The Cry of the Halidon (13 page)

“… among them, of course, Zaire, Turkey, Corsica. He joined me each time. For days, weeks at a time …”

The first confrontation with David Booth came about in Corsica. The survey was a coastal-offshore expedition in the Capo Senetose area. David arrived during the middle stages for his usual two- to three-week stay, and during this period a series of strange telephone calls and unexplained conferences took place, which seemed to disturb him beyond his limited abilities to cope. Men flew into Ajaccia in small, fast planes; others came by sea in trawlers and small oceangoing craft. David would disappear for hours, then for days at a time. Alison’s fieldwork was such that she returned nightly to the team’s seacoast hotel; her husband could not conceal his behavior, nor the fact that his presence in Corsica was not an act of devotion to her.

She forced the issue, enumerating the undeniable, and brutally labeling David’s explanations what they were: amateurish lies. He had broken down, wept, pleaded, and told his wife the truth.

In order to maintain a lifestyle David Booth was incapable of earning in the marketplace, he had moved into international narcotics. He was primarily a courier. His partnership in a small importing-exporting business was ideal for the work. The firm had no real identity; indeed, it was rather nondescript, catering—as befitted the owners—to a social rather than a commercial clientele, dealing in art objects on the decorating level. He was able to travel extensively without raising official eyebrows. His introduction to
the work of the
contrabandists
was banal: gambling debts compounded by an excess of alcohol and embarrassing female alliances. On the one hand, he had no choice; on the other, he was well paid and had no moral compunctions.

But Alison did. The ideological surveys were legitimate, testimonials to David’s employers’ abilities to ferret out unsuspecting collaborators. David was given the names of survey teams in selected Mediterranean sites and told to contact them, offering the services of his very respected wife, adding further that he would confidentially contribute to her salary if she was hired. A rich, devoted husband only interested in keeping an active wife happy. The offers were invariably accepted. And, by finding her “situations,” his travels were given a twofold legitimacy. His courier activities had grown beyond the dilettante horizons of his business.

Alison threatened to leave the Corsican job.

David was hysterical. He insisted he would be killed, and Alison as well. He painted a picture of such widespread, powerful corruption-without-conscience that Alison, fearing for both their lives, relented. She agreed to finish the work in Corsica, but made it clear their marriage was finished. Nothing would alter
that
decision.

So she believed at the time.

But one late afternoon in the field—on the water, actually—Alison was taking bore samples from the ocean floor several hundred yards offshore. In the small cabin cruiser were two men. They were agents of Interpol. They had been following her husband for a number of months. Interpol was gathering massive documentation of criminal evidence. It was closing in.

“Needless to say, they were prepared for his arrival. My room was as private as yours was intended to be this evening.…”

The case they presented was strong and clear. Where her husband had described a powerful network of corruption, the Interpol men told of another world of pain and suffering and needless, horrible death.

“Oh, they were experts,” said Alison, her eyes remembering, her smile compassionately sad. “They brought
photographs, dozens of them. Children in agony, young men, girls destroyed. I shall never forget those pictures. As they intended I would not.…”

Their appeal was the classic recruiting approach: Mrs. David Booth was in a unique position; there was no one like her. She could do so much, provide
so
much. And if she walked away in the manner she had described to her husband—abruptly, without explanation—there was the very real question of whether she would be allowed to do so.

My God
, thought McAuliff as he listened,
the more things change … The Interpol men might have been Hammond speaking in a room at the Savoy Hotel
.

The arrangements were made, schedules created, a reasonable period of time specified for the “deterioration” of the marriage. She told a relieved Booth that she would try to save their relationship, on the condition that he never again speak to her of his outside activities.

For half a year Alison Gerrard Booth reported the activities of her husband, identified photographs, planted dozens of tiny listening devices in hotel rooms, automobiles, their own apartment. She did so with the understanding that David Booth—whatever the eventual charges against him—would be protected from physical harm. To the best of Interpol’s ability.

Nothing was guaranteed.

“When did it all come to an end?” asked Alex.

Alison looked away, briefly, at the dark, ominous panorama of the Blue Mountains, rising in blackness several miles to the north. “When I listened to a very painful recording. Painful to hear; more painful because I had made the recording possible.”

One morning after a lecture at the university, an Interpol man arrived at her office in the Geology Department. In his briefcase he had a cassette machine and a cartridge that was a duplicate of a conversation recorded between her husband and a liaison from the Marquis de Chatellerault, the man identified as the overlord of the narcotics operation. Alison sat and listened to the voice of a broken man drunkenly
describing the collapse of his marriage to a woman he loved very much. She heard him rage and weep, blaming himself for the inadequate man that he was. He spoke of his refused entreaties for the bed, her total rejection of him. And at the last, he made it clear beyond doubt that he loathed using her; that if she ever found out, he would kill himself. What he had done, almost too perfectly, was to exonerate her from any knowledge whatsoever of Chatellerault’s operation. He had done it superbly.

“Interpol reached a conclusion that was as painful as the recording. David had somehow learned what I was doing. He was sending a message. It was time to get out.”

A forty-eight-hour divorce in far-off Haiti was arranged. Alison Booth was free.

And, of course, not free at all.

“Within a year, it will all close in on Chatellerault, on David … on all of them. And somewhere, someone will put it together: Booth’s wife …”

Alison reached for her drink and drank and tried to smile.

“That’s it?” said Alex, not sure it was all.

“That’s it, Dr. McAuliff. Now, tell me honestly, would you have hired me had you known?”

“No, I would not. I wonder why I didn’t know.”

“It’s not the sort of information the university, or Emigration, or just about anyone else would have.”

“Alison?” McAuliff tried to conceal the sudden fear he felt. “You
did
hear about this job from the university people, didn’t you?”

The girl laughed and raised her lovely eyebrows in mock protest. “Oh, Lord, it’s tell-all time!… No, I admit to having a jump; it gave me time to compile that very impressive portfolio for you.”

“How did you learn of it?”

“Interpol. They’d been looking for months. They called me about ten or twelve days before the interview.”

McAuliff did not have to indulge in any rapid calculations.
Ten or twelve days before the interview would place the date within reasonable approximation of the afternoon he had met with Julian Warfield in Belgrave Square.

And later with a man named Hammond from British Intelligence.

The stinging pain returned to McAuliff’s stomach. Only it was sharper now, more defined. But he couldn’t dwell on it. Across the dark-shadowed patio, a man was approaching. He was walking to their table unsteadily. He was drunk, thought Alex.

“Well, for God’s sake,
there
you are! We wondered where the hell you were! We’re all in the bar inside. Whitehall’s an absolute riot on the piano! A bloody black Noël Coward! Oh, by the way, I trust your luggage got here. I saw you were having problems, so I scribbled a note for the bastards to send it along. If they could read my whiskey slant.”

Young James Ferguson dropped into an empty chair and smiled alcoholically at Alison. He then turned and looked at McAuliff, his smile fading as he was met by Alex’s stare.

“That was very kind of you,” said McAuliff quietly.

And then Alexander saw it in Ferguson’s eyes. The focused consciousness behind the supposedly glazed eyes.

James Ferguson was nowhere near as drunk as he pretended to be.

T
hey expected to stay up most of the night. It was their silent, hostile answer to the “horrid little buggers.” They joined the others in the bar and, as a good captain should, McAuliff was seen talking to the maître d’; all knew the evening was being paid for by their director.

Charles Whitehall lived up to Ferguson’s judgment. His talent was professional; his island patter songs—filled with Caribbean idiom and Jamaican wit—were funny, brittle, cold, and episodically hot. His voice had the clear, high-pitched thrust of a Kingston balladeer; only his eyes remained remote. He was entertaining and amusing, but he was neither entertained nor amused himself, thought Alex.

He was performing.

And finally, after nearly two hours, he wearied of the chore, accepted the cheers of the half-drunken room, and wandered to the table. After receiving individual shakes, claps, and hugs from Ferguson, the Jensens, Alison Booth, and Alex, he opted for a chair next to McAuliff. Ferguson had been sitting there—encouraged by Alex—but the young botanist was only too happy to move. Unsteadily.

“That was remarkable!” said Alison, leaning across McAuliff, reaching for Whitehall’s hand. Alex watched as the Jamaican responded; the dark Caribbean hand—fingernails manicured, gold ring glistening—curled delicately over Alison’s as another woman’s might. And then, in contradiction, Whitehall raised her wrist and kissed her fingers.

A waiter brought over a bottle of white wine for Whitehall’s inspection. He read the label in the nightclub light, looked up at the smiling attendant, and nodded. He turned
back to McAuliff; Alison was now chatting with Ruth Jensen across the table. “I should like to speak with you privately,” said the Jamaican casually. “Meet me in my room, say, twenty minutes after I leave.”

“Alone?”

“Alone.”

“Can’t it wait until morning?”

Whitehall leveled his dark eyes at McAuliff and spoke softly but sharply. “No, it cannot.”

James Ferguson suddenly lurched up from his chair at the end of the table and raised his glass to Whitehall. He waved and gripped the edge with his free hand; he was the picture of a very drunk young man. “Here’s to Charles the First of Kingston! The bloody black Sir Noël! You’re simply fanatic, Charles!”

There was an embarrassing instant of silence as the word “black” was absorbed. The waiter hurriedly poured Whitehall’s wine; it was no moment for sampling.

“Thank you,” said Whitehall politely. “I take that as a high compliment, indeed … Jimbo-mon.”

“Jimbo-mon!”
shouted Ferguson with delight. “I love it! You shall call me
Jimbo-mon
! And now, I should like—” Ferguson’s words were cut short, replaced by an agonizing grimace on his pale young face. It was suddenly abundantly clear that his alcoholic capacity had been reached. He set his glass down with wavering precision, staggered backward and, in slow motion of his own, collapsed to the floor.

The table rose en masse; surrounding couples turned. The waiter put the bottle down quickly and started toward Ferguson; he was joined by Peter Jensen, who was the nearest.

“Oh, Lord,” said Jensen, kneeling down. “I think the poor fellow’s going to be sick. Ruth, come help.… You there, waiter. Give me a hand, chap!”

The Jensens, aided by two waiters now, gently lifted the young botanist into a sitting position, unloosened his tie, and generally tried to reinstate some form of consciousness. Charles Whitehall, standing beside McAuliff, picked up two napkins and lobbed them across the table onto the floor near those administering aid. Alex watched the Jamaican’s actions;
it was not pleasant. Ferguson’s head was nodding back and forth; moans of impending illness came from his lips.

“I think this is as good a time as any for me to leave,” said Whitehall. “Twenty minutes?”

McAuliff nodded. “Or thereabouts.”

The Jamaican turned to Alison, delicately took her hand, kissed it, and smiled. “Good night, my dear.”

With minor annoyance, Alex sidestepped the two of them and walked over to the Jensens, who, with the waiters’ help, were getting Ferguson to his feet.

“We’ll bring him to his room,” said Ruth. “I warned him about the rum; it doesn’t go with whiskey. I don’t think he listened.” She smiled and shook her head.

McAuliff kept his eyes on Ferguson’s face. He wondered if he would see what he saw before. What he had been watching for over an hour.

And then he did. Or thought he did.

As Ferguson’s arms went limp around the shoulders of a waiter and Peter Jensen, he opened his eyes. Eyes that seemingly swam in their sockets. But for the briefest of moments, they were steady, focused, devoid of glaze. Ferguson was doing a perfectly natural thing any person would do in a dimly lit room. He was checking his path to avoid obstacles.

And he was—for that instant—quite sober.

Why was James Ferguson putting on such a splendidly embarrassing performance? McAuliff would have a talk with the young man in the morning. About several things, including a “whiskey-slanted” note that resulted in a suitcase that triggered the dial of an electric scanner.

“Poor lamb. He’ll feel miserable in the morning.” Alison had come alongside Alex. Together they watched the Jensens take Ferguson out the door.

“I hope he’s just a poor lamb who went astray for the night and doesn’t make a habit of it.”

“Oh, come on, Alex, don’t be old-auntie. He’s a perfectly nice young man who’s had a pint too many.” Alison turned and looked at the deserted table. “Well, it seems the party’s over, doesn’t it?”