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 …
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.”
a She laughed and reached for her pocketbook, on the deck between them.
There was a sudden series of rise-and-fall motions 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 lethallooking
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?
“Exceptions are made. They really are, Alex.” She locked 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. McAuliffs
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 McAuliffs 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 mixup. 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. McAulifff’ 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