Montego Bay. The drivers horned like giant pigeons back to appointed
street corners, where they lined up in European fashion, as much to
discuss the progress of the day with their peers as to find additional
fares. It was a maddening practice; during these moments it was a
frightening one for the two fugitives. Neither knew where the cab
locations were, except the obvious-the hotel entranceand that was out.
They rounded the corner of the building, emerging on a free-port strip.
The sidewalks were steaming hot; the crowds of gaudy, perspiring
shoppers were pushing, hauling, tugging, pressing faces against the
window fronts, foreheads and fingers smudging the glass, envying the
unenviable … the shiny. Cars were immobilized in the narrow street,
the honking of horns, interspersed with oaths and threats as Jamaican
tried to out-chauffeur Jamaican for the extra tip … and his manhood.
Alexander saw him first, under a green-and-white sign that read MIRANDA
HILL with an arrow pointing south. He was a heavyset, dark-haired white
man in a brown gabardine suit, the jacket buttoned, the cloth stretched
across muscular shoulders. The man’s eyes were scanning the streams of
human traffic, his head darting about like that of a huge pink ferret.
And clasped in his left hand, buried in the flesh of his immense left
hand, was a walkie-talkie identical to the one Hammond had taken out of
the Mercedes.
Alex knew it would be only seconds before the man spotted them. He
grabbed Hammond’s arm and wished to God both of them were shorter than
they were.
“At the corner! Under the sign … Miranda Hill. The brown suit.”
,,Yes. I see.” They were by a low-hanging awning of a free-port liquor
store. Hammond swung into the entrance, begging his pardon through the
swarm of tourists, their Barbados shirts and Virgin Island palm hats
proof of yet another cruise ship. McAuliff followed involuntarily; the
Britisher had locked Alex’s arm in a viselike grip, propelling the
American in a semicircle, forcing him into the crowded doorway.
The agent positioned the two of them inside the store, at the far corner
of the display window. The line of sight was direct; the man under the
green-and-white sign could be seen clearly, his eyes still searching the
crowds. “It’s the same radio,” said Alex.
“If we’re lucky he’ll use it. I’m’ sure they’ve set up relays. I know
that’s him. He’s Unio Corso.”
“That’s like a Mafia, isn’t it?”
“Not unlike. And far more efficient. He’s a Corsican gun.
Very high-priced. Warfield would pay it.” Hammond clipped his phrases
in a quiet monotone; he was considering strategies. “He may be our way
out.”
“You’ll have to be clearer than that,” said Alex.
“Yes, of course.” The Englishman was very imperiously polite. And
maddening. “By now they’ve circled the area, I should think. Covering
all streets. Within minutes they’ll know we’ve left the hotel. The
signal won’t fool them for long.” Hammond lifted the transistor radio as
unobtrusively as possible to the side of his head and snapped the
circular switch. There was a brief burst of static; the agent reduced
the volume. Several nearby tourists looked curiously; Alexander smiled
foolish at them. Outside on the corner, underneath the sign, the
Corsican suddenly brought his radio to his ear. Hammond looked at
McAuliff. “They’ve just reached your room.”
“How do you know?”
“They report a cigarette still burning in the ashtray. Nasty habit.
Radio on … I should have thought of that.” The Englishman pursed his
lips abruptly; his eyes indicated recognition. “An outside vehicle is
circling. The … W.I.S.
claims the signal is still inside.”
“W.I.S.7 Hammond replied painfully. “West Indian Specialist.
One of my men.”
“Past tense,” corrected Alex.
“They can’t raise the Mercedes,” said Hammond quickly.
“That’s it.” He swiftly shut off the radio, jammed it into his pocket,
and looked outside. The Corsican could be seen listening intently to
his instrument. Hammond spoke again.
“We’ll have to be very quick. Listen and commit. When our Italian
finishes his report, he’ll put the radio to his side. At that instant
we’ll break through at him. Get your hands on that radio. Hold it no
matter what.”
“Just like that?” asked McAuliff apprehensively. “Suppose he pulls a
gun?”
“I’ll be beside you. He won’t have time.”
And the Corsican did not.
As Hammond predicted, the man under the sign spoke into the radio. The
agent and – Alex were beneath the low awning on the street, concealed by
the crowds. The second the Corsican’s arm began to descend from the
side of his head, Hammond jabbed McAuliff’s ribs. The two men broke
through the flow of people toward the professional killer.
Alexander reached him first; the man started. His right hand went for
his belt, his left automatically raised the radio. McAuliff grabbed the
Corsican’s wrist and threw his shoulder into the man’s chest, slamming
him against the pole supporting the sign.
Then the Coriscan’s whole face contorted spastically; a barking,
horrible sound emerged from his twisted mouth.
And McAuliff felt a burst of warm blood exploding below. -4 P He looked
down. Hammond’s hand held a long switchblade. The agent had ripped the
Corsican’s stomach open from pelvis to rib cage, severing the belt,
cutting the cloth of the brown gabardine suit.
“Get the radio!” commanded the agent. “Run south on the east side of
the street. I’ll meet you at the next corner.
Quickly now!”
Alex’s shock was so profound that he obeyed without thought. He grabbed
the radio from the dead hand and plunged into the crowds crossing the
intersection. Only when he was halfway across did he realize what
Hammond was doing: he was holding up the dead Coriscan against the pole.
He was giving him time to get away!
Suddenly he heard the first screams behind him. Then a mounting
crescendo of screams and shrieks and bellowing roars of horror. And
within the pandemonium, there was the piercing shrill of a whistle …
then more whistles, then the thunder of bodies running in the
steaming-hot street.
McAuliff raced … was he running south? Was he on the east side? He
could not think. He could only feel the panic.
And the blood. The blood! The goddamn blood was all over him! People
had to see that!
He passed an outdoor restaurant, a sidewalk cafe. The diners were all
rising from their seats, looking north toward the panicked crowds and
the screams and the whistles …
and now the sirens. There was an empty table by a row of planter boxes.
On the table was the traditional red-checked tablecloth beneath a sugar
bowl and shakers of salt and pepper.
He reached over the flowers and yanked the cloth, sending the condiments
crashing to the cement deck, one or all smashing to pieces; he did not,
could not, tell. His only thought was to cover the goddamn blood, now
saturated through his shirt and trousers.
The corner was thirty feet away. What the hell was he supposed to do?
Suppose Hammond had not gotten away?
Was he supposed to stand there with the goddamn tablecloth over his
front looking like an imbecile while the streets were in chaos?
“Quickly now! ” came the words. McAuliff turned, grateful beyond his
imagination. Hamond was directly behind him, and Alex could not but
help in notice his hands. They were deep red and shining; the explosion
of Corsican blood had left its mark.
The intersecting street was wider; the sign read QUEEN’S DRIVE. It
curved upward toward the west, and Alex thought he recognized the
section. On the diagonal corner an automobile pulled to a stop; the
driver peered out the window, looking north at the racing people and the
sounds of a riot.
Alex had to raise his voice to be heard. “Over there!” he said to
Hammond. “That car!”
The Englishman nodded in agreement.
They dashed across the street. McAuliff by now had his wallet out of
his pocket, removing bills. He approached the driver-a middle-aged
black Jamaican-and spoke rapidly.
“We need a ride. I’ll pay you whatever you want!”
But the Jamaican just stared at Alexander, his eyes betraying his sudden
fear. And then McAuliff saw: The tablecloth was under his ann-how did
it get under his arm?-and the huge stain of dark red blood was
everywhere.
The driver reached for the gearshift; Alex thrust his right hand through
the window and grabbed the man’s shoulder, pulling his arm away from the
dashboard. He threw his wallet to Hammond, unlatched the door, and
yanked the man out of the seat. The Jamaican yelled and screamed for
help. McAuliff took the bills in his hand and dropped them on the curb
as he pummeled the driver across the sidewalk.
A dozen pedestrians looked on, and most ran, preferring noninvolvement;
others watched, fascinated by what they saw. Two white teenagers ran
toward the money and bent down to pick it up.
McAuliff did not know why, but that bothered him. He took the necessary