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
Holbom, 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 entrance way 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.”
Robert Hanley was flying back to Port Antonio in an hour. He and
McAuliff agreed not to mention Sam RTucker 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.”