The Cry of the Halidon

by Robert Ludlum

  “You’re not a prisoner; the door’s not locked.” Alex suddenly wondered if he was correct. He got out of the chair, crossed to the door, and opened it.

  Down the corridor were two Jamaicans by the bank of the elevators. They looked at McAuliff, and although he did not know them, he recognized the piercing, controlled calm of their expressions. He had seen such eyes, such expressions high in the Flagstaff Mountains. They were members of the Halidon.

  Alex closed the door and turned to Hammond, but before he could say anything, the Britisher spoke, his back still to Alex.

  “Does that answer you?” he asked quietly.

  “There are two men in the corridor,” said McAuliff pointlessly. “You knew that.”

  “I didn’t know it, I merely assumed it. There are fundamental rules.”

  “And you still think they’re savages?”

  “Everything’s relative.” Hammond turned from the window and faced Alex. “You’re the conduit now. I’m sure they’ve told you that.”

  “If ‘conduit’ means I take back your answer, then yes.”

  “Merely the answer? They’ve asked for no substantive guarantees?” The Englishman seemed bewildered.

  “I think that comes in Phase Two. This is a step contract, I gather. I don’t think they’ll take the word of Her Majesty’s obedient servant. He uses the term ‘nigger’ too easily.”

  “You’re an ass,” said Hammond.

  “You’re an autocratic cipher,” replied McAuliff, with equal disdain. “They’ve got you, agent-mon. They’ve also got the Dunstone list. You play in their sandbox … with their ‘fundamental rules.’ ”

  Hammond hesitated, repressing his irritation. “Perhaps not. There’s an avenue we haven’t explored. They’ll take you back.… I should like to be taken with you.”

  “They won’t accept that.”

  “They may not have a choice—”

  “Get one thing straight,” interrupted Alex. “There’s a survey team in the Cock Pit—white and black—and no one’s going to jeopardize a single life.”

  “You forget,” said Hammond softly—aloofly. “We know the location within a thousand yards.”

  “You’re no match for those guarding it. Don’t think you are. One misstep, one deviation, and there are mass executions.”

  “Yes,” said the Britisher. “I believe just such a massacre took place previously. The executioners being those whose methods and selections you admire so.”

  “The circumstances were different. You don’t know the truth—”

  “Oh, come off it, McAuliff! I shall do my best to protect the lives of your team, but I’m forced to be honest with you. They are no more the first priority for me than they are for the Halidon! There are more important considerations.” The Englishman stopped briefly, for emphasis. “And I can assure you, our resources are considerably more than those of a sect of fanatic … coloreds. I’d advise you not to change your allegiances at this late hour.”

  The announcer on the television screen had been droning, reading from pages of script handed to him by others in the studio. Alex couldn’t be sure—he had not been listening—but he thought he had heard the name, spoken differently … as if associated with new or different information. He looked down at the set, holding up his hand for Hammond to be quiet.

  He had heard the name.

  And as the first announcement three hours ago had been the prelude—a single instrument marking a thematic commencement—McAuliff recognized this as the coda. The terror had been orchestrated to a conclusion.

  The announcer looked earnestly into the camera, then back to the papers in his hand.

  “To repeat the bulletin. Savanna-la-Mar. Shooting broke out at the private Negril airfield. A band of identified men ambushed a party of Europeans as they were boarding a small plane for Weston Favel.

  “The French industrialist Henri Salanne, the Marquis de Chatellerault, was killed along with three men said to be in his employ. No motive is known. The marquis was the houseguest of the Wakefield family. The pilot, a Wakefield employee, reported that his final instructions from the marquis were to fly south of Weston Favel at low altitude toward the interior grasslands. The parish police are questioning …”

  Alex walked over to the set and switched it off. He turned to Hammond; there was very little to say, and he wondered if the Intelligence man would understand.

  “That was a priority you forgot about, wasn’t it, Hammond? Alison Booth. Your filthy link to Chatellerault. The expendable Mrs. Booth, the bait from Interpol.… Well, you’re here, agent-mon, and Chatellerault is dead. You’re in a hotel room in Montego Bay. Not in the Cock Pit. Don’t talk to me about resources, you son of a bitch. You’ve only got one. And it’s me.”

  The telephone rang. McAuliff reached it first.

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t interrupt me; there is no time,” came the agitated words from Malcolm. “Do as I say. I have been spotted. M. I. Six … a Jamaican. One I knew in London. We realized they would fan out; we did not think they would reach Montego so quickly—”

  “Stop running,” broke in Alex, looking at Hammond. “M. I. Six will cooperate. They have no choice—”

  “You damn fool, I said listen! There are two men in the corridor. Go out and tell them I called. Say the word ‘Ashanti.’ Have you got that, mon? ‘Ashantee.’ ”

  Alex had not heard the Anglicized Malcolm use “mon” before. Malcolm was in a state of panic. “I’ve got it.”

  “Tell them I said to get out! Now! The hotels will be watched. You will all have to move fast—”

  “Goddammit!” interrupted Alex again. “Now you listen to me. Hammond’s right here and—”

  “McAuliff.” The sound of Malcolm’s voice was low, cutting, demanding attention. “British Intelligence, Caribbean Operations, has a total of fifteen West Indian specialists. That is the budget. Of those fifteen, seven have been bought by Dunstone, Limited.”

  The silence was immediate, the implication clear. “Where are you?”

  “In a pay phone outside McNab’s. It is a crowded street; I will do my best to melt.”

  “Be careful in crowded streets. I’ve been listening to the news.”

  “Listen well, my friend. That is what this is all about.”

  “You said they spotted you. Are they there now?”

  “It is difficult to tell. We are dealing with Dunstone now. Even we do not know everyone on its payroll. But they will not want to kill me. Any more than I want to be taken alive.… Good luck, McAuliff. We are doing the right thing.”

  With these words, Malcolm hung up the telephone. Alexander instantly recalled a dark field at night on the outskirts of London, near the banks of the river Thames. And the sight of two dead West Indians in a government automobile.

  Any more than I want to be taken alive …

  Cyanide.

  We are doing the right thing …

  Death.

  Unbelievable. Yet very, very real.

  McAuliff gently replaced the telephone in its cradle. As he did, he had the fleeting thought that his gesture was funereal.

  This was no time to think of funerals.

  “Who was that?” asked Hammond.

  “A fanatic who, in my opinion, is worth a dozen men like you. You see, he doesn’t lie.”

  “I’ve had enough of your sanctimonious claptrap, McAuliff!” The Englishman spat out his words in indignation. “Your fanatic doesn’t pay two million dollars, either. Nor, I suspect, does he jeopardize his own interests for your well-being, as we have done constantly. Furthermore—”

  “He just did,” interrupted Alex as he crossed the room. “And if I’m a target, so are you.”

  McAuliff reached the door, opened it swiftly, and ran out into the corridor toward the bank of elevators. He stopped.

  There was no one there.

  31

  It was a race in blinding sunlight, somehow macabre because of the eye-jolting reflections from t
he glass and chrome and brightly colored metals on the Montego streets. And the profusion of people. Crowded, jostling, black and white; thin men and fat women—the former with the goddamned cameras, the latter in foolish-looking rhinestone sunglasses. Why did he notice these things? Why did they irritate him? There were fat men, too. Always with angry faces; silently, stoically reacting to the vacuous-looking thin women at their sides.

  And the hostile black eyes staring out from wave after wave of black skin. Thin, black faces—somehow always thin—on top of bony, black bodies—angular, beaten, slow.

  These then were the blurred, repeating images imprinted on the racing pages of his mind.

  Everything … everyone was instantly categorized in the frantic, immediate search for an enemy.

  The enemy was surely there.

  It had been there … minutes ago.

  McAuliff had rushed back into the room. There was no time to explain to the furious Hammond; it was only necessary to make the angry Britisher obey. Alex did so by asking him if he had a gun, then pulling out his own, furnished him by Malcolm on the night before.

  The sight of McAuliff’s weapon caused the agent to accept the moment. He removed a small, inconspicuous Rycee automatic from a belt holster under his jacket.

  Alexander had grabbed the seersucker coat—this too furnished by Malcolm on the previous night—and thrown it over his arm, concealing his revolver.

  Together the two men had slipped out of the room and run down the corridor to the staircase beyond the bank of elevators. On the concrete landing they had found the first of the Halidonites.

  He was dead. A thin line of blood formed a perfect circle around his neck below the swollen skin of his face and the extended tongue of blank, dead, bulging eyes. He had been garroted swiftly, professionally.

  Hammond had bent down; Alexander was too repelled by the sight to get closer. The Englishman had summarized.

  Professionally.

  “They know we’re on this floor. They don’t know which rooms. The other poor bastard’s probably with them.”

  “That’s impossible. There wasn’t time. Nobody knew where we were.”

  Hammond had stared at the lifeless black man, and when he spoke, McAuliff recognized the profound shock of the Intelligence’s man’s anger.

  “Oh, God, I’ve been blind!”

  In that instant, Alexander, too, understood.

  British Intelligence, Caribbean Operations, has a total of fifteen West Indian specialists. That’s the budget. Of those fifteen, seven have been bought by Dunstone, Limited.

  The words of Malcolm the Halidonite.

  And Hammond the manipulator had just figured it out.

  The two men raced down the staircase. When they reached the lobby floor, the Englishman stopped and did a strange thing. He removed his belt, slipping the holster off and placing it in his pocket. He then wound the belt in a tight circle, bent down, and placed it in a corner. He stood up, looked around, and crossed to a cigarette-butt receptacle and moved it in front of the belt.

  “It’s a signaling device, isn’t it?” McAuliff had said.

  “Yes. Long-range. External scanner reception; works on vertical arcs. No damn good inside a structure. Too much interference … thank heaven.”

  “You wanted to be taken?”

  “No, not actually. It was always a possibility, I knew that … Any ideas, chap? At the moment, it’s your show.”

  “One, and I don’t know how good it is. An airfield; it’s a farm, I guess. West, on the highway. Near a place called Drax Hall.… Let’s go.” Alex reached for the knob on the door to the lobby.

  “Not that way,” said Hammond. “They’ll be watching the lobby. The street, too, I expect. Downstairs. Delivery entrance … maintenance, that sort of thing. There’s bound to be one in the cellar.”

  “Wait a minute.” McAuliff had grabbed the Englishman’s arm, physically forcing him to respond. “Let’s you and I get something clear. Right now. You’ve been had. Taken. Your own people sold you out. So there won’t be any stopping for phone calls, for signaling anyone on the street. We run but we don’t stop. For anything. You do and you’re on your own. I disappear and I don’t think you can handle that.”

  “Who in hell do you think I’m going to get in touch with? The Prime Minister?”

  “I don’t know. I just know that I don’t trust you. I don’t trust liars. Or manipulators. And you’re both, Hammond.”

  “We all do what we can,” replied the agent coldly, his eyes unwavering. “You’ve learned quickly, Alexander. You’re an apt pupil.”

  “Reluctantly. I don’t think much of the school.”

  And the race in the blinding sunlight had begun.

  They ran up the curving driveway of the basement garage, directly into a tan Mercedes sedan that was not parked at that particular entrance by coincidence. Hammond and Alexander saw the startled look on the face of the white driver; then the man reached over across the seat for a transistor radio.

  In the next few seconds Alex witnessed an act of violence he would never forget as long as he lived. An act performed with cold precision.

  R. C. Hammond reached into both of his pockets and took out the Rycee automatic in his right hand, a steel cylinder in his left. He slapped the cylinder onto the barrel of the weapon, snapped in a clip, and walked directly to the door of the tan Mercedes-Benz. He opened it, held his hand low, and fired two shots into the driver, killing him instantly.

  The shots were spits. The driver fell onto the dashboard; Hammond reached down and picked up the radio with his left hand.

  The sun was bright; the strolling crowds kept moving. If anyone knew an execution had taken place, none showed it.

  The British agent closed the door almost casually.

  “My God …” It was as far as Alex got.

  “It was the last thing he expected,” said Hammond rapidly. “Let’s find a taxi.”

  The statement was easier made than carried out. Cabs did not cruise in Montego Bay. The drivers homed like giant pigeons back to appointed street corners, where they lined up in European fashion, as much to discuss the progress of the day with their peers as to find additional fares. It was a maddening practice; during these moments it was a frightening one for the two fugitives. Neither knew where the cab locations were, except the obvious—the hotel entrance—and that was out.

  They rounded the corner of the building, emerging on a free-port strip. The sidewalks were steaming hot; the crowds of gaudy, perspiring shoppers were pushing, hauling, tugging, pressing faces against the window fronts, foreheads and fingers smudging the glass, envying the unenviable … the shiny. Cars were immobilized in the narrow street, the honking of horns, interspersed with oaths and threats as Jamaican tried to out-chauffeur Jamaican for the extra tip … and his manhood.

  Alexander saw him first, under a green-and-white sign that read MIRANDA HILL with an arrow pointing south. He was a heavyset, dark-haired white man in a brown gabardine suit, the jacket buttoned, the cloth stretched across muscular shoulders. The man’s eyes were scanning the streams of human traffic, his head darting about like that of a huge pink ferret. And clasped in his left hand, buried in the flesh of his immense left hand, was a walkie-talkie identical to the one Hammond had taken out of the Mercedes.

  Alex knew it would be only seconds before the man spotted them. He grabbed Hammond’s arm and wished to God both of them were shorter than they were.

  “At the corner! Under the sign … Miranda Hill. The brown suit.”

  “Yes. I see.” They were by a low-hanging awning of a free-port liquor store. Hammond swung into the entrance, begging his pardon through the swarm of tourists, their Barbados shirts and Virgin Island palm hats proof of yet another cruise ship. McAuliff followed involuntarily; the Britisher had locked Alex’s arm in a viselike grip, propelling the American in a semicircle, forcing him into the crowded doorway.

  The agent positioned the two of them inside the store, at the fa
r corner of the display window. The line of sight was direct; the man under the green-and-white sign could be seen clearly, his eyes still searching the crowds. “It’s the same radio,” said Alex.

  “If we’re lucky he’ll use it. I’m sure they’ve set up relays. I know that’s him. He’s Unio Corso.”

  “That’s like a Mafia, isn’t it?”

  “Not unlike. And far more efficient. He’s a Corsican gun. Very high-priced. Warfield would pay it.” Hammond clipped his phrases in a quiet monotone; he was considering strategies. “He may be our way out.”

  “You’ll have to be clearer than that,” said Alex.

  “Yes, of course.” The Englishman was very imperiously polite. And maddening. “By now they’ve circled the area, I should think. Covering all streets. Within minutes they’ll know we’ve left the hotel. The signal won’t fool them for long.” Hammond lifted the transistor radio as unobtrusively as possible to the side of his head and snapped the circular switch. There was a brief burst of static; the agent reduced the volume. Several nearby tourists looked curiously; Alexander smiled foolish at them. Outside on the corner, underneath the sign, the Corsican suddenly brought his radio to his ear. Hammond looked at McAuliff. “They’ve just reached your room.”

  “How do you know?”

  “They report a cigarette still burning in the ashtray. Nasty habit. Radio on … I should have thought of that.” The Englishman pursed his lips abruptly; his eyes indicated recognition. “An outside vehicle is circling. The … W.I.S. claims the signal is still inside.”

  “W.I.S.?”

  Hammond replied painfully. “West Indian Specialist. One of my men.”

  “Past tense,” corrected Alex.

  “They can’t raise the Mercedes,” said Hammond quickly. “That’s it.” He swiftly shut off the radio, jammed it into his pocket, and looked outside. The Corsican could be seen listening intently to his instrument. Hammond spoke again. “We’ll have to be very quick. Listen and commit. When our Italian finishes his report, he’ll put the radio to his side. At that instant we’ll break through at him. Get your hands on that radio. Hold it no matter what.”