The Cry of the Halidon: A Novel Read online

  “Exceptions are made. They really are, Alex.” She locked her eyes with his; she was not lying.

  “May I venture a suggestion? A reason?”

  “If you like.”

  “David Booth?”

  She looked away, inhaling deeply on her cigarette. “You know about him. That’s why you kept asking questions the other night.”

  “Yes. Did you think I wouldn’t find out?”

  “I didn’t care … no, that’s not right; I think I wanted you to find out if it helped me get the job. But I couldn’t tell you.”

  “Why not?”

  “Oh, Lord, Alex! Your own words; you wanted the best professionals, not personal problems! For all I knew, you’d have scratched me instantly.” Her smile was gone now. There was only anxiety.

  “This Booth must be quite a fellow.”

  “He’s a very sick, very vicious man. But I can handle David. I was always able to handle him. He’s an extraordinary coward.”

  “Most vicious people are.”

  “I’m not sure I subscribe to that. But it wasn’t David. It was someone else. The man he worked for.”

  “Who?”

  “A Frenchman. A marquis. Chatellerault is his name.”

  The team took separate taxis into Kingston. Alison remained behind with McAuliff while he commandeered the equipment with the help of the Jamaican government people attached to the Ministry of Education. Alex could feel the same vague resentment from the Jamaicans that he had felt with the academicians in London; only added now was the aspect of pigmentation. Were there no black geologists? they seemed to be thinking.

  The point was emphasized by the Customs men, their khaki uniforms creased into steel. They insisted on examining each box, each carton, as though each contained the most dangerous contraband imaginable. They decided to be officially thorough as McAuliff stood helplessly by long after the aircraft had taxied into a Palisados berth. Alison remained ten yards away, sitting on a luggage dolly.

  An hour and a half later, the equipment had been processed and marked for in-island transport to Boscobel Airfield, in Ocho Rios. McAuliff’s temper was stretched to the point of gritted teeth and a great deal of swallowing. He grabbed Alison’s arm and marched them both toward the terminal.

  “For heaven’s sake, Alex, you’re bruising my elbow!” said Alison under her breath, trying to hold back her laughter.

  “Sorry … I’m sorry. Those goddamned messiahs think they inherited the earth! The bastards!”

  “This is their island—”

  “I’m in no mood for anticolonial lectures,” he interrupted. “I’m in the mood for a drink. Let’s stop at the lounge.”

  “What about our bags?”

  “Oh. Christ! I forgot. It’s this way, if I remember,” said Alex, pointing to a gate entrance on the right.

  “Yes,” replied Alison. “ ‘Incoming Flights’ usually means that.”

  “Be quiet. My first order to you as a subordinate is not to say another word until we get our bags and I have a drink in my hand.”

  But McAuliff’s command, by necessity, was rescinded. Their luggage was nowhere in sight. And apparently no one knew where it might be; all passenger baggage stored on Flight 640 from London had been picked up. An hour ago.

  “We were on that flight. We did not pick up our bags. So, you see, you’re mistaken,” Alex said curtly to the luggage manager.

  “Then you look-see, mon,” answered the Jamaican, irritated by the American’s implication that he was less than efficient. “Every suitcase taken—nothing left. Flight Six forty all here, mon! No place other.”

  “Let me talk to the British Air representative. Where is he?”

  “Who?”

  “Your boss, goddammit!”

  “I top mon!” replied the black man angrily.

  Alex held himself in check. “Look, there’s been a mix-up. The airline’s responsible, that’s all I’m trying to say.”

  “I think not, mon,” interjected the luggage manager defensively as he turned to a telephone on the counter. “I will call British Air.”

  “All heart.” McAuliff spoke softly to Alison. “Our bags are probably on the way to Buenos Aires.” They waited while the man spoke briefly on the phone.

  “Here, mon.” The manager held the phone for Alex. “You talk, please.”

  “Hello?”

  “Dr. McAuliff?” said the British voice.

  “Yes. McAuliff.”

  “We merely followed the instruction in your note, sir.”

  “What note?”

  “To First-Class Accommodations. The driver brought it to us. The taxi. Mrs. Booth’s and your luggage was taken to Courtleigh Manor. That is what you wished, is it not, sir?” The voice was laced with a trace of overclarification, as if the speaker were addressing someone who had had an extra drink he could not handle.

  “I see. Yes, that’s fine,” said Alex quietly. He hung up the telephone and turned to Alison. “Our bags were taken to the hotel.”

  “Really? Wasn’t that nice.” A statement.

  “No, I don’t think it was,” answered McAuliff. “Come on, let’s find that bar.”

  They sat at a corner table in the Palisados observation lounge. The red-jacketed waiter brought their drinks while humming a Jamaican folk tune softly. Alex wondered if the island’s tourist bureau instructed all those who served visitors to hum tunes and move rhythmically. He reached for his glass and drank a large portion of his double Scotch. He noticed that Alison, who was not much of a drinker, seemed as anxious as he was to put some alcohol into her system. All things considered—all things—it was conceivable that his luggage might be stolen. Not hers. But the note had specified his and Mrs. Booth’s.

  “You didn’t have any more artillery, did you?” asked Alex quickly. “Like that compressor?”

  “No. It would have set off bells in the airline X-ray. I’d declared this prior to boarding.” Alison pointed to her purse.

  “Yes, of course,” he mumbled.

  “I must say, you’re remarkably calm. I should think you’d be telephoning the hotel, see if the bags got there … oh, not for me. I don’t travel with the Crown jewels.”

  “Oh, Lord, I’m sorry, Alison.” He pushed his chair back. “I’ll call right away.”

  “No, please.” She reached out and put her hand over his. “I think you’re doing what you’re doing for a reason. You don’t want to appear upset. I think you’re right. If they’re gone, there’s nothing I can’t replace in the morning.”

  “You’re very understanding. Thanks.”

  She withdrew her hand and drank again. He pulled his chair back and shifted his position slightly, toward the interior of the lounge. Unobtrusively, he began scanning the other tables.

  The observation lounge was half filled, no more than that. From his position—their position—in the far west corner of the room, Alex could see nearly every table. And he slowly riveted his attention on every table, wondering, as he had wondered two night ago on High Holborn, who might be concerned with him.

  There was movement in the dimly lighted entrance. McAuliff’s eyes were drawn to it: the figure of a stocky man in a white shirt and no jacket standing in the wide frame. He spoke to the lounge’s hostess, shaking his head slowly, negatively, as he looked inside. Suddenly, Alex blinked and focused on the man.

  He knew him.

  A man he had last seen in Australia, in the fields of Kimberly Plateau. He had been told the man had retired to Jamaica.

  Robert Hanley, a pilot.

  Hanley was standing in the entranceway of the lounge, looking for someone inside. And Alex knew instinctively that Hanley was looking for him.

  “Excuse me,” he said to Alison. “There’s a fellow I know. Unless I’m mistaken, he’s trying to find me.”

  McAuliff thought, as he threaded his way around the tables and through the subdued shadows of the room, that it was somehow right that Robert Hanley, of all the men in the Caribbean,
would be involved. Hanley, the open man who dealt with a covert world because he was, above all, a man to be trusted. A laughing man, a tough man, a professional with expertise far beyond that required by those employing him. Someone who had miraculously survived six decades when all the odds indicated nearer to four. But then, Robert Hanley did not look much over forty-five. Even his close-cropped, reddish-blond hair was devoid of gray.

  “Robert!”

  “Alexander!”

  The two men clasped hands and held each other’s shoulders.

  “I said to the lady sitting with me that I thought you were looking for me. I’ll be honest, I hope I’m wrong.”

  “I wish you were, lad.”

  “That’s what I was afraid of. What is it? Come on in.”

  “In a minute. Let me tell you the news first. I wouldn’t want the lady to uncork your temper.” Hanley led Alex away from the door; they stood alone by the wall. “It’s Sam Tucker.”

  “Sam? Where is he?”

  “That’s the point, lad. I don’t know. Sam flew into Mo’Bay three days ago and called me at Port Antone’; the boys in Los Angeles told him I was here. I hopped over, naturally, and it was a grand reunion. I won’t go into the details. The next morning, Sam went down to the lobby to get a paper, I think. He never came back.”

  8

  Robert Hanley was flying back to Port Antonio in an hour. He and McAuliff agreed not to mention Sam Tucker to Alison. Hanley also agreed to keep looking for Sam; he and Alex would stay in touch.

  The three of them took a taxi from Port Royal into Kingston, to Courtleigh Manor. Hanley remained in the cab and took it on to the small Tinson Pen Airfield, where he kept his plane.

  At the hotel desk, Alex inquired nonchalantly, feeling no casualness whatsoever, “I assume our luggage arrived?”

  “Indeed, yes, Mr. McAuliff,” replied the clerk, stamping both registration forms and signaling to a bellhop. “Only minutes ago. We had them brought to your rooms. They’re adjoining.”

  “How thoughtful,” said Alex softly, wondering if Alison had heard the man behind the desk. The clerk did not speak loudly, and Alison was at the end of the counter, looking at tourist brochures. She glanced over at McAuliff; she had heard. The expression on her face was noncommittal. He wondered.

  Five minutes later, she opened the door between their two rooms, and Alex knew there was no point speculating further.

  “I did as you ordered, Mr. Bossman,” said Alison, walking in. “I didn’t touch the—”

  McAuliff held up his hand quickly signaling her to be quiet. “The bed, bless your heart! You’re all heart, luv!”

  The expression now on Alison’s face was definitely committal. Not pleasantly. It was an awkward moment, which he was not prepared for; he had not expected her to walk deliberately into his room. Still, there was no point standing immobile, looking foolish.

  He reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a small, square-shaped metal instrument the size of a cigarette pack. It was one of several items given him by Hammond. (Hammond had cleared his boarding pass with British Airways in London, eliminating the necessity of his declaring whatever metallic objects were on his person.)

  The small metal box was an electronic scanner with a miniaturized high-voltage battery. Its function was simple, its mechanism complex, and Hammond claimed it was in very common use these days. It detected the presence of electronic listening devices within a nine- by nine-foot area. Alex had intended to use it the minute he entered the room. Instead, he absentmindedly had opened the doors to his small balcony and gazed for a brief time at the dark, majestic rise of the Blue Mountains beyond in the clear Kingston night.

  Alison Booth stared at the scanner and then at McAuliff. Both anger and fear were in her eyes, but she had the presence of mind to say nothing.

  As he had been taught, Alex switched on the instrument and made half circles laterally and vertically, starting from the far corner of the room. This pattern was to be followed in the other three corners. He felt embarrassed, almost ludicrous, as he waved his arm slowly, as though administering some occult benediction. He did not care to look at Alison as he went through the motions.

  Then, suddenly, he was not embarrassed at all. Instead, he felt a pain in the center of his upper stomach, a sharp sting as his breath stopped and his eyes riveted on the inch-long, narrow bar in the dial of the scanner. He had seen that bar move often during the practice sessions with Hammond; he had been curious, even fascinated at its wavering, stuttering movements. He was not fascinated now. He was afraid.

  This was not a training session in an out-of-the-way, safe practice room with Hammond patiently, thoroughly, explaining the importance of overlapping areas. It was actually happening; he had not really thought that it would happen. It all had been … well, basically insincere, somehow so improbable.

  Yet now, in front of him, the thin, inch-long bar was vibrating, oscillating with, a miniature violence of its own. The tiny sensors were responding to an intruder.

  Somewhere within the immediate area of his position was a foreign object whose function was to transmit everything being said in this room.

  He motioned to Alison; she approached him warily. He gestured and realized that his gestures were those of an unimaginative charade contestant. He pointed to the scanner and then to his lips. When she spoke he felt like a goddamned idiot.

  “You promised me a drink in that lovely garden downstairs. Other considerations will have to wait … luv.” She said the words quietly, simply. She was very believable.

  “You’re right,” he answered, deciding instantly that he was no actor. “Just let me wash up.”

  He walked swiftly into the bathroom and turned the faucets on in the basin. He pulled the door to within several inches of closing; the sound of the rushing water was discernible, not obvious. He returned to where he had been standing and continued to operate the scanner, reducing the semicircles as the narrow bar reacted, entering in on the location of the object as he had been taught to do by Hammond.

  The only nonstunning surprise was the fact that the scanner’s tiny red light went on directly above his suitcase, against the wall on a baggage rack.

  The red light indicated that the object was within twelve inches of the instrument.

  He handed Alison the scanner and opened the case cautiously. He separated his clothes, removing shirts, socks, and underwear, and placing them—throwing them—on the bed. When the suitcase was more empty than full, he stretched the elasticized liner and ran his fingers against the leather wall.

  McAuliff knew what to feel for; Hammond had showed him dozens of bugs of varying sizes and shapes.

  He found it.

  It was attached to the outer lining: a small bulge the size of a leather-covered button. He let it stay and, as Hammond had instructed, continued to examine the remainder of the suitcase for a second, backup device.

  It was there, too. On the opposite side.

  He took the scanner from Alison, walked away from the area, and rapidly “half circled” the rest of the room. As Hammond had told him to expect, there was no further movement on the scanner’s dial. For if a transmitter was planted on a movable host, it usually indicated that it was the only source available.

  The rest of the room was clean. “Sterile” was the word Hammond had used.

  McAuliff went into the bathroom; it, too, was safe. He turned off the faucets and called out to Alison.

  “Are you unpacked?” Now why the hell did he say that? Of all the stupid …

  “I’m an old hand at geo trips,” came the relaxed reply. “All my garments are synthetic; they can wait. I really want to see that lovely garden. Do hurry.”

  He pulled the door open and saw that she was closing the balcony door, drawing the curtains across the floor-to-ceiling glass. Alison Booth was doing the right thing, he reflected. Hammond had often repeated the command: When you find a transmitter, check outside sight lines; assume visual surveillance.
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br />   He came out of the bathroom; she looked across at him.… No, he thought, she did not look at him, she stared at him.

  “Good,” she said. “You’re ready. I think you missed most of your beard, but you’re presentable. Let’s go … luv.”

  Outside the room, in the hotel corridor, Alison took his arm, and they walked to the elevator. Several times he began to speak, but each time he did so, she interrupted him.

  “Wait till we’re downstairs,” she kept repeating softly.

  In the patio garden, it was Alison who, after they had been seated, requested another table. One on the opposite side of the open area; a table, Alex realized, that had no palms or plants in its vicinity. There were no more than a dozen other couples, no single men or unescorted women. McAuliff had the feeling that Alison had observed each couple closely.

  Their drinks arrived; the waiter departed, and Alison Booth spoke.

  “I think it’s time we talked to each other … about things we haven’t talked about.”

  Alex offered her a cigarette. She declined, and so he lighted one for himself. He was buying a few seconds of time before answering, and both of them knew it.

  “I’m sorry you saw what you did upstairs. I don’t want you to give it undue importance.”

  “That would be funny, darling, except that you were halfway to hysterics.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “What?”

  “You said ‘darling.’ ”

  “Please. May we stay professional?”

  “Good Lord! Are you? Professional, I mean?”

  “I’m a geologist. What are you?”

  McAuliff ignored her. “You said I was … excited upstairs. You were right. But it struck me that you weren’t. You did all the correct things while I was fumbling.”

  “I agree. You were rumbling.… Alex, were you told to hire me?”

  “No. I was told to think twice or three times before accepting you.”

  “That could have been a ploy. I wanted the job badly; I would have gone to bed with you to get it. Thank you for not expecting that.”