was a common stain running through the many that aroused suspicions about the rest. They were individuals not alien to official scrutinies. As the first hints began to surface, curious newsmen dug swiftly and furiously, dredging up scores of rumours, and more than rumour - facts: indictments (generally reduced to the inconsequential), accusations from injured competitors, superiors, and subordinates (removed, recanted... unsubstantiated), litigations (settled out of court or dropped for lack of evidence).
It was an elegant cross section of the suspected. Tarnished, soiled, an aura of corruption.
All this before the hands on McAuliff's watch read nine o'clock. Two hours past twelve, London time. Two o'clock in the afternoon in Mayfair.
Commuter-time in Washington and New York.
There was no disguising the apprehension felt as the sun made its way from the east over the Atlantic. Speculation was rampant, growing in hysteria; a conspiracy of international proportions was suggested, a cabal of self-righteous fanatics violently implementing its vengeances throughout the civilized world.
Would it touch the shores of the United States?
But, of course, it had.
Two hours ago.
The awkward giant was just beginning to stir, to recognize the signs of the spreading plague.
The first news reached Jamaica out of Miami. Radio Montego picked up the overlapping broadcasts, sifting, sorting... finally relaying by tape the words of the various newscasters as they rushed to verbalize the events spewing out of the wire service teletypes.
Washington. Early morning. The undersecretary of the budget - a patently political appointment resulting from openly questioned campaign contributions - was shot while jogging on a back-country road near his residence in Arlington; the weapon was a high-powered rifle, probably with a telescopic sight, fired from a hill above the road. The body was discovered by a motorist at 8.20; the time of death estimated to be within two hours.
Noon. London time.
New York. At approximately seven o'clock in the morning, when one Angelo Dellacroce - reputed Mafia figure - stepped into his Lincoln Continental in the attached garage of his Scarsdale home, there was an explosion that ripped the entire enclosure out of its foundation, instantly killing Dellacroce and causing considerable damage to the rest of the house. Dellacroce was rumoured to be...
Noon. London time.
Phoenix, Arizona. At approximately 5.15 in the morning, one Harrison Renfield, international financier and real-estate magnet with extensive Caribbean holdings, collapsed in his private quarters at the Thunderbird Club after a late party with associates. He had ordered a pre-dawn breakfast; poison was suspected, as a Thunderbird waiter was found unconscious down the hall from Renfield's suite. An autopsy was ordered... Five o'clock, Mountain time.
Twelve, noon. London.
Los Angeles, California. At precisely 4.00A.M. the junior Senator from Nevada - recently implicated (but not indicted) in a Las Vegas tax fraud - stepped off a launch on to a pier in Marina del Ray. The launch was filled with guests returning from the yacht of a motion-picture producer. Somewhere between the launch and the base of the pier, the junior Senator from Nevada had his stomach ripped open with a blade so long and a cut so deep that the cartilage of his backbone protruded through spinal lacerations. He fell among the revellers, carried along by the boisterous crowd until the eruptions of the warm fluid that covered so many was recognized for the blood it was. Panic resulted, the terror alcoholic but profound. Four in the morning. Pacific time.
Twelve noon. London.
McAuliff looked over at the silent, stunned Holcroft.
'The last death reported was four in the morning... twelve o'clock in London. In each country four died, with four corresponding - identical - methods of killing... The Arawak units of four - the death odyssey... that's what they call it.'
'What are you talking about?'
'Deal with the Halidon, Holcroft. You have no choice; this is their proof... They said it was only the tip.'
The tip?'
'The tip of the Dunstone iceberg.'
'Impossible demands!' roared R. C. Holcroft, the capillaries in his face swollen, forming splotches of red anger over his skin. 'We will not be dictated to by goddamn niggers'.'
'Then you won't get the list.'
'We'll force it out of them. This is no time for treaties with savages'
Alexander thought of Daniel, of Malcolm, of the incredible lakeside community, of the grave of Acquaba... the vaults of Acquaba. Things he could not, would not, talk about. He did not have to, he considered. 'You think what's happened is the work of savages? Not the killings, I won't defend that. But the methods, the victims... Don't kid yourself.'
'I don't give a damn for your opinions...' Holcroft walked