It was a race in blinding sunlight, somehow macabre because of the eye-jolting reflections from the glass and chrome and brightly coloured metals on the Montego streets. And the profusion of people. Crowded, jostling, black and white; thin men and fat women - the former with their 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 Holcroft; 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 McAuliffs 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 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 and blank, dead, bulging eyes. He had been garrotted swiftly, professionally.
Holcroft 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.'
Holcroft had stared at the lifeless black, and when he spoke, McAuliff recognized the profound shock of the Intelligence 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 Holcroft the manipulator had just figured it out. The two men had raced down the staircase. When they reached the lobby floor, Holcroft 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 signalling device, isn't it?' McAuliff had said.
'Yes. Long-range. External scanner reception; works on verticle 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. I don't know how good it is. An airfield; it's a farm, I guess. West, on the highway, near a place called Unity Hall... Let's go.' Alex reached for the knob on the door to the lobby.
'Not that way,' said Holcroft. 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 cellars.'
'Wait a minute.' McAuliff had grabbed the English man'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 signalling anyone on the street. We run but we don't stop. For anything. You do and you're on your own. I disappear. 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, Holcroft.'
'We all do what we can,' replied the agent coldly,