The Cry of the Halidon (54 page)

The invader was perhaps thirty yards away. It was difficult to estimate in the dense surroundings. But it was an opportunity. And if Alexander Tarquin McAuliff had learned anything during the past weeks of agonizing insanity, it was to accept opportunities with the minimum of analysis.

He pulled Alison to him and whispered instructions into her ear. He released her and felt about the ground for what he knew was there. Fifteen seconds later he silently clawed his way up the trunk of a ceiba tree, rifle across his back, his hands noiselessly testing the low branches, discomforted by the weight of the object held in place inside his field jacket by the belt.

In position, he scratched twice on the bark of the tree.

Beneath him Alison whistled—a very human whistle, the abrupt notes of a signaling warble. She then snapped on her flashlight for precisely one second, shut it off, and dashed away from her position.

In less than a minute the figure was below him—crouched, rifle extended, prepared to kill.

McAuliff dropped from the limb of the ceiba tree, the sharp point of the heavy rock on a true, swift course toward the top of the invader’s skull.

The minute hand on his watch reached twelve; the second hand was on one. It was time.

The first cry came from the river. An expert cry, the sound of a wild pig.

The second came from the southwest, quite far in the distance, equally expert, echoing through the jungle.

The third came from the north, a bit too guttural, not expert at all, but sufficient unto the instant. The message was clear.

McAuliff looked at Alison, her bright, stunningly blue eyes bluer still in the Caribbean moonlight.

He lifted his rifle in the air and shattered the stillness of the night with a burst of gunfire. Perhaps the ganja pilot in the grasslands would laugh softly in satisfaction. Perhaps, with luck, one of the stray bullets might find its way to his head.

It did not matter.

It mattered only that they had made it. They were good enough, after all.

He held Alison in his arms and screamed joyfully into the darkness above. It did not sound much like a wild pig, but that did not matter either.

T
hey sat at the table on the huge free-form pool deck overlooking the beds of coral and the blue waters beyond. The conflict between wave and rock resulted in cascading arcs of white spray surging upward and forward, blanketing the jagged crevices.

They had flown from the grasslands directly to Port Antonio. They had done so because Sam Tucker had raised Robert Hanley on the airplane’s radio, and Hanley had delivered his instructions in commands that denied argument. They had landed at the small Sam Jones Airfield at 2:35 in the morning. A limousine sent from the Trident Villas awaited them.

So, too, did Robert Hanley. And the moment Sam Tucker alighted from the plane, Hanley shook his hand and proceeded to crash his fist into Tucker’s face. He followed this action by reaching down and picking Sam up off the ground, greeting him a bit more cordially but explaining in measured anger that the past several weeks had caused him unnecessary anxiety, obviously Sam Tucker’s responsibility.

The two very young old reprobates then drank the night through at the bar of the Trident Villas. The young manager, Timothy Durell, surrendered at 5:10 in the morning, dismissed the bartender, and turned the keys over to Hanley and Sam. Durell was not aware that in a very real sense, the last strategies of Dunstone, Limited, had been created at Trident that week when strangers had converged from all over the world. Strangers, and not strangers at all … only disturbing memories now.

Charles Whitehall left with Lawrence, the revolutionary. Both black men said their good-byes at the airfield; each had places to go to, things to do, men to see. There would be no questions, for there would be no answers. That was understood.

They would separate quickly.

But they had communicated; perhaps that was all that could be expected.

Alison and McAuliff had been taken to the farthest villa on the shoreline. She had bandaged his hand and washed the cuts on his face and made him soak for nearly an hour in a good British tub of hot water.

They were in Villa 20.

They had slept in each other’s arms until noon.

It was now a little past one o’clock. They were alone at the table, a note having been left for Alexander from Sam Tucker. Sam and Robert Hanley were flying to Montego Bay to see an attorney. They were going into partnership.

God help the island, thought McAuliff.

At 2:30 Alison touched his arm and nodded toward the alabaster portico across the lawn. Down the marble steps came two men, one black, one white, dressed in proper business suits.

R. C. Hammond and Daniel, Minister of Council for the Tribe of Acquaba, high in the Flagstaff range.

“We’ll be quick,” said Hammond, taking the chair indicated by Alexander. “Mrs. Booth, I am Commander Hammond.”

“I was sure you were,” said Alison, her voice warm, her smile cold.

“May I present … an associate? Mr. Daniel, Jamaican Affairs. I believe you two have met, McAuliff.”

“Yes.”

Daniel nodded pleasantly and sat down. He looked at Alex and spoke sincerely. “There is much to be thankful for. I am very relieved.”

“What about Malcolm?”

The sadness flickered briefly across Daniel’s eyes. “I am sorry.”

“So am I,” said McAuliff. “He saved our lives.”

“That was his job,” replied the Minister of the Halidon.

“May I assume,” interrupted Hammond gently, “that Mrs. Booth has been apprised … up to a point?”

“You certainly may assume that, Commander.” Alison gave that answer herself.

“Very well.” The British agent reached into his pocket, withdrew the yellow paper of a cablegram, and handed it to Alexander. It was a deposit confirmation from Barclay’s Bank, London. The sum of $2,000,000 had been deposited to the account of A. T. McAuliff, Chase Manhattan, New York, Further, a letter of credit had been forwarded to said A. T. McAuliff that could be drawn against for all taxes upon receipt of the proper filing papers approved by the United States Treasury Department, Bureau of Internal Revenue.

Alex read the cable twice and wondered at his own indifference. He gave it to Alison. She started to read it but did not finish; instead, she lifted McAuliff’s cup and saucer and placed it underneath.

She said nothing.

“Our account is settled, McAuliff.”

“Not quite, Hammond.… In simple words, I never want to hear from you again. We never want to hear from you. Because if we do, the longest deposition on record will be made public—”

“My
dear
man,” broke in the Englishman wearily, “let me save you the time. Gratitude and marked respect would obligate me socially any time you’re in London. And, I should add, I think you’re basically a quite decent chap. But I can assure you that
professionally
we shall remain at the farthest distance. Her Majesty’s Service has no desire to involve itself with international irregularities. I might as well be damned blunt about it.”

“And Mrs. Booth?”

“The same, obviously.” Here Hammond looked directly, even painfully, at Alison. “Added to which it is our belief that she has gone through a great deal. Most splendidly and with our deepest appreciation. The terrible past is behind
you, my dear. Public commendation is uncalled for, we realize. But the highest citation will be entered into your file. Which shall be closed. Permanently.”

“I want to believe that,” said Alison.

“You may, Mrs. Booth.”

“What about Dunstone?” asked McAuliff. “What’s going to happen? When?”

“It has already begun,” replied Hammond. “The list was cabled in the early hours of the morning.”

“Several hours ago,” said Daniel quietly. “Around noon, London time.”

“In all the financial centers, the work is proceeding,” continued Hammond. “All the governments are cooperating … it is to everyone’s benefit.”

McAuliff looked up at Daniel. “What does that do for global mendacity?”

Daniel smiled. “Perhaps a minor lesson has been learned. We shall know in a few years, will we not?”

“And Piersall? Who killed him?”

Hammond replied. “Real-estate interests along the North Coast, which stood to gain by the Dunstone purchase. His work was important, not those who caused his death. They were tragically insignificant.”

“And so it is over,” said Daniel, pushing back his chair. “The Westmore Talions will go back to selling fish, the disciples of Barak Moore will take up the struggle against Charles Whitehall, and the disorderly process of advancement continues. Shall we go, Commander Hammond?”

“By all means, Mr. Daniel.” Hammond rose from the chair, as did the Minister of Council for the Tribe of Acquaba.

“What happened to the Jensens?” Alexander looked at Daniel, for it was the Halidonite who could answer him.

“We allowed him to escape. To leave the Cock Pit. We knew Julian Warfield was on the island, but we did not know where. We only knew that Peter Jensen would lead us to him. He did so. In Oracabessa. Julian Warfield’s life was ended on the balcony of a villa named Peale Court.”

“What will happen to them? The Jensens.” McAuliff shifted his eyes to Hammond.

The commander glanced briefly at Daniel. “There is an understanding. A man and a woman answering the description of the Jensens boarded a Mediterranean flight this morning at Palisados. We think he is retired. We shall leave him alone. You see, he shot Julian Warfield … because Warfield had ordered him to kill someone else. And he could not do that.”

“It is time, Commander,” said Daniel.

“Yes, of course. There’s a fine woman in London I’ve rather neglected. She liked you very much that night in Soho, McAuliff. She said you were attentive.”

“Give her my best.”

“I shall.” The Englishman looked up at the clear sky and the hot sun. “Retirement in the Mediterranean. Interesting.” R. C. Hammond allowed himself a brief smile, and replaced the chair quite properly under the table.

They walked on the green lawn in front of the cottage that was called a villa and looked out at the sea. A white sheet of ocean spray burst up from the coral rock and appeared suspended, the pitch-blue waters of the Caribbean serving as a backdrop, not a source. The spray cascaded forward and downward and then receded back over the crevices that formed the coral overlay. It became ocean again, at one with its source; another form of beauty.

Alison took McAuliff’s hand.

They were free.

Read on for an excerpt from Robert Ludlum’s
The Bourne Identity

The trawler plunged into the angry swells of the dark, furious sea like an awkward animal trying desperately to break out of an impenetrable swamp. The waves rose to goliathan heights, crashing into the hull with the power of raw tonnage; the white sprays caught in the night sky cascaded downward over the deck under the force of the night wind. Everywhere there were the sounds of inanimate pain, wood straining against wood, ropes twisting, stretched to the breaking point. The animal was dying.

Two abrupt explosions pierced the sounds of the sea and the wind and the vessel’s pain. They came from the dimly lit cabin that rose and fell with its host body. A man lunged out of the door grasping the railing with one hand, holding his stomach with the other.

A second man followed, the pursuit cautious, his intent violent. He stood bracing himself in the cabin door; he raised a gun and fired again. And again.

The man at the railing whipped both his hands up to his head, arching backward under the impact of the fourth bullet. The trawler’s bow dipped suddenly into the valley of two giant waves, lifting the wounded man off his feet; he twisted to his left, unable to take his hands away from his head. The boat surged upward, bow and midships more out of the water than in it, sweeping the figure in the doorway back into the cabin; a fifth gunshot fired wildly. The wounded man screamed, his hands now lashing out at anything he could grasp, his eyes blinded by blood and the unceasing spray of the sea. There was nothing he could grab, so he grabbed at nothing; his legs buckled as his body lurched forward. The boat rolled violently leeward and the man whose skull was ripped open plunged over the side into the madness of the darkness below.

He felt rushing cold water envelop him, swallowing him, sucking him under, and twisting him in circles, then propelling him up to the surface—only to gasp a single breath of air. A gasp and he was under again.

And there was heat, a strange moist heat at his temple that seared through the freezing water that kept swallowing him, a fire where no fire should burn. There was ice, too; an ice-like throbbing in his stomach and his legs and his chest, oddly warmed by the cold sea around him. He felt these things, acknowledging his own panic as he felt them. He could see his own body turning and twisting, arms and feet working frantically against the pressures of the whirlpool. He could feel, think, see, perceive panic and struggle—yet strangely there was peace. It was the calm of the observer, the uninvolved observer, separated from the events, knowing of them but not essentially involved.