explosion that ripped the entire enclosure out of its foundation,
instantly killing Dellacroce and causing considerable damage to the rest
of the house. Dellacroce was rumored to be …
Noon. London time.
Phoenix, Arizona. At approximately 5:15 in the morning, one Harrison
Renfield, international financier and realestate magnate with extensive
Caribbean holdings, collapsed in his private quarters at the Thunderbird
Club after a late party with associates. He had ordered a predawn
breakfast; poison was suspected, as a Thunderbird waiter was found
unconscious down the hall from Renfield’s suite. An autopsy was
ordered…. Five o’clock, Mountain time.
Twelve, noon. London.
Los Angeles, California. At precisely 4: 00 A.M. the junior senator
from Nevada-recently implicated (but not indicted) in a Las Vegas tax
fraud-stepped off a launch onto a pier in Marina del Ray. The launch
was filled with guests returning from the yacht of a motion-picture
producer. Somewhere between the launch and the base of the pier, the
junior senator from Nevada had his stomach ripped open with a blade so
long and a cut so deep that the cartilage of his backbone protruded
through spinal lacerations. He fell among the revelers, carried along
by the boisterous crowd until the eruptions of the warm fluid that
covered so many was recognized for the blood that it was. Panic
resulted, the terror alcoholic but profound. Four in the morning.
Pacific time.
Twelve noon. London.
McAuliff looked over at the silent, stunned Hammond.
“The last death reported was four in the morning …
twelve o’clock in London. In each country four died, with four
corresponding-identical-methods of killing … The Arawak units of
four-the death odyssey … that’s what they call it.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Deal with the Halidon, Hammond. You have no choice; this is their
proof. They said it was only the tip.”
“The tip?”
“The tip of the Dunstone iceberg.”
“Impossible demands!” roared R. C. Hammond, the capillaries in his
face swollen, forming splotches of red anger over his skin. “We will
not be dictated to by goddamn niggers!”
“Then you won’t get the list.”
“We’ll force it out of them. This is no time for treaties with
savages!”
Alexander thought of Daniel, of Malcolm, of the incredible lakeside
community, of the grave of Acquaba, the vaults of Acquaba. Things he
could not, would not, talk about. He did not have to, he considered.
“You think what’s happened the work of savages? Not the killings, I
won’t defend that. But the methods, the victims … Don’t kid
yourself”
“I don’t give a damn for your opinions.” Hammond walked rapidly to the
telephone on the bedside table. Alex remained in a chair by the
television set. It was the sixth time Hammond had tried to place his
call. The Britisher had only one telephone number he could use in
Kingston; embassy telephones were off-limits for clandestine operations.
Each time he had managed to get a line through to Kingston-not the
easiest feat in Montego–the number was busy.
“Damn! Goddammit! ” exploded the agent.
“Call the embassy before you have a coronary,” said McAuliff. “Deal
with them.”
“Don’t be an ass,” replied Hammond. “They don’t know who I am. We
don’t use embassy personnel.”
“Talk to the ambassador.”
“What in God’s name for? What am I supposed to say?
“Pardon me, Mr. Ambassador, but my name’s so-and-so. I happen to be
The bloody explanation-if he” d listen to it without cutting me
off-would take the better part of an hour. And then the damn fool would
start sending cables to Downing Street!” Hammond marched back to the
window.
:’What are you going to do?”
“They’ve isolated me, you understand that, don’t you?”
Hammond remained at the window, his back to McAuliff.
“I think so.”
“The purpose is to cut me off, force me to absorb the full impact of the
… past three hours. . . .” The Britisher’s voice trailed off in
thought.
McAuliff wondered. “That presupposes they know the Kingston telephone,
that they shorted it out somehow.”
“I don’t think so,” said Hammond, his eyes still focused on the waters
of the bay. “By now Kingston knows I’ve been taken. Our men are no
doubt activating every contact on the island, trying to get a bearing on
my whereabouts.
The telephone would be in constant use.”
“You’re not a prisoner; the door’s not locked.” Alex suddenly wondered
if he was correct. He got out of the chair, crossed to the door, and
opened it.
Down the corridor were two Jamaicans by the bank of the elevators. They
looked at McAuliff, and although he did not know them, he recognized the
piercing, controlled calm of their expressions. He had seen such eyes,
such expressions high in the Flagstaff Mountains. They were members of
the Halidon.
Alex closed the door and turned to Hammond, but before he could say
anything, the Britisher spoke, his back still to Alex.
:’Does that answer you?” he asked quietly.
“There are two men in the corridor,” said McAuliff pointlessly. “You
knew that.”
“I didn’t know it, I merely assumed it. There are fundamental rules.”
:’And you still think they’re savages?”
“Everything’s relative.” Hammond turned from the window and faced Alex.
“You’re the conduit now. I’m sure they’ve told you that.”
“If ‘conduit’ means I take back your answer, then yes.”
“Merely the answer? They’ve asked for no substantive guarantees?” The
Englishman seemed-bewildered.
“I think that comes in Phase Two. This is a step contract, I gather. I
don’t think they’ll take the word of Her Majesty’s obedient servant. He
uses the term ‘nigger’ too easily.”
“You’re an ass,” said Hammond.
“You’re an autocratic cipher,” replied McAuliff, with equal disdain.
“They’ve got you, agent-mon. They’ve also got the Dunstone list. You
play in their sandbox … with their ‘fundamental rules.”
” Hammond hesitated, repressing his irritation. “Perhaps not. There’s
an avenue we haven’t explored. They’ll take you back…. I should like
to be taken with you.”
“They won’t accept that.”
“They may not have a choice-”
“Get one thing straight,” interrupted Alex. “There’s a survey team in
the Cock Pit-white and black-and no one’s going to jeopardize a single
life.”
“You forget,” said Hammond softly-aloofly. “We know the location within
a thousand yards.”
“You’re no match for those guarding it. Don’t think you are. One
misstep, one deviation, and there are mass executions.”
“Yes,” said the Britisher. “I believe just such a massacre took place
previously. The executioners being those whose methods and selections
you admire so.”
“The circumstances were different. You don’t know the truth-”
“Oh, come off it, McAuliffl I shall do my best to protect the lives of
your team, but I’m forced to be honest with you.
They are no more the first priority for me than they are for the
Halidon! There are more important considerations.” The En lishman
stopped briefly, for emphasis. “And I can assure you, our resources are
considerably more than those of a sect of fanatic … coloreds.@ I’d
advise you not to change your allegiances at this late hour.”
The announcer on the television screen had been droning, reading from
pages of script handed to him by others in the studio. Alex couldn’t be
sure-he had not been listening but he thought he had heard the name,
spoken differently …
as if associated with new or different information. He looked down at
the set, holding up his hand for Hammond to be quiet.
He had heard the name.
And as the first announcement three hours ago had been the prelude-a
single instrument marking a thematic commencement-McAuliff recognized
this as the coda. The terror had been orchestrated to a conclusion.
The announcer looked earnestly into the camera, then back to the papers
in his hand.
“To repeat the bulletin. Savanna-la-Mar. Shooting broke out at the
private Negril airfield. A band of identified men ambushed a party of
Europeans as they were boarding a small plane for Weston Favel.
“The French industrialist Henri Salanne, the Marquis de Chatellerault,
was killed along with three men said to be in his employ. No motive is
known. The marquis was the house guest of the Wakefield family. The
pilot, a Wakefield employee, reported that his final instructions from
the marquis were to fly south of Weston Favel at low altitude toward the
interior grasslands. The parish police are questioning. . .”
Alex walked over to the set and switched it off. He turned to Hammond;
there was very little to say, and he wondered if the Intelligence man
would understand.
“That was a priority you forgot about, wasn’t it, Hammond? Alison
Booth. Your filthy link to Chatellerault. The expendable Mrs. Booth,
the bait from Interpol…. Well, you’re here, agent-mon, and
Chatellerault is dead. You’re in a hotel room in Montego Bay. Not in
the Cock Pit. Don’t talk to me about resources, you son of a bitch.
You’ve only got one. And it’s me.”
The telephone rang. McAuliff reached it first.
“Yes?”
“Don’t interrupt me; there is no time,” came the agitated words from