The Hungry Blade

by Lawrence Dudley

  Hawkins ran around the outside of the melee, hand in his jacket, gripping his Browning, ready if he needed it, but not showing it, either, carefully holding his arms in against the wine sacks, protecting them—and himself. Not a brilliant thing to be loaded with gasoline in the middle of a riot.

  Eckhardt has to be here, Hawkins thought, or had to be behind this. Falkenberg? Not him, not the Prussian aristocrat. No, this was the style of a dockworker. Violence in the street, that’d be Eckhardt’s style, the old Sturmabteilung way that got Hitler to where he was. Although the question there was why? But the escalating fight blotted that thought out.

  The Camisas Doradas began suddenly stepping back, aiming the sticks and throwing them like spears, arcing in at the dockworkers, and him. Damn! Watch out! Hawkins thought, there were spikes or nails on the ends. The longshoremen began picking the sticks up and throwing them back. In seconds the air was filled with lethal spears flying in both directions. Hawkins began dodging from side to side, watching the sky, spotting the pale poles arcing in, ducking. One landed a foot away, embedding itself in the asphalt, waving like a flower in the wind, twanging and vibrating. A Gold Shirt darted back, yanked it out and threw it again. More flew back, Hawkins kept ducking and running.

  Now whistles and sirens began joining the uproar. A few badly outnumbered police officers arrived, firing guns in the air, shouting orders to disperse. Instead of stopping the fray it revved it up. More shots rang out.

  Hawkins reached the edge of the quay. The SS Betelgeuse’s gangway was empty, the castle dark, no one going on or off. He ran back a few yards, squinting alongside the ship in the semidarkness.

  He saw a motion. There, by the accommodation ladder, a pair of men were coming down carrying a wooden case, identical to the ones hidden in the Santa Lopez. At the bottom a barge or lighter was already mostly filled.

  A rumbling of trucks, the blasting of horns. At the far end of the esplanade an army unit was rolling into place. Hawkins climbed a stack of bales to see. The trucks began unloading soldiers, lining up in a formation spanning the street, the men fixing bayonets, starting a slow march forward. These were the trustworthy units President Cárdenas was sending from La Capital. In a few minutes they would be sweeping the street.

  Hawkins climbed back down, running to the edge of the wharf. The men on the accommodation ladder must’ve gotten all the cases, they were casting off lines and pushing off. Seconds later they were chugging around the edge of the pier, heading away from the riot and the soldiers pushing along the street.

  Hawkins ran along the esplanade, following the barge. Can’t be going very far, he thought. It’s small, certainly not seagoing, and loaded. Behind him the riot began breaking up, the Camisas Doradas retreating up the side streets, the longshoremen cheering for defending their ground. As they moved along, the troops began setting sentries on each dock, guarding the ships, blocking access. But they were too late for the Betelgeuse.

  That lighter’s heading somewhere near, Hawkins thought. As he ran by he heard a whistle and shout and glanced up at the “hotel.” The women were all hanging out the upstairs windows watching the show. Dolores and Estella saw him and waved. He waved back and kept jogging.

  -86-

  A quarter-mile down the barge turned into another slip beside a long dock capped by a large dark warehouse. The tide was flowing in now, close to the shiny high-water marks on the pilings, the lighter almost level with the deck.

  There were three of the Camisas Doradas on the barge and one on the dock waving them in with a small kerosene lantern. One man clambered ashore. The two left aboard began quickly pushing the cases up to the two men on the wharf. When they were through a third man climbed on the dock. They cast off the lines. The one man on the barge backed it out into the harbor and disappeared into the dark. The three quickly hustled the cases inside.

  Hawkins began edging along the catwalk beside the warehouse. He reached a window, peering in at a careful angle. The three men were sitting on the carelessly piled up cases, smoking cigarettes, casually talking in Spanish. Do they realize how valuable that cargo is? Hawkins wondered. Probably not. Would I tell them? No. Probably not. No need for them to know.

  But there was no trace of Eckhardt or Falkenberg, or General Corrialles, either. Had the unexpected arrival of the Mexican Army scorched their plans? Could be, must be, Hawkins decided. But I have what I need now, he thought: the location of the contraband. Even better, no need to destroy them, now that the army was on the street. Time to find the commander of that detachment. Have him arrest those men inside, slap a guard on this place and put an end to this. The rest was up to President Cárdenas and the Policía Judicial Federal.

  Hawkins began edging backward in the dark, thinking about finding the major, watching the window to be sure the three men weren’t about to interrupt their smoke. Several feet away he briskly turned around and walked hard into a cold object poking him in the forehead with a neck-snapping start. Hawkins froze, mind stilled. One thought: Oh god … barrel of a gun …

  “Zurückgehen!” It was Eckhardt. Saying move back. “Langsam!” Slowly.

  “Ja, ja …” Hawkins stepped back a pace, Eckhardt following.

  “Rückwärts gehen! Hände oben!” Eckhardt said. Hawkins raised his hands as ordered and stepped back another couple of paces. “¡Oye! ¡Muchachos! ¡Muchachos! ¡Él está aquí!” Eckhardt shouted. The men inside came running out. They instantly grabbed Hawkins’s arms, turned and roughly pushed him into the warehouse, Eckhardt right behind them.

  “¿Hicimos bueno?” one eagerly said to Eckhardt, all three smiling and grinning, looking for praise, crowing, asking if they’d done good. They’d obviously been waiting for Eckhardt. Why? They’re not with Falkenberg? How does Eckhardt even know about the paintings? Hawkins choked down a brief flicker of panic. Did I walk into a trap? Hawkins wondered. But—Eckhardt spoke German to me. Why? No—wait. Wait! Not me. He’s gunning for Falkenberg. Eckhardt easily waved his pistol, congratulating them.

  “¡Sí, sí, gran demostración!” Eckhardt gestured out toward the street and the riot. “¡Bien hecho, hombres!”

  Hawkins slowly turned. Eckhardt saw his face for the first time. He looked surprised, half smiling. No, right! Exactly, he wasn’t expecting me, Hawkins instantly realized. He’s waiting for Falkenberg. That’s why he’s speaking German. Keep talking, keep him talking—

  “Herr Hawkins!” Eckhardt said in German. “What are you doing here?” He scowled. “Not working for Falkenberg?” Doing here? Hawkins thought. That brought on another furious, fast mental scramble. Then Hawkins caught up. Eckhardt doesn’t realize I was on the roof at Riley’s, he must think it was Falkenberg. That’s why he was surprised just now. No, he definitely wasn’t setting a trap for me. Hawkins switched to German, as well.

  “No. I was in touch with General Corrialles. We were ambushed, we thought the paintings were destroyed. Did you know?”

  “Yes. I knew that.”

  “You did?”

  “Yes. That was part of our plan.”

  “Oh. I see, I guess. Whatever the case, the general knows, too, now. He told me to stand by. And not worry. Said he intended to go ahead. Wanted to know if I still wanted to do business. I said yes, of course.” Hawkins forced up a big smile, trying to act happy. “This is good news. You want to restart—”

  “Perhaps. We started to make other plans. But, maybe—but—how did you know to come here?” Eckhardt said.

  “The general told me the paintings were coming in by ship, soon, and to come and wait. When I saw the riot I guessed something was up. Then I saw these three bringing the cases off.”

  “I see.”

  “I assume you now want to sell these and get the funds to the general?”

  -87-

  “No. Don’t need him.”

  “I thought you—”

  “No, no. I’m not i
nterested in him!”

  “But the takeover—”

  “Oh, that’s Falkenberg! Him and those twits at the General Staff. Afraid of their own shadows. Worried we could lose. Want to play it safe. I—my bosses—we don’t need any damn fool scheme here. All this bull about duping the Americans, getting them to invade. They’ll be with us before you know it, especially when they see us marching through London. We have powerful friends in America. They’ll be in charge soon. Then we’ll set things right. Here, too.”

  My god, of course, Hawkins thought. That’s the missing piece. Eckhardt—or his Nazi buddies—they’re embezzling all of the paintings. Ambitious, in a way. When Eckhardt took the three paintings, he was aping the big plan, following his superiors’ inspiration, a thief stealing from the thieves to feed his obsession with the Aztecs. Stunning. The Nazi elite only saw—or cared about—a chance to line their own pockets. And the same with Eckhardt.

  Apparently at least one of the Camisas Doradas spoke some German. He looked confused.

  “Herr Eckhardt?”

  Eckhardt’s expression completely changed in an instant, as if a mask had fallen, or perhaps a mask assumed, a cold look, death or deadness in his eyes, an uncaring glare devoid of empathy or any human connection or feeling for them, any more than you’d feel for a chair you tripped over.

  “Don’t need you, either,” Eckhardt said, in a detached, totally conversational tone.

  He turned the long, silenced pistol on the three young men, stricken expressions barely beginning to flicker across their faces. With quick soft pops he put one bullet right between the eyes of the nearest one, the one who said Herr Eckhardt. The man fell straight back, hands still out raised. The other two barely managed a quick, “¡No! ¡Por favor! ¡Usted no puede! Para dios!” Eckhardt caught the second in the temple as he turned to run and popped the third in the back of the head as he got one step away. The first man landed flat like a logged tree, eyes and mouth open wide in surprise. The second spiraled away in the direction of the hand slapping the side of his head, his face a tight grimace, and the third fell straight forward on his face and knees, then slowly tipped over sideways, head running blood.

  Hawkins froze, raising his hands slightly, chest high, fingers as near the flap of his jacket as he dared. Can I get to my gun in time? he thought. Damn … only a few inches … what’s this crazy bastard doing?

  Eckhardt stepped over checking the three bodies, one eye on Hawkins, gun at ready, covering him. After a few little kicks he shook his head, disgusted and disappointed.

  “What a wasted opportunity.”

  He sat on an overturned case facing Hawkins, watching him for a moment, lightly holding the pistol with one hand, the other around the barrel. Hawkins slowly turned, too, hardly daring to move.

  “Horst—what the hell? What’d they do?”

  Eckhardt’s expression changed again, a curious, penetrating gaze, looking Hawkins directly, deeply in the eyes, the way you might a lover.

  “Nothing. You’re a cool one, Hawkins, you’re used to death and dying, you can’t hide that.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about—”

  “How many men have you killed?”

  “I’ve never killed anyone.”

  “I can tell. I know how men react when they see death. And when they don’t expect to see it. The shock, the horror, the way they can’t help flinching.”

  “I am shocked—”

  “Not in the same way, there was calculation. You were thinking. A real art dealer would only react, jump to the roof. You gave yourself away.” He pointed the gun directly at Hawkins. “I think you are carrying a gun. Are you?”

  “Yes. Horst, this is a dangerous place—”

  “Reach in, slowly.” A little wiggle with the barrel of his gun. “Take it out with two fingers.”

  Aiming directly at my head, Hawkins thought, never get a shot off in time. He did as ordered, like most men or women facing the muzzle of a gun, playing for time, hoping for something, pulling the Hi-Power out, dangling it between right thumb and forefinger. “Throw it over on the other side of the cases.” Hawkins did. “Interesting. You have something else in there. Open your coat, slowly.”

  Hawkins pulled one flap back, then the other, exposing the two wine sacks. Eckhardt looked slightly puzzled, then reached into his coat pocket for his small leather folder of obsidian knives. He set it on top of a case, still holding a bead on Hawkins, and plucked one out. Leaning forward carefully, holding out the blade, he flicked it through the two leather straps holding up the wine sacks, then the ones to Hawkins’s shoulder holster. They all fell to the floor. Eckhardt carefully pocketed the knife in the breast pocket of his jacket.

  “Step back—back! Against the wall!” Eckhardt said. Hawkins did as told. Eckhardt drew one sack toward him with his right foot, then carefully picked it up. He clicked it open for a quick sniff, then threw it several feet away, quickly picking up the other, throwing that aside, too.

  “Gas,” Eckhardt said.

  Hawkins mentally scrambled for something to say, “If there were more fakes, I—the general—”

  “I could understand a gun, but together this is too much. Impressive cover, Hawkins, my compliments.”

  “Am I supposed to say thanks?”

  “If you want.” Keeping the pistol carefully on Hawkins, Eckhardt sidestepped over to the first man he’d shot. “Don’t move,” crouching down, feeling the man’s pocket, then hooking out a pair of handcuffs with his pinkie. “Stick your arm out.” Hawkins did. Eckhardt snapped one end around Hawkins’s left hand then pulled him several feet by it, snapping the other end through a steel handle on the biggest of the cases. Then he slowly patted Hawkins up and down, looking for another gun.

  The curious mask fell again, revealing the same face that shot the three men.

  “I won’t be wasting this opportunity.”

  -88-

  Hawkins instantly had one thought: He missed my lockpick set. In my pants. He missed it. Only looking for a gun or knife. Big mistake, you crazy bugger. Steady, steady …

  Pressing the muzzle of the gun to Hawkins’s temple, pushing his head aside slightly, Eckhardt plucked the obsidian knife from his breast pocket. With a single deft movement he slid it under the cuff of Hawkins’s shackled hand and effortlessly sliced through shirt and jacket to his other armpit. Another stroke cut the shirt from neck to gut. A final one severed jacket and shirt from his other arm. Breathing hard, gritting teeth, Hawkins tried to stay motionless as the wicked sharp knife flew by, only nicking him slightly in a couple of places. Hawkins’s shirt and jacket loosely fell to the floor, leaving him standing bare chested, still handcuffed to the case.

  Eckhardt stepped back, gun still pointed, sliding the little knife back in the case.

  “If you call out I’ll come back and shoot you.” An excited expression of wonder and excitement began dawning on Eckhardt’s face, his whole body seeming to follow. It wasn’t a sexual charge, the rush of blood behind a man’s eyes that darkens them with lust. Instead he showed a relaxed sense of exaltation, of transport, of communion with another world, the cold expression of death in his eyes gone. “Going to get this one right,” he said.

  Eckhardt breezily walked off into a side office, looking for something. Hawkins could see his shadow through a long row of frosted glass windows, the exchange moments ago still ricocheting in his head. The first set of paintings hadn’t been a decoy at all. No, they were fakes. That was why Eckhardt burned them—his Nazi Party bosses had sent fakes so that they could embezzle the real ones. No wonder the Abwehr ordered Falkenberg to kill him.

  The minute Eckhardt crossed the door Hawkins began fumbling for the lockpick set in his pants, checking the handcuff at the same time. Good, he thought. Peerless, the standard American-made brand. Not terribly difficult to jimmy open. Eyes darting back and forth betw
een the frosted glass windows and the picks, he began working it almost by feel.

  There was a noise. Hawkins hid the picks. Eckhardt came through the door holding a metal waste basket. He set it down next to Hawkins then went back in. As Hawkins watched his shadow move around in the office, he picked the last little tumbler. The cuff gave. Hawkins opened it enough to get his hand out quickly, but not all the way, just enough that Eckhardt probably wouldn’t notice.

  Hawkins barely got the set back in his pocket. Eckhardt came out with another metal waste basket filled with rags. He looked around the warehouse, then spotted a large wooden crate. With a grinding noise he pushed it in front of Hawkins, then walked over and picked up one of Hawkins’s wine sacks. Eckhardt squirted the gas over the rags in the two baskets, then took a lighter and lit both of them, creating a pair of smoky torches for his improvised altar. He sighed with a sort of happy satisfaction.

  “Almost ready,” Eckhardt said. He disappeared back into the office. Hawkins tensed himself, ready to hoist and throw one of the cases. Catch him off guard, Hawkins thought, knock him down, get past him and out that door before he can get up.

  A moment later Eckhardt reemerged. It took all his self-control for Hawkins not to gasp.

  Eckhardt was wearing the jade Aztec priest’s mask he’d displayed at the Austs’. In one hand he held a sacrificial knife, its obsidian blade gleaming and ready. In the other, he raised his copy of the ancient macuahuitl.

  Eckhardt stood for a long moment, gazing at Hawkins, savoring the coming moment.

  “If only I knew the ancient hymns,” he said, then began loudly humming, feet dancing very slightly, up and down, up and down in place, head and mask swaying slightly from side to side. Raising the knife out, he walked forward, gesturing to Hawkins. “Lay down. It’ll be easier for you, too, that way.”

  Hawkins shifted his position slightly, waiting for Eckhardt to get close enough, ready to yank his hand free and throw the case.