The Cry of the Halidon

by Robert Ludlum

  “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.

  Sam Tucker was supposed to be in Ocho Rios with McAuliff. It seemed unlikely that he would have returned to Bengal Court alone.

  And as Jensen pondered this, there was the outline of another figure on the west lawn. It was Alison Booth. She gestured to the black man; she was obviously excited, trying to remain in control of herself. She led the large black man into the darkness around the far corner.

  Peter Jensen suddenly had a sinking feeling. Was the unconscious figure Alexander McAuliff? Then he rethought the immediate visual picture. He could not be sure—he could barely see, and everything was happening so rapidly—but as the black man passed under the spill of a parking light, the bobbing head of his charge extended beyond his arms. Peter had been struck by the oddness of it. The head appeared to be completely bald … as if shaved.

  Sam Tucker looked inside the automobile, seemed satisfied, then raced back across the west lawn after the others.

  Peter remained crouched in his concealed position after the figure had disappeared. It was extraordinary. Tucker and Alison Booth were not in Ocho Rios; a man had been hurt, apparently quite seriously, and instead of taking him directly inside the motel’s front entrance, they furtively carried him in, smuggled him in. And it might be conceivable that Sam Tucker would come back to Bengal Court without McAuliff; it was inconceivable that Alison Booth would do so.

  What were they doing? What in heaven’s name had happened … was happening?

  The simplest way to find out, thought Peter, was to get dressed, return to the tiny bar, and, for reasons he had not yet created, call McAuliff for drink.

  He would do this alone. Ruth would remain in their room. But first Peter would walk down to the beach, to the water’s edge, where he would have a full view of the motel and the oceanside terraces.

  Once in the miniature lounge, Peter invented his reason to phone McAuliff. It was simple to the point of absurdity. He had been unable to sleep, taken a stroll on the beach, seen a light behind the drawn curtains in Alexander’s room, and gathered he had returned from Ocho Rios. Would he and Alison be his guests for a nightcap?

  Jensen went to the house phone at the end of the bar. When McAuliff answered, his voice was laced with the frustration of a man forced to be civil in the most undesirable of circums
tances. And McAuliff’s lie was apparent.

  “Oh, Jesus, Peter, thanks, but we’re beat. We just got settled at the Sans Souci when Latham called from the Ministry. Some damned bureaucratic problem with our interior permits; we had to drive all the way back for some kind of goddamned … inspection first thing in the morning … inoculation records, medical stuff. Crew, mainly.”

  “Terribly inconsiderate, old boy. Nasty bastards, I’d say.”

  “They are.… We’ll take a raincheck, though. Perhaps tomorrow.”

  Peter had wanted to keep McAuliff on the phone a bit longer. The man was breathing audibly; each additional moment meant the possibility of Jensen’s learning something. “Ruth and I thought we’d hire a car and go to Dunn’s Falls around noon tomorrow. Surely you’ll be finished by then. Care to come along?”

  “Frankly, Peter,” said McAuliff haltingly, “we were hoping to get back to Ochee, if we could.”

  “Then that would rule out Dunn’s Falls, of course. You’ve seen it, though, haven’t you? Is it all they say?”

  “Yes … yes, it certainly is. Enjoy yourselves—”

  “You will be back tomorrow night, then?” interjected Jensen.

  “Sure … Why?”

  “Our raincheck, old boy.”

  “Yes,” said McAuliff slowly, carefully. “We’ll be back tomorrow night. Of course we’ll be back tomorrow night.… Good night, Peter.”

  “Good night, chap. Sleep well.” Jensen hung up the house phone. He carried his drink slowly back to a table in the corner, nodding pleasantly to the other guests, giving the impression that he was waiting for someone, probably his wife. He had no wish to join anyone; he had to think out his moves.

  Which was why he was now lying in the sand behind a small mound of surfaced coral on the beach, watching Lawrence and Sam Tucker talking.

  He had been there for nearly three hours. He had seen things he knew he was not supposed to see: two men arriving—one obviously a doctor with the inevitable bag, the other some sort of assistant carrying a large trunklike case and odd-shaped paraphernalia.

  There had been quiet conferences between McAuliff, Alison, and the doctor, later joined by Sam Tucker and the black crewman, Lawrence.

  Finally, all left the terrace but Tucker and the crewman. They stayed outside.

  On guard.

  Guarding not only Alexander and the girl, but also whoever was in that adjoining room. The injured man with the oddly shaped head who had been carried from the automobile. Who was he?

  The two men had stayed at their posts for three hours now. No one had come or gone. But Peter knew he could not leave the beach. Not yet.

  Suddenly, Jensen saw the black crewman, Lawrence, walk down the terrace steps and start across the dunes toward the beach. Simultaneously, Tucker made his way over the grass to the corner of the building. He stood immobile on the lawn; he was waiting for someone. Or watching.

  Lawrence reached the surf, and Jensen lay transfixed as the huge black man did a strange thing. He looked at his watch and then proceeded to light two matches, one after the other, holding each aloft in the breezeless dawn air for several seconds and throwing each into the lapping water.

  Moments later, the action was explained. Lawrence cupped his hand over his eyes to block the blinding, head-on light of the sun as it broke the space above the horizon, and Peter followed his line of sight.

  Across the calm ocean surface in the massive land shadows by the point, there were two corresponding flickers of light. A small boat had rounded the waters of the cove’s entrance, its gray-black hull slowly emerging in the early sunlight.

  Its destination was that section of the beach where Lawrence stood.

  Several minutes later, Lawrence struck another match and held it up until there was an acknowledgment from the approaching craft, at which instant both were extinguished and the black crewman started running back over the sand toward Bengal Court.

  On the lawn, by the corner of the building, Sam Tucker turned and saw the racing Lawrence. He walked to the stairs in the sea wall and waited for him. The black man reached the steps; he and Tucker spoke briefly, and together they approached the terrace doors of the adjoining room—Alison Booth’s room. Tucker opened them, and the two men went inside, leaving the double doors ajar.

  Peter kept shifting his eyes from the motel to the beach. There was no visible activity from the terrace; the small boat plodded its way over the remarkably still waters toward the beach, now only three or four hundred yards from the shore. It was a long, flat-bottomed fishing boat, propelled by a muffled engine. Sitting in the stern was a black man in what appeared to be ragged clothes and a wide straw sun hat. Hook poles shot up from the small deck, nets were draped over the sides of the hull; the effect was that of a perfectly normal Jamaican fisherman out for the dawn catch.

  When the boat came within several hundred feet of the shore, the skipper lit a match, then extinguished it quickly. Jensen looked up at the terrace. In seconds, the figure of Sam Tucker emerged from the darkness beyond the open doors. He held one end of a stretcher on which a man lay wrapped in blankets; Lawrence followed, holding the other end.

  Gently, but swiftly, the two men ran—glided—the stretcher across the terrace, down the sea-wall steps, over the sand, and toward the beach. The timing was precise, not a moment wasted. It seemed to Jensen that the instant the boat hit shallow water, Tucker and Lawrence waded into the calm surf with the stretcher and placed it carefully over the sides onto the deck. The nets were swung over on top of the blanketed man and the fishing boat was immediately pushed back into the water by Sam Tucker as Lawrence slid onto the bow slat. Seconds later, Lawrence had removed his shirt and from some recess in the boat lifted out a torn, disheveled straw hat, clamped it on his head, and yanked a hook pole from its clasp. The transformation was complete. Lawrence the conspirator was now a lethargic native fisherman.

  The small flat-bottomed craft turned, rippling the glasslike surface of the water, and headed out. The motor chugged a bit louder than before; the skipper wanted to get away from the beach with his concealed cargo.

  Sam Tucker waved; Lawrence nodded and dipped the hook pole. Tucker came out of the miniature surf and walked swiftly back toward Bengal Court.

  Peter Jensen watched as the fishing boat veered in open water toward the point. Several times Lawrence leaned forward and down, fingering nets but obviously checking the condition of the man on the stretcher. Intermittently, he seemed to be issuing quiet commands to the man at the engine tiller. The sun had now cleared the edge of the Jamaican horizon. It would be a hot day.

  Up at the terrace Peter saw that the double doors of Alison Booth’s room remained open. With the additional light, he could also see that there was new activity inside. Sam Tucker came out twice, carrying tan plastic bags, which he left on the patio. Then a second man—the doctor’s assistant, Peter realized—emerged, holding a large cylinder by its neck and a huge black suitcase in his other hand. He placed them on the stone, bent down below them on the sea wall, and stood up moments later with two elongated cans—aerosol cans, thought Jensen—and handed one to Tucker as he came through the door. The two men talked briefly and then went back inside the room.

  No more than three minutes had elapsed when Tucker and the doctor’s aide were seen again, this time somewhat comically as they backed into the door frame simultaneously. Each held his arm outstretched; in each hand was an aerosol can, clouds of mist spewing from both.

  Tucker and the black aide had systematically sprayed the interior of the room.

  Once finished, they crossed to the plastic bags, the case, and the large cylinder. They picked up the objects, spoke briefly again, and started for the lawn.

  Out on the water, the fishing boat was halfway to the point of the cove. But something had happened. It had stopped; it bobbed gently on the calm surface, no longer traveling forward. Peter could see the now tiny figure of Lawrence standing up in the bow, then crouching, then standin
g up again. The skipper was gesturing, his movements excited.

  The boat pushed forward once more, only to turn slowly and change direction. It did not continue on its course—if the point was, indeed, its course. Instead, it headed for the open sea.

  Jensen lay on the moist sand for the next fifteen minutes, watching the small craft progressively become a black dot within a gray-black ocean splashed with orange sunlight. He could not read the thoughts of the two Jamaicans; he could not see the things that were happening on that boat so illogically far out on the water. But his knowledge of tides and currents, his observations during the last three hours, led his conclusions to one end.

  The man on the stretcher had died. His corpse would soon be stripped of identification, weighted down with net lead, and thrown into the water, eventually to be carried by floor currents far away from the island of Jamaica. Perhaps to be washed ashore weeks or months from now on some Cayman reef or, more fortuitously, torn apart and devoured by the predators of the deep.

  Peter knew it was time to call Warfield, meet with Julian Warfield.

  Immediately.

  McAuliff rolled over on his side, the sharp pain in his shoulder suddenly surging through his chest. He sat up quickly, momentarily bewildered. He focused his thoughts. It was morning; the night before had been a series of terrifying confusions. The pieces would have to be put back together, plans made.

  He looked down at Alison, beside him. She was breathing deeply, steadily, in complete sleep. If the evening had been a nightmare for him, it had been no less a torment for her. Perhaps worse. At least he had been in motion, constant, unceasing movement. She had been waiting, thinking; he had had no time for thoughts. It was worse to wait. In some ways.

  Slowly, as silently as he could, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up. His whole body was stiff; his joints pained him, especially his kneecaps.