The man then pointed up at the street sign, barely visible in the spill of the lamp through the mist. 'This says Chancery Lane, which is supposed to be near a place called Hatton, which is where I'm supposed to meet m' friends. I can't find it, sir.'
Alex gestured to his left. 'It's up there two or three blocks.'
The man pointed again, as a simpleton might point, in the direction of McAuliffs gesture. 'Up there, sir?'
'That's right.'
The man shook his arm several times, as if emphasizing. 'You're sure, sir?' And then the man lowered his voice and spoke rapidly. 'Please don't react, Mr McAuliff. Continue as though you are explaining. Mr Holcroft will meet you in Soho; there's an all-night club called The Owl of Saint George. He'll be waiting. Stay at the bar, he'll reach you. Don't worry about the time... He doesn't want you to make any more telephone calls. You're being watched.'
McAuliff swallowed, blanched, and waved his hand - a little too obviously, he felt - in the direction of Hatton Garden. He, too, spoke quietly, rapidly. 'Jesus! I'm being watched, so are you!'
'We calculate these things - '
'I don't like your addition! What am I supposed to tell Warfield? To let me off in Soho!'
'Why not? Say you feel like a night out. You've nothing scheduled in the morning. Americans like Soho; it's perfectly natural. You're not a heavy gambler, but you place a bet now and then.'
'Christ! Would you care to describe my sex life?'
'I could, but I won't.' The guttural, loud North Country voice returned. 'Thank you, sir. You're very kind, sir. I'm sure I'll find m' friends.'
The man walked swiftly away, into the night mist toward Hatton Garden. McAuliff felt his whole body shiver; his hands trembled. To still them, he reached into his pocket for cigarettes. He was grateful for the opportunity to grip the metal of his lighter.
It was five minutes to twelve. He would wait several minutes past midnight and then leave. His instructions were to 'return to the Savoy'; another meeting would be set. Did that mean it was to be scheduled later that night? In the morning hours? Or did 'return to the Savoy' simply mean that he was no longer required to remain at the corner of High Holborn and Chancery Lane? He was free for the evening?
The words were clear, but the alternate interpretation was entirely feasible. If he chose, he could - with a number of stops - make his way into Soho, to Holcroft. The network of surveillance would establish the fact that Warfield had not appeared for the appointment. The option was open.
My God! thought Alex. What's happening to me? Words and meanings... options and alternates. Interpretations of... orders!
Who the hell gave him orders!
He was not a man to be commanded!
But when his hand shook as he raised his cigarette to his lips, he knew that he was... for an indeterminate period of time. Time in a hell he could not stand; he was not free.
The radium hands on his wristwatch converged. It was midnight. To goddamn hell with all of them! He would leave! He would call Alison and tell her he wanted to come over for a drink... ask her if she would let him. Holcroft could wait all night in Soho. Where was it? The Owl of Saint George. Silly fucking name!
To hell with him!
The Rolls-Royce sped out of the fog from the direction of Newgate, its deep-throated engine racing, a powerful intrusion on the otherwise still street. It swung alongside the kerb in front of McAuliff and stopped abruptly. The chauffeur got out of his seat, raced around the long hood of the car, and opened the rear door for Alex.
It all happened so quickly that McAuliff threw away his cigarette and climbed in, bewildered; he had not adjusted to the swift change of plans. Julian Warfield sat in the far right corner of the huge rear seat, his tiny frame dwarfed by the vehicle's expansive interior.
'I'm sorry to have kept you waiting until the last minute, Mr McAuliff. I was detained.'
'Do you always do business with one eye on secrecy, the other on shock effect?' asked Alex, settling back in the seat, relieved to feel he could speak with confidence.
Warfield replied by laughing his hard, old-man's laugh. 'Compared to Howard Hughes, I'm a used-car salesman.'
'You're still damned unsettling.'
'Would you care for a drink? Preston has a bar built in right there.' Warfield pointed to the