The Cry of the Halidon (31 page)

All that was changing. He could think about a great many things that were preposterous fantasies only yesterday: his own laboratories with the most expensive equipment—electronic, computerized, data-banked; throwing away the little budget pads that told him whom he had last borrowed from.

A Maserati. He would buy a Maserati. Arthur Craft had one, why shouldn’t he?

Arthur Craft was paying for it.

Ferguson looked at his watch—his too inexpensive Timex—and signaled the bartender to total his bill.

When the bartender did not come over in thirty seconds, Ferguson reached for the tab in front of him and turned it
over. It was simple enough to add: a dollar and fifty cents, twice.

James Ferguson then did what he had never done in his life. He took out a five-dollar bill, crumpled it up in his hand, got off the bar stool, and threw the wadded bill toward the cash register several yards in front of him. The bill bounced off the bottles on the lighted shelf and arced to the floor.

He started for the entrance.

There was
machismo
in his gesture; that was the word, that was the feeling.

In twenty minutes, he would meet the emissary from Craft the Younger. Down off Harbour Street, near Parish Wharf, on Pier Six. The man would be obsequious—he had no choice—and give him an envelope containing three thousand dollars.

Three thousand dollars.

In a single envelope; not saved in bits and pieces over months of budgeting, nor with the tentacles of Inland Revenue or debtors past, reaching out to cut it in half. It was his to do with as he pleased. To squander, to throw away on silly things, to pay a girl to get undressed and undress him and do things to him that were fantasies … only yesterday.

He had borrowed—taken a salary advance, actually—from McAuliff. Two hundred dollars. There was no reason to repay it. Not now. He would simply tell McAuliff … Alex; from now on it would be Alex, or perhaps Lex—very informal, very sure … to deduct the silly money from his paycheck. All at once, if he felt like it. It was inconsequential; it didn’t really matter.

And it certainly didn’t, thought Ferguson.

Every month Arthur Craft would give him an envelope. The agreed-upon amount was three thousand dollars in each envelope, but that was subject to change. Related to cost of living, as it were. Increased as his appetites and comforts increased. Just the beginning.

Ferguson crossed St. James Square and proceeded toward the waterfront. It was a warm night, with no breeze, and humid. Fat clouds, flying low and threatening rain, blocked
the moon; the antiquated streetlamps threw a subdued light in counterpoint to the gaudy neons of white and orange that announced the diversions of Montego Bay night life.

Ferguson reached Harbour Street and turned left. He stopped under a streetlamp and checked his watch again. It was ten minutes past midnight; Craft had specified 12:15. In five minutes, he would have three thousand dollars.

Pier Six was directly ahead on his right, across the street. There was no ship in the dock, no activity within the huge loading area beyond the high linked fence; only a large naked bulb inside a wire casing that lit up the sign:

PIER SIX
MONTEGO LINES

He was to stand under the lamp, in front of the sign, and wait for a man to drive up in a Triumph sportscar. The man would ask him for identification. Ferguson would show him his passport and the man would give him the envelope.

So simple. The entire transaction would take less than thirty seconds. And change his life.

Craft had been stunned; speechless, actually, until he had found his voice and screamed a torrent of abuse … until, again, he realized the futility of his position. Craft the Younger had gone too far. He had broken laws and would be an object of scorn and embarrassment. James Ferguson could tell a story of airport meetings and luggage and telephone calls and industrial espionage … and promises.

Such promises.

But his silence could be purchased. Craft could buy his confidence for a first payment of three thousand dollars. If Craft did not care to do so, Ferguson was sure the Kingston authorities would display avid interest in the details of his story.

No, he had not spoken to anyone yet. But things had been written down. (Lies Craft could not trace, of course.) That did not mean he was incapable of finding the spoken words; such capability was very much within his province … as
the first payment was within Craft’s province. One canceled the other: which would it be?

And so it was.

Ferguson crossed Harbour Street and approached the wire-encased light and the sign. A block and a half away, crowds of tourists swelled into the street, a one-way flow toward the huge passenger terminal and the gangplanks of a cruise ship. Taxis emerged out of side streets and alleys from the center of Montego Bay, blowing their horns anxiously, haltingly making their way to the dock. Three bass-toned whistles filled the air, vibrating the night, signifying that the ship was giving a warning: all passengers were to be on board.

He heard the Triumph before he saw it. There was the gunning of an engine from the darkness of a narrow side street diagonally across from Pier Six. The shiny, red, low-slung sportscar sped out of the dark recess and coasted to a stop in front of Ferguson. The driver was another Craft employee, one he recognized from a year ago. He did not recall the man’s name; only that he was a quick, physical person, given to arrogance. He would not be arrogant now.

He wasn’t. He smiled in the open car and gestured Ferguson to come over. “Hello,
Fergy
! It’s been a long time.”

Ferguson hated the nickname “Fergy”; it had dogged him for most of his life. Just when he had come to think it was part of a schoolboy past, someone—always someone unpleasant, he reflected—used it. He felt like correcting the man, reminding him of his messenger status, but he did not. He simply ignored the greeting.

“Since you recognize me, I assume there’s no need to show you my identification,” said James, approaching the Triumph.

“Christ, no! How’ve you been?”

“Well, thank you. Do you have the envelope? I’m in a hurry.”

“Sure. Sure, I do, Fergy.… Hey, you’re a pistol, buddy! Our friend is pissing rocks! He’s half out of his skull, you know what I mean?”

“I know what you mean. HQ should be. The envelope, please.”

“Sure.” The driver reached into his jacket and withdrew an envelope. He then leaned over and handed it to Ferguson. “You’re supposed to count it. If it’s all there, just give me back the envelope … make any kind of mark on it you like. Oh, here’s a pen.” The man opened the glove compartment and took out a ballpoint pen and held it up for Ferguson.

“That’s not necessary. He wouldn’t try to cheat me.”

“Hey, come on, Fergy! It’s my ass that’ll be in a sling! Count it, mark it; what’s the difference?”

Ferguson opened the bulky envelope. The denominations were all fives, tens, and twenties. He had not asked for small denominations; it was convenient, though, he had to admit that. Less suspicious than hundreds or fifties.

He started counting the bills.

Twice Craft’s man interrupted him with insignificant questions, causing James to lose his count. He had to start over again both times.

When he had finished, the driver suddenly handed him a wrapped package. “Oh, because our friend wants to show there’s no bad feeling—he’s a sport, you know what I mean?—he sent you one of those new Yashica thirty-five millimeters. He remembered you’re crazy about photography.”

Ferguson saw the Yashica label on top of the package. A seven-hundred-dollar instrument! One of the very best! Craft the Younger was indeed a frightened man. “Thank … Arthur for me. But tell him this isn’t deductible from any future payments.”

“Oh, I’ll tell him.… Now, I’m going to tell you something, Fergy baby. You’re on fuckin’
Candid Camera
.” The driver spoke quietly.

“What are you talking about?”

“Right behind you, Fergy baby.”

Ferguson whipped around toward the high linked fence and the deserted area beyond. There were two men in the shadows of a doorway. They came out slowly, perhaps
thirty yards away from him. And one of the men carried a camcorder. “What have you done?”

“Just a little insurance, Fergy baby. Our friend is contract-conscious, you know what I mean? Infrared tape, babe. I think you know what that is. And you just gave a terrific performance counting out money and taking Christ knows what from a guy who hasn’t been seen in public north of Caracas for over six months. You see, our friend flew me out of Rio just to get my picture taken … with you.”

“You can’t do this! Nobody would believe this!”

“Why not, babe? You’re a hungry little prick, you know what I mean? Hungry little pricks like you get hung easy. Now, you listen to me, asshole. You and Arthur, you’re one on one. Only his one is a little heavier. That tape would raise a lot of questions you couldn’t find any answers for. I’m a very unpopular man, Fergy. You’d get thrown off the island … but probably you’d get thrown into the can first. You wouldn’t last fifteen minutes with those social rejects, you know what I mean? They’d peel your white skin, babe, layer by layer.… Now, you be a good boy, Fergy. Arthur says for you to keep the three thousand. You’ll probably earn it.” The man held up the empty envelope. “Two set of prints on this. Yours and mine. Ciao, baby. I’ve got to get out of here and back to nonextradition country.”

The driver gunned the engine twice and slapped the gearshift effortlessly. He swung the Triumph expertly in a semicircle and roared off into the darkness of Harbour Street.

Julian Warfield was in Kingston now. He had flown in three days ago and used all of Dunstone’s resources to uncover the strange activities of Alexander McAuliff. Peter Jensen had followed instructions to the letter; he had kept McAuliff under the closest scrutiny, paying desk clerks and doormen and taxi drivers to keep him informed of the American’s every move.

And always he and his wife were out of sight, in no way associated with that scrutiny.

It was the least he could do for Julian Warfield. He would do anything Julian asked, anything Dunstone, Limited, demanded. He would deliver nothing but his best to the man and the organization that had taken him and his wife out of the valley of despair and given them a world with which they could cope and in which they could function.

Work they loved, money and security beyond the reach of most academic couples. Enough to forget.

Julian had found them years ago, beaten, finished, destroyed by events … impoverished, with nowhere and no one to turn to. He and Ruth had been caught; it was a time of madness, M.I.5’s Fourth Man and two Soviet moles in the Foreign Office, convictions born of misplaced zeal. He and his wife had supplemented their academic income by working for the government on covert geological operations—oil, gold, minerals of value. And they had willingly turned over everything in the classified files to a contact at the Soviet Embassy.

Another blow for equality and justice. And they were caught.

But Julian Warfield came to see them.

Julian Warfield offered them their lives again … in exchange for certain assignments he might find for them. Inside the government and out; on the temporary staffs of companies … within England and without; always in the highest professional capacities, pursuing their professional labors.

All charges were dropped by the Crown. Terrible mistakes had been made against the most respected members of the academic community. Scotland Yard had apologized. Actually
apologized
.

Peter and Ruth never refused Julian; their loyalty was unquestioned. Which was why Peter was now on his stomach in the cold, damp sand while the light of a Caribbean dawn broke over the eastern horizon. He was behind a mound of coral rock with a perfect view of McAuliff’s oceanside terrace. Julian’s last instructions had been specific.

Find out who comes to see him. Who’s important to him
.
Get identities, if you can. But for God’s sake, stay in the background. We’ll need you both in the interior
.

Julian had agreed that McAuliff’s disappearances—into Kingston, into taxis, into an unknown car at the gates of Courtleigh Manor—all meant that he had interests in Jamaica other than Dunstone, Limited.

It had to be assumed that he had broken the primary article of faith. Secrecy.

If so, McAuliff could be transferred … forgotten without difficulty. But before that happened, it was essential to discover the identity of Dunstone’s island enemy. Or enemies.

In a very real sense, the survey itself was secondary to that objective. Definitely secondary. If it came down to it, the survey could be sacrificed if, by that sacrifice, identities were revealed.

And Peter Jensen knew he was nearer those identities now … in this early dawn on the beach of Bengal Court. It had begun three hours ago.

Peter and Ruth had retired a little past midnight. Their room was in the east wing of the motel, along with Ferguson’s and Charles Whitehall’s. McAuliff, Alison, and Sam Tucker were in the west wing, the division signifying only old friends, new lovers, and late drinkers.

They heard it around one o’clock: an automobile swerving into the front drive, its wheels screeching, then silent, as if the driver had heard the noise and suddenly become alarmed by it.

It had been strange. Bengal Court was no kind of nightclub, no “drum-drum” watering hole that catered to the swinging and/or younger tourist crowds. It was quiet, with very little to recommend it to the image of fast drivers. As a matter of fact, Peter Jensen could not remember having heard
any
automobiles drive into Bengal Court after nine o’clock in the evening since they had been there.

He had risen from the bed and walked out on the terrace, and had seen nothing. He had walked around the east end of the motel to the edge of the front parking lot, where he did see something; something extremely alarming, barely visible.

In the far section of the lot, in shadows, a large black man—he believed he was black—was lifting the unconscious figure of another man out of the rear seat of an automobile. Then, farther beyond, a white man ran across the lawn from around the corner of the west wing. It was Sam Tucker. He approached the black man carrying the unconscious form, gave instructions—pointing to the direction from which he had come—and continued to the automobile, silently closing the rear door.