The Hungry Blade

by Lawrence Dudley

  A shot rang out. Eckhardt doubled over, turning toward the sound. Two more shots, then another, all in quick succession. Each time he was struck Eckhardt shuddered, staggering backward very slightly. He rested the tip of the macuahuitl on the crate he intended to use as an altar, bracing himself, his eyes invisible. With a sharp sound he gasped or coughed. Blood flew out the mouth of the mask, running down in a small tide over the red jade that flowed from Huitzilopochtli’s mouth, dripping to the ground.

  “As it should be,” Eckhardt said. “Death and the gods must be honored.” Then he pivoted on the macuahuitl and fell backward on the crate.

  -89-

  “It’s really you? Roy?” Falkenberg emerged from behind a stack of bales in the dark at the far end of the warehouse. He looked surprised, face, eyes and mouth opening, the pistol wavering down slightly. Then he snapped it up sharply on Hawkins.

  “How long have you been there?” Hawkins said, after a slight gasp, then a deep breath, easing slightly. He didn’t see me loosen the cuff, Hawkins realized, not down there behind those bales. Careful, keep the hand in the cuff, keep that surprise—

  “About ten minutes.”

  “My god, thank you!”

  Falkenberg laughed slightly. “No, I should thank you, Roy.”

  “Why?”

  “Without you I would never have found Eckhardt, or all this.” He briefly waved the gun at the cases. “Eckhardt was right. We always assumed there were British agents here. But I never suspected it was you.”

  “You didn’t know where the paintings were, the ship?”

  “No. I only knew the paintings had to come through Veracruz. I had to get them back.”

  “What the hell—you aren’t working together?”

  “No—or I thought we were, at first.”

  “But Eckhardt did know, that the originals were coming, I mean?”

  “That’s right. I was guessing you—or the agent we suspected was here, would be able to trace them. I had people watching along the harbor.”

  “You were using me—us—as bait, to catch Eckhardt?”

  “Exactly. Never would’ve found him otherwise, or the paintings. I needed you to lead me to him. Only he—they—knew where and when they were coming.”

  “What he said—about the army, afraid of their own shadows. That Germany didn’t need any scheme here—”

  “Yes. Crazy overconfidence, isn’t it? Ah, well, look at that, though.” He gestured down at Eckhardt and the mask, shaking his head. “All his cups are out of the cupboard. No professional soldier would think that way. Sheer arrogance thinking victory is inevitable.”

  “But he used the word ‘we’—that’s not you?”

  “No. Someone big in the Nazi Party hierarchy decided to use our operation as a ploy to get rich quick. They enlisted Eckhardt to create an operation inside our operation. We’re trying to find out who. Maybe in the Sicherheitsdienst. We’re not sure.”

  “They made the fakes and switched them in Europe?”

  “Yes. We didn’t realize at first what was going on.”

  “You—the Abwehr, still want to help General Corrialles overthrow the government?”

  “Yes. We won’t draw the Americans into a war, but Germany still needs friends. The more governments like ours, the closer we are to a final victory. And if the war with Britain ends soon, Mexico will probably sell us oil—it’s a poor country, they have to—but the United States is a rich nation, it doesn’t have to, and may not. That’s the kind of deep strategic planning those idiots in the Party don’t think about. I am sorry, Hawkins. We could have been friends, too, under different circumstances, but I—” A long pause, a hard gulp, “I have to kill you too. I am so very sorry.”

  “Werner, you’re not going to be able to escape this country. The Mexican Army’s out there now—”

  “I have to chance it. General Corrialles is coming.”

  “Werner, I’ve seen you, you’re not Eckhardt, you don’t want to be like him, to become him, to be crazy like him.”

  “I must do my duty to my country.”

  “Duty? Look what duty did to him. Corrialles told me Eckhardt was an executioner in Spain, murdered wounded soldiers in the hospitals, that’s why he lost his mind. Duty is very overrated sometimes.”

  “I have my orders.”

  “Werner, have you ever shot a man, not armed and dangerous like Eckhardt, but like this? A prisoner? Cold?” Falkenberg nervously started to raise the gun. “Think for yourself, no—think of yourself—” Falkenberg took aim, a deep breath, slowly steeling himself, then pursed his lips, slowly exhaling.

  Oh god, Hawkins thought, oh god. He blinked his eyes closed, waiting. This is it … A shot rang out. A banging noise in the near distance, to his right. The sound of broken glass. I’m here, he knew. His eyes instantly blinked open. Falkenberg’s head was turning to Hawkins’s left, looking at something.

  -90-

  There, at the end. Is that Lilly?

  She was taking aim again, holding the Walther high with both hands in front of her face, carefully squinting through the sights. She’d fired and missed—way too far away with a pistol like the Walther. Hawkins glanced down. Another shot. She missed again. The macuahuitl lay across Eckhardt’s chest. Hawkins pulled his hand from the handcuff, reached down, grabbed the macuahuitl, took a dive and wildly swung it. The hungry blade sailed through the air.

  Falkenberg’s eyes were locked on Lilly. She was starting to duck behind the door, hand bobbing, still trying to aim. The macuahuitl caught Falkenberg’s gun hand two inches above the wrist, instantly, effortlessly slicing through skin, bone and tendons. It fell free, spinning end over end in the air from the weight of the pistol still tightly clutched in the fingers, blood squirting from the stump. Falkenberg’s hand tumbled with a loud thunk on top of one of the cases. The cut was so swift and sudden Falkenberg didn’t feel it, didn’t realize anything was wrong until he tried to fire. Hawkins could see Falkenberg’s eyes flicking down to the stump spurting blood in a long arc. He gasped in shock and horror, stepping back, then starting forward as he saw his hand and the pistol land on the case. Hawkins stepped forward, too, but Falkenberg was closer.

  “Werner! No! You have a choice,” Hawkins shouted. “You can pick up the gun and shoot me or you can grab your arm before you bleed to death. You can’t do both! Think, man, think!”

  Softly crying Uh! Uh! Uh! Too stricken to shout in horror, now raising his arm, his eyes locked on the ring of pink bone, red muscle, white tendon and skin. Blood fired hard out of the artery, spraying him in the face, covering it with blood. Falkenberg blinked hard, trying to see, stumbled back and seized the stump of his arm, holding it tightly. The spurting blood stopped. He half fell, half tripped, landing hard against another case, sliding down, sitting against the case, now starting to gasp and cry in pain.

  Hawkins stepped over him and picked up Falkenberg’s gun by the barrel, prying the warm, resisting fingers away one by one. Not knowing what to do with it, not wanting to return the hand to its owner, he gently set it back on the case, its fingers still twitching.

  Hawkins pocketed the pistol, then stepped around the cases and collected his Hi-Power.

  Lilly briskly walked up, still aiming her Walther at Falkenberg with both hands. He now seemed utterly distraught, moaning in German.

  “My hand, my hand, Oh no! Oh noooo! Oh gawd! I’ll never fly again …”

  Hawkins threw his arms around Lilly in a huge hug, slightly lifting her off her feet, her gun hand held under his arm, still pointing at Falkenberg.

  “Lilly, how in hell—what? How did you get here?”

  He set her back down, holding both shoulders, grinning the grin of the reprieved, then gave in to impulse and planted a big kiss square on her lips.

  “I took a cab.”

  “You took a cab. You took … a �
� cab?”

  “Yes.”

  “From where?”

  “The train station. I caught the Jarocho Express.”

  Hawkins could still hardly believe it.

  “You took the train and caught a cab.”

  “That’s right.”

  “But how did you know where we were?”

  “Eckhardt—” She looked down at the jade-masked body at their feet. “Is that him?” Hawkins nodded.

  “Dear god. What’s that on his face—never mind. He contacted Parke-Bernet in Manhattan looking to set up a sale. W’s contact there phoned him right away. W had his contact telex back to Corrialles that he would fly down and asked where he should go. Eckhardt told him to meet him at dock ten. We instantly realized Bermuda was confusing two different sets of messages, one to Falkenberg from the Abwehr and one to Eckhardt from some unknown person or persons in Germany—”

  “Falkenberg said they—the Abwehr and the military—wanted to find that out, although they knew it was high up in the Nazi Party, maybe the SD.”

  “Ah. Of course. Someone had to find you and tell you. So … I took a cab from the station. The driver’s still outside. Nice man, named Raul.”

  Falkenberg’s moaning was getting louder, the pain hitting him.

  “Keep that gun on him,” Hawkins said. He unbuckled and yanked off his belt, wrapping it around Falkenberg’s wrist, tightening it into a tourniquet. “Did you bring your radio? And the cypher machine?”

  “Didn’t dare leave it unguarded in the room.”

  Hawkins pulled his lockpick set back out and quickly unlocked the handcuff from the case, snapping it to Falkenberg’s good hand and his arm above the other elbow.

  “Go get it, I’ll watch him.”

  Falkenberg looked up at Lilly, panting slightly, face contorted from the pain. “Who are you?”

  She raised her head, looking down at him, holding her pistol up and out, smiling, the big feather on her hat waving back at him.

  “Lieutenant Lilly Billedoux, secret agent.”

  -91-

  One long flash of the headlights, three quick and short—Rule Britannia. Out to sea, in the distance, a ship’s blinker flashed one long back, then two short. The outline of HMS Dendrobium could barely be made out against the western horizon. A few minutes later came the gentle splashing of oars over the cresting waves as the white-hulled launch, rowed by eight sailors, emerged from the dark. Two sailors leapt out, holding the gunnels, pulling it in by the bowline, steadying it. Lieutenant Commander Blake rolled up his trousers, jumped over the side and waded ashore, hand extended.

  “Hawkins! Damn good to see you!” Then he saw Lilly, gaping for a second. She still had her gun dutifully pointing in the direction of Falkenberg. He was sitting on the sand, rocking back and forth slightly from the pain.

  “Skipper, meet Reserve Lieutenant Lilly Billedoux.” Hawkins looked at her, leaning over in the light of Blake’s flashlight, smiling, and added, “Secret agent.” A big flash of her white teeth and red lips came smiling back, now delighted at the rank.

  “Oh, I see,” Blake said. He lightly saluted and extended his hand. “My pleasure, lef-tenant—” Lilly clicked the safety on, put the gun back in her purse, returning a firm handshake. Blake turned to his men. “Get the lieutenant’s luggage, too.”

  The pharmacist’s mate had already hurried by them, checking Falkenberg. The medic opened his case, took out a small ampule and gave him a shot of morphine. Three more sailors came ashore, carrying a stretcher. They gently hoisted Falkenberg on it and began carrying him to the boat. The morphine seemed to be working quickly, Falkenberg’s groans increasingly easing into sighs of relief. As they passed by he looked at Hawkins.

  “Why didn’t you kill me?” he said. “Why don’t you kill me now, instead of waiting?”

  “We’re not going to do that,” Blake said.

  “We’re on neutral soil. But you are an enemy combatant, so you’re our prisoner of war now. Besides, you’re more valuable alive than dead,” Hawkins said.

  “Why? Where are you taking me?” Falkenberg said.

  “You’re on your way to Canada,” Blake said.

  “Werner, I know you’ve had your doubts. Think about it. Maybe we will be friends after all, someday.”

  “Ja, maybe friends.”

  “What’s your name, soldier?” Blake said.

  “Ah, of course. Werner Frederick Maria Graf von Falkenberg, Hauptmann,” then added weakly, his voice fading, “Luftwaffe 86079091.”

  A graf, a count? No wonder he and Eckhardt didn’t get along, Hawkins thought. Falkenberg nodded off from the rush of morphine. The sailors waded into the surf, loading him and the luggage, including a pile of hatboxes, into the boat.

  “Lieutenant, we have to hurry before we’re spotted,” Blake said.

  “Be right there.”

  She grasped Hawkins’s sleeve. “Roy, how can we go back?”

  “Home?”

  “No! Not that!” She paused, obviously thinking hard, biting a lip, gazing off, then back, one emotion or reflection after another dancing in the expression in her face. “How to explain it? I don’t know how to go back to the plow, so to speak, after all this. We’ve been living life on such a different, higher level—how can we go back to what we were?”

  “We cannot,” Hawkins said. “Nothing will be the same, for any of us, after this is all over, after the war. You can’t go back into the cocoon. You have to fly away.”

  “Lieutenant!” Blake shouting from the boat.

  “Right! Flying away! Thank you, Hawkins!”

  “Lilly, you saved my life.”

  “I did, didn’t I? Think of that.” Another big smile exploded, an expression of sheer delight.

  “Goodbye, Lieutenant.”

  “Goodbye, Group Captain!” She gave him a long, powerful kiss on the lips and ran to the boat. She turned back and saluted, then climbed aboard. In seconds the boat vanished into the darkness.

  -92-

  General Corrialles was wearing his full-dress uniform. He actually marched into the warehouse, swinging his arms, six men following behind, in step, swinging their arms, too.

  “Werner,” he called.

  “Coming,” Hawkins said. He stepped from behind a stack of cases. Corrialles looked surprised, although not particularly worried.

  “You’re working with Falkenberg now?”

  “You could say that. Still going ahead with the coup?”

  “Of course.”

  Off to one side, by the office, a voice, “Luces.”

  Around the perimeter of the room, behind rows of carefully arranged bales and crates, fifty soldiers trained their rifles on the general and his little detachment. An officer stepped forward, pistol trained on the general. Corrialles looked surprised, then vaguely shocked, trying to keep his face from falling.

  “Major Ortiz—”

  Major Ortiz reached for Corrialles’s Colt, ripping it from its holster. The other men held their hands up, confused, looking around, checking for an escape, or unsure if they should, but Major Ortiz’s men had all the exits covered.

  “General Corrialles, I have orders from the president of the Republic to place you under arrest.”

  “On what grounds!”

  “I think you’ve incriminated yourself well enough. If you agree to his terms, which is your resignation and permanent silence, the president is willing to have you flown tonight to exile in Texas.”

  “I demand—”

  “I would not if I were you. Yes or no.”

  He hesitated, calculating, then he sensed something. “I smell blood.”

  “You do,” Hawkins said. He pulled back a sheet, exposing Eckhardt’s body sprawled across the altar. Corrialles stared at it for a long minute, calculation dancing in his eyes, then his face cav
ed in, and he gave in, his voice quiet.

  “Yes.”

  “The papers are over here.”

  -93-

  Hawkins carefully untied the end of the flannel sleeve and carefully drew out the ancient macuahuitl, Eckhardt’s original one. He held it up a second, turning it slightly, letting the light play along the eerie black blades, then laid it across the front of President Cárdenas’s desk. He stood and leaned over on both hands, gazing at it.

  “How astonishing. And he found this in Spain?” the president said.

  “Yes. In the castle of the Conde de la Altavista. He claimed the castle was overrun and looted during the Spanish civil war. Said he took it to save it, that he knew it would be lost.”

  “Perhaps, those were terrible times in the old country, but self-serving.” The president sat down, sighing slightly. “I know of this family. They still own silver mines here.”

  “For four hundred years?”

  “Yes. From the days of the conquistadors. Very old family. What about the other things, the blades, the mask and skull?”

  “I have no idea. But Eckhardt was embezzling, he probably found them here. Perhaps General Corrialles dug them up.”

  “Then they belong to the Mexican people. We will send those to the anthropological museum. They are a great gift. However, it pains me to say, this we must return to the Conde.”

  “Perhaps you should expropriate it in the name of the nation, like the oil fields.”

  “It’s a national treasure, on that I agree. It is unique. To my knowledge no other original macuahuitls have survived. We have masks, knives, skulls, although his were of extraordinary quality. I must say, he may have been a Nazi barbarian, but he had a great eye for art, a deep understanding. Perhaps it stemmed from sharing that barbarism in some way.” Cárdenas picked the macuahuitl up, studying it. “And yet, this is still personal property, like the paintings, not an asset like an oil well. It has to go back. It’s been in the Conde’s family since the conquistadors. We will hold the paintings in trust. Hopefully President Camacho will be able to return them someday.”