The Cry of the Halidon Read online

  Alex walked rapidly to the door and opened it. There was no steward. Instead, there was a tall, pleasant-looking middle-aged man in a tweed overcoat.

  “Mr. McAuliff?”

  “Yes?”

  “My name is Hammond. May I speak with you, sir?”

  “Oh? Sure … certainly.” Alex looked down the hallway as he gestured the man to pass him. “I rang for ice; I thought you were the steward.”

  “Then may I step into your … excuse me, your lavatory, sir? I’d rather not be seen.”

  “What? Are you from Warfield?”

  “No, Mr. McAuliff. British Intelligence.”

  3

  “That was a sorry introduction, Mr. McAuliff. Do you mind if I begin again?” Hammond walked into the bed-sitting room. Alex dropped ice cubes into a glass.

  “No need to. I’ve never had anyone knock on my hotel door, say he’s with British Intelligence, and ask to use the bathroom. Has kind of a quaint ring to it.… Drink?”

  “Thank you. Short, if you please; a touch of soda will be fine.”

  McAuliff poured as requested and handed Hammond his glass. “Take off your coat. Sit down.”

  “You’re most hospitable. Thank you.” The Britisher removed his tweed overcoat and placed it carefully on the back of a chair.

  “I’m most curious, that’s what I am, Mr. Hammond.” McAuliff sat by the window, the Englishman across from him. “The clerk at the desk; he asked if I was going upstairs. That was for you, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, it was. He knows nothing, however. He thinks the managers wished to see you unobtrusively. It’s often done that way. Over financial matters, usually.”

  “Thanks very much.”

  “We’ll set it right, if it disturbs you.”

  “It doesn’t.”

  “I was in the cellars. When word reached me, I came up the service elevator.”

  “Rather elaborate—”

  “Rather necessary,” interrupted the Englishman. “For the past few days, you’ve been under continuous surveillance. I don’t mean to alarm you.”

  McAuliff paused, his glass halfway to his lips. “You just have. I gather the surveillance wasn’t yours.”

  “Well, you could say we observed—from a distance—both the followers and their subject.” Hammond sipped his whiskey and smiled.

  “I’m not sure I like this game,” said McAuliff quietly.

  “Neither do we. May I introduce myself more completely?”

  “Please do.”

  Hammond removed a black leather identification case from his jacket pocket, rose from the chair, and crossed to McAuliff. He held out the flat case and flipped it open. “There is a telephone number below the seal. I’d appreciate it if you would place a call for verification, Mr. McAuliff.”

  “It’s not necessary, Mr. Hammond. You haven’t asked me for anything.”

  “I may.”

  “If you do, I’ll call.”

  “Yes, I see.… Very well.” Hammond returned to his chair. “As my credentials state, I’m with Military Intelligence. What they do not say is that I have been assigned to the Foreign Office and Inland Revenue. I’m a financial analyst.”

  “In the Intelligence service?” Alex got out of his chair and went to the ice bucket and the whiskey. He gestured at them. Hammond shook his head. “That’s unusual, isn’t it? I can understand a bank or a brokerage office, not the cloak-and-dagger business.”

  “The vast majority of intelligence gathering is allied with finance, Mr. McAuliff. In greater or lesser degrees of subtlety, of course.”

  “I stand corrected.” Alex replenished his drink and realized that the ensuing silence was Hammond’s waiting for him to return to his chair. “When I think about it, I see what you mean,” he said, sitting down.

  “A few minutes ago, you asked if I were with Dunstone, Limited.”

  “I don’t think I said that.”

  “Very well. Julian Warfield—same thing.”

  “It was a mistake on my part. I’m afraid I don’t remember asking you anything.”

  “Yes, of course. That’s an essential part of your agreement. There can be no reference whatsoever to Mr. Warfield or Dunstone or anyone or -thing related. We understand. Quite frankly, at this juncture we approve wholeheartedly. Among other reasons, should you violate the demands of secrecy, we think you’d be killed instantly.”

  McAuliff lowered his glass and stared at the Englishman, who spoke so calmly, precisely. “That’s preposterous,” he said simply.

  “That’s Dunstone, Limited,” replied Hammond softly.

  “Then I think you’d better explain.”

  “I shall do my best. To begin with, the geophysical survey that you’ve contracted for is the second such team to be sent out—”

  “I wasn’t told that,” interrupted Alex.

  “With good reason. They’re dead. I should say, ‘disappeared and dead.’ No one’s been able to trace the Jamaican members; the whites are dead, of that we are sure.”

  “How so? I mean, how can you be sure?”

  “The best of all reasons, Mr. McAuliff. One of the men was a British agent.”

  McAuliff found himself mesmerized by the soft-spoken Intelligence man’s narrative. Hammond might have been an Oxford don going over the blurred complexities of a dark Elizabethan drama, patiently clarifying each twist of an essentially inexplicable plot. He supplied conjectures where knowledge failed, making sure that McAuliff understood that they were conjectures.

  Dunstone, Limited, was not simply an industrial-development company; that was to say, its objectives went far beyond those of a conglomerate. And it was not solely British, as its listed board of directors implied. In actuality, Dunstone, Limited, London, was the “corporate” headquarters of an organization of international financiers dedicated to building global cartels beyond the interferences and controls of the European Common Market and its trade alliances. That was to say—by conjecture—eliminating the economic intervention of governments: Washington, London, Berlin, Paris, The Hague, and all other points of the financial compass. Ultimately, these were to be reduced to the status of clients, not origins of resource or negotiation.

  “You’re saying, in essence, that Dunstone is in the process of setting up its own government.”

  “Precisely. A government based solely on economic trade factors. A concentration of financial resources unheard of since the pharaohs. Along with this economic catastrophe, and no less important, is the absorption of the government of Jamaica by Dunstone, Limited. Jamaica is Dunstone’s projected base of operations. They can succeed, Mr. McAuliff.”

  Alex put his glass on the wide windowsill. He began slowly trying to find words, looking out at the slate rooftops converging into the Savoy Court. “Let me try to understand, from what you’ve told me and from what I know. Dunstone anticipates investing heavily in Jamaican development. All right, we agree on that, and the figures are astronomical. Now, in exchange for this investment, they expect to be awarded a lot of clout from a grateful Kingston government. At least, that’s what I’d expect if I were Dunstone. The normal tax credits, importing concessions, employment breaks, real estate … general incentives. Nothing new.” McAuliff turned his head and looked at Hammond. “I’m not sure I see any financial catastrophe … except, maybe, an English financial catastrophe.”

  “You stand corrected; I stand rebuked,” said Hammond. “But only in a minor way. You’re quite perceptive; it’s true that our concerns were—at first—U.K. oriented. English perversity, if you will. Dunstone is an important factor in Britain’s balance of trade. We’d hate to lose it.”

  “So you build a conspiracy—”

  “Now, just a minute, Mr. McAuliff,” the agent broke in, without raising his voice. “The highest echelons of the British government do not invent conspiracies. If Dunstone were what it is purported to be, those responsible in Downing Street would fight openly for our interests. I’m afraid that is not the case. Dunston
e reaches into extremely sensitive areas in London, Berlin, Paris, Rome … and, most assuredly, in Washington. But I shall return to that. I’d like to concentrate on Jamaica for the moment. You used the terms ‘concessions,’ ‘tax breaks,’ … ‘clout’ and ‘incentives.’ I say ‘absorption.’ ”

  “Words.”

  “Laws, Mr. McAuliff. Sovereign; sanctioned by prime ministers and cabinets and parliaments. Think for a minute, Mr. McAuliff. An existing, viable government in a strategically located independent nation controlled by a huge industrial monopoly with world markets. It’s not outlandish. It’s around the corner.”

  Alex did think about it. For more than a minute. Prodded by Hammond’s gently spoken, authoritatively phrased “clarifications.”

  Without disclosing M.I.5’s methods of discovery, the Britisher explained Dunstone’s modus operandi. Enormous sums of capital had been transferred from Swiss banks to Kingston’s King Street, that short stretch of the block that housed major international banking institutions. But the massive cash flow was not deposited in British, American, or Canadian banks. Those went begging, while the less secure Jamaican banks were stunned by an influx of hard money unheard of in their histories.

  Few knew that the vast new Jamaican riches were solely. Dunstone’s. But for these few, proof was supplied by the revolving transfers of a thousand accounts within an eight-hour business day.

  Heads spun in astonishment. A few heads. Selected men in extraordinarily high places were shown incontrovertibly that a new force had invaded Kingston, a force so powerful that Wall Street and Whitehall would tremble at its presence.

  “If you know this much, why don’t you move in? Stop them.”

  “Not possible,” answered Hammond. “All transactions are covered; there’s no one to accuse. It’s too complex a web of financing. Dunstone is masterminded by Warfield. He operates on the premise that a closed society is efficient only when its various arms have little or no knowledge of each other.”

  “In other words, you can’t prove your case and—”

  “We cannot expose what we cannot prove,” interrupted Hammond. “That is correct.”

  “You could threaten. I mean, on the basis of what you know damn well is true, you could raise one hell of a cry.… But you can’t chance it. It goes back to these ‘sensitive’ areas in Berlin, Washington, Paris, et cetera. Am I correct about that, too?”

  “You are.”

  “They must be goddamn sensitive.”

  “We believe they compromise an international cross-section of extraordinarily powerful men.”

  “In governments?”

  “Allied with major industries.”

  “For instance?”

  Hammond held Alex’s eyes with his own. His message was clear. “You understand that what I say is merely conjecture.”

  “All right. And my memory is short.”

  “Very well.” The Britisher got out of the chair and walked around it. His voice remained quiet, but there was no lack of precision. “Your own country: conceivably the Vice President of the United States or someone in his office and, certainly, unknown members of the Senate and the President’s cabinet. England: prominent figures in the House of Commons and undoubtedly various department directors at Inland Revenue. Germany: ranking vorsitzen in the Bundestag. France: elitist holdovers from the pre-Algerian Gaullists. Such men as I have described must exist relative to Warfield. The progress made by Dunstone would have been impossible without influence in such places. Of that we are certain.”

  “But you don’t know who, specifically.”

  “No.”

  “And you think, somehow, I can help you?”

  “We do, Mr. McAuliff.”

  “With all the resources you have, you come to me? I’ve been contracted for a Dunstone field survey, nothing else.”

  “The second Dunstone survey, Mr. McAuliff.”

  Alexander stared at the Englishman.

  “And you say that team is dead.”

  Hammond returned to his chair and sat down once more. “Yes, Mr. McAuliff. Which means Dunstone has an adversary. One that’s as deadly and powerful as Warfield’s forces. And we haven’t the slightest idea what it is, who they are. Only that it exists, they exist. We wish to make contact with those who want the same thing we do. We can guarantee the safety of your expedition. You are the key. Without you, we’re stymied. Without us, you and your people might well be in extreme jeopardy.”

  McAuliff shot out of the chair and stood above the British agent. He took several short, deep breaths and walked purposefully away from Hammond; then he aimlessly paced the Savoy room. The Englishman seemed to understand Alex’s action. He let the moment subside; he said nothing.

  “Jesus! You’re something, Hammond!” McAuliff returned to his chair, but he did not sit down. He reached for his drink on the windowsill, not so much for the whiskey as to hold the glass. “You come in here, build a case against Warfield by way of an economics lecture, and then calmly tell me that I’ve signed what amounts to my last contract if I don’t cooperate with you.”

  “That’s rather black and white, chap.”

  “That’s rather exactly what you just said! Suppose you’re mistaken?”

  “We’re not.”

  “You know goddamn well I can’t prove that either. If I go back to Warfield and tell him about this little informal chat, I’ll lose the contract the second I open my mouth. And the largest fee any surveyor was ever offered.”

  “May I ask the amount? Just academic interest.”

  McAuliff looked at Hammond. “What would you say to two million dollars?”

  “I’d say I’m surprised he didn’t offer three. Or four. Why not? You wouldn’t live to spend it.”

  Alex held the Englishman’s eyes. “Translated, that means if Dunstone’s enemies don’t kill me, Dunstone will?”

  “It’s what we believe. There’s no other logical conclusion. Once your work is finished.”

  “I see …” McAuliff walked slowly to the whiskey and poured deliberately, as if measuring. He did not offer anything to Hammond. “If I confront Warfield with what you’ve told me, you’re really saying that he’d …”

  “Kill you? Are those the words that stick, Mr. McAuliff?”

  “I don’t have much cause to employ those kind of words, Mr. Hammond.”

  “Naturally. No one ever gets used to them.… Yes, we think he would kill you. Have you killed, of course. After picking your brains.”

  McAuliff leaned against the wall, staring at the whiskey in his glass, but not drinking. “You’re not giving me an alternative, are you?”

  “Of course we are. I can leave these rooms; we never met.”

  “Suppose someone sees you? That surveillance you spoke of.”

  “They won’t see me; you will have to take my word for that.” Hammond leaned back in the chair. He brought his fingers together pensively. “Of course, under the circumstances, we’d be in no position to offer protection. From either faction—”

  “Protection from the unprovable,” interjected Alex softly.

  “Yes.”

  “No alternative …” McAuliff pushed himself away from the wall and took several swallows of whiskey. “Except one, Hammond. Suppose I cooperate, on the basis that there may be substance to your charges … or theories, or whatever you call them. But I’m not accountable to you.”

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “I don’t accept orders blindly. No puppet strings. I want that condition—on the record. If that’s the phrase.”

  “It must be. I’ve used it frequently.”

  McAuliff crossed in front of the Englishman to the arm of his chair. “Now put it in simple words. What am I supposed to do?”

  Hammond’s voice was calm and precise. “There are two objectives. The first, and most vital, is Dunstone’s opposition. Those knowledgeable enough and fanatical enough to have killed the first survey team. If uncovered, it is conceivable that they wi
ll lead you to the second and equally important objective: the names of Dunstone’s unknown hierarchy. The faceless men in London, Paris, Berlin, Washington … even one or two. We’d be grateful for anything specific.”

  “How do I begin?”

  “With very little, I’m afraid. But we do have something. It’s only a word, a name, perhaps. We don’t know. But we have every reason to think it’s terribly important.”

  “A word?”

  “Yes. ‘Halidon.’ ”

  4

  It was like working in two distinct spheres of reality, neither completely real. During the days, McAuliff conferred with the men and women in the University of London’s geophysics laboratories, gathering personnel data for his survey team. The university was Dunstone’s cover—along with the Royal Historical Society—and neither was aware that Dunstone’s finances were behind the expedition.

  During the nights, into the early morning hours, he met with R. C. Hammond, British Intelligence, in small, guarded houses on dimly lit streets in Kensington and Chelsea. These locations were reached by two changes of vehicles—taxis driven by M.I.5. And for each meeting Alex was provided with a cover story regarding his whereabouts: a dinner party, a girl, a crowded restaurant he was familiar with; nothing out of the ordinary, everything easily explained and verifiable.

  The sessions with Hammond were divided into areas of instruction: the political and financial climate of Jamaica, M.I.5 contacts throughout the island, and basic skills—with instruments—in communication and countersurveillance.

  At several sessions, Hammond brought in West Indian “specialists”—black agents who were capable of answering just about any question McAuliff might raise. He had few questions; he had surveyed for the Kaiser bauxite interests near Oracabessa a little over a year ago, a fact he suspected had led Julian Warfield to him.

  When they were alone, R. C. Hammond droned on about the attitudes and reactions Alex should foster.

  Always build on part of the truth … keeping it simple … the basics easily confirmed …

  You’ll find it quite acceptable to operate on different levels … naturally, instinctively. Your concentration will separate independently …