his eyes unwavering. 'You've learned quickly, Alexander. You're an apt pupil.'
'Reluctantly. I don't think much of the school.'
And the race in the blinding sunlight had begun.
They ran up the curving driveway of the basement garage, directly into a tan Mercedes sedan that was not parked at that particular entrance by coincidence. Holcroft and Alexander saw the startled look on the face of the white driver; then the man reached over across the seat for a miniature transistorized radio.
In the next few seconds Alex, witnessed an act of violence he would never forget as long as he lived. An act performed with cold precision.
R. C. Holcroft reached into both his pockets and took out the Rycee automatic in his right hand, a steel cylinder in his left. He slapped the cylinder onto the barrel of the weapon, snapped in a clip, and walked directly to the door of the tan Mercedes Benz. He opened it, held his hand low, and fired two shots into the driver, killing him instantly.
The shots were spits. The driver fell onto the dashboard; Holcroft reached down and picked up the radio with his left hand.
The sun was bright; the strolling crowds kept moving. If any knew an execution had taken place, none showed it.
The British agent closed the door almost casually.
'My God...' It was as far as Alex got.
'It was the last thing he expected,' said Holcroft rapidly. 'Let's find a taxi.'
The statement was easier made than carried out. Cabs did not cruise in Montego Bay. The drivers homed like giant pigeons back to appointed street corners, where they lined up in European fashion, as much to discuss the progress of the day with their peers as to find additional fares. It was a maddening practice; during these moments it was a frightening one for the two fugitives. Neither knew where the cab locations were, except the obvious - the hotel entrance - and that was out.
They rounded the corner of the building, emerging on a free-port strip. The sidewalks were steaming hot; the crowds of gaudy, perspiring shoppers were pushing, hauling, tugging, pressing faces against the window fronts, foreheads and fingers smudging the glass, envying the unenviable... the shiny. Cars were immobilized in the narrow street, the honking of horns interspersed with oaths and threats as Jamaican tried to out-chauffeur Jamaican for the extra tip... and his manhood.
Alexander saw him first, under a green and white sign that read 'MIRANDA HILL' with an arrow pointing south. He was a heavyset, dark-haired white man in a brown gabardine suit, the jacket buttoned, the cloth stretched across muscular shoulders. The man's eyes were scanning the streams of human traffic, his head darting about like that of a huge pink ferret. And clasped in his left hand, buried in the flesh of his immense left hand, was a transistorized walkie-talkie identical to the one Holcroft had taken out of the Mercedes.
Alex knew it would be only seconds before the man spotted them. He grabbed Holcroft's arm and wished to God both of them were shorter than they were.
'At the corner! Under the sign... Miranda Hill. The brown suit.'
'Yes. I see.' They were by a low-hanging awning of a free-port liquor store. Holcroft swung into the entrance, begging his pardon through the swarm of tourists, their Barbados shirts and Virgin Island palm hats proof of yet another cruise ship. McAuliff followed involuntarily; the Britisher had locked Alex's arm in a vicelike grip, propelling the American in a semicircle, forcing him into the crowded doorway.
The agent positioned the two of them inside the store, at the far corner of the display window. The line of sight was direct; the man under the green and white sign could be seen clearly, his eyes still searching the crowds. 'It's the same radio,' said Alex.
'If we're lucky, he'll use it. I'm sure they've set up relays... I know him. He's Unio Corso.'
'That's like a Mafia, isn't it?'
'Not unlike. And far more efficient. He's a Corsican gun. Very high-priced. Warfield would pay it.' Holcroft clipped his phrases in a quiet monotone; he was considering strategies. 'He may be our way out.'
'You'll have to be clearer than that,' said Alex.
'Yes, of course.' The Englishman was imperiously polite. And maddening. 'By now they've circled the area, I should think. Covering all streets. Within minutes they'll know we've left the hotel. The signal won't fool them for long.' Holcroft lifted the radio as unobtrusively as possible to the side of his head and snapped the