Queen Victoria's Revenge by Harry Harrison

faults the colonel did have a fertile imagination.
    A whiff of bacon aroma brought Tony back to more pressing matters at hand. Haycroft was loading his tray and Tony did the same. A motherly woman behind the counter gave him a bowl of what he thought was oatmeal but she called porridge, forced a piece of fried fish upon him—you try a golden kipper, love, makes a perfect breakfast—some toast and a cup of tea black as a bowling ball. She doubled everything when the colonel indicated an appetite as well. The colonel paid, his one hand uninjured by cricket fishing out the money, and they had no choice but to follow Haycroft to a table. Even the hissed assurance that he would die instantly if he revealed anything did not interfere with Tony’s appetite. They all gnashed and chomped well for a bit until Haycroft sighed, leaned back and lit a thin, dark cigar from a pack in his pocket.
    â€œNothing like a Scots breakfast to hold the ribs together. It will get me through a long day of looking at Hibernian criminals. What do the papers say about the case?”
    â€œHaven’t looked yet,” Tony mumbled.
    â€œThe police found how the guns got aboard, or at least where they were. In one of the toilets. I locked it myself, in Karachi, thing went on the fritz. Turns out the wiring in the monomatic was sabotaged. Sometime after I locked it, and before we left, the weapons were sneaked in there and the thing relocked. That’s their theory, probably right. With a little bribery you can get away with anything at the Eastern airports.”
    â€œThe bribery is the way of life in my country as well,” the colonel said, leaning forward, finding a topic close to his heart. “A bribe is referred to as a mordida, a little bite. The motto is ‘No hay reglas fijas,’ which might be translated as there are no fixed rules, but is better expressed by saying if you can afford it you can get anything. Even murder is possible, a certificate of death by accident purchased before the act from the police is all that is needed.”
    â€œI don’t doubt you for a second, Mr. Garcia, not for a second. I’m going to run, the quicker I look at the goon photos the quicker I get back.”
    A man of decision, he was up and gone in an instant. The colonel watched closely to see that he went out of the station, then waved Tony to his feet.
    â€œLeave the rest,” he ordered. “He may be suspicious, informing the police right now. We leave.”
    They did. A mud-splattered VW bus filled with scowling, unshaven and hungry Cubans picked them up as soon as they appeared, then shot quickly away when the colonel told them what had happened. Tony burped happily and they looked daggers at him. Jorge was driving now and he must have been on a mission here before because he knew his way quite well. They worked their way through ever-grubbier streets, crossed the river again, then plunged into a narrow road. Among the small shops located here was one with a weathered sign that read J. HARDY—TOBACCONIST . A weathered man, who might have been J. Hardy himself, was taking down a wooden shutter that covered his window. The VW whirred on by and around the next corner, where it stopped.
    â€œDid you see the place?” the colonel asked. “And the man in front?” Tony nodded abstractedly, worried a piece of fish with his tongue, attempting to dislodge it from between his teeth. “That is the place. Hardy knows me, I have been there before, and no one else in this vehicle can talk English. With the exception of you. You will therefore go to this store—we will be watching with deadly guns trained, alert for any false move—and will order ten Players.”
    â€œWhat’s a Player?”
    â€œThey are cigarettes and they come in packages of various sizes. You will say ‘Packet of ten Players, please,’ for that is the code word. Immediately after saying this you add