The Cry of the Halidon (49 page)

Screams could be heard in the distance.

From the civilians.

McAuliff and Hammond jumped out of the car and raced over grass and concrete onto grass again. Both had their weapons drawn; it was not necessary. R. C. Hammond had performed immaculately. He had fired with devastating control through the open side window of the Pontiac. The automobile was untouched but the driver was dead, sprawled over the wheel. Dead weight against the horn.

The two fugitives divided at the car, each to a door of the front seat, Alexander on the driver’s side. Together they shoved the lifeless body away from the wheel; the blaring horn ceased, the engine continued to roar. McAuliff reached in and turned the ignition key.

The silence was incredible.

Yet, still, there were the screams from the distance, from the grass.

The civilians.

They yanked at the dead man and threw the body over the plastic seat onto the floor behind. Hammond picked up the transistor radio. It was in the “on” position. He turned it off.
Alexander got behind the wheel and feverishly tugged at the gearshift.

It did not move, and the muscles in McAuliff’s stomach tensed; he felt his hands trembling.

From out of a boyhood past, long, long, forgotten, came the recall. There was an old car in an old garage; the gears were always sticking.

Start the motor for only an instant.

Off-on. Off-on.

Until the gear teeth unlocked.

He did so. How many times, he would never remember. He would only remember the cold, calm eyes of R. C. Hammond watching him.

The Pontiac lurched. First into the mound of earth; then, as Alex jammed the stick into
R
, backward—wheels spinning furiously—over the grass.

They were mobile.

McAuliff whipped the steering wheel into a full circle, pointing the car toward the cement drive. He pressed the accelerator, and the Pontiac gathered speed on the soft grass in preparation for its jarring leap over the curb.

Four seconds later they sped through the stone gates.

And Alexander turned right. East. Back toward Miranda Hill.

He knew Hammond was stunned; that did not matter. There was still no time for explanations, and the Englishman seemed to understand. He said nothing.

Several minutes later, at the first intersecting road, McAuliff jumped the light and swung left. North. The sign read
CORNICHE ANNEX.

Hammond spoke.

“You’re heading toward the shore road?”

“Yes. It’s called Gloucester. It goes through Montego and becomes Route One.”

“So you’re behind the Dunstone car … the Mercedes.”

“Yes.”

“And may I presume that since the last word”—here Hammond held up the walkie-talkie—“any of them
received was from that park, there’s a more direct way back to it? A faster way?”

“Yes. Two. Queen’s Drive and Corniche Road. They branch off from Gloucester.”

“Which, of course, would be the routes they would take.”

“They’d better.”

“And naturally, they would search the park.”

“I hope so.”

R. C. Hammond pressed back into the seat. It was a gesture of temporary relaxation. Not without a certain trace of admiration.

“You’re a
very
apt student, Mr. McAuliff.”

“To repeat myself, it’s a rotten school,” said Alexander.

They waited in the darkness, in the overgrowth at the edge of the field. The crickets hammered out the passing seconds. They had left the Pontiac miles away on a deserted back road in Catherine Mount and walked to the farm on the outskirts of Drax Hall, where they found a stream and cleaned themselves up, washing the blood off their skin and soaking their clothes. They had waited until nightfall before making the last few miles of the trip. Cautiously, shelter to shelter; when on the road, as far out of sight as possible. Finally using the tracks of the Jamaica Railway as their guideline.

There had been a road map in the glove compartment of the automobile, and they studied it. It was maddening. Most of the streets west of Montego proper were unmarked, lines without names, and always there were the alleys without lines. They passed through a number of ghetto settlements, aware that the inhabitants had to be sizing them up—two white men without conceivable business in the area. There was profit in an assault on such men.

Hammond had insisted that they both carry their jackets, their weapons very much in evidence in their belts.

Subalterns crossing through hostile colonial territory, letting the wog natives know they carried the magic firesticks that spat death.

Ludicrous.

But there was no assault.

They crossed the Montego River at Westgate; a half mile away were the railroad tracks. They ran into an itinerant tramp enclave—a hobo camp, Jamaica-style—and Hammond did the talking.

The Englishman said they were insurance inspectors for the company; they had no objections to the filthy campsite so long as there was no interference with the line. But should there be interference, the penalties would be stiff indeed.

Ludicrous.

Yet no one bothered them, although the surrounding black eyes were filled with hatred.

There was a freight pickup at Drax Hall. A single platform with two wire-encased light bulbs illuminating the barren site. Inside the weather-beaten rain shelter was an old man drunk on cheap rum. Painstakingly they elicited enough information from him for McAuliff to get his bearings. Vague, to be sure, but enough to determine the related distances from the highway, which veered inland at Parish Wharf, to the farm district in the southwest section.

By 9:30 they had reached the field.

Now, Alex looked at his watch. It was 10:30.

He was not sure he had made the right decision. He was only sure that he could not think of any other. He had recalled the lone farmhouse on the property, remembered seeing a light on inside. There was no light now. It was deserted.

There was nothing else to do but wait.

An hour passed, and the only sounds were those of the Jamaican night: the predators foraging, victims taken, unending struggles—immaterial to all but the combatants.

It was nearly the end of the second hour when they heard it.

Another sound.

An automobile. Driving slowly, its low-geared, muted engine signaling its apprehension. An intruder very much aware of its transgression.

Minutes later, in the dim light of a moon sheeted with
clouds, they watched a long figure run across the field, first to the north end, where a single torch was ignited, then to the south—perhaps four hundred yards—where the action was repeated. Then the figure dashed once more to the opposite end.

Another sound. Another intruder. Also muted—this from the darkness of the sky.

An airplane, its engine idling, was descending rapidly.

It touched ground, and simultaneously the torch at the north end was extinguished. Seconds later the aircraft came to a stop by the flame at the south end. A man jumped out of the small cabin; the fire was put out instantly.

“Let’s go!” said McAuliff to the British agent. Together the two men started across the field.

They were no more than fifty yards into the grass when it happened.

The impact was so startling, the shock so complete, that Alex screamed involuntarily and threw himself to the ground, his pistol raised, ready to fire.

Hammond remained standing.

For two immensely powerful searchlights had caught them in the blinding convergence of the cross-beams.

“Put down your weapon, McAuliff,” came the words from beyond the blinding glare.

And Daniel, Minister of Council for the Tribe of Acquaba, walked through the light.

“W
hen you came into the area you tripped the photoelectric alarms. Nothing mysterious.”

They were in the automobile, Daniel in front with the driver, Hammond and Alexander in the backseat. They had driven away from the field, out of Drax Hall, along the coast into Lucea Harbour. They parked on a deserted section of a dirt road overlooking the water. The road was one of those native offshoots on the coastal highway unspoiled by trespassing tourists. The moon was brighter by the ocean’s edge, reflected off the rippling surface, washing soft yellow light over their faces.

As they were driving, McAuliff had a chance to study the car they were in. From the outside it looked like an ordinary, not-very-distinguished automobile of indeterminate make and vintage—like hundreds of island vehicles, made from parts cannibalized from other cars. Yet inside the fundamental difference was obvious: it was a precision-tooled mobile fortress and communications center. The windows were of thick, bullet-proof glass; rubber slots were evident in the rear and side sections—slots that were for the high-blasting, short-barreled shotguns clamped below the back of the front seat. Under the dashboard was a long panel with dials and switches; a telephone was locked into a recess between two microphones. The engine, from the sound of it, was one of the most powerful Alex had ever heard.

The Halidon went first class in the outside world.

Daniel was in the process of dismissing McAuliff’s astonishment at the events of the past two hours. It seemed important to the minister that he convey the reality of the
situation. The crisis was sufficiently desperate for Daniel to leave the community; to risk his life to be in command.

It was as though he wanted very much for R. C Hammond to realize he was about to deal with an extremely sensible and hard-nosed adversary.

“We had to make sure you were alone … the two of you, of course. That you were not somehow followed. There were tense moments this afternoon. You handled yourselves expertly, apparently. We could not help you. Congratulations.”

“What happened to Malcolm?” asked Alex.

Daniel paused, then spoke quietly, sadly. “We do not know yet. We are looking.… He is safe—or dead. There is no middle ground.” Daniel looked at Hammond. “Malcolm is the man you know as Joseph Myers, Commander Hammond.”

McAuliff shifted his gaze to the agent. So Hammond the manipulator was a Commander. Commander Hammond, liar, manipulator … and risker-of-life to save another’s.

Hammond reacted to Daniel’s words by closing his eyes for precisely two seconds. The information was a professional burden he did not care for; the manipulator was outflanked again.

“Do I have a single black man working for me? For the Service?”

The minister smiled gently. “By our count, seven. Three, however, are quite ineffectual.”

“Thank you for enlightening me. I’m sure you can furnish me with identities.… They all look so much alike, you see.”

Daniel accepted the clichéd insult calmly, his smile disappearing, his eyes cold in the yellow moonlight. “Yes. I understand the problem. There appears to be so little to distinguish us … from such a viewpoint. Fortunately, there are other standards. You will not be needing the identities.”

Hammond returned Daniel’s look without intimidation. “McAuliff conveyed your demands. I say to you what I said to him. They’re impossible, of course—”

“Please, Commander Hammond,” said Daniel rapidly,
interrupting, ’there are so many complications, let us not compound them with lies. From the beginning your instructions were clear. Would you prefer we deal with the Americans? Or the French? The Germans, perhaps?”

The silence was abrupt. There was a cruelty to it, a blunt execution of pain. Alexander watched as the two enemies exchanged stares. He saw the gradual, painful cognizance in Hammond’s eyes.

“Then you know,” said the Englishman softly.

“We know,” replied Daniel simply.

Hammond remained silent and looked out the window.

The Minister of the Halidon turned to McAuliff. “The global mendacity, Doctor. Commander Hammond is the finest Intelligence officer in the British service. The unit he directs is a coordinated effort between the aforementioned governments. It is, however, coordinated in name only. For M.I. Five—as the prime investigatory agency—does not apprise its fellow signatories of its progress.”

“There are good and sufficient reasons for our actions,” said Hammond, still looking out the window.

“Reduced to one, is that not right, Commander?… Security. You cannot trust your allies.”

“Our counterparts are leak-prone. Experience has confirmed this.” The agent did not take his eyes off the water.

“So you mislead them,” said Daniel. “You give false information, tell them you are concentrating in the Mediterranean, then South America—Argentina, Nicaragua. Even nearby Haiti … but never Jamaica.” The minister paused for emphasis. “No, never Jamaica.”

“Standard procedure,” answered Hammond, allowing Daniel a brief, wary look.

“Then it will not surprise you to learn that this mistrust is shared by your foreign confederates. They have sent out teams, their best men. They are presently tracking down every scrap of information M.I. Six has made available. They are working furiously.”

Hammond snapped his head back to Daniel. “That is contrary to our agreement,” he said in an angry monotone.

The minister did not smile. “I do not think you are in a
position to be sanctimonious, Commander.” Daniel shifted his eyes again to Alexander. “You see, McAuliff, since Dunstone, Limited, was a London-based conglomerate, it was agreed to give the first-level assignment to British Intelligence. It was understandable; M.I. Five and Six are the finest in the West; the Commander is their finest. On the theory that the fewer clandestine services operating, the less likely were breaches of security, the British agreed to function alone and keep everyone current. Instead, they continuously furnished erroneous data.” Daniel now permitted himself a minor smile. “In a sense, they were justified. The Americans, the French, and the Germans were
all
breaking the agreement, none had any intention of keeping it. Each was going after Dunstone, while claiming to leave the field to the English.… Dunstone
has
to be dismantled. Taken apart economic brick by economic brick. The world markets can accept no less. But there are so many bricks. Each government believes that if only it can get there first—get the Dunstone list before the others—well, arrangements can be made/assets transferred.”