The Aztec Avenger

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

I made my report to Hawk via telephone from El Paso and finished by telling him cynically that he’d been fooled by Gregorius for years. That he’d had me out on loan from AXE to one of the master criminals of the world.

I heard Hawk’s dry chuckle over the line.

“Do you really believe that, Nick? Why do you think I violated all the rules and let you work for him? And let you know you couldn’t call on AXE for help?”

“You mean—?”

“I’ve wondered about Gregorius for years. When he asked for you, I thought it was a great opportunity to smoke him out in the open. And you did it. Nice work, Nick.”

Once again, Hawk was a step ahead of me.

“All right,” I growled, “in that case, I’ve earned a vacation.”

“Three weeks,” Hawk snapped. “And give my regards to Teniente Fuentes.” He hung up abruptly, leaving me to wonder how he knew I planned on going back to Acapulco again?

So now, wearing beige slacks, sandals, and an open sport shirt, I sat at a small table beside Teniente Fèlix Fuentes of the Policia Federal de Seguridad. The table was on the broad terrace of the Hotel Matamoros. Acapulco had never been prettier. It glistened in the late afternoon tropical sunshine, washed clean by a rainstorm earlier in the day.

The waters of the bay were a rich blue, the town on the far side, almost hidden behind the palm trees that lined the malecon and the park, was a smudge of gray along the base of the brown ridged hills.

“I’m aware you haven’t told me everything,” Fuentes remarked. “I’m not sure I want to know everything, because then I might have to take official action, and I do not want to do that, Senor Carter. However, I do have one question. Stocelli?”

“You mean, has he gotten off scot-free?”

Fuentes nodded.

I shook my head. “I don’t think so,” I said. “Do you remember what I asked you to do when I telephoned from El Paso yesterday afternoon?”

“Of course. I personally notified Stocelli that my government considered him persona non grata and re-quested him to leave Mexico no later than this morning. Why?”

“Because I telephoned him right after I talked to you. I told him that I’d taken care of things for him and that he could go back to the States.”

“You let him off?” Fuentes frowned.

“Not quite. I asked him to do a favor for me and he agreed.”

“A favor?”

“To bring my luggage back with him.”

Fuentes was puzzled. “I do not understand. What was the purpose of doing that?”

“Well,” I said, looking at my watch, “if his plane is on time, Stocelli will be arriving at Kennedy airport sometime in the next half hour. He’ll have to go through Customs. Among his luggage is a black fabric suitcase with no markings on it to indicate it belongs to anyone except Stocelli. Now, he might claim it’s one of my bags, but there’s no way for him to prove it. Besides, I don’t think Customs will pay much attention to his protests.”

Comprehension lit up Fuentes’ eyes.

“That is the suitcase Dietrich sent to your room?”

“It is,” I said, grinning, “and it still contains the thirty kilos of pure heroin that Dietrich packed into it.”

Fuentes began to laugh.

I was looking past him at the doorway that led in from the lobby of the hotel. Consuela Delgardo was walking toward us. As she approached, I could see the expression on her face. It was a mixture of joy and anticipation, and a look that told me that somehow, somewhere, in some way she would get back at me for what I’d done to her at Garrett’s hacienda.

She came up to the table, a tall, regal, full-bodied woman, her oval face never looking more beautiful than now. Fuentes turned in his chair, saw her, and got to his feet as she reached us.

“Senora Consuela Delgardo, Lieutenant Fèlix Fuentes.”

Consuela held out her hand. Fuentes brought it to his lips.

“We’ve met,” Fuentes murmured. Then he straightened up. He said, “If you are going to be in Mexico for any length of time, Senor Carter, I would appreciate it if you would both be my guests for dinner some evening.”

Consuela slid her arm possessively through mine. Fuentes caught the gesture.

“We would be delighted,” said Consuela in her husky voice.

Fuentes looked at her. Then he looked at me. The faintest flicker of some unreadable expression glowed for a moment in his eyes, but his face remained as stolid and severe as ever — a nut-brown carving of an ancient Toltec god.

“Enjoy yourself,” Fuentes told me drily. And then he closed one eye in a slow, lascivious wink.