But, when his air finally ran out and he had to surface, memory and reality returned. What next? He was still on the run and in addition, he realized with the onset of a stabbing complaint in his middle, he was very hungry. Other than the nocturnal pastrami he had had no food in—how long?—twenty-four hours at least. Flight was important, but hunger became of more overwhelming urgency as the ancient boat struggled slowly toward the land. When they finally did touch shore he was first off, even before the painter was tied, rushing to the Long Porker premises and changing quickly out of his wet trunks. His wallet and papers were intact, the redhead and infant had been on guard all the time, and when he unlocked the bathroom door he could see the box with the painting still safely buried under the pile on the shelf.
Food! The sun was nearing the horizon, the search would have moved out of this area by now. So, close by would be safest—
6o
as well as the quickest way to get some nourishment. He climbed the steps to the first cross street on the hill and there, like a beckoning beacon, the sun reflected from a pendant sign before an open door, el restaurante italiano. Acapulco had German, French, Chinese restaurants, so why not Italian as well? His stomach signaled with a growl that anything would do for the moment and he hurried toward it, pushing into the dim and cool interior. Checkered tablecloths and the mandatory candles in wax-laden bottles. A waiter emerged from the back after Tony had seated himself at the nearest table and tapped a coin against the bottle, bringing the menu and digging out a match to light the candle. Even before he had done this Tony had opened the menu, glanced at the first item, then closed it.
“Spaghetti and meatballs, a glass of red wine now, and some bread please.”
“Sisisignore”
He sipped at the wine and had demolished the entire plate of bread long before the spaghetti came. An older man, the owner presumably, came out of the back, polished a glass or two at the bar, nodded at him gloomily and vanished again. In the distance could be heard a radio playing a constant string of commercials interrupted by an occasional brief selection of music. Then the spaghetti arrived, steaming and saliva producing, heavy with the spheres of the meatballs. Tony ate, half aware of the four men who came in and sat at the table across the room. Then two more at a different table. The food was very good.
Tony blinked and realized he was very tired, his head almost nodding. The owner was back, arms folded behind the bar, looking his way. The waiter joined him in the silent perusal. All that was missing was the cook—was he on display here! Only the great fatigue prevented him from getting angry. And the men at the other tables, weren’t they looking at him too? They were speaking to each other, the words somehow strange—not Spanish at all.
His vision blurred and it was as though the film had been spliced in a projector. These men weren’t Mexicans at all—they were all Italians!
With this realization came another and more disturbing one. His head was lying on the table. It took a great effort to raise it, bobbing from side to side. The fork was still in his hand and he let it drop, horrified, into the remains of his meal.
“They’ve … they’ve drugged the spaghetti!” he said hoarsely.
This time when his head dropped and rested among the crumbs on the cloth it remained there. He snored peacefully.
Seven
The swell of conversation broke in waves over his head and surged away in bubbles of words. None of them comprehensible. All of the speakers sounded very excited and appeared to be talking at the same time. With his eyes closed Tony puzzled away at this mystery until he realized that the language was Italian, and with this revelation memory returned. He opened his eyes and examined his surroundings.
It was a good while before anyone noticed that he was conscious, so concerned were they with the discussion. This was a large room, perhaps a dormitory since there were at least six beds visible other than the one Tony was lying on. There were no windows, or rather there was something that was probably a window high on the wall, its true nature concealed by the fact it was covered with heavy boards. A table, around which most of the men sat. A single door, closed. Two large wardrobes against another wall, a single light bulb dangling on a length of wire in the center, a few unframed religious pictures all multichrome, glowing halos, streaming rays, Jesus with radioactive heart, were pasted directly to the yellowish plaster of the walls. There was an overriding damp coolness, like a cellar or a cave, sealed away from the Acapulco sun.
“So you are awake I see.”
The speaker was the solidly built and middle-age man whom Tony had assumed was the owner of the restaurant. The one who had spiked the spaghetti.
“Poison in the pasta,” Tony said, hoarsely.
“A simple sleeping potion, harmless, you will be thirsty. Un bicchiero da vino qui! You are a dangerous man, Mr. Hawkin, and we do not enjoy violence.”
“You don’t know anything about me. Why have you done this?” One of the scowling young men came up with a glass of wine that Tony gulped at thirstily, apparently the same acid red he had had for his last supper, if this meant anything.
“On the contrary, we know a good deal, yes we do. We have your full description, a photograph, word of your activities, so you cannot lie to us but will please everyone by stating the simple truth. We of the Agenzia Terza know a good deal as you can see.”
“I never heard of you.”
“I am not surprised. Everyone knows of the French Deuzieme Bureau, or the British Secret Service, their cover is blown as you might say, but the Agenzia Terza is another matter.” He sounded defensive; Tony decided not to push the point.
“You have taken all my clothes!” He had suddenly realized that he was lying on the bed dressed only in his white underwear shorts, while his clothes and the contents of his pockets were spread across the table.
“A precaution, you are a dangerous man.”
“I’ve done nothing—”
“Nothing?” The interrogator’s eyebrows lifted slowly, his nostrils widened, he permitted a slight upward roll of the eyeballs. “I would not call it nothing, the man you killed would not call it nothing. But that is not our concern. I want you to tell me instantly where you have put a certain piece of property belonging to the Italian Government.”
“I have no idea of what you are talking about.”
Again the eyebrow, eyeball, nostril gesture signifying a certain lack of credibility to the statement. “No games, if you please. I want the Cellini ‘San’ Sebastiano.’”
“That painting was destroyed during the war, that is all I know about it.”
“Hardly. We have collected strong evidence that it was not
destroyed and furthermore that it has come into your possession. Produce it or things will go very hard with you.”
“Listen, mister … I don’t even know your name so how can I talk to you?”
“You may call me Timberio.”
“Timberio, you must be confusing me with someone else. I walked into your restaurant for dinner, nothing more; as you can see, I have no paintings with me. The rest is all your doing.”
“Don’t think we haven’t considered that.” Timberio paced back and forth quickly, one hand in the small of his back, the other raised before him with its fingers making little grabbing motions as though to seize facts from the thinness of the air. “You are a very devious man, indeed you are. While the police of the entire country look for you you walk casually into the known headquarters of La Agenzia Terza.”
“I thought your existence was a secret?”
“Do not seek to confuse! What are we to believe—that this ruthless killer is surrendering meek as a lamb? No! That he does not know where he is? Laughable! He knows. Then what? The answer is obvious because he wished to betray his own FBI and therefore wants it to look as though he has been apprehended by us and the hiding place of the painting forced from him, when in reality it is the doublecross in action and he wishes to sell the painting. Well, we will not pay
, Mr. Hawkin, we will not play your game, we do not pay for what is rightfully ours, and we will hold you until the painting is returned.”
“Ten million lire?”
“Too high.”
“Make me an offer.”
“I have no authority.”
“I want to go to the toilet.”
“Luigi, Alfredo. // prigioniero aV gabineto?
One of the men unbolted the door while two others seized him each by an arm and walked him across the room. Chances were not to be taken. The door opened into a dimly lit hall that smelled strongly of grease. He was pulled sharply left by his guards, though not before he noticed the stairway to the right
rising up to a dimly outlined door. The way out? With firm grips he was propelled into the gloom in the opposite direction to a more humble doorway that was opened to reveal the ghostly porcelain form of an ancient piece of plumbing, wooden box above, newspaper—and cigarette-butt-strewn floor below. His arms were released and he was urged forward.
There was no escape in there and escape was what he greatly desired. With the word came a memory of an orientation lecture in the Army, one of the few he had not managed to sleep through, all about imaginative ways to escape if one were taken prisoner of war. One point had been stressed; the earlier the escape attempt was made the greater chance of success it held. Like now?
With thought came deed. He stepped forward—and threw his weight suddenly against the open door, crashing it into the man who was standing next to it. As the door moved so did he, ignoring the sharp cry of the second man, bouncing off the door and running back down the hall, past the still open door of the room and bounding like a gazelle up the stairs.
Before he was halfway up the entire pack was in full cry after him, men fighting and cursing as they jammed in the doorway, pounding full tilt in his wake. But fear lent a certain bounce to his run, unencumbered by weighty clothes or shoes, so that he sprang up the last steps and slammed bruisingly into the door at the top which, providentially, was unlocked. It burst open under his onslaught and he staggered through into a large kitchen. There was only the briefest image of white hats, black stoves, shocked faces, as he raced the length of it and through the swinging door there, his arrival coinciding exactly with that of the taciturn waiter entering with a tray of dirty dishes.
Momentum counted and Tony kept on going, though staggered still more now by the impact, while the encounter had a far more dramatic impact upon the waiter. Backward he went, emitted a single high-pitched shriek, and into a table which collapsed under his weight. This drew the undivided attention of all the diners in the room, which attention was instantly repaid by the sight of a nearly naked man running the length of the restaurant and out of
the front door followed closely by a shouting pack of men. It was very dramatic.
Tony appreciated neither the drama nor the scene and was already beginning to feel very tired, still partially suffering the effects of the drug. Unthinkingly, pulses of red fire being driven into his temples, he retraced the course he had taken earlier on his way to the restaurant, scarcely aware that night had fallen and people were emerging in the cool of the evening. Down the street and down the steps, gravity now lending speed to his plunge, brushing by surprised couples, hearing the enraged shouts of his pursuers. Down and down past the now dormant Long Porker and the still active tortilleria, across the sidewalk—the road miraculously empty of traffic at that moment or he would have been struck by instant death since he was unable to stop-across the flagstones to topple headlong into the dark waters beyond.
The sudden wet shock had an instant restorative effect, cooling and soothing him. Though his lungs ached he stayed under as long as he could, swimming steadily out to sea. When he finally did surface, gasping in the welcome air, he was beyond the pool of illumination thrown by the light and could tread water for a moment to catch his breath. And admire the turmoil on the wharf. His pursuers had been joined by an interested crowd of spectators and more were hurrying up. A policeman was listening to the spirited explanation of one of the men while two others tried to untie the rope securing a rowboat to the land. Some people pointed and shouted at things in the water, but no one was pointing in his direction. Slowly, so as not to splash, Tony swam away from the busy scene and toward the line of deep-sea fishing boats now secured for the night.
Escape was time consuming but simple enough. There was much flashing of lights into the water, but there was too much area to cover, too many dark spots under the counters of the boats and between their hulls. Twice Tony had to dive and swim underwater when the lights approached, but eventually he outdistanced them. By the time he reached the commercial dock and the bulk of a dark freighter most of his pursuers had been left
far behind. There was activity now aboard the freighter, people on the bridge, and eventually the searchlight there was manned and put into action sweeping the water’s surface. But Tony had paddled farther out to sea by this time and the light never came close. He lay on his back and floated, kicking gently, paralleling the lights and the shore and moving steadily away from the center of town toward the towers and battlements of the tourist hotels along the bay.
What next? There was plenty of time for thought now as he paddled along and very few of the thoughts were at all cheering. Escape had been spontaneous and cumulative, one thing leading naturally to another until it had brought him here. But where was he? In the middle of Acapulco Bay in his undershorts, getting tired and slightly chill, bereft of money, clothes, friends, succor, den or destination. It was all very, very depressing. What could he do? The mental request for information went out but no answer was returned. He swam on, angling slowly toward shore so he would not be too far out when total exhaustion did finally strike. Or perhaps he should simply swim in the other direction? Out into the sunset and eternity and end this grim farce once and for all. This solution was tempting until a wave broke over his face and he surfaced coughing and spitting and not feeling in the slightest like continuing his impromptu dive into the dark depths.
Now the towers of the hotels were beginning to drift by, their brightly lit windows twinkling a warm welcome that he yearned to submit to. But how? Crawling out of the sea like some dripping monster and writhing damply into the lobby? Impossible. He swam on, ever slower but ever on, until a larger and darker tower came into view with the magic calligraphy of HILTON shining high above it.
Hilton, how he longed for its familiar American embrace. If there were an American heaven to go to it would be a big Hilton in the sky; what more could one ask? Warmth, luxury, bloody steaks and chill ice water, baked beans and brown bread, breakfast in bed and the home-town newspaper on the tray, hurrying
waiters, man-sized drinks, hospitality and home. He yearned painfully for the Hilton.
Happy cries delivered the message to his soggy brain cells that perhaps he would not yearn in vain. Under the great orange globe of a newly risen moon, some happy Hilton denizens were disporting on the beach. Children for the most part, though a few nubile girls pranced at the ocean’s edge for the pleasure of their male counterparts. Slowly Tony beached himself away from the small crowd, his knees and hands fumbling at the novel surface of solid land. At first he could do no more than sit in the water while the small waves foamed around him, gaining enough strength to stand and walk without staggering to the welcome shelter of a lounge chair, beneath the mushroom shadow of a palm-thatched umbrella. His undershorts were swimming attire in the night and he drew no attention, no attention at all. Collapsed onto the lounge his strength slowly returned.
Being an FBI agent was rapidly becoming more of a liability than an asset. With a sneer, invisible in the darkness, he recalled his own naive attitude of, when?—just a few days ago. Then he had been looking forward to the excitement of a free trip to New York City as an art authority. He had come a bit farther than New York and the excitement was now of a far more drastic nature. Two days out of Washington and he was a wanted murderer, an art thie
f, an acquaintance of international spies and thieves, an indecent exposer in public places, a passportless, moneyless, paperless refugee. Was there no end to all this? Could there be anything except an unhappy end to his insoluble situation? He had visions of sudden death, a lifetime prison sentence, quick disappearance. He sighed into the darkness, immensely refreshed by the moments of indulgence and rampant self-pity.
Now, what next? Surrender would be simple enough. All he had to do was let exhaustion and the warm evening take over and go to sleep right here in the chair. His unusual attire would be observed in the morning and he would awake to see a squad of police eager to rush him to prison. He let his eyes close for a moment to determine how it felt, it felt very good, but after a short space of time he struggled the lids open again.
After all that he had gone through to get here the idea of meek surrender just did not have that much appeal. Since he was still free he had at least an outside chance of getting the painting into the hands of the correct authorities—whoever they might be—and of hopefully clearing his name. This last became more and more difficult as the list of his crimes mounted, but at least it was a remote possibility. So—what to do?
Be a criminal. Everyone thought he was one, a dangerous and murderous agent, a man greatly respected by that sinister branch of the Italian Government, the Agenzia Terza. Respected even more now after his dramatic escape from their drugged, spaghettilike embrace. Now, without being apprehended, he had penetrated the guarded fortress of the Hilton, playground of happy, loaded Americans. There must be some way he could capitalize on the situation. What he needed most were clothes and a little money, and here he was surrounded by luxuries of clothing and gobs of greenbacks. All he had to do was lay his hands on a bit of it. A little scouting was in order.
His first theft was an infinitesimal one, a towel, no theft at all until he left the premises with the hotel property. It had been thrown carelessly onto a table and as he passed his fingers scraped it up. Wrapped around his waist it supplied a far greater feeling of security than his drawers ever had. That this ruse was effective was proven when he met a couple coming down the path from the hotel, the male similarly garbed, while a hotel employee passed all three without a nod. What next though? The cliff of the building rose up and a plan did not present itself. There was no point in entering the lobby unless he had some destination in mind. Should he just ask for a key by number? This could work—then again it could fail just as easily and his freedom would be over. Best to exhaust the other possibilities first.
Montezuma's Revenge Page 7