The Cry of the Halidon (8 page)

“Faith, Mr. McAuliff. Your generation overlooks it.” The financier smiled benignly.

“I don’t wish to be rude, but I don’t think you ever had it. Not that way. You’re a manipulator, not an ideologue. I repeat: out of character.”

“Very well.” Warfield unfolded his delicate hands, still retaining the Gandhi pose under the yellow light. “It leads to the protection of which I spoke and which, rightly, you question. You are one of us, Alexander Tarquin McAuliff. A very important and essential part of Dunstone’s plans. In recognition of your contributions, we have recommended to our directors that you be elevated—in confidence—to their status. Ergo, the payments made to you are the initial monies due one of our own. As you say, it would be out of character for such excessive payments to be made otherwise.”

“What the hell are you driving at?”

“In rather abrupt words, don’t ever try to deny us. You are a consenting participant in our work. Should you at any time, for whatever motive, decide you do not approve of Dunstone, don’t try to separate yourself. You’d never be believed.”

McAuliff stared at the now smiling old man. “Why would I do that?” he asked softly.

“Because we have reason to believe there are … elements most anxious to stop our progress. They may try to reach you; perhaps they have already. Your future is with us. No one else. Financially, perhaps ideologically … certainly legally.”

Alex looked away from Warfield. The Rolls had proceeded west into New Oxford, south on Charing Cross, and west again on Shaftesbury. They were approaching the outer lights of Piccadilly Circus, the gaudy colors diffused by the heavy mist.

“Who were you trying to call so frantically this evening?” The old man was not smiling now.

McAuliff turned from the window. “Not that it’s any of your damned business, but I was calling—not frantically—Mrs. Booth. We’re having lunch tomorrow. Any irritation was due to your hastily scheduled meeting and the fact that I didn’t want, to disturb her after midnight. Who do you think?”

“You shouldn’t be so hostile—”

“I forgot,” interrupted Alex. “You’re only trying to protect me. From … elements.”

“I can be somewhat more precise.” Julian Warfield’s eyes bore into Alex’s, with an intensity he had not seen before. “There would be no point in your lying to me, so I expect the truth. What does the word ‘Halidon’ mean to you, Mr. McAuliff?”

T
he screaming, hysterical cacophony of the acid-rock music caused a sensation of actual pain in the ears. The eyes were attacked next, by tear-provoking layers of heavy smoke, thick and translucent—the nostrils reacting immediately to the pungent sweetness of tobacco laced with grass and hashish.

McAuliff made his way through the tangled network of soft flesh, separating thrusting arms and protruding shoulders gently but firmly, finally reaching the rear of the bar area.

The Owl of Saint George was at its undulating peak. The psychedelic lights exploded against the walls and ceiling in rhythmic Crescendos; bodies were concave and convex, none seemingly upright, all swaying, writhing violently.

Hammond was seated in a circular booth with five others: two men and three women. Alex paused, concealed by drinkers and dancers, and looked at Hammond’s gathering. It was funny; not sardonically funny, humorously funny. Hammond and his middle-aged counterpart across the table were dressed in the “straight” fashion, as were two of the three women, both of them past forty. The remaining couple was young, hip, and profuse with black leather and zippers. The picture was instantly recognizable: parents indulging the generation gap, uncomfortable but game.

McAuliff remembered the man’s words on High Holborn.
Stay at the bar, he’ll reach you
. He maneuvered his way to within arm’s length of the mahogany and managed to shout his order to the black Soho bartender with hair so short he looked bald. McAuliff wondered when Hammond
would make his move; he did not want to wait long. He had a great deal to say to the British agent.

“Pardon, but you are a chap named McAuliff, aren’t you?” The shouted question caused Alex to spill part of his drink. The shouter was the young man from Hammond’s table. Hammond was not wasting time.

“Yes. Why?”

“My girl’s parents recognized you. Asked me to invite you over.”

The following moments, McAuliff felt, were like a play within a play. A brief, staged exercise with acutely familiar dialogue, acted out in front of a bored audience of other, more energetic actors. But with a surprise that made Alex consider Hammond’s skill in a very favorable light.

He
did
know the middle-aged man across from Hammond. And his wife. Not well, of course, but they were acquaintances. He’d met them two or three times before, on previous London trips. They weren’t the sort of memorable people one recognized on the street—or in The Owl of Saint George—unless the circumstances were recalled.

Hammond was introduced by his correct name and McAuliff was seated next to him.

“How the hell did you arrange this?” asked Alex after five excruciating minutes remembering the unmemorable with the acquaintances. “Do they know who you are?”

“Laugh occasionally,” answered Hammond with a calm, precise smile. “They believe I’m somewhere in that great government pyramid, juggling figures in poorly lit rooms.… The arrangements were necessary. Warfield has doubled his teams on you. We’re not happy about it; he may have spotted us, but, of course, it’s unlikely.”

“He’s spotted something, I guarantee it.” Alex bared his teeth, but the smile was false. “I’ve got a lot to talk to you about. Where can we meet?”

“Here. Now,” was the Britisher’s reply. “Speak occasionally to the others, but it’s perfectly acceptable that we strike up a conversation. We might use it as a basis for lunch or drinks in a day or two.”

“No way. I leave for Kingston the day after tomorrow in the morning.”

Hammond paused, his glass halfway to his lips. “So soon? We didn’t expect that.”

“It’s insignificant compared to something else.… Warfield knows about Halidon. That is, he asked me what
I
knew about it.”

“What?”

“Mr. McAuliff?” came the shouted inquiry from across the table. “Surely you know the Bensons, from Kent …”

The timing was right, thought Alex. Hammond’s reaction was one of astonishment. Shock that changed swiftly to angered acceptance. The ensuing conversation about the unremembered Bensons would give Hammond time to think. And Alex wanted him to think.

“What
exactly
did he say?” asked Hammond. The revolving psychedelic lights now projected their sharp patterns on the table, giving the agent a grotesque appearance. “The exact words.”

“ ‘What does the word ‘Halidon’ mean to you?’ That’s what he said.”

“Your answer?”

“What answer? I didn’t have one. I told him it was a town in New Jersey.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Halidon, New Jersey. It’s a town.”

“Different spelling, I believe. And pronunciation. Did he accept your ignorance?”

“Why wouldn’t he? I’m ignorant.”

“Did you conceal the fact that you’d heard the word? It’s terribly important!”

“Yes … yes, I think I did. As a matter of fact, I was thinking about something else. Several other things—”

“Did he bring it up later?” broke in the agent.

“No, he didn’t. He stared hard, but he didn’t mention it again. What do you think it means?”

Suddenly a gyrating, spaced-out dancer careened against the table, his eyes half focused, his lips parted without control.
“Well, if it ain’t old Mums and Dadsies!” he said, slurring his words with rough Yorkshire. “Enjoying the kiddie’s show-and-tell, Mums?”

“Damn!” Hammond had spilled part of his drink.

“Ring for the butler, Pops! Charge it to old Edinburgh. He’s a personal friend, good old Edinburgh.”

The solo, freaked-out dancer bolted away as quickly as he had intruded. The other middle-aged straights were appropriately solicitous of Hammond, simultaneously scathing of The Owl’s patrons; the youngsters did their best to mollify.

“It’s all right, nothing to be concerned with,” said the agent good-naturedly. “Just a bit of damp, nothing to it.” Hammond removed his handkerchief and began blotting his front. The table returned to its prior and individual conversations. The Britisher turned to McAuliff, his resigned smile belying his words. “I have less than a minute; you’ll be contacted tomorrow if necessary.”

“You mean that … collision was a signal?”

“Yes. Now, listen and commit. I haven’t time to repeat myself. When you reach Kingston, you’ll be on your own for a while. Quite frankly, we weren’t prepared for you so soon—”

“Just a minute!” interrupted McAuliff, his voice low, angry. “Goddamn you!
You
listen … and commit! You guaranteed complete safety, contacts twenty-four hours a day. It was on that basis I agreed—”

“Nothing has changed.” Hammond cut in swiftly, smiling paternalistically—in contradiction to the quiet hostility between them. “You have contacts; you’ve memorized eighteen, twenty names—”

“In the north country, not Kingston! You’re supposed to deliver the Kingston names!”

“We’ll do our best for tomorrow.”

“That’s not good enough!”

“It will have to be, Mr. McAuliff,” said Hammond coldly. “In Kingston, east of Victoria Park on Duke Street, there is a fish store called Tallon’s. In the last extremity—and only then—should you wish to transmit information,
see the owner. He’s quite arthritic in his right hand. But, mind you, all he can do is transmit. He’s of no other use to you. Now, I really must go.”

“I’ve got a few other things to say.” Alex put his hand on Hammond’s arm.

“They’ll have to wait—”

“One thing. Alison Booth. You knew, didn’t you?”

“About her husband?”

“Yes.”

“We did. Frankly, at first, we thought she was a Dunstone plant. We haven’t ruled it out.… Oh, you asked about Warfield’s mention of Halidon; what he meant. In my judgment, he knows no more than we do. And he’s trying just as hard to find out.”

With the swiftness associated with a much younger man, Hammond lifted himself up from the booth, slid past McAuliff, and excused himself from the group. McAuliff found himself seated next to the middle-aged woman he presumed had come with Hammond. He had not listened to her name during the introductions, but as he looked at her now, he did not have to be told. The concern—the fear—was in her eyes; she tried to conceal it, but she could not. Her smile was hesitant, taut.

“So you’re the young man …” Mrs. Hammond stopped and brought the glass to her lips.

“Young and not so young,” said McAuliff, noting that the woman’s hand shook, as his had shaken an hour ago with Warfield. “It’s difficult to talk in here with all the blaring. And those godawful lights.”

Mrs. Hammond seemed not to hear or be concerned with his words. The psychedelic oranges and yellows and sickening greens played a visual tattoo on her frightened features. It was strange, thought Alex, but he had not considered Hammond as a private man with personal possessions or a wife or even a private, personal life.

And as he thought about these unconsidered realities, the woman suddenly gripped his forearm and leaned against him. Under the maddening sounds and through the wild,
blinding lights, she whispered in McAuliff’s ear: “For God’s sake, go after him!”

The undulating bodies formed a violently writhing wall. He lunged through, pushing, pulling, shoving, finally shouldering a path for himself amid the shouted obscenities. He tried looking around for the spaced-out intruder who had signaled Hammond by crashing into the table. He was nowhere to be found.

Then, at the rear of the crowded, flashing dance floor, he could see the interrupted movements of several men pushing a single figure back into a narrow corridor. It was Hammond!

He crashed through the writhing wall again, toward the back of the room. A tall black man objected to Alex’s assault.

“Hey, mon! Stop it! You own The Owl, I think not!”

“Get out of my way! Goddammit, take your hands off me!”

“With pleasure, mon!” The black man removed his hands from McAuliff’s coat, pulled back a tight fist, and hammered it into Alex’s stomach. The force of the blow, along with the shock of its utter surprise, caused McAuliff to double up.

He rose as fast as he could, the pain sharp, and lurched for the man. As he did so, the black man twisted his wrist somehow, and McAuliff fell into the surrounding, nearly oblivious, dancers. When he got to his feet, the attacker was gone.

It was a curious and very painful moment.

The smoke and its accompanying odors made him dizzy; then he understood. He was breathing deep breaths; he was out of breath. With less strength but no less intensity, he continued through the dancers to the narrow corridor.

It was a passageway to the rest rooms, “Chicks” to the right, “Roosters” to the left. At the end of the narrow hallway was a door with a very large lock, an outsized padlock, that was meant, apparently, to remind patrons that the
door was no egress; The Owl of Saint George expected tabs to be paid before departure.

The lock had been pried open. Pried open and then reset in the round hasps, its curving steel arm a half inch from insertion.

McAuliff ripped it off and opened the door.

He walked out into a dark, very dark, alleyway filled with garbage cans and refuse. There was literally no light but the night sky, dulled by fog, and a minimum spill from the windows in the surrounding ghettolike apartment buildings. In front of him was a high brick wall; to the right the alley continued past other rear doorways, ending in a cul-de-sac formed by the sharply angled wall. To his left, there was a break between The Owl’s building and the brick; it was a passageway to the street. It was also lined with garbage cans, and the stench that had to accompany their presence.

McAuliff started down the cement corridor, the light from the streetlamps illuminating the narrow confines. He was within twenty feet of the pavement when he saw it. Them: small pools of deep red fluid.