His silent curses were searing, vitriolic, and had he been confronted with the CIA Director at that moment his language would have earned him a court-martial at the very least. CIA was just too blankety-blank big, with too many irons in the fire, to function efficiently. Thank God for AXE. Then Nick included Hawk in his maledictions for ever getting him into this.
“I am sorry we have no saddle, Señor,” said the young bandit. “But be of hope — it is not far now.”
To clear his mind, and take his thoughts off his woes, Nick asked, “Which one of you bastards shot at me last night?”
The bandit laughed. “I am sorry about that, Señor. My brother was muy colérico about it. Very angry. It was one called Gonzalez who is not all there in the head, perhaps. He was making the joke, the prank, you understand. He wished to give you the fright.”
“He succeeded,” said Nick sourly.
Ten minutes later he was helped off the mule. The blindfold stayed on. He was led carefully down what he knew must be a mine shaft. That figured. There probably were scores of derelict mines in the area, perfect nests for bandits. The thought returned — why hadn’t the Federal police smoked them out and killed them?
The blindfold was taken off. Nick blinked in the yellow light of oil lanterns hanging from the low ceiling. It was a mine shaft, all right. Moisture dribbled from the ceiling, which was supported by huge timbers, and ran down the sides of the shaft. Rust-eaten rails were embedded in the floor of the shaft.
The young bandit smiled at him. “Come. I will take you to my brother.” He strode off down the shaft. Nick shot a glance behind him. He saw perhaps a dozen men lounging about the shaft. There were blanket rolls and sleeping bags — the latter no doubt stolen and the owners buried or left for the vultures — and some of the men were cooking over small fires. There was a draft through the shaft that kept it free of smoke.
The young bandit stopped before a large ragged tarpaulin that screened a gallery off the shaft. “Hermano — here is the gringo. He is angry and he has the sore ass, but he is safe. You wish to see him now, sí?”
“Let him enter, Pancho. He alone.” The English was good and almost without accent. It was the voice and tone of a man of some culture. Probably turn out to be a Ph.D., Nick thought. Nothing about this crazy mission could surprise him now.
The young bandit put a hand on Nick’s shoulder and bent close to whisper. “My brother is a great man, Señor — but he is also un gran borrachón. My advice is to drink with him if you have the head for it. He does not like or trust men who do not drink.”
Nick nodded his thanks, Pancho pressed his shoulder again and pulled the tarp aside and Nick entered the gallery. It had been blocked off and fitted out as crude living and sleeping quarters. A lamp dangled from the ceiling. Another lantern stood on a desk which had been made out of old crates. Behind the desk, staring at him now, was the man they called El Tigre.
The man stood up. With a courtly gesture he indicated a box near the desk. “Please sit down, sir. You will have a drink, of course? You must be in need of one after that trip by mule, yes? I have made it myself, and it is not comfortable.”
“That,” said Nick Carter, “is the understatement of the year.” His eyes were busy, flicking around the little room, taking in everything. There were books everywhere. Shelves of them. Piles of them on the floor. Hard-cover and paperbacks.
El Tigre came around the desk and handed Nick a tin cup. “You will not mind,” he said, “if we do not shake hands just yet? I am not sure that we are going to be friends, you see. If I have to kill you later, which I should regret enormously, it will be a little easier if I have not shaken your hand. Do you understand?”
“I think I do,” said Nick. “Though I cannot think of any reason why you should want to kill me.”
“That could be,” said El Tigre. “That could well be, but we will talk of that later.” He lifted his own cup. “Salud y pesetas, Señor.”
Nick drank. His throat contracted and his stomach churned. Mescal! Pulque! Call it murder and be done with it. He was aware of the man’s eyes on him as he drank. He kept his face impassive and handed back the cup. “A little more, if you please.”
El Tigre picked up a bottle and poured. Nick thought he detected a hint of approval in the dark eyes. El Tigre was a tall man, sturdily built, with a thick black bush of beard that gave him a Castroesque appearance. The beard was neatly trimmed and, as Nick took the cup again, he noted that the man’s hands were clean and well-kept. El Tigre was not wearing the usual bandit uniform; he wore green fatigues, U.S. Army issue, and a flat, kepi-like cap. Something glinted on the cap. Nick looked closer and saw that it was a metal pin in the form of a mountain lion, or cougar, the “tiger” of Mexico.
They drank again, this time in silence. The mescal was already kindling a blaze in the AXEman’s belly. All I need now, he told himself, is to get really blasted. Roaring drunk. That would just about cap things. He wouldn’t, of course. He must stay sober and get on with the job. He had a premonition that it wasn’t going to be easy. And he had not a single illusion — El Tigre would use the heavy pistol at his belt if the mood struck him. Nick was walking a very thin line betwixt life and death.
El Tigre went back to his desk. He clasped his hands and looked at Nick, who was wondering just how drunk the bandit chief was. More than a little, he guessed, though he carried it well.
“Now,” said El Tigre, “we can get down to business. And let us begin with the thought that I am most angry with you people! You have not kept your word. You promised much and have delivered nothing. I spit in the milk of the CIA!” And he spat on the floor.
Nick Carter closed his eyes for a moment in silent supplication. Here it was. Goddamn those fumble-fingered bastards to hell! What have they gotten me into this time? His mind raced furiously. He had to make a decision as to how to play this thing, and he had to be right the first time. He decided.
“There has been some mistake,” he said. “I am not of the CIA, though at the moment I am working for them.” There went his cover. He could see no help for it.
El Tigre stared at Nick for a long time. Then, “Let me understand you clearly, Señor. You are not of the CIA, yet you work for them. Bueno. It is the same thing, yes? You have brought me instructions and money, no? And no doubt the supplies promised me will soon be along?”
He was walking on eggs now. “I have brought none of those things,” Nick said. “I know nothing of any of this. I swear it, amigo.” He made a further decision and added, “Can I stand up and show you something without being shot?”
El Tigre took a drink from the bottle of mescal. He loosened the flap of his holster and took out his pistol and laid it on the desk. “It is permitted, Señor. Be very careful. I am beginning to dislike you very much.”
Nick rolled up his left sleeve and thrust his arm into the ring of light from the lantern. The little blue hatchet tattoo glinted in the soft radiance. For the moment Nick took back his recent evil thoughts about the symbol.