the bore until they came out virginal white. I dried the disassembled gun with the lint-free cotton wiper, touched the critical parts with low-viscosity lubricating oil, and put the Luger back together. I filled the eight-cartridge clip from the box of shells Hawk had provided, and slipped Wilhelmina into my belt holster.
My body needed sleep, but my mind wouldn’t give up. There were plans to make, loopholes to close. And whenever I gave my brain a rest, the picture of Rona swam into view. The blonde girl whose slender, supple body had been so many nights in my embrace, could not be dismissed as Just another working partner lost.
They don’t allow the time or depletion for sorrow, I thought bitterly, and banged out of my room. Down at the desk I asked if there was a store nearby where I could buy clothes.
“Yes, senor. Aguilars, just across the street, has an excellent selection,” the clerk said.
“Gracias. I am expecting a visitor. If she arrives, tell her where to find me.”
I crossed the street and spent a fistful of Hawk’s money on clothes. Dressed in a new suit with all the appropriate accessories, I checked with my desk clerk again, then sauntered up the street to a sidewalk cafe. I took a table where I could watch the entrance and ordered a bottle’ of local brandy, which burned like fire but didn’t taste bad. Sipping the brandy, I wondered how long I should wait before deciding that my contact, Pilar, was not going to show.
Just then a dark girl in a low-cut blouse that barely contained her magnificent breasts, swayed between the tables and came to a stop at mine. Her hair was black and thick, with a slightly tousled, fresh-from-bed disorder. She had black-coffee eyes that promised exotic pleasures.
“Can you spare a match?” she asked with a bare trace of accent.
“Sorry, I don’t keep them since I quit smoking.” I clued her.
“I tried to quit last year myself, but I only lasted two weeks,” she answered correctly.
“You must be Pilar.”
“Yes. And you are Nick Carter… called Killmaster. Your reputation has preceded you.” “I don’t know if I should play modest or apologize.”
Her full lips curved into a smile. “One should never apologize. May I sit down?”
“Of course. My manners are a bit worn today, like the rest of me.”
Pilar eased into a chair across the table from me. “You look as though you could use some sleep,” she said.
“Business first,” I said with an insinuating smile. “Can we talk here?”