Гарри Гаррисон - Montezuma’s Revenge

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.

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?