A phone tinkled in an expensive suite at one of Mexico City’s posh hotels. The man at the huge picture window did not turn. He had opened the heavy velvet drapes and stood gazing down onto the Plaza, watching traffic weave golden arabesques around the Cuauhtemoc Statue. It had just turned dusk and a light rain was falling, greasing the busy streets and turning them to black mirrors. Mirrors that reflected a thousand car lights. Won’t be long, the man thought with an odd petulance, before the goddamn traffic is as bad here as it is in Los Angeles. Why didn’t that stupid prostituta hurry up! He was paying her enough!
The phone rang again. The man cursed softly and turned from the window, crossed the luxurious carpeting and picked up the instrument. As he did so he noticed the tremor of his fingers. Damned nerves, he thought. When this last job was over he was getting out. Running and hiding.
He spoke cautiously into the phone. “Yes?”
There was a metallic gabble. As he listened, his pink, well-fed face began to sag. The well-barbered jowls quivered as he shook his head violently.
“No! Don’t come here, you idiot. No names. Listen and then hang up immediately. Half an hour, Alameda Park in front of San Juan de Dos. Got it? Good. Goodbye!”
As he put down the phone there was a light tap on the door. The man cursed and went into the foyer. The stupid puta would come now! Just when he had to leave.
The woman he admitted was just a bit too flashily dressed, and wearing just a soupçon too much of expensive perfume, to be what she purported to be — an upper-stratum call girl! She was young and very pretty, big-breasted, and magnificent legs, but nonetheless there was something of the tart about her. As soon as the door was closed she nuzzled against the man, pushing her body against him.
“I am sorry I am late, darleeng, but I ’ave the many things to do, to get ready. Perdón? Anyway you nevair call me until the last second of time!” There was a whore’s pout on her scarlet mouth as they went into the living room of the suite.
Maxwell Harper stood close to the woman for a moment, running his hands over her. He had big hands and strong stubby fingers with black hairs between the knuckles. The woman sagged against him, staring vacantly over his shoulder as his hands explored. He might have been frisking her for weapons. Rapidly he traced her thighs, buttocks, waist, breasts. She knew him well enough not to simulate something she did not feel; she had been with Harper many times in the past year, and knew that only under certain conditions was he potent. She was perfectly aware of the routine that was beginning.
But this time Harper pushed her away. He was beginning to quicken and he knew the dangers. He had never been a man to put pleasure before business. “I’m sorry, Rosita. I have to go out. You can wait for me here. I shouldn’t be long.”
She pouted and reached for him, but he eluded her. “You are bad, Maxie,” she chided. “You make me to hurry so, and then you leave me.”
Maxwell Harper went to a closet and took out a Burberry. He adjusted his Homburg in the mirror, frowning at the woman in the glass. Damned whores! Why must they always simper?
“Don’t call me Maxie,” he said curtly. “I told you I wouldn’t be long. Just wait for me. There are plenty of magazines. Order anything you want from room service.”
As the door closed behind him, Rosita stuck out her tongue, flicking it like a little red snake at the departing footsteps. She turned and gazed around the suite for a moment, then went to the phone. With her hand on the instrument she hesitated. She wondered just how long he would be gone. There was a bellboy in the hotel, a very young and handsome boy, who was one of the few men who had ever given her pleasure. She really preferred women for that, but one must admit that Juan was magnifico.
Better not. She sighed and flounced across the room to a divan and sat down. She picked up a copy of Harper’s from a coffee table and began to flick through it idly. When she noticed the similarity of names she giggled and stuck out her tongue at the magazine. Maybe the fat pig owned this also, la revista? Who could know? Certainly he was rich enough to pay her well for his odd pleasures. She found a long cigarette in a silver box, lit it and put it in her scarlet mouth, and sat gazing through the smoke at the high fashion clothes. Perhaps, after tonight, she could afford such as these, Quien sabe?
Maxwell Harper walked quickly to Alameda Park. A fine drizzle was still falling and he turned up the corner of his Burberry. For a big man, now running slightly to paunch, he moved well. Even so he was panting slightly, and there was a light dew of moisture on his forehead when he reached the Church of San Juan de Dos. As he strolled past the dimly lit facade a slight figure left a narrow gothic niche and followed Harper into the park. There are always strollers and sitters in Alameda Park when it is warm, even in the rain, and the two men were not conspicuous.
The man who had fallen in beside Harper might have been a mestizo, a mixture of Spanish and Indian, but in fact he was Chinese. His real name was Chung Hee, though at the moment he was passing under the name of Hurtada. His ability to pass as a mestizo was not remarkable. Anyone who has noticed Oriental crews in Mexican ports has also noticed the startling likeness in physiognomy. It is the Indian strain that does it; both are descended from remote Mongol ancestors. Certainly Peking had not overlooked it.
Chung Hee, or Hurtada, was a short sturdy man. He wore a cheap slicker over a neat business suit and a Trilby hat covered by a plastic rain shield. As the two men entered a narrow, badly lit path, Maxwell Harper said, “How in God’s name did that drunk get into the vaults in the first place? Damn! I can’t leave for an hour, but something like this happens!”
His smaller companion shot Harper a look that bore a hint of nastiness, but his reply was calm. “You have been gone for two days now, Harper. I have had everything on my shoulders. I admit it was a failure of security, a very bad one, but Vargas has been staying at the castle when he is not working. I could not keep my thumb on him. You know the strains under which we work — two separate security forces, two projects you might say. Until we take over completely I cannot be expected to be responsible for the castle and Lady Bitch and all her employees. Anyway who would have expected that drunk Vargas to pull a trick like this? I myself wouldn’t have thought he was ever sober enough, or had the guts!”
Harper nodded reluctantly. “Yes. We underestimated that lush. But let’s not thumb the panic button. I’ll admit it’s dangerous, but blowing our tops won’t help. I don’t suppose there is any chance of catching Vargas?”
They came to a quiet spot, remote from the center of the park, where a single light wore a nimbus of mist. There was a bench. Harper sank down on it heavily and lit a cigar. Hurtada paced nervously up and down on the path, as though he were on a quarterdeck.
“I don’t see how in hell we can catch him,” he rasped. “He filled a couple of bags with money, stole a jeep and drove to the airstrip and took off in the Beechcraft. As the Americans say — off in the wild blue yonder. We don’t even know which way he went. How do you expect to find him, Harper?”
“No names!” snapped Harper. He glanced at the wet bushes behind the bench.