He had nearly succeeded when one of the black mennow 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 MI-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–2′ “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.”
KINGSTON
The red-orange sun burned a hole in the streaked blue tapestry that was
the evening sky. Arcs of yellow Trimmed 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 was 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 gras, duck A Forange, 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 McAuliffs arm after the second drink. It had been a
signal to return to their seats; she had had enough. So had he.
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” cliches, 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 disassociationas 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