- 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 Holcroft 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 unidentified 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 towards the interior grasslands. The parish police are questioning...'
Alex walked over to the set and switched it off. He turned to Holcroft; 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, Holcroft? 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. MI5... native. 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 Holcroft, 'MI5 will co-operate. 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 - '
'Goddamn it!' interrupted Alex again. 'Now you listen to me. Holcroft'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 McNabs. 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 Holcroft.
'A fanatic nigger who, in my opinion - which I realize doesn't interest you - 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 one 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 towards the bank of