The Cry of the Halidon (11 page)

But there was something more; something so appalling that even Hammond found it difficult to recite it.

The two men had been bound by bamboo shoots to separate trees, each next to valuable survey equipment. They had been consumed in the conflagration, for the simple reason that neither could run from it. But the agent had left a message, a single word scratched on the metal casing of a geoscope.

Halidon
.

Inspection under a microscope gave the remainder of the horror story: particles of human tooth enamel. The agent had scratched the letters with broken teeth.

Halidon … holly-dawn.

No known definition. A word? A name? A man? A three-beat sound?

What did it mean?

“It’s beautiful isn’t it,” said Alison, looking beyond him through the window.

“You’re awake.”

“Someone turned on a radio and a man spoke … endlessly.” She smiled and stretched her long legs. She then inhaled in a deep yawn, which caused her breasts to swell against the soft white silk of her blouse. McAuliff watched. And she saw him watching, and smiled again—in humor, not provocation. “Relevancy, Dr. McAuliff. Remember?”

“That word’s going to get you into trouble, Ms. Booth.”

“I’ll stop saying it instantly. Come to think, I don’t believe I used it much until I met you.”

“I like the connection; don’t stop.”

She laughed and reached for her pocketbook, on the deck between them.

There was a sudden series of rise-and-fall motions as the plane entered air turbulence. It was over quickly, but during it Alison’s open purse landed on its side—on Alex’s lap. Lipstick, compact, matches, and a short thick tube fell out, wedging themselves between McAuliff’s legs. It was one of those brief, indecisive moments. Pocketbooks were unfair vantage points, somehow unguarded extensions of the private self. And Alison was not the type to reach swiftly between a man’s legs to retrieve property.

“Nothing fell on the floor,” said Alex awkwardly, handing Alison the purse. “Here.”

He picked up the lipstick and the compact with his left hand, his right on the thick tube, which, at first, seemed to have a very personal connotation. As his eyes were drawn to the casing, however, the connotation became something else. The tube was a weapon, a compressor. On the cylinder’s side were printed words:

312
GAS CONTENTS
FOR MILITARY AND/OR POLICE USE ONLY
AUTHORISATION NUMBER
4316
RECORDED
: 1–6

The authorization number and the date had been handwritten in indelible ink. The gas compressor had been issued by British authorities a month ago.

Alison took the tube from his hand. “Thank you,” was all she said.

“You planning to hijack the plane? That’s quite a lethal-looking object.”

“London has its problems for girls … women these days. There were incidents in my building. May I have a cigarette? I seem to be out.”

“Sure.” McAuliff reached into his shirt pocket and withdrew the cigarettes, shaking one up for her. He lighted it, then spoke softly, very gently. “Why are you lying to me, Alison?”

“I’m not. I think it’s presumptuous of you to think so.”

“Oh, come on.” He smiled, reducing the earnestness of his inquiry. “The police, especially the London police, do not issue compressors of gas because of ‘incidents.’ And you don’t look like a colonel in the Women’s Auxiliary Army.” As he said the words, Alex suddenly had the feeling that perhaps he was wrong. Was Alison Booth an emissary from Hammond? Not Warfield, but British Intelligence?

“Exceptions are made. They really are, Alex.” She locked her eyes with his; she was not lying.

“May I venture a suggestion? A reason?”

“If you like.”

“David Booth?”

She looked away, inhaling deeply on her cigarette. “You know about him. That’s why you kept asking questions the other night.”

“Yes. Did you think I wouldn’t find out?”

“I didn’t care … no, that’s not right; I think I wanted you to find out if it helped me get the job. But I couldn’t tell you.”

“Why not?”

“Oh, Lord, Alex! Your own words; you wanted the best professionals, not personal problems! For all I knew, you’d have scratched me instantly.” Her smile was gone now. There was only anxiety.

“This Booth must be quite a fellow.”

“He’s a very sick, very vicious man. But I can handle David. I was always able to handle him. He’s an extraordinary coward.”

“Most vicious people are.”

“I’m not sure I subscribe to that. But it wasn’t David. It was someone else. The man he worked for.”

“Who?”

“A Frenchman. A marquis. Chatellerault is his name.”

The team took separate taxis into Kingston. Alison remained behind with McAuliff while he commandeered the equipment with the help of the Jamaican government people attached to the Ministry of Education. Alex could feel the same vague resentment from the Jamaicans that he had felt with the academicians in London; only added now was the aspect of pigmentation. Were there no black geologists? they seemed to be thinking.

The point was emphasized by the Customs men, their khaki uniforms creased into steel. They insisted on examining each box, each carton, as though each contained the most dangerous contraband imaginable. They decided to be officially thorough as McAuliff stood helplessly by long
after the aircraft had taxied into a Palisados berth. Alison remained ten yards away, sitting on a luggage dolly.

An hour and a half later, the equipment had been processed and marked for in-island transport to Boscobel Airfield, in Ocho Rios. McAuliff’s temper was stretched to the point of gritted teeth and a great deal of swallowing. He grabbed Alison’s arm and marched them both toward the terminal.

“For heaven’s sake, Alex, you’re bruising my elbow!” said Alison under her breath, trying to hold back her laughter.

“Sorry … I’m
sorry
. Those goddamned messiahs think they inherited the earth! The
bastards
!”

“This
is
their island—”

“I’m in no mood for anticolonial lectures,” he interrupted. “I’m in the mood for a drink. Let’s stop at the lounge.”

“What about our bags?”

“Oh. Christ! I forgot. It’s this way, if I remember,” said Alex, pointing to a gate entrance on the right.

“Yes,” replied Alison. “ ‘Incoming Flights’ usually means that.”

“Be quiet. My first order to you as a subordinate is not to say another word until we get our bags and I have a drink in my hand.”

But McAuliff’s command, by necessity, was rescinded. Their luggage was nowhere in sight. And apparently no one knew where it might be; all passenger baggage stored on Flight 640 from London had been picked up. An hour ago.

“
We
were on that flight. We did not pick up our bags. So, you see, you’re mistaken,” Alex said curtly to the luggage manager.

“Then you look-see, mon,” answered the Jamaican, irritated by the American’s implication that he was less than efficient. “Every suitcase taken—nothing left. Flight Six forty all
here
, mon! No place other.”

“Let me talk to the British Air representative. Where is he?”

“Who?”

“Your boss, goddammit!”

“I top mon!” replied the black man angrily.

Alex held himself in check. “Look, there’s been a mix-up. The airline’s responsible, that’s all I’m trying to say.”

“I think not, mon,” interjected the luggage manager defensively as he turned to a telephone on the counter. “I will call British Air.”

“All heart.” McAuliff spoke softly to Alison. “Our bags are probably on the way to Buenos Aires.” They waited while the man spoke briefly on the phone.

“Here, mon.” The manager held the phone for Alex. “You talk, please.”

“Hello?”

“Dr. McAuliff?” said the British voice.

“Yes. McAuliff.”

“We merely followed the instruction in your note, sir.”

“What note?”

“To First-Class Accommodations. The driver brought it to us. The taxi. Mrs. Booth’s and your luggage was taken to Courtleigh Manor. That is what you wished, is it not, sir?” The voice was laced with a trace of overclarification, as if the speaker were addressing someone who had had an extra drink he could not handle.

“I see. Yes, that’s fine,” said Alex quietly. He hung up the telephone and turned to Alison. “Our bags were taken to the hotel.”

“Really? Wasn’t that nice.” A statement.

“No, I don’t think it was,” answered McAuliff. “Come on, let’s find that bar.”

They sat at a corner table in the Palisados observation lounge. The red-jacketed waiter brought their drinks while humming a Jamaican folk tune softly. Alex wondered if the island’s tourist bureau instructed all those who served visitors to hum tunes and move rhythmically. He reached for his glass and drank a large portion of his double Scotch. He noticed that Alison, who was not much of a drinker, seemed as anxious as he was to put some alcohol into her system.
All things considered—all things—it was conceivable that his luggage might be stolen. Not hers. But the note had specified his and Mrs. Booth’s.

“You didn’t have any more artillery, did you?” asked Alex quickly. “Like that compressor?”

“No. It would have set off bells in the airline X-ray. I’d declared this prior to boarding.” Alison pointed to her purse.

“Yes, of course,” he mumbled.

“I must say, you’re remarkably calm. I should think you’d be telephoning the hotel, see if the bags got there … oh, not for me. I don’t travel with the Crown jewels.”

“Oh, Lord, I’m sorry, Alison.” He pushed his chair back. “I’ll call right away.”

“No, please.” She reached out and put her hand over his. “I think you’re doing what you’re doing for a reason. You don’t want to appear upset. I think you’re right. If they’re gone, there’s nothing I can’t replace in the morning.”

“You’re very understanding. Thanks.”

She withdrew her hand and drank again. He pulled his chair back and shifted his position slightly, toward the interior of the lounge. Unobtrusively, he began scanning the other tables.

The observation lounge was half filled, no more than that. From his position—their position—in the far west corner of the room, Alex could see nearly every table. And he slowly riveted his attention on every table, wondering, as he had wondered two night ago on High Holborn, who might be concerned with
him
.

There was movement in the dimly lighted entrance. McAuliff’s eyes were drawn to it: the figure of a stocky man in a white shirt and no jacket standing in the wide frame. He spoke to the lounge’s hostess, shaking his head slowly, negatively, as he looked inside. Suddenly, Alex blinked and focused on the man.

He knew him.

A man he had last seen in Australia, in the fields of Kimberly Plateau. He had been told the man had retired to Jamaica.

Robert Hanley, a pilot.

Hanley was standing in the entranceway of the lounge, looking for someone inside. And Alex knew instinctively that Hanley was looking for him.

“Excuse me,” he said to Alison. “There’s a fellow I know. Unless I’m mistaken, he’s trying to find me.”

McAuliff thought, as he threaded his way around the tables and through the subdued shadows of the room, that it was somehow right that Robert Hanley, of all the men in the Caribbean, would be involved. Hanley, the open man who dealt with a covert world because he was, above all, a man to be trusted. A laughing man, a tough man, a professional with expertise far beyond that required by those employing him. Someone who had miraculously survived six decades when all the odds indicated nearer to four. But then, Robert Hanley did not look much over forty-five. Even his close-cropped, reddish-blond hair was devoid of gray.

“Robert!”

“Alexander!”

The two men clasped hands and held each other’s shoulders.

“I said to the lady sitting with me that I thought you were looking for me. I’ll be honest, I hope I’m wrong.”

“I wish you were, lad.”

“That’s what I was afraid of. What is it? Come on in.”

“In a minute. Let me tell you the news first. I wouldn’t want the lady to uncork your temper.” Hanley led Alex away from the door; they stood alone by the wall. “It’s Sam Tucker.”

“
Sam?
Where is he?”

“That’s the point, lad. I don’t know. Sam flew into Mo’Bay three days ago and called me at Port Antone’; the boys in Los Angeles told him I was here. I hopped over, naturally, and it was a grand reunion. I won’t go into the details. The next morning, Sam went down to the lobby to get a paper, I think. He never came back.”

R
obert Hanley was flying back to Port Antonio in an hour. He and McAuliff agreed not to mention Sam Tucker to Alison. Hanley also agreed to keep looking for Sam; he and Alex would stay in touch.

The three of them took a taxi from Port Royal into Kingston, to Courtleigh Manor. Hanley remained in the cab and took it on to the small Tinson Pen Airfield, where he kept his plane.

At the hotel desk, Alex inquired nonchalantly, feeling no casualness whatsoever, “I assume our luggage arrived?”

“Indeed, yes, Mr. McAuliff,” replied the clerk, stamping both registration forms and signaling to a bellhop. “Only minutes ago. We had them brought to your rooms. They’re adjoining.”

“How thoughtful,” said Alex softly, wondering if Alison had heard the man behind the desk. The clerk did not speak loudly, and Alison was at the end of the counter, looking at tourist brochures. She glanced over at McAuliff; she had heard. The expression on her face was noncommittal. He wondered.

Five minutes later, she opened the door between their two rooms, and Alex knew there was no point speculating further.

“I did as you ordered, Mr. Bossman,” said Alison, walking in. “I didn’t touch the—”

McAuliff held up his hand quickly signaling her to be quiet. “The bed, bless your heart! You’re all heart, luv!”

The expression now on Alison’s face was definitely committal. Not pleasantly. It was an awkward moment, which
he was not prepared for; he had not expected her to walk deliberately into his room. Still, there was no point standing immobile, looking foolish.