cigarette.
From the nonexistent wind? From betraying his position?
From enemy snipers?
No. He was not a soldier, had never been one really. He had performed
because it was the only way to survive. He had no motive, other than
survival; no war was his or ever would be his. Certainly not Hammond’s.
“Here we are, Mr. McAuliff,” said the black man who called himself
Tallon. “Rather deserted place, isn’t it?”
The car had entered a road by a field-a field, but not grass covered. It
was a leveled expanse of ground, perhaps five acres, that looked as
though it was being primed for construction. Beyond the field was a
riverbank; Alex presumed it was the Thames, it had to be. In the
distance were large square structures that looked like warehouses.
Warehouses along a riverbank. He had no idea where they were.
The driver made a sharp left turn, and the automobile bounced as it
rolled over a primitive car path on the rough ground. Through the
windshield, McAuliff saw in the glare of the headlamps two vehicles
about a hundred yards away, both sedans. The one on the right had its
inside lights on.
Within seconds, the driver had pulled up parallel with the second car.
McAuliff got out and followed “Tallon” to the lighted automobile. What
he saw’ bewildered him, angered him, perhaps, and unquestionably
reaffirmed his decision to remove himself from Hammond’s war.
The British agent was sitting stiffly in the rear seat, his shirt and
overcoat draped over his shoulders, an open expanse of flesh at his
midsection revealing wide, white bandages. His eyes were squinting
slightly, betraying the fact that the pain was not negligible. Alex
knew the reason; he had seen the sight before–centuries ago–usually
after a bayonet encounter.
Hammond had been stabbed.
“I had you brought here for two reasons, McAuliff. And I warrant you,
it was a gamble,” said the agent as Alex stood by the open door. “Leave
us alone, please,” he added to the black man.
“Shouldn’t you be in a hospital?”
“No, it’s not a severe penetration.”
“You got cut, Hammond,” interrupted McAuliff. “That’s severe enough.”
l, You’re melodramatic; it’s unimportant. You’ll notice, I trust, that
I am very much alive.”
:’You’re lucky.”
“Luck, sir, had nothing whatsoever to do with it! That’s part of what I
want you to understand.”
“All right, You’re Captain Marvel, indestructible nemesis of the evil
people.”
“I am a fifty-year-old veteran of Her Majesty’s Service who was never
very good at football … soccer, to you.”
Hammond winced and leaned forward. “And it’s quite possible I would not
be in these extremely tight bandages had you followed my instructions
and not made a scene on the dance floor.”
“What?”
“But you provoke me into straying. First things first. The instant it
-was apparent that I was in danger, that danger was removed. At no
time, at no moment, was my life in jeopardy.”
“Because you say so? With a ten-inch bandage straddling your stomach?
Don’t try to sell water in the Sahara.”
“This wound was delivered in panic caused by you! I was in the process
of making the most vital contact on our schedule, the contact we sought
you out to make.”
“Halidon?”
“It’s what we believed. Unfortunately, there’s no way to verify. Come
with me.” Hammond gripped the side strap, and with his right hand
supporting himself on the front seat as he climbed painfully out of the
car. Alex made a minor gesture of assistance, knowing that it would be
refused. The agent led McAuliff to the forward automobile, awkwardly
removing a flashlight from his draped overcoat as they approached. There
were several men in shadows; they stepped away, obviously under orders.
Inside the car were two lifeless figures: one sprawled over the wheel,
the other slumped across the rear seat. Hammond shot the beam of light
successively on both corpses.
Each was male, black, in his mid-thirties, perhaps, and dressed in
conservative, though not expensive, business suits. McAuliff was
confused: there were no signs of violence, no shattered glass, no blood.
The interior of the car was neat, clean, even peaceful. The two dead
men might have been a pair of young executives taking a brief rest off
the highway in the middle of a long business trip. Alex’s bewilderment
ended with Hammond’s next word.
“Cyanide.”
“Why?”
“Fanatics, obviously. It was preferable to revealing information …
unwillingly, of course. They misread us. It began when you made such
an obvious attempt to follow me out of The Owl of Saint George. That
was their first panic; when they inflicted … this.” Hammond waved his
hand just once at his midsection.
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–2′
“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, MI-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 al I
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 enviromnent. 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-MI-5 and its counterpart overseas, M-1-6, 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,
MI-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 “Edinburgh7-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.