pain in the ears. The eyes were attacked next, by tear-provoking layers of heavy smoke, thick and translucent - the nostrils reacting immediately to the pungent sweetness of tobacco laced with grass and hashish.
McAuliff made his way through the tangled network of soft flesh, separating thrusting arms and protruding shoulders gently but firmly, finally reaching the rear of the bar area.
The Owl of Saint George was at its undulating peak. The psychedelic lights exploded against the walls and ceiling in rhythmic crescendos; bodies were concave and convex, none seemingly upright, all swaying, writhing violently.
Holcroft was seated in a circular booth with five others: two men and three women. Alex paused, concealed by drinkers and dancers, and looked at Holcroft's gathering. It was funny; not sardonically funny, humorously funny. Holcroft and his middle-aged counterpart across the table were dressed in the 'straight' fashion, as were two of the three women, straight and past forty. The remaining couple was young, hip, and profuse with beads and suede and flowing hair held back with headbands. The picture was instantly recognizable: parents indulging the generation gap, uncomfortable but game.
McAuliff remembered the man's words on High Holborn. Stay at the bar, he'll reach you. He manoeuvred his way to within arm's length of the mahogany and managed to shout his order to the black Soho bartender with an Afro haircut. He wondered when Holcroft would make his move; he did not want to wait long. He had a great deal to say to the British agent.
'Pardon, but you are a chap named McAuliff, aren't you?' The shouted question caused Alex to spill part of his drink. The shouter was the young mod from Holcroft's table. Holcroft was not wasting time.
'Yes. Why?'
'My girl's parents recognized you. Asked me to invite you over.'
The following moments, McAuliff felt, were like a play within a play. A brief, staged exercise with acutely familiar dialogue, acted out in front of a bored audience of other, more energetic actors. But with a surprise that made Alex consider Holcroft's skill in a very favourable light.
He did know the middle-aged man across from Holcroft. And his wife. Not well, of course, but they were acquaintances. He'd met them two or three times before, on previous London trips. They weren't the sort of memorable people one recognized on the street - or in The Owl of Saint George - unless the circumstances were recalled.
Holcroft was introduced by his correct name, and McAuliff was seated next to him.
'How the hell did you arrange this?' asked Alex after five excruciating minutes remembering the unmemorable with the acquaintances. 'Do they know who you are?'
'Laugh occasionally,' answered Holcroft with a calm, precise smile. 'They believe I'm somewhere in that great government pyramid, juggling figures in poorly lit rooms... The arrangements were necessary. Warfield has doubled his teams on you. We're not happy about it; he may have spotted us, but, of course, it's unlikely.'
'He's spotted something, I guarantee it.' Alex bared his teeth, but the smile was false. 'I've got a lot to talk to you about. Where can we meet?'
'Here. Now,' was the Britisher's reply. 'Speak occasionally to the others, but it's perfectly acceptable that we strike up a conversation. We might use it as a basis for lunch or drinks in a day or two.'
'No way. I leave for Kingston the morning after next.'
Holcroft paused, his glass halfway to his lips. 'So soon? We didn't expect that.'
'It's insignificant compared to something else... Warfield knows about Halidon. That is, he asked me what I knew about it.'
' What?'
'Mr McAuliff?' came the shouted enquiry from across the table. 'Surely you know the Bensons, from Kent...'
The timing was right, thought Alex. Holcroft's reaction to his news was one of astonishment. Shock that changed swiftly to angered acceptance. The ensuing conversation about the unremembered Bensons would give Holcroft time to think. And Alex wanted him to think.
'What exactly did he say?' asked Holcroft. The revolving psychedelic lights now projected their sharp patterns on the table, giving the agent a grotesque appearance. 'The exact words.'
'"What does the word 'Halidon' mean to you?" That's what he said.'
'Your answer?'
'What answer? I didn't have one. I told him it was a town in New Jersey.'
'I beg your pardon?'
'Halidon, New Jersey. It's a town.'
'Different spelling, I believe. And pronunciation... Did he accept your ignorance?'
'Why wouldn't he? I'm ignorant.'
'Did you conceal the fact that you'd heard the word? It's terribly important!'
'Yes... yes, I think I did. As a matter of fact, I was thinking about something,else.