for me to ask you to have dinner with me.”
“I think that would depend on the degree of relevance you ascribed to my
acceptance.” Alison’s voice was polite, but not cold. And there was
that lovely humor in her eyes.
“In all honesty, I do make it a point to have dinner or a long lunch,
even a fair amount of drinks, with those I’m thinking about hiring. But
right now, I’m reluctant to admit it.”
“That’s a very disarming reply, Dr. McAuliff,” she said, her lips
parted, laughing her half laugh. “I’d be delighted to “I’ll do my
damnedest not to be solicitous. I don’t think having dinner with you.”
is necessary at all.”
“And I’m sure you’re never boring.”
“Not relevantly.”
McAuliff stood on the corner of High Holbom and Chancery and looked at
his watch. The numbers M glowed in the mist-laden London darkness; it
was 11:40. Preston’s Rolls-Royce was ten minutes late. Or perhaps it
would not appear at all. His instructions were that if the car did not
arrive by midnight, he was to return to the Savoy. Another meeting
would be scheduled.
There were times when he had to remind himself whose furtive commands he
was following, wondering whether he in turn was being followed. It was
a degrading way to live, he reflected: the constant awareness that
locked a man into a pocket of fear. All the fiction about the shadow
world of conspiracy omitted the fundamental indignity intrinsic to that
world. There was no essential independence; it was strangling.
This particular evening’s rendezvous with Warfield had necessitated a
near-panic call to Hammond, for the British agent had scheduled a
meeting himself, for one in the morning. That is, McAuliff had
requested it, and Hammond had set the time and the place. And at 10:20
that night the call had come from Dunstone: Be at High Holborn and
Chancery at II: 3 0, an hour and ten minutes from then.
Hammond could not, at first, be found. His highly secret, private
telephone at MI-5 simply did not answer. Alex had been given no other
number, and Hammond had told him repeatedly never to call the office and
leave his name. Nor was he ever to place a call to the agent from his
rooms at the Savoy. Hammond did not trust the switchboards at either
establishment. Nor the open frequencies of cellular phones.
So Alex had to go out onto the Strand, into succeeding pubs and
chemists’ shops to public telephones until Hammond’s line answered. He
was sure he was being observed-by someone-and thus he had to pretend
annoyance each time he hung up after an unanswered call. He found that
he had built the fabric of a lie, should Warfield question him. His lie
was that he was trying to reach Alison Booth and cancel a lunch date
they had for the following day. They did have a lunch date, which he
had no intention of canceling, but the story possessed sufficient truth
to be valid.
Build on part of the truth. Attitude and reaction. MI-5.
Finally, Hammond’s telephone was answered, by a man who stated casually
that he had gone out for a late supper.
A late supper! Good God! … Global cartels, international collusion
in the highest places, financial conspiracies, and a late supper.
In reasoned tones, as opposed to McAuliff’s anxiety, the man told him
that Hammond would be alerted. Alek was not satisfied; he insisted that
Hammond be at his telephone-if he had to wait all night-until he, Alex,
made contact after the Warfield appointment.
It was 11:45. Still no St. James Rolls-Royce. He looked around at the
few pedestrians on High Holbom, walking through the heavy mist. He
wondered which, if any, was concerned with him.
The pocket of fear.
He wondered, too, about Alison. They had had dinner for the third night
in succession; she had claimed she had a lecture to prepare, and so the
evening was cut short. Considering the complications that followed, it
was a good thing.
Alison was a strange girl. The professional who covered her
vulnerability well; who never strayed far from that circle of quiet
humor that protected her. The half laugh, the warm blue eyes, the slow,
graceful movement of her hands … these were her shields, somehow.
There was no problem in selecting her as his first ice …
professionally. She was far and away the best applicant for the team.
Alex considered himself one of the finest rock-strata specialists on
both continents, yet he wasn’t sure he wanted to pit his expertise
against hers.
Alison Gerrard Booth was really good.
And lovely.
And he wanted her in Jamaica.
He had prepared an argument for Warfield, should Dunstone’s goddamn
security computers reject her. The final clearance – of his selections
was the object of the night’s conference.
Where was the goddamned black ship of an automobile?
It was ten minutes to midnight.
“Excuse me, sir,” said a deep, almost guttural voice behind McAuliff.
He turned, and saw a man about his own age, in a brown mackinaw; he
looked like a longshoreman or a construction worker.
:’Yes?”
“It’s in’ first time in London, sir, and I thinks I’m lost.”
The man then pointed up at the street sign, barely visible in the spill
of the lamp through the mist. “This says Chancery Lane, which is
supposed to be near a place called Hatton, which is where I’m supposed
to meet in’ friends. I can’t find it, sir.”
Alex gestured to his left. “It’s up there two or three blocks.”
The man pointed again, as a simpleton might point, in the direction of
McAuliff s gesture. “Up there, sir?”
“That’s right.”
The man shook his arm several times, as if emphasizing”You’re sure,
sir?” And then the man lowered his voice and spoke rapidly. “Please
don’t react, Mr. McAuliff. Continue as though you are explaining. Mr.
Hammond will meet you in Soho; there’s an all-night club called The Owl
of Saint George. He’ll be waiting. Stay at the bar, he’ll reach you.
Don’t worry about the time. He doesn’t want you to make any more
telephone calls. You’re being watched.”
McAuliff swallowed, blanched, and waved his hand-a little too obviously,
he felt-in the direction of Hatton Garden. He, too, spoke quietly,
rapidly, “Jesus! If I’m being watched, so are you!”
“We calculate these things-”
“I don t like your addition! What am I supposed to tell Warfield? To
let me off in Soho?”
“Why not? Say you feel like a night out. You’ve nothing scheduled in
the morning. Americans like Soho; it’s perfectly natural. You’re not a
heavy gambler, but you place a bet now and then.”
“Christ! Would you care to describe my sex life?”
“I could, but I won’t.” The guttural, loud North Country voice returned.
“Thank you, sir. You’re very kind, sir. I’m sure I’ll find in’
friends.”
The man walked swiftly away into the night mist toward Hatton Garden.
McAuliff felt his whole body shiver; his hands trembled. To still them,
he reached into his pocket for cigarettes. He was grateful for the
opportunity to grip the metal of his lighter.
. It was five minutes to twelve. He would wait until several minutes
past and then leave. His instructions were to “return to the Savoy”;
another meeting would be set. Did that mean it was to be scheduled
later that night? In the morning hours? Or did “return to the Savoy”
simply mean that he was no longer required to remain at the corner of
High Holbom and Chancery Lane? He was free for the evening?
The words- were clear, but the alternative interpretation was entirely
feasible. If he chose, he could-with a number of stops-make his way
into Soho, to Hammond. The network of surveillance would establish the
fact that Warfield had not appeared for the appointment. The option was
open.
My God! thought Alex. What’s happening to me? Words and meanings …
options and alternates. Interpretations of… orders!
Who the hell gave him orders!
He was not a man to be commanded!
But when his hand shook as he raised his cigarette to his lips, he knew
that he was-for an indeterminate period of time. Time in a hell he
could not stand; he was not free.
The dual hands on his wristwatch converged. It was midnight. To
goddamn hell with all of them! He would leave!
fie would call Alison and tell her he wanted to come over for a drink
… ask her if she would let him. Hammond could wait all night in
Soho. Where was it? The Owl of Saint George. Silly fucking name!
To hell@with him!
The Rolls-Royce sped out of the fog from the direction of Newgate, its
deep-throated engine racing, a powerful intrusion in the otherwise still
street. It swung alongside the curb in front of McAuliff and stopped
abruptly. The chauffeur got out of his seat, raced around the long hood
of the car, and opened the rear door for Alex.