went to the representational art forms, even free verse left him with a taste in his mouth. Of course, he had never mentioned that to Luke Robertson.
Al Castro and young Tom Benton had reported their four-hour watch uneventful. They had immediately#longdash#Al yawning mightily#longdash#taken off for their respective homes as soon as their relief had taken over.
The hours between ten and two were equally free of any signs of disgruntled locals. In fact, Bat was beginning to wonder if he hadn’t made a fool of himself by taking these precautions.
Al and Tom relieved him and Luke again at two, and having copied Al’s contagious yawn, Bat made his way back to his trailer. In the living room, he scowled momentarily at his bar. But no, the hell with it. Tomorrow was going to be one long day and he couldn’t afford to be even a bit woozy.
He turned out the light and began unbuttoning his shirt as he made his way back to the bedroom.
VIII
At dawn, Bat made a sudden decision. He checked the power packs which he had charged during the night, activated the car and started up. He picked up his phone and said, “New Woodstock, Dean Armanruder.”
But it was Nadine Paskov’s face which faded onto the screen. She was obviously in bed and for once the glamorous secretary was less than her best, even though she slept nude and was bare to her waist.
She looked at him sleepily#longdash#and indignantly#longdash#and said, “What in the damn world do you want at this time of the damned night?”
Bat said mildly, “Sorry. I wanted to let Mr. Armanruder know I was going to take a quick scout along the route we’re taking today. I assume that I’ll be back before the town takes off. If not, I’ll rejoin along the route.”
“I couldn’t care less,” she said snippishly and making with a yawn that would have done credit to Al Castro, the expert.
“Please tell Mr. Armanruder,” Bat said. “Sorry again.”
She muttered something nasty and flicked off.
It wasn’t necessary to enter Linares proper to continue on along the highway, for which Bat Hardin was thankful, although he rather doubted the town would be awake this early. Mexicans are seldom early risers he had found out from his previous visits. Perhaps it went back to the old days when they were without means of heating their homes and remained in bed until the sun had warmed the world.
He drove along Route E-60, the road rather rapidly ascending. It was considerably more beautiful a drive than had been the day before with its flatness of countryside; however, Bat wasn’t particularly observant of scenic values. He still had his premonitions and chewed away at his heavy lower lip as he drove. There didn’t truly seem to be anything untoward. But…
He sped along at a clip of two hundred kilometers an hour. He wasn’t in too much of a hurry. He didn’t expect to go any further than the Pan American Highway and he’d make that in half an hour or so; however, he wanted to be sure and be back to New Woodstock before the town took off past Linares.
They nailed him about five kilometers before he reached the tiny hamlet of Iturbide and about forty kilometers out of Linares. There was a road block of three cars, only one of which was a steamer and it an old- fashioned kerosene burner, by the looks of it.
Four men, two of them in a uniform which Bat didn’t place and all of them armed, stood before the road block.
Bat came to a halt and activated the window.
One of the civilian-dressed of the four came over and said, “Senor Hardin? Come out, please.” His English was at least as good as Bat’s own.
Bat opened the door and came forth, scowling. He said, “How did you know my name?” His eyes went over them. The alleged uniforms were obviously makeshift. He snapped, “You’re not police!” and his hand shot for his shoulder holster.
Bat Hardin was not slow at the draw, but the Mexican was a blur. His own pistol was out and trained on the American’s stomach.
He said softly, “Move much more slowly, Senor Hardin, and give me that for which you were reaching. So. You carry a gun here in Mexico. To shoot Mexicans with, undoubtedly.”
Bat brought forth the gun and handed it over. He said, “I have a permit issued by your border authorities. Our town is going all the way down. At least to Peru. Undoubtedly we’ll be going through some fairly wild country in places like Colombia and Ecuador. So we have various guns. They weren’t meant to be used against the citizens of your charming country.”
He submitted to a frisk by the other, who relieved him of his pocket phone.
The Mexican stuck Bat’s Gyrojet pistol in his belt and said, “You’ll never reach Peru or Ecuador, Senor Hardin, which will undoubtedly be a great relief to them. This way, please.” He indicated with his gun the more modern of the three cars.
“Where do you think you’re taking me?”
“It is not a matter of mere thinking, Senor Hardin. Just to make matters clear, I would not particularly mind shooting you, although this is not the purpose of your, ah, arrest.”
Bat climbed into the seat next to that of the driver. Into the back climbed one of the uniformed men, a short carbine at the ready and trained at the back of the American’s head.
The English-speaking one took the driver’s seat and started up. They had to wait a half minute for the engine to heat, the steamer being that old a model.
“What am I supposed to have done?” Bat demanded.
“Nothing in particular, simply being a gringo here in Mexico.”
“Who are you people?”
The other ignored him and said something in Spanish to the Mexican in the rear. That one threw what seemed to be a towel over Bat’s eyes and tied it roughly. Bat winced when the cut on the side of his head had pressure applied to it.
They drove only a few minutes before taking off on what was obviously a side road. A side road to the right, Bat remembered. He might have to remember such information in the future. He hadn’t the vaguest idea of what he was up against. They went on for what he estimated to be two kilometers, climbing rather steeply, if Bat, in his blindfold, could estimate correctly.
Finally they came to a halt and car doors opened. There were other voices now, in the background, all speaking Spanish. Bat was taken by each arm, not especially roughly, and led forward.
“Watch your step,” the English-speaking one said.
“Watch your own,” Bat rasped. “You people realize that you’re kidnapping an American citizen?”
There was a chuckle but he couldn’t tell from whom it came.
The one with whom he had been carrying on the conversation said, amusement in his voice, and something more, “We do indeed, Senor Hardin.”
They entered a house, led him down what was evidently a hall. He tried to count the steps he took, so as to be able to identify the house later. They obviously entered a room and then sat him in a chair.
A new voice, an older voice and a highly cultured one, said, “Ah, Mr. Hardin. You do not look like a villain, Mr. Hardin. But I suppose you do not know that you are a villain. Villains seldom think of themselves as villains, so I understand. They usually think they are being terribly put upon by their victims and only doing what is correct.”
Bat snapped, “What is the meaning of all this? I don’t have the vaguest idea of why you have grabbed me, or what’s going on. How do you know my name?”
“That is not important, Mr. Hardin, and we are not particularly interested in you. Any of your town authorities, or even an ordinary member of your community would have done. It is just that circumstances made it you, rather than someone else. We wish to issue an ultimatum.”
“An ultimatum!” Bat snapped. “I’m beginning to suspect that you’re all around the bend. What was the idea of stopping me, dressed in those phony uniforms? You’re not Mexican officials; certainly you’re not police.”
