to the floor. Light was coming through the drawn curtains; he was
conscious of it in spite of the terrible pain in his eyes and through
his head, from temple to temple. Pain that caused flashes of darkness
to envelop his inner eye. He looked at his watch as he shaded his face
from the dim spill of the lamp. It was 6:15.
Oh, Christ! His head hurt so, tears welled in the far corners of his
eyes. Shafts of pain-sharp, immobilizing-shot down into his neck and
seemed to constrict his shoulders, even his arms. His stomach was in a
state of tense, muscular suspension; if he thought about it, he knew he
would be sick and vomit.
There was no pretense regarding the amount of alcohol he had consumed
last night. McAuliff could not accuse him of play-acting now. He had
gotten drunk. Very drunk. And with damn good reason.
He had been elated.
Arthur Craft had telephoned him in panic. In panic!
Craft the Younger had been caught. McAuliff had found the room where
the taping was being done and beaten someone up, physically beaten him
up! Craft had yelled over the telephone, demanding where McAuliff had
gotten his name.
Not from him! Certainly not from Jimbo-mon. He had said nothing.
Craft had roared, swearing at the “goddamned nigger on the tape
machine,” convinced the “black fucker” had confessed to McAuliff, adding
that the bastard would never get near a courtroom. “If it came to
that.”
If it came to that.
“You never saw me,” Craft the Younger had screamed.
“We never talked! We didn’t meet! You get that absolutely clear, you
shaky son of a bitch!”
“Of course … of course, Mr. Craft,” he had replied. “But then, sir
… we did talk, didn’t we? This doesn’t have to change anything.”
He had been petrified, but he had said the words. Quietly, with no
great emphasis. But his message had been clear.
Arthur Craft Junior was in an awkward position. Craft the Younger
should not be yelling; he should be polite. Perhaps even solicitous.
After all, they had talked….
Craft understood. The understanding was first indicated by his silence,
then confirmed by his next statement.
“We’ll be in touch.”
It had been so simple. And if Craft the Younger wanted it different,
wanted things as they were not, Craft controlled an enormously wealthy
foundation. Certainly he could find something for a very, very talented
botanist.
When he hung up the telephone last night, James had felt a wave of calm
come over him. The sort of quiet confidence in a laboratory, where his
eye and mind were very sure indeed.
He would have to be cautious, but he could do it.
He had gotten drunk when he realized that.
And now his head and stomach were in pain. But he could stand them;
they were beara e now. Things were going to be different.
He looked at his watch. His goddamn Timex. It was 6:25.
A cheap watch but accurate.
Instead of a Timex there might be a Breitling chronometer in his future.
And new, very expensive camera equipment. And a real bank balance.
And a new life.
If he was cautious.
The telephone rang on Peter Jensen’s side of the bed, but his wife heard
it first.
“Peter … Peter! For heaven’s sake, the phone.”‘ ” What? What, old
girl?” Peter Jensen blinked his eyes; the room was dark, but there was
daylight beyond the drawn curtains.
The telephone rang again. Short bursts of bell; the kind of rapid
blasts hotel switchboards practice. Nimble fingers, irritated guests.
Peter Jensen reached over and switched on the light. The traveling
clock read ten minutes to eight. Again the shrill bell, now steady.
“Damn!” sputtered Peter as he realized the instrument was beyond the
lamp, requiring him to reach farther. “Yes, yes? Hello?”
“Mr. Peter Jensen, please?” said the unfamiliar male voice.
:’Yes. What is it? This is Jensen.”
“Cable International, Mr. Jensen. A wire arrived for you several
minutes ago. From London. Shall I read it? It’s marked urgent, sir.”
“No!” replied Peter quickly, firmly. “No, don’t do that.
“I’ve been expecting it; it’s rather long, I should think.”
“Yes, sir, it is.”
” Just send it over right away, if you please. Can you do that?
Courtleigh Manor. Room four-oh-one. It won’t be necessary to stop at
the desk.”
“I understand, Mr. Jensen. Right away. There’ll be a charge for an
unscheduled—-@’ “Of course, of course,” interrupted Peter. “Just send
it over, please.”
“Yes, sir.”
Twenty-five minutes later, the messenger from Cable International
arrived. Moments before, room service had wheeled in a breakfast of
melon, tea, and scones. Peter Jensen opened the two-page cablegram and
spread it over the linen cloth on his side of the table. There was a
pencil in his hand.
Across from him, Ruth held up a page of paper, scanning it over the rim
of her cup. She, too, had a pencil, at the side of the saucer.
“The company name is Parkhurst,” said Peter.
“Check,” said Ruth, putting down her tea. She placed the paper
alongside, picked up the pencil, and made a mark on the page.
“The address is Sheffield by the Glen.” Peter looked over at her.
“Go ahead,” replied Ruth, making a second notation.
“The equipment to be inspected is microscopes.”
“Very well.” Ruth made a third mark on the left of the page, went back
to her previous notes, and then darted her eyes to the bottom right.
“Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
Ruth Wells Jensen, paleontologist, proceeded to recite a series of
numbers. Her husband started at the top of the body of the cablegram
and began circling words with his pencil. Several times he asked his
wife to repeat a number.
As she did so, he counted from the previous circle and circled another
word.
Three minutes later, they had finished the exercise. Peter Jensen
swallowed some tea and reread the cablegram to himself. His wife spread
jam on two scones and covered the teapot with the cozy.
“Warfield is flying over next week. He agrees. McAuliff has been
reached.”
THE NORTH COAST
Hammond’s words kept coming back to McAuliff. You’ll find it quite
acceptable to operate on different H levels. Actually, it evolves
rather naturally, even instinctively. You’ll discover that you tend to
separate your concentrations.
The British Intelligence agent had been right. The survey was in its
ninth day, and Alex found that for hours at a time he had no other
thoughts but the immediate work at hand.
The equipment had been trucked from Boscobel Airfield straight through
to Puerto Seco, on Discovery Bay. Alex, Sam Tucker, and Alison Booth
flew into Ocho Rios ahead of the others and allowed themselves three
days of luxury at the Sans Souci while McAuliff ostensibly hired a
crewtwo of the five of which had been agreed upon in an isolated
farmhouse high in the hills of the Blue Mountains. Alex found-as he’d
expected-that Sam and Alison got along extremely well. Neither was
difficult to like; each possessed an easy humor, both were
professionals. And there was no reason to conceal from Sam the fact
that they were lovers.
As Tucker phrased it: “I’d be shocked if you weren’t, Alexander.”
Sam’s approval was important to McAuliff. For at no time was Alison to
be left alone when he was away. Under no circumstances. Ever.
Sam Tucker was the ideal protective escort. Far superior to himself,
Alex realized. Tuck was the most resourceful man he had ever known, and
just about the hardest. He had within him an aggressiveness that when
called upon was savage. He was not a man to have as an enemy. In his
care, Alison was as safe as a human being could be.
The fourth day had been the first day of the survey work.
The team was housed halfway between Puerto Seco and Rio Bueno Harbour,
in a pleasant beach motel called Bengal Court. Work began shortly after
six in the morning. The initial objective of the survey was to plot the
coastline definitively. Alex and Sam Tucker operated the equipment.
Azimuths were shot along the shoreline, recorded by transit cameras. The
angular-degree demarcations were correlated with the coastal charts
provided by the Jamaican Institute.
By and large, these charts were sectional and imperfect, acceptable for
the details of road maps and small-craft navigation, but inadequate for
geophysical purposes. To set up accurate perimeters, McAuliff employed
sonic geodometers which bounced sound waves back and forth between
instruments, giving what amounted to perfect bearings. Each contour,
each elevation was recorded on both sonic graphs and transit cameras.
These chores were dull, laborious, and sweat-provoking under the hot
sun. The single relief was the constant presence of Alison, as much as
she herself objected to it. Alex was adamant, however. He instructed
Barak Moore’s two men to stay within a hundred feet of her at all times,
and then commanded Alison not to stroll out of his sight.