The Cry of the Halidon Read online

  McAuliff shifted in his seat and looked at the little old man—tiny lips pursed, the papers held in his thin, bony fingers under the pin spot of yellow light, giving his ancient flesh a sallow color. “Should the occasion arise—and I can’t conceive of it—when the Jensens make political noises, I’ll quiet them. On the other hand, the inclusion of such people might be an asset to you. They’d hardly, knowingly, work for Dunstone.”

  “Yes,” said Warfield quietly. “That, too, occurred to us. This chap Ferguson. He ran into trouble with the Craft Foundation.”

  “He ran into a potentially vital discovery concerning baracoa fibers, that’s what he ran into. It scared the hell out of Craft and Craft’s funding resources.”

  “We have no fight with Craft. We don’t want one. The fact that he’s with you could raise eyebrows. Craft’s well thought of in Jamaica.”

  “There’s no one as good as Ferguson, certainly not the alternate, and he was the best of those remaining. I’ll keep Ferguson away from Craft.”

  “That is essential. We cannot permit him otherwise.”

  Charles Whitehall, the black scholar-dandy, was a psychological mess, according to Dunstone’s data banks. Politically he was a conservative, a black conservative who might have led the Kingston reactionaries had he remained on the island. But his future was not in Jamaica, and he had recognized it early. He was bitter over the fact. Warfield hastened to add, however, that his negative information was balanced—and more—by Whitehall’s academic standing. His interest in the survey was ultimately a positive factor; his inclusion tended to remove any commercial stain from the project. To compound the complications of this very complex man, Whitehall was a Class Triple A Black Belt practitioner of jukato, a more intricate and deadly development of judo.

  “Our contacts in Kingston are quite impressed with his being with you. I suspect they’ll offer him a chair at the West Indies University. I think he’ll probably accept, if they pay him enough. Now, we come to the last submission.” Warfield removed his glasses, placed them on his lap with the papers, and rubbed the bridge of his thin bony nose. “Mrs. Booth … Mrs. Alison Gerrard Booth.”

  Alex felt the stirring of resentment. Warfield had already told him that Alison was acceptable; he did not want to hear intimate, private information dredged up by Dunstone’s faceless men or whirring machines.

  “What about her?” asked McAuliff, his voice careful. “Her record speaks for itself.”

  “Unquestionably. She’s extremely qualified … and extremely anxious to leave England.”

  “She’s explained that. I buy it. She’s just been divorced, and the circumstances, I gather, are not too pleasant … socially.”

  “Is that what she told you?”

  “Yes. I believe her.”

  Warfield replaced his glasses and flipped the page in front of him. “I’m afraid there’s a bit more to it than that, Mr. McAuliff. Did she tell you who her husband was? What he did for a living?”

  “No. And I didn’t ask her.”

  “Yes … well, I think you should know. David Booth is from a socially prominent family—viscount status, actually—that hasn’t had the cash flow of a pound sterling for a generation. He is a partner in an export-import firm whose books indicate a barely passable subsistence. Yet Mr. Booth lives extremely well. Several homes—here and on the Continent—drives expensive cars, belongs to the better clubs. Contradictory, isn’t it?”

  “I’d say so. How does he do it?”

  “Narcotics,” said Julian Warfield, as if he had just given the time of day. “David Booth is a courier for Franco-American interests operating out of Corsica and Marseilles.”

  For the next few moments both men were silent. McAuliff understood the implication, and finally spoke. “Mrs. Booth was on surveys in Corsica, Zaire, and Turkey. You’re suggesting that she’s involved.”

  “Possibly; not likely. If so, unwittingly. After all, she did divorce the chap. What we are saying is that she undoubtedly learned of her husband’s involvement; she’s afraid to remain in England. We don’t think she plans to return.”

  Again, there was silence, until McAuliff broke it.

  “When you say ‘afraid,’ I presume you mean she’s been threatened.”

  “Quite possibly. Whatever she knows could be damaging. Booth didn’t take the divorce action very well. Not from the point of view of affection—he’s quite a womanizer—but, we suspect, for reasons related to his travels.” Warfield refolded the pages and put them back into his overcoat pocket.

  “Well,” said Alex, “that’s quite a … minor explosion. I’m not sure I’m ready for it.”

  “I gave you this information on Mrs. Booth because we thought you’d find out for yourself. We wanted to prepare you, not to dissuade you.”

  McAuliff turned sharply and looked at Warfield. “You want her along because she might … might possibly be valuable to you. And not for geological reasons.” Easy, McAuliff. Easy!

  “Anything is conceivable in these complicated times.”

  “I don’t like it!”

  “You haven’t thought about it. It is our opinion that she’s infinitely safer in Jamaica than in London. You are concerned, aren’t you? You’ve seen her frequently during the past week.”

  “I don’t like being followed, either.” It was all Alex could think to say.

  “Whatever was done was minimal and for your protection,” replied Warfield quickly.

  “Against what? For Christ’s sake, protection from whom?” McAuliff stared at the little old man, realizing how much he disliked him. He wondered if Warfield would be any more explicit than Hammond on the subject of protection. Or would he admit the existence of a prior Jamaican survey? “I think I have a right to be told,” he added angrily.

  “You shall be. First, however, I should like to show you these papers. I trust everything will be to your satisfaction.” Warfield lifted the flap of the unsealed envelope and withdrew several thin pages stapled together on top of a single page of stationery. They were onionskin carbons of his lengthy letter of agreement signed in Belgrave Square over a week ago. He reached above, snapped on his own reading lamp, took the papers from Warfield, and flipped over the carbons to the thicker page of stationery. Only it wasn’t stationery; it was a Xerox copy of a letter deposit transfer from the Chase Manhattan Bank in New York. The figures were clear: On the left was the amount paid into his account by a Swiss concern; on the right, the maximum taxes on that amount, designated as income, to the Swiss authorities and the United States Internal Revenue Service.

  The net figure was $1,270,000.

  He looked over at Warfield. “My first payment was to have been twenty-five percent of the total contract upon principal work of the survey. We agreed that would be the team’s arrival in Kingston. Prior to that date, you’re responsible only for my expenses and, if we terminate, five hundred a day for my time. Why the change?”

  “We’re very pleased with your preliminary labors. We wanted to indicate our good faith.”

  “I don’t believe you—”

  “Besides,” continued Warfield, raising his voice over Alex’s objections, “there’s been no contractual change.”

  “I know what I signed.”

  “Not too well, apparently. Go on, read the agreement. It states clearly that you will be paid a minimum of twenty-five percent; no later than the end of the business day we determined to be the start of the survey. It says nothing about an excess of twenty-five percent; no prohibitions as to an earlier date. We thought you’d be pleased.” The old man folded his small hands like some kind of Gandhi the Nonviolent in Savile Row clothes.

  McAuliff reread the transfer letter from Chase Manhattan. “This bank transfer describes the money as payment for services rendered as of today’s date. That’s past tense, free and clear. You’d have a hard time recouping if I didn’t go to Jamaica. And considering your paranoia over secrecy, I doubt you’d try too hard. No, Mr. Warfield, this is out of
character.”

  “Faith, Mr. McAuliff. Your generation overlooks it.” The financier smiled benignly.

  “I don’t wish to be rude, but I don’t think you ever had it. Not that way. You’re a manipulator, not an ideologue. I repeat: out of character.”

  “Very well.” Warfield unfolded his delicate hands, still retaining the Gandhi pose under the yellow light. “It leads to the protection of which I spoke and which, rightly, you question. You are one of us, Alexander Tarquin McAuliff. A very important and essential part of Dunstone’s plans. In recognition of your contributions, we have recommended to our directors that you be elevated—in confidence—to their status. Ergo, the payments made to you are the initial monies due one of our own. As you say, it would be out of character for such excessive payments to be made otherwise.”

  “What the hell are you driving at?”

  “In rather abrupt words, don’t ever try to deny us. You are a consenting participant in our work. Should you at any time, for whatever motive, decide you do not approve of Dunstone, don’t try to separate yourself. You’d never be believed.”

  McAuliff stared at the now smiling old man. “Why would I do that?” he asked softly.

  “Because we have reason to believe there are … elements most anxious to stop our progress. They may try to reach you; perhaps they have already. Your future is with us. No one else. Financially, perhaps ideologically … certainly legally.”

  Alex looked away from Warfield. The Rolls had proceeded west into New Oxford, south on Charing Cross, and west again on Shaftesbury. They were approaching the outer lights of Piccadilly Circus, the gaudy colors diffused by the heavy mist.

  “Who were you trying to call so frantically this evening?” The old man was not smiling now.

  McAuliff turned from the window. “Not that it’s any of your damned business, but I was calling—not frantically—Mrs. Booth. We’re having lunch tomorrow. Any irritation was due to your hastily scheduled meeting and the fact that I didn’t want, to disturb her after midnight. Who do you think?”

  “You shouldn’t be so hostile—”

  “I forgot,” interrupted Alex. “You’re only trying to protect me. From … elements.”

  “I can be somewhat more precise.” Julian Warfield’s eyes bore into Alex’s, with an intensity he had not seen before. “There would be no point in your lying to me, so I expect the truth. What does the word ‘Halidon’ mean to you, Mr. McAuliff?”

  6

  The screaming, hysterical cacophony of the acid-rock music caused a sensation of actual pain in the ears. The eyes were attacked next, by tear-provoking layers of heavy smoke, thick and translucent—the nostrils reacting immediately to the pungent sweetness of tobacco laced with grass and hashish.

  McAuliff made his way through the tangled network of soft flesh, separating thrusting arms and protruding shoulders gently but firmly, finally reaching the rear of the bar area.

  The Owl of Saint George was at its undulating peak. The psychedelic lights exploded against the walls and ceiling in rhythmic Crescendos; bodies were concave and convex, none seemingly upright, all swaying, writhing violently.

  Hammond was seated in a circular booth with five others: two men and three women. Alex paused, concealed by drinkers and dancers, and looked at Hammond’s gathering. It was funny; not sardonically funny, humorously funny. Hammond and his middle-aged counterpart across the table were dressed in the “straight” fashion, as were two of the three women, both of them past forty. The remaining couple was young, hip, and profuse with black leather and zippers. The picture was instantly recognizable: parents indulging the generation gap, uncomfortable but game.

  McAuliff remembered the man’s words on High Holborn. Stay at the bar, he’ll reach you. He maneuvered his way to within arm’s length of the mahogany and managed to shout his order to the black Soho bartender with hair so short he looked bald. McAuliff wondered when Hammond would make his move; he did not want to wait long. He had a great deal to say to the British agent.

  “Pardon, but you are a chap named McAuliff, aren’t you?” The shouted question caused Alex to spill part of his drink. The shouter was the young man from Hammond’s table. Hammond was not wasting time.

  “Yes. Why?”

  “My girl’s parents recognized you. Asked me to invite you over.”

  The following moments, McAuliff felt, were like a play within a play. A brief, staged exercise with acutely familiar dialogue, acted out in front of a bored audience of other, more energetic actors. But with a surprise that made Alex consider Hammond’s skill in a very favorable light.

  He did know the middle-aged man across from Hammond. And his wife. Not well, of course, but they were acquaintances. He’d met them two or three times before, on previous London trips. They weren’t the sort of memorable people one recognized on the street—or in The Owl of Saint George—unless the circumstances were recalled.

  Hammond was introduced by his correct name and McAuliff was seated next to him.

  “How the hell did you arrange this?” asked Alex after five excruciating minutes remembering the unmemorable with the acquaintances. “Do they know who you are?”

  “Laugh occasionally,” answered Hammond with a calm, precise smile. “They believe I’m somewhere in that great government pyramid, juggling figures in poorly lit rooms.… The arrangements were necessary. Warfield has doubled his teams on you. We’re not happy about it; he may have spotted us, but, of course, it’s unlikely.”

  “He’s spotted something, I guarantee it.” Alex bared his teeth, but the smile was false. “I’ve got a lot to talk to you about. Where can we meet?”

  “Here. Now,” was the Britisher’s reply. “Speak occasionally to the others, but it’s perfectly acceptable that we strike up a conversation. We might use it as a basis for lunch or drinks in a day or two.”

  “No way. I leave for Kingston the day after tomorrow in the morning.”

  Hammond paused, his glass halfway to his lips. “So soon? We didn’t expect that.”

  “It’s insignificant compared to something else.… Warfield knows about Halidon. That is, he asked me what I knew about it.”

  “What?”

  “Mr. McAuliff?” came the shouted inquiry from across the table. “Surely you know the Bensons, from Kent …”

  The timing was right, thought Alex. Hammond’s reaction was one of astonishment. Shock that changed swiftly to angered acceptance. The ensuing conversation about the unremembered Bensons would give Hammond time to think. And Alex wanted him to think.

  “What exactly did he say?” asked Hammond. The revolving psychedelic lights now projected their sharp patterns on the table, giving the agent a grotesque appearance. “The exact words.”

  “ ‘What does the word ‘Halidon’ mean to you?’ That’s what he said.”

  “Your answer?”

  “What answer? I didn’t have one. I told him it was a town in New Jersey.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Halidon, New Jersey. It’s a town.”

  “Different spelling, I believe. And pronunciation. Did he accept your ignorance?”

  “Why wouldn’t he? I’m ignorant.”

  “Did you conceal the fact that you’d heard the word? It’s terribly important!”

  “Yes … yes, I think I did. As a matter of fact, I was thinking about something else. Several other things—”

  “Did he bring it up later?” broke in the agent.

  “No, he didn’t. He stared hard, but he didn’t mention it again. What do you think it means?”

  Suddenly a gyrating, spaced-out dancer careened against the table, his eyes half focused, his lips parted without control. “Well, if it ain’t old Mums and Dadsies!” he said, slurring his words with rough Yorkshire. “Enjoying the kiddie’s show-and-tell, Mums?”

  “Damn!” Hammond had spilled part of his drink.

  “Ring for the butler, Pops! Charge it to old Edinburgh. He’s a personal friend, good ol
d Edinburgh.”

  The solo, freaked-out dancer bolted away as quickly as he had intruded. The other middle-aged straights were appropriately solicitous of Hammond, simultaneously scathing of The Owl’s patrons; the youngsters did their best to mollify.

  “It’s all right, nothing to be concerned with,” said the agent good-naturedly. “Just a bit of damp, nothing to it.” Hammond removed his handkerchief and began blotting his front. The table returned to its prior and individual conversations. The Britisher turned to McAuliff, his resigned smile belying his words. “I have less than a minute; you’ll be contacted tomorrow if necessary.”

  “You mean that … collision was a signal?”

  “Yes. Now, listen and commit. I haven’t time to repeat myself. When you reach Kingston, you’ll be on your own for a while. Quite frankly, we weren’t prepared for you so soon—”

  “Just a minute!” interrupted McAuliff, his voice low, angry. “Goddamn you! You listen … and commit! You guaranteed complete safety, contacts twenty-four hours a day. It was on that basis I agreed—”

  “Nothing has changed.” Hammond cut in swiftly, smiling paternalistically—in contradiction to the quiet hostility between them. “You have contacts; you’ve memorized eighteen, twenty names—”

  “In the north country, not Kingston! You’re supposed to deliver the Kingston names!”

  “We’ll do our best for tomorrow.”

  “That’s not good enough!”

  “It will have to be, Mr. McAuliff,” said Hammond coldly. “In Kingston, east of Victoria Park on Duke Street, there is a fish store called Tallon’s. In the last extremity—and only then—should you wish to transmit information, see the owner. He’s quite arthritic in his right hand. But, mind you, all he can do is transmit. He’s of no other use to you. Now, I really must go.”

  “I’ve got a few other things to say.” Alex put his hand on Hammond’s arm.

  “They’ll have to wait—”

  “One thing. Alison Booth. You knew, didn’t you?”

  “About her husband?”