Malcolm. “Do as I say. I have been spotted.
M. 1. Six … a Jamaican. One I knew in London. We realized they
would fan out; we did not think they would reach Montego so quickly-”
“Stop running,” broke in Alex, looking at Hammond.
“M. 1. Six will cooperate. They have no choice—2′ “You damn fool, I
said listen! There are two men in the corridor. Go out and fell them I
called. Say the word ‘Ashanti.” Have you got that, mon? ‘Ashantee. “‘
Alex had not heard the Anglicized Malcolm use “mon” before. Malcolm was
in a state of panic. “I’ve got it.”
“Tell them I said to get out! Now! The hotels will be watched. You
will all have to move fast—2′ “Goddammit!” interrupted Alex again.
“Now you listen to me. Hammond’s fight here and—-2’ “McAul@f .f ” The
sound of Malcolm’s voice was low, cutting, demanding attention. “British
Intelligence ‘ Caribbean Operations, has a total of fifteen West Indian
specialists.
That is the budget. Of those fifteen, seven have been bought by
Dunstone, Limited.”
The silence was immediate, the implication clear.
“Where are you?”
“In a pay phone outside McNab’s. It is a crowded street; I will do my
best to melt.”
“Be careful in crowded streets. I’ve been listening to the news.”
“Listen well, my friend. That is what this is all about.”
“You said they spotted you. Are they there now?”
“It is difficult to tell. We are dealing with Dunstone now.
Even we do not know everyone on its payroll. But they will not want to
kill me. Any more than I want to be taken alive…. Good luck,
McAuliff. We are doing the right thing.”
With these words, Malcolm hung up the telephone.
Alexander instantly recalled a dark field at night on the outskirts of
London, near the banks of the river Thames.
And the sight of two dead West Indians in a government automobile.
Any more than I want to be taken alive …
Cyanide.
We are doing the right thing. . .
Jnbelievable. Yet very, very real.
McAuliff gently replaced the telephone in its cradle. As he did, he had
the fleeting thought that his gesture was funereal.
This was no time to think of funerals.
“Who was that?” asked Hammond.
“A fanatic who, in my opinion, is worth a dozen men like you. You see,
he doesn’t lie.”
“I’ve had enough of your sanctimonious claptrap, McAuliffl” The
Englishman spat out his words in indignation.
“Your fanatic doesn’t pay two million dollars, either. Nor, I suspect,
does he jeopardize his own interests for your well being, as we have
done constantly. Further-more-”
“He just did,” interrupted Alex as he crossed the room.
“And if I’m a target, so are you.”
McAuliff reached the door, opened it swiftly, and ran out into the
corridor toward the bank of elevators. He stopped.
There was no one there.
There was a race in blinding sunlight, somehow macabre because of the
eye-jolting reflections from the glass and chrome and brightly colored
metals on the Montego street s. And the profusion of people. Crowded,
jostling, I black and white; thin men and fat women-the former with the
goddamned cameras, the latter in foolish-looking rhinestone sunglasses.
Why did he notice these things? Why did they irritate him? There were
fat men, too. Always with angry faces; silently, stoically reacting to
the vacuouslooking thin women at their sides.
And the hostile black eyes staring out from wave after wave of black
skin. Thin, black faces-somehow always thin-on top of bony, black
bodies-angular, beaten, slow.
These then were the blurred, repeating images imprinted on the racing
pages of his mind.
Everything … everyone was instantly categorized in the frantic,
immediate search for an enemy.
The enemy was surely there.
It had been there … minutes ago.
McAuliff had rushed back into the room. There was no time to explain to
the furious Hammond; it was only necessary to make the angry Britisher
obey. Alex did so by asking him if he had a gun, then pulling out his
own, furnished him by Malcolm on the night before.
The sight of McAuliffs weapon caused the agent to accept the moment. He
removed a small, inconspicuous Rycee automatic from a belt holster under
his jacket.
Alexander had grabbed the seersucker coat-this too ished by Malcolm on
the previous night-and thrown it over his arm, concealing his revolver.
ogether the two men had slipped out of the room and run down the
corridor to the staircase beyond the bank of elevators. On the concrete
landing they had found the first of the Halidonites.
He was dead. A thin line of blood formed a perfect circle around his
neck below the swollen skin of his face and the extended tongue of
blank, dead, bulging eyes. He had been garroted swiftly,
professionally.
Hammond had bent down; Alexander was too repelled by the sight to get
closer. The Englishman had summarized.
Professionally.
“They know we’re on this floor. They don’t know which rooms. The other
poor bastard’s probably with them.”
That’s impossible. There wasn’t time. Nobody knew where we were.”
Hammond had stared at the lifeless black man, and when he spoke,
McAuliff recognized the profound shock of the Intelligence’s man’s
anger.
“Oh, God, I’ve been blind!”
In that instant, Alexander, too, understood.
British Intelligence, Caribbean Operations, has a total of fifteen West
Indian specialists. That’s the budget. Of those fifteen, seven have
been bought by Dunstone, Limited The words of Malcolm the Halidonite.
And Hammond the manipulator had just figured it out.
The two men raced down the staircase. When they reached the lobby
floor, the Englishman stopped and did a strange thing. He removed his
belt, slipping the holster off and placing it in his pocket. He then
wound the belt in a tight circle, bent down, and placed it in a corner.
He stood up, looked around, and crossed to a cigarette-butt receptacle
and moved it in front of the belt.
:’It’s a signaling device, isn’t it?” McAuliff had said.
“Yes. Long-range. External scanner reception; works on vertical arcs.
No damn good inside a structure. Too much interference … thank
heaven.”
You wanted to be taken?”
“No, not actually. It was always a possibility, I knew that. . , Any
ideas, chap? At the moment, it’s your show.”
“One, and I don’t know how good it is. An airfield; it’s a farm, I
guess. West, on the highway. Near a place called Drax Hall…. Let’s
go.” Alex reached for the knob on the door to the lobby.
“Not that way,” said Hammond. “They’ll be watching the lobby. The
street, too, I expect. Downstairs. Delivery entrance … maintenance,
that sort of thing. There’s bound to be one in the cellar.”
“Wait a minute.” McAuliff had grabbed the Englishman’s arm, physically
forcing him to respond. “Let’s you and I get something clear. Right
now. You’ve been had. Taken. Your own people sold you out. So there
won’t be any stopping for phone calls, for signaling anyone on the
street. We run but we don’t stop. For anything. You do and you’re on
your own. I disappear and I don’t think you can handle that.”
“Who in hell do you think I’m going to get in touch with?
The Prime Minister?”
“I don’t know. I just know that I don’t trust you. I don’t trust
liars. Or manipulators. And you’re both, Hammond.”
“We all do what we can,” replied the agent coldly, his eyes unwavering.
“You’ve learned quickly, Alexander.
You’re an apt pupil.”
“Reluctantly. I don’t think much of the school.”
And the race in the blinding sunlight had begun.
They ran up the curving driveway of the basement garage, directly into a
tan Mercedes sedan that was not parked at that particular entrance by
coincidence. Hammond and Alexander saw the startled look on the face of
the white driver; then the man reached over across the seat for a
transistor radio.
In the next few seconds Alex witnessed an act of violence he would never
forget as long as he lived. An act performed with cold precision.
R. C. Hammond reached into both of his pockets and took out the Rycee
automatic in his right hand, a steel cylinder in his left. He slapped
the cylinder onto the barrel of the weapon, snapped in a clip, and
walked directly to the door of the tan Mercedes-Benz. He opened it,
held his hand low, and fired two shots into the driver, killing him
instantly.
The shots were spits. The driver fell onto the dashboard; Hammond
reached down and picked up the radio with his left hand.
The sun was bright; the strolling crowds kept moving. If anyone knew an
execution had taken place, none showed it.
The British agent closed the door almost casually.
“My God. . .” It was as far as Alex got.
“It was the last thing he expected,” said Hammond rapidly. “Let’s find
a taxi.”
The statement was easier made than carried out. Cabs did not cruise in