The Cry of the Halidon: A Novel Page 8

  McAuliff did not bother to conceal his anger. “I’ve about had it with your goddamn caustic deductions!”

  “I told you it was a gamble bringing you here—”

  “Stop telling me things!”

  “Please bear in mind that without us you had a life expectancy of four months—at the outside.”

  “Your version.” But the agent’s version had more substance than McAuliff cared to think about at the moment. Alex turned away from the unpleasant sight. For no particular reason, he ripped the torn lining from the base of his jacket and leaned against the hood of the car. “Since you hold me responsible for so much tonight, what happened?”

  The Britisher told him. Several days ago, M.I.5’s surveillance had picked up a second “force” involved with Dunstone’s movements. Three, possibly four, unidentifiable subjects who kept reappearing. The subjects were black. Photographs were taken, fingerprints obtained by way of restaurants, discarded objects—cigarette packs, newspapers, and the like—and all the data fed into the computers at New Scotland Yard and Emigration. There were no records; the subjects were “negative” insofar as Dunstone was concerned. Obvious … then proven without doubt earlier in the evening, when one of the subjects killed a Dunstone man who spotted him.

  “We knew then,” said Hammond, “that we had centered in; the target was accurate. It remained to make positive contact, sympathetic contact. I even toyed with the idea of bringing these men and you together in short order, perhaps this morning. So much resolved so damned quickly …”

  A cautious preliminary contact was made with the subjects: “so harmless and promising, we damn near offered what was left of the Empire. They were concerned, of course, with a trap.”

  A rendezvous was arranged at The Owl of Saint George, a racially integrated club that offered a comfortable environment. It was scheduled for 2:30 in the morning, after Hammond’s meeting with McAuliff.

  When Alex made his panicked—and threatening—call to Hammond’s number, insisting that they meet regardless of time, the agent left his options open. And then made his decision. Why not The Owl of Saint George? Bring the American into Soho, to the club, and if it proved the wrong decision, McAuliff could be stopped once inside. If the decision was the right one, the circumstances would be optimal—all his parties present.

  “What about Warfield’s men?” asked Alex. “You said he doubled his teams on me.”

  “I lied. I wanted you to remain where you were. Warfield had a single man on you. We diverted him. The Dunstone people had their own anxieties: One of their men had been killed. You couldn’t be held responsible for that.”

  The night progressed as Hammond had anticipated: without incident. The agent made arrangements for the table—“we know just about everyone you’ve met in London, chap”—and awaited the compatible merging of elements.

  And then, in rapid succession, each component fell apart. First was Alex’s statement that the survey team was leaving in two days—M.I.5 and its counterpart overseas, M.I.6, were not ready for them in Kingston. Then the information that Warfield had spoken the name of “Halidon”; it was to be expected, of course. Dunstone would be working furiously to find the killers of the first survey team. But, again, M.I.5 had not expected Dunstone to have made such progress. The next breakdown was the spaced-out agent who crashed into the table and used the word “Edinburgh”—used it twice.

  “Each twenty-four-hour period we circulate an unusual word that has but one connotation: ‘abort, extreme prejudice.’ If it’s repeated, that simply compounds the meaning: Our cover is blown. Or misread. Weapons should be ready.”

  At that moment, Hammond saw clearly the massive error that had been made. His agents had diverted Warfield’s men away from Alex, but not one of the black men. McAuliff had been observed in Warfield’s company at midnight for a considerable length of time. Within minutes after he had walked into The Owl, his black surveillance had followed, panicked that his colleagues had been led into a trap.

  The confrontation had begun within the gyrating, psychedelic madness that was The Owl of Saint George.

  Hammond tried to stop the final collapse.

  He broke the rules. It was not yet 2:30, but since Alexander McAuliff had been seen with him, he dared not wait. He tried to establish a bridge, to explain, to calm the raging outburst.

  He had nearly succeeded when one of the black men—now dead behind the wheel—saw McAuliff leap from his seat in the booth and plunge into the crowds, whipping people out of his way, looking frantically—obviously—for Hammond.

  This sight triggered the panic. Hammond was cut, used as a shield, and propelled out the rear door into the alley by two of the subjects while the third fled through the crowds in front to alert the car for escape.

  “What happened during the next few minutes was as distressing as it was comforting,” said Hammond. “My people would not allow my physical danger, so the instant my captors and I emerged on the pavement, they were taken. We put them in this car and drove off, still hoping to reestablish goodwill. But we purposely allowed the third man to disappear—an article of faith on our part.”

  The M.I.5 had driven out to the deserted field. A doctor was summoned to patch up Hammond. And the two subjects—relieved of weapons, car key removed unobtrusively—were left alone to talk by themselves, hopefully to resolve their doubts, while Hammond was being bandaged.

  “They made a last attempt to get away but, of course, there were no keys in the vehicle. So they took their deadly little vials or tablets and, with them, their lives. Ultimately, they could not trust us.”

  McAuliff said nothing for several moments. Hammond did not interrupt the silence.

  “And your ‘article of faith’ tried to kill me.”

  “Apparently. Leaving one man in England we must try to find: the driver. You understand that we cannot be held accountable; you completely disregarded our instructions—”

  “We’ll get to that,” broke in McAuliff. “You said you brought me out here for two reasons. I get the first: Your people are quick, safety guaranteed … if instructions aren’t ‘disregarded.’ ” Alex mimicked Hammond’s reading of the word. “What’s the second reason?”

  The agent walked directly in front of McAuliff and, through the night light, Alex could see the intensity in his eyes. “To tell you that you have no choice but to continue now. Too much has happened. You’re too involved.”

  “That’s what Warfield said.”

  “He’s right.”

  “Suppose I refuse? Suppose I just pack up and leave?”

  “You’d be suspect, and expendable. You’d be hunted down. Take my word for that, I’ve been here before.”

  “That’s quite a statement from a—what was it, a financial analyst?”

  “Labels, Mr. McAuliff. Titles. Quite meaningless.”

  “Not to your wife.”

  “I beg your—” Hammond inhaled deeply, audible. When he continued, he did not ask a question. He made a quiet, painful statement. “She sent you after me.”

  “Yes.”

  It was Hammond’s turn to remain silent. And Alex’s option not to break that silence. Instead, McAuliff watched the fifty-year-old agent struggle to regain his composure.

  “The fact remains, you disregarded my instructions.”

  “You must be a lovely man to live with.”

  “Get used to it,” replied Hammond with cold precision. “For the next several months, our association will be very close. And you’ll do exactly as I say. Or you’ll be dead.”

  TWO

  KINGSTON

  7

  The red-orange sun burned a hole in the streaked blue tapestry that was the evening sky. Arcs of yellow rimmed the lower clouds; a purplish-black void was above. The soft Caribbean night would soon envelop this section of the world. It would be dark when the plane landed at Port Royal.

  McAuliff stared out at the horizon through the tinted glass of the aircraft’s window. Alison Booth wa
s in the seat beside him, asleep.

  The Jensens were across the 747’s aisle, and for a couple whose political persuasions were left of center, they adapted to British Air’s first-class accommodations with a remarkable lack of guilt, thought Alex. They ordered the best wine, the foie gras, duck à l’orange, and Charlotte Malakof as if they had been used to them for years. And Alex wondered if Warfield was wrong. All the left-oriented he knew, outside the former Soviet bloc, were humorless; the Jensens were not.

  Young James Ferguson was alone in a forward seat. Initially, Charles Whitehall had sat with him, but Whitehall had gone up to the lounge early in the flight, found an acquaintance from Savanna-la-Mar, and stayed. Ferguson used the unoccupied seat for a leather bag containing photographic equipment. He was currently changing lens filters, snapping shots of the sky outside.

  McAuliff and Alison had joined Charles Whitehall and his friend for several drinks in the lounge. The friend was white, rich, and a heavy drinker. He was also a vacuous inheritor of old southwest Jamaican money, and Alex found it contradictory that Whitehall would care to spend much time with him. It was a little disturbing to watch Whitehall respond with such alacrity to his friend’s alcoholic, unbright, unfunny observations.

  Alison had touched McAuliff’s arm after the second drink. It had been a signal to return to their seats; she had had enough. So had he.

  Alison?

  During the last two days in London there had been so much to do that he had not spent the time with her he had wanted to, intended to. He was involved with all-day problems of logistics: equipment purchases and rentals, clearing passports, ascertaining whether inoculations were required (none was), establishing bank accounts in Montego, Kingston, and Ocho Rios, and scores of additional items necessary for a long geological survey. Dunstone stayed out of the picture but was of enormous help behind the scenes. The Dunstone people told him precisely whom to contact where; the tangled webs of bureaucracy—governmental and commercial—were untangled.

  He had spent one evening bringing everyone together—everyone but Sam Tucker, who would join them in Kingston. Dinner at Simpsons. It was sufficiently agreeable; all were professionals. Each sized up the others and made flattering comments where work was known. Whitehall received the most recognition—as was appropriate. He was an authentic celebrity of sorts. Ruth Jensen and Alison seemed genuinely to like each other, which McAuliff had thought would happen. Ruth’s husband, Peter, assumed a paternalistic attitude toward Ferguson, laughing gently, continuously at the young man’s incessant banter. And Charles Whitehall had the best manners, slightly aloof and very proper, with just the right traces of scholarly wit and unfelt humility.

  But Alison.

  He had kept their luncheon date after the madness at The Owl of Saint George and the insanity that followed in the deserted field on London’s outskirts. He had approached her with ambivalent feelings. He was annoyed that she had not brought up the questionable activities of her recent husband. But he did not accept Hammond’s vague concern that Alison was a Warfield plant. It was senseless. She was nothing if not independent—as was he. To be a silent emissary from Warfield meant losing independence—as he knew. Alison could not do that, not without showing it.

  Still, he tried to provoke her into talking about her husband. She responded with humorously “civilized” clichés, such as “let’s let sleeping dogs lie,” which he had. Often. She would not, at this point, discuss David Booth with him.

  It was not relevant.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” said the very masculine, in-charge tones over the aircraft’s speaker. “This is Captain Thomas. We are nearing the northeast coast of Jamaica; in several minutes we shall be over Port Antonio, descending for our approach to Palisados Airport, Port Royal. May we suggest that all passengers return to their seats. There may be minor turbulence over the Blue Mountain range. Time of arrival is now anticipated at eight-twenty, Jamaican. The temperature in Kingston is seventy-eight degrees, weather and visibility clear.…”

  As the calm, strong voice finished the announcement, McAuliff thought of Hammond. If the British agent spoke over a loudspeaker, he would sound very much like Captain Thomas, Alex considered.

  Hammond.

  McAuliff had not ended their temporary disassociation—as Hammond phrased it—too pleasantly. He had countered the agent’s caustic pronouncement that Alex do as Hammond instructed with a volatile provision of his own: He had a million dollars coming to him from Dunstone, Limited, and he expected to collect it. From Dunstone or some other source.

  Hammond had exploded. What good were two million dollars to a dead geologist? Alex should be paying for the warnings and the protection afforded him. But, in the final analysis, Hammond recognized the necessity for something to motivate Alexander’s cooperation. Survival was too abstract; lack of survival could not be experienced.

  In the early morning hours, a letter of agreement was brought to McAuliff by a temporary Savoy floor steward; Alex recognized him as the man in the brown mackinaw on High Holborn. The letter covered the condition of reimbursement in the event of “loss of fees” with a very clear ceiling of one million dollars.

  If he remained in one piece—and he had every expectation of so doing—he would collect. He mailed the agreement to New York.

  Hammond.

  He wondered what the explanation was; what could explain a wife whose whispered voice could hold such fear? He wondered about the private, personal Hammond, yet knew instinctively that whatever private questions he had would never be answered.

  Hammond was like that. Perhaps all the people who did what Hammond did were like that. Men in shadows; their women in unending tunnels of fear. Pockets of fear.

  And then there was …

  Halidon.

  What did it mean? What was it?

  Was it a black organization?

  Possibly. Probably not, however, Hammond had said. At least, not exclusively. It had too many informational resources, too much apparent influence in powerful sectors. Too much money.

  The word had surfaced under strange and horrible circumstances. The British agent attached to the previous Dunstone survey had been one of two men killed in a bush fire that began inside a bamboo camp on the banks of the Martha Brae River, deep within the Cock Pit country. Evidence indicated that the two dead members of the survey had tried to salvage equipment within the fire, collapsed from the smoke, and burned in the bamboo inferno.

  But there was something more; something so appalling that even Hammond found it difficult to recite it.

  The two men had been bound by bamboo shoots to separate trees, each next to valuable survey equipment. They had been consumed in the conflagration, for the simple reason that neither could run from it. But the agent had left a message, a single word scratched on the metal casing of a geoscope.

  Halidon.

  Inspection under a microscope gave the remainder of the horror story: particles of human tooth enamel. The agent had scratched the letters with broken teeth.

  Halidon … holly-dawn.

  No known definition. A word? A name? A man? A three-beat sound?

  What did it mean?

  “It’s beautiful isn’t it,” said Alison, looking beyond him through the window.

  “You’re awake.”

  “Someone turned on a radio and a man spoke … endlessly.” She smiled and stretched her long legs. She then inhaled in a deep yawn, which caused her breasts to swell against the soft white silk of her blouse. McAuliff watched. And she saw him watching, and smiled again—in humor, not provocation. “Relevancy, Dr. McAuliff. Remember?”

  “That word’s going to get you into trouble, Ms. Booth.”

  “I’ll stop saying it instantly. Come to think, I don’t believe I used it much until I met you.”

  “I like the connection; don’t stop.”

  She laughed and reached for her pocketbook, on the deck between them.

  There was a sudden series of rise-and-fall motion
s as the plane entered air turbulence. It was over quickly, but during it Alison’s open purse landed on its side—on Alex’s lap. Lipstick, compact, matches, and a short thick tube fell out, wedging themselves between McAuliff’s legs. It was one of those brief, indecisive moments. Pocketbooks were unfair vantage points, somehow unguarded extensions of the private self. And Alison was not the type to reach swiftly between a man’s legs to retrieve property.

  “Nothing fell on the floor,” said Alex awkwardly, handing Alison the purse. “Here.”

  He picked up the lipstick and the compact with his left hand, his right on the thick tube, which, at first, seemed to have a very personal connotation. As his eyes were drawn to the casing, however, the connotation became something else. The tube was a weapon, a compressor. On the cylinder’s side were printed words:

  312 GAS CONTENTS

  FOR MILITARY AND/OR POLICE USE ONLY

  AUTHORISATION NUMBER 4316

  RECORDED: 1–6

  The authorization number and the date had been handwritten in indelible ink. The gas compressor had been issued by British authorities a month ago.

  Alison took the tube from his hand. “Thank you,” was all she said.

  “You planning to hijack the plane? That’s quite a lethal-looking object.”

  “London has its problems for girls … women these days. There were incidents in my building. May I have a cigarette? I seem to be out.”

  “Sure.” McAuliff reached into his shirt pocket and withdrew the cigarettes, shaking one up for her. He lighted it, then spoke softly, very gently. “Why are you lying to me, Alison?”

  “I’m not. I think it’s presumptuous of you to think so.”

  “Oh, come on.” He smiled, reducing the earnestness of his inquiry. “The police, especially the London police, do not issue compressors of gas because of ‘incidents.’ And you don’t look like a colonel in the Women’s Auxiliary Army.” As he said the words, Alex suddenly had the feeling that perhaps he was wrong. Was Alison Booth an emissary from Hammond? Not Warfield, but British Intelligence?