on the left then knocked rapidly on the fuselage.
The door was slapped open by a large white man who immediately stepped out, waving aside the offer of the two umbrellas. He jumped from the top level to the ground and looked around in the rain.
His right hand was in his jacket pocket.
He turned up to the aircraft door and nodded. A second large white man disembarked and ran across the muddy space towards the concrete terminal. His right hand, too, was in his pocket. He entered the building, glanced around, and proceeded out the exit to the parking area.
Sixty seconds later the gate by the luggage depot was swung open by the second man and a Mercedes 660 limousine drove through towards the Caravel, its wheels spinning frequently in the drenched earth.
The two Jamaicans remained by the step unit, their umbrellas waiting.
The Mercedes pulled alongside the plane, and the tiny, ancient figure of Julian Warfield was helped down the steps, his head and body shielded by the blacks. The second white man held the door of the Mercedes; his large companion was in front of the automobile, scanning the distance and the few passengers who had come out of the terminal.
When Warfield was enclosed in the back seat, the Jamaican driver stepped out and the second white man got behind the wheel. He honked the horn once; his companion turned and raced around to the left front door and climbed in.
The Mercedes's deep-throated engine roared as the limousine backed up beyond the tail assembly of the Caravel, then belched forward and sped through the gate.
With Julian Warfield in the back seat were Peter Jensen and his wife, Ruth.
'We'll drive to Peale Court, it's not far from here,' said the small, gaunt financier, his eyes alive and controlled. 'How long do you have? With reasonable caution.'
'We rented a car for a trip to Dunns Falls,' replied Peter. 'We left it in the lot and met the Mercedes outside. Several hours, at least.'
'Did you make it clear you were going to the Falls?'
'Yes. I invited McAuliff.'
Warfield smiled. 'Nicely done, Peter.'
The car raced over the Oracabessa road for several miles and turned into a gravel drive flanked by two white stone posts. On both were identical brass plaques reading 'PEALE COURT.' They were polished to a high gloss, a rich mixture of gold and black.
At the end of the drive was a long parking area in front of a longer, one-storey white stucco house with expensive wood in the doors, and many windows. It was perched on top of a steep incline above the beach.
Warfield and the Jensens were admitted by a passive, elderly black woman in a white uniform, and Julian led the way to a veranda overlooking the waters of Golden Head Bay.
The three of them settled in chairs, and Warfield politely asked the Jamaican servant to bring refreshments. Perhaps a light rum punch.
The rain was letting up; streaks of yellow and orange could be seen beyond the grey sheets in the sky.
'I've always been fond of Peale Court,' said Warfield. 'It's so peaceful.'
The view is breathtaking,' added Ruth. 'Do you own it, Julian?'
'No, my dear. But I don't believe it would be difficult to acquire. Look around, if you like. Perhaps you and Peter might be interested.'
Ruth smiled and, as if on cue, rose from her chair. 'I think I shall.'
She walked back through the veranda doors into the larger living room with the light brown marble floor. Peter watched her, then looked over at Julian. 'Are things that serious?'
'I don't want her upset,' replied Warfield.
'Which, of course, gives me my answer.'
'Possibly. Not necessarily. We've come upon disturbing news. MI5.'
Peter reacted as though he'd been jolted unnecessarily. 'I thought we had that area covered. Completely. It was passive.'
'On the island, perhaps. Sufficient for our purposes. Not in London. Obviously.' Warfield paused and took a deep breath, pursing his narrow, wrinkled lips. 'Naturally, we'll take steps immediately to intercede, but it may have gone too far. Ultimately, we can control the Service... if we must, right out of the Foreign Office. What bothers me now is the current activity.'
Peter Jensen looked out over the veranda railing. The afternoon sun was breaking through the clouds. The rain had stopped.
'Then we have two adversaries. This Halidon - whatever in blazes it is. And British Intelligence.'
'Precisely. What is of paramount importance, however, is to keep the two separate. Do you see?'
Jensen returned his gaze to the old man. 'Of course. Assuming they haven't already