It took the struggling boat over half an hour to round the point and reach an anchorage in the lee of the rocky walls of Isla la Roqueta. Here, away from the silt and floating debris of the harbor, the water was incredibly clear, limpidly blue. One by one the novices followed their instructors over the side, sitting on the gunwale and falling backward, dropping into the soft embrace of the sea. Tony was amazed how easy it all was once he sank beneath the surface. Another world of different dimensions with a new-found freedom. Silent too, other than the whistling of his breath as he sucked at the tank, comfortable and calm.
When he became more secure in this new medium, Tony dived deeper along the rope secured to the bottom. The instructor floated over and made a circle of his thumb and forefinger with the other fingers raised, reminiscent of a television beer ad but meaning underwater Are you OK? Tony returned the same signal signifying that indeed he was. A school of small fish moved past him, turning together on some secret signal. On the bottom among the rocks there was an aureate glint. Gold perhaps, lost treasure? He kicked down to it but the treasure was only a discarded beer can. His cares were lost for the moment in the depths of the sea.
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—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 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.”