Montezuma’s Revenge

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 mul-tichrome, 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 thief, 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.

Almost instantly a possibility presented itself. A swimming pool that was both inside the building and out. He sat on the edge, the towel dropped coyly behind him as he slid quickly beneath the surface. Breast stroking slowly so he could look around, Tony bobbed his way into the dim-lit premises.

This pool was the complete Venice of swimming pools, apparently designed exactly to his specifications. It wound about inside the hotel, encircling a herbaceous dining area that was connected by a bridged canal. Although it was far better lit than he really desired, he made his way along the canal looking up at the infrequent diners and imbibers and seeking some opportunity.

There was nothing. He completely encircled the area, swam back outside, then returned. The pool was almost empty, as were the tables, in this interim hour between day and evening pleasures. This little tour could not go on forever, fatigue was creeping up again and he was getting a generally waterlogged feeling. Once more around and back to the towel and other plans. Perhaps this time someone would leave a purse or a key at the pool’s edge and he could indulge in a bit of piracy. There was one newcomer at a poolside table, a thin man wearing dark glasses, against the actinic dangers of the candles perhaps. Glasses? Glasses! Glasses like that, seen somewhere before, the pimp’s mustache below the prying nose, the last dying survivors of a head of hair glued down on the skull above. A familiar combination, very familiar indeed. Tony dived and surfaced at the tiled edge.

“Sones,” he whispered, “Ross Sones.”

The FBI agent was sucking at a straw that projected up from what appeared to be an entire coconut, and he kept on sucking, evidencing by not the slightest twitch of a muscle that this aquatic encounter was in any way out of the normal. Only when he lowered the nut did he permit his eyes to flicker down once and away.

“I have been looking for you, Hawkin.”

“Well that’s just fine because I have been looking for you as well. What on earth is that thing you are drinking from?”

“You are in trouble you know. A coco preparado, sometimes called a coco-fuerte. It is a green coconut with the top sliced off and the milk inside laced with rum and chilled with ice.”

“It sounds like just what I need, please pass it down.”

“You know that—”

“I know that I say nothing until I get a drink. Give.”

Sones looked casually about, then quickly slipped the coconut into Tony’s waiting hand. He rested it on the tile and sucked deep. Wonderful. A purple flower tucked into the top of the coconut added a touch of gay color, the rum in the drink pumped the juice of life into his veins.

“When I say trouble, Hawkin, I mean big trouble. The CIA has leaked a report at a very high level that you murdered Davidson. Not only that but you exceeded orders and obtained a certain painting and the people who supplied it are very annoyed since they thought they were giving it to us.”

“Now just a minute. Us, we, the FBI do have it since, as far as I know, I am still an employee. As to the murder thing, it’s a frame.”

“There is a witness ...”

“I know, and he’s rich with my money too. But ...”

“You wish another drink, senor, since I see you have finished?” The waiter appeared silently out of the darkness and hovered expectantly. “What, yes, I suppose so.” For a fraction of a moment there Sones had lost his cool, but it was quickly re-established.

“The same? And your friend in the piscina—would he like one too?”

“Yes, by all means,” Tony said, the last dregs slurping in his straw. “I will join my friend.”

Sones nodded and waited until the waiter had withdrawn before he spoke. “You have the painting?”

“I know where it is. But if I am fired because I’m a murderer I am holding onto it.”

“I didn’t say ...”

“Yes you did. Look, is there any reason why I should have killed Davidson? The idea is madness. Someone was waiting in the room when we got there, knifed him and went out the front door. Period. I didn’t do it and I know nothing else about it. That two-timing CIA man Higginson knows a lot more. He’s the one who framed me by seeing to it that the corpse was found instead of making it vanish.”

“Yes, I can believe that. The CIA, I should have known. Though there is also the matter of your giving information to the Israelis.”

“What information? I was hit on the head and shlepped off by them. I didn’t tell them a thing that they didn’t know already.

What they were really interested in was this contact man, Kurt Robl, and Goldstein mentioned the name Hochhande, which means nothing at all to me. As to the paintings, they seemed to know all about them and couldn’t care less.”

“Our security cover has not been tight on this operation.”

“You can say that again—the understatement of the ages. And for your information a sinister group called the Agenzia Terza has also moved in.”

“I would not worry too much about them if I were you. They are not what you would call a major threat.”

“Major or not they caused me enough trouble. And they seem to have a point there about the paintings belonging to them.”

“In the long run the art will be returned to Italy, but when it goes it will be donated by the American Government. There has been trouble for years over this Monte Capitello thing and we want to clean the slate once and for all. Bring in the evidence that the entire mess was a Kraut plot and they blew up the museum and stole the paintings and here we are bringing them back after all these years to set the record straight. And when credit is given it will be seen that the FBI really carried the ball.”

“Great. Which raises a very important point. Come on, tell me quickly. Am I still a trusted employee of the Bureau or not?”

“There have been no orders about a change in status.”

“Exactly. And I do have the picture.”

“You are still with us.”

“Fine. Order up a couple more of these, they’re really good.” The second coconut was soon empty and as he cleaned up the few drops that hung to the meat inside, the rich fumes of the rum rose to his brain and, in a single flash, revelation came to him, an idea that his subconscious had been nurturing for a long time, awaiting only unlocking by an alcoholic key. “Then here is the plan. I’ll meet you wherever you want and bring the painting, and we’ll take up our former relationship where we left off.”

“This hotel is watched closely. Therefore downtown ...”

“Negative. I don’t mean here. Give me at least a day and I’ll bring the painting wherever you want in the Republic. But not in Acapulco. I want to get out of this city and leave everyone still here looking for me. Understand?”

“It could be dangerous and I doubt if we can get you out of the city easily.”

“I’ll get myself out.”

“It would be best if I took the painting with me.”

“Negative again, Sones old boy. You know and I know and we both know the other knows that that painting is my ticket back to the job. My, but the coconut was good!” He sipped deep of the newly arrived one while Sones sat quietly in thought.

“All right. I can see no other way. We are making our contact in Cuautla, that is in Morelos south of Mexico City. There is a resort, Cocoyoc, that is close by. We are in casita seven.”

“I never heard of the place.”

“It is not far from Cuernavaca.”

“Well, I’ve heard of that so I should be able to find it. With some luck I’ll be there tomorrow. Thursday, but not before night. And D’Isernia said that he had to have the painting back by Friday night or the whole deal was off. He also said that he would contact me at the hotel in Mexico City, which is impossible now because of the police. So how do we find him?”

“No problem, in fact he has been in touch with us, very annoyed about your having the painting. We guaranteed the Friday delivery in Cuautla.”

“Very nice of you considering you had no idea where it was. That still doesn’t leave very much time to get it to Washington and back and have it checked for authenticity.”

“That has been considered as well. We have co-opted a specialist from the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York. I will arrange for the specialist to meet us in Cocoyoc. All of this is of course dependent upon your being there with the painting. You can do that?”

“Don’t worry, in the bag. But I’ll need your help.”

“How?”

“Loan me a pair of your swimming trunks and a sport shirt. And make sure there is at least a thousand pesos in the pocket.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Have another drink while you’re getting them and keep my plans to myself. Security is very loose on this operation as you said yourself.”

Sones hesitated, but apparently realized that there was no other way. He left without another word—so that Tony had to call the waiter and order himself—but returned quickly with the garments wrapped in a towel.

“The money’s there?” Tony asked, with a new-found suspicion inculcated by the past days’ events.

“A thousand, like you said.”

“Okay. I’ll swim out and you follow. Leave it by the pool outside and be on your way. See you in Cocoyoc.”

“What are you going to do?”

“That’s my secret.”

Tony smiled and laid one finger beside his nose and stifled a small belch. That was his secret, by God, and no one was ever going to find out.