So, too, did Robert Hanley. And the moment Sam Tucker alighted from the
plane, Hanley shook his hand and proceeded to crash his fist into
Tucker’s face. He followed this action by reaching down and picking Sam
up off the ground, greeting him a bit more cordially but explaining in
measured anger that the past several weeks had caused him unnecessary
anxiety, obviously Sam Tucker’s responsibility.
The two very young old reprobates then drank the night through at the
bar of the Trident Villas. The young manager, Timothy Durell,
surrendered at 5:10 in the morning, dismissed the bartender, and turned
the keys over to Hanley and Sam. Durell was not aware that in a very
real sense, the last strategies of Dunstone, Limited, had been created
at Trident that week when strangers had converged from all over the
world. Strangers, and not strangers at all … only disturbing
memories now.
Charles Whitehall left with Lawrence, the revolutionary.
Both black men said their good-byes at the airfield; each had places to
go to, things to do, men to see. There would be no questions, for there
would be no answers. That was understood.
They would separate quickly.
But they had communicated; perhaps that was all that could be expected.
Alison and McAuliff had been taken to the farthest villa on the
shoreline. She had bandaged his hand and washed the cuts on his face
and made him soak for nearly an hour in a good British tub of hot water.
They were in Villa 20.
They had slept in each other’s arms until noon.
It was now a little past one o’clock. They were alone at the table, a
note having been left for Alexander from Sam Tucker. Sam and Robert
Hanley were flying to Montego Bay to see an attorney. They were going
into partnership.
God help the island, thought McAuliff.
At 2:30 Alison touched his arm and nodded toward the alabaster portico
across the lawn. Down the marble steps came two men, one black, one
white, dressed in proper business suits.
R. C. Hammond and Daniel, Minister of Council for the Tribe of
Acquaba, high in the Flagstaff range.
“We’ll be quick,” said Hammond, taking the chair indicated by Alexander.
“Mrs. Booth, I am Commander Hammond.”
“I was sure you were,” said Alison, her voice warm, her smile cold.
“May I present . . . an associate? Mr. Daniel, Jamaican Affairs. I
believe you two have met, McAuliff.”
“Yes.
Daniel nodded pleasantly and sat down. He looked at Alex and spoke
sincerely. “There is much to be thankful for.
I am very relieved.”
“What about Malcolm?”
The sadness flickered briefly across Daniel’s eyes. “I am sorry.”
“So am I,” said McAuliff. “He saved our lives.”
“That was his job,” replied the Minister of the Halidon.
“May I assume,” interrupted Hammond gently, “that Mrs. Booth has been
apprised … up to a point?”
“You certainly may assume that, Commander.” Alison gave that answer
herself “Very well.” The British agent reached into his pocket, withdrew
the yellow paper of a cablegram, and handed it to Alexander. It was a
deposit confirmation from,Barclay’s Bank, London. The sum of $2,000,000
had been deposited to the account of A. T. McAuliff, Chase Manhattan,
New York, Further, a letter of credit had been forwarded to said A. T.
McAuliff that could be drawn against for all taxes upon receipt of the
proper filing papers approved by the United States Treasury Department,
Bureau of Internal Revenue.
Alex read the cable twice and wondered at his own indifference. He gave
it to Alison. She started to read it but did not finish; instead, she
lifted McAuliffs cup and saucer and placed it underneath.
She said nothing.
“Our account is settled, McAuliff.”
“Not quite, Hammond…. In simple words, I never want to hear from you
again. We never want to hear from you.
Because if we do, the longest deposition on record will be made
public—2′ “My dear man,” broke in the Englishman wearily, “let me save
you the time. Gratitude and marked respect would obligate me socially
any time you’re in London. And, I should add, I think you’re basically
a quite decent chap. But I can assure you that professionally we shall
remain at the farthest distance. Her Majesty’s Service has no desire to
involve itself with international irregularities. I might as well be
damned blunt about it.”
“And Mrs. Booth?”
“The same, obviously.” Here Hammond looked directly even painfully, at
Alison. “Added to which it is our belief that she has gone through a
great deal. Most splendidly and with our deepest appreciation. The
terrible past is behind you, my dear. Public commendation is uncalled
for, we realize. But the highest citation will be entered into your
file. Which shall be closed. Permanently.”
“I want to believe that,” said Alison.
“You may, Mrs. Booth.”
“What about Dunstone?” asked McAuliff. “What’s going to happen? When?”
“It has already begun,” replied Hammond. “The list was cabled in the
early hours of the morning.”
“Several hours ago,” said Daniel quietly. “Around noon, London time.”
“In all the financial centers, the work is Proceedings” continued
Hammond. “All the governments are cooperating …
it is to everyone’s benefit.”
McAuliff looked up at Daniel. “What does that do for global mendacity?”
Daniel smiled. “Perhaps a minor lesson has been learned.
We shall know in a few years, will we not?”
“And Piersall? Who killed him?”
Hammond replied. “Real-estate interests along the North Coast, which
stood to gain by the Dunstone purchase. His work was important, not
those who caused his death. They were tragically insignificant.”
“And so it is over,” said Daniel, pushing back his chair, “The Westmore
Tallons will go back to selling fish, the disciples of Barak Moore will
take up the struggle against Charles Whitehall, and the disorderly
process of advancement continues. Shall we go, Commander Hammond?”
“By all means, Mr. Daniel.” Hammond rose from the chair, as did the
Minister of Council for the Tribe of Acquaba.
“What happened to the Jensens?” Alexander looked at Daniel, for it was
the Halidonite who could answer him.
“We allowed him to escape. To leave the Cock Pit. We knew Julian
Warfield was on the island, but we did not know where. We only knew
that Peter Jensen would lead us to him. He did so. In Oracabessa.
Julian Warfield’s life was ended on the balcony of a villa named Peale
Court.”
“What will happen to them? The Jensens.” McAuliff shifted his eyes to
Hammond.
The commander glanced briefly at Daniel. “There is an understanding. A
man and a woman answering the description of the Jensens boarded a
Mediterranean flight this morning at Palisados. We think he is retired.
We shall leave him alone. You see, he shot Julian Warfield … because
Warfield had ordered him to kill someone else. And he could not do
that.”
“It is time, Commander,” said Daniel.
“Yes, of course. There’s a fine woman in London I’ve rather neglected.
She liked you very much that night in Soho, McAuliff. She said you were
attentive.”
“Give her my best.”
“I shall.” The Englishman looked up at the clear sky and the hot sun.
“Retirement in the Mediterranean. Interesting.”
R. C. Hammond allowed himself a brief smile, and replaced the chair
quite properly under the table.
They walked on the green lawn in front of the cottage that was called a
villa and looked out at the sea. A white sheet of ocean spray burst up
from the coral rock and appeared suspended, the pitch-blue waters of the
Caribbean serving as a backdrop, not a source. The spray cascaded
forward and downward and then receded back over the crevices that formed
the coral overlay. It became ocean again, at one with its source;
another form of beauty.
Alison took McAuliff’s hand.
They were free.