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.”