his chest and winced painfully as he struggled to his feet. 'You break up... everyt'ing, mon!' said the injured man, looking at the smashed equipment.
'I certainly did! Maybe your Mr Craft will get the message. If he wants to play industrial espionage, let him play in somebody else's backyard. I resent the intrusion... Come on, let's go.' Alex took the man by the arm and began leading him to the door.
'No, mon!' shouted the black, resisting.
'Yes, mon,' said McAuliff quietly. 'You're coming with me.'
'Where, mon?'
'To see a little old man who runs a fish store, that's all.' Alex shoved him; the Negro gripped his side. His ribs were broken, thought McAuliff.
'Please, mon! No police, mon! I lose everyt'ing!' The Jamaican's dark eyes were pleading as he held his ribs.
'You went for a gun, mon! That's a very serious thing to do.'
'Them not my gun. Them gun got no bullets, mon.'
'Look-see, mon! Please! I got good job... I don' hurt nobody.'
Alex wasn't listening. He reached into his belt for the pistol.
It was no weapon at all.
It was a starter's gun; the kind held up by referees at track meets.
'Oh, for Christ's sake...' Arthur Craft, Junior, played games - little boys' games with little boys' toys.
McAuliff looked at the panicked Jamaican.
'Okay, mon. You just tell your employer what I said. The next time, I'll haul him into court.'
It was a silly thing to say, thought Alex, as he walked out into the corridor, slamming the door behind him. There'd be no courts; Julian Warfield or his adversary, R. C. Holcroft, was far more preferable. Alongside Dunstone, Limited, and British Intelligence, Arthur Craft was a cipher.
An unimportant intrusion that in all likelihood was no more.
He walked out of the elevator and tried to recall the location of the telephone booths. They were to the left of the entrance, past the front desk, he remembered.
He nodded to clerks while thinking of Westmore Tallon's private number.
'Mr McAuliff, sir?' The speaker was a tall Jamaican with very broad shoulders, emphasized by a tight nylon jacket.
'Yes?'
'Would you come with me, please?'
Alex looked at the man. He was neat, the trousers pressed, a white shirt and a tie in evidence beneath the jacket. 'No... why should I?'
'Please, we have very little time. A man is waiting for you outside. A Mr Tucker.'
'What? How did - '
''Please, Mr McAuliff. I cannot stay here.'
Alex followed the Jamaican out the glass doors of the entrance. As they reached the driveway, he saw the man in the yellow shirt - Craft's man - walking on the path from the parking lot; the man stopped and stared at him, as if unsure what to do.
'Hurry, please,' said the Jamaican, several steps in front of McAuliff, breaking into a run. 'Down past the gates. The car is waiting!'
They ran down the drive, past the stone gateposts.
The green Chevrolet was on the side of the road, its motor running. The Jamaican opened the back door for Alex.
'Get in!'
McAuliff did so.
Sam Tucker, his massive frame taking up most of the back seat, his shock of red hair reflecting the outside lights, extended his hand.
'Good to see you, boy!'
'Sam!'
The car lurched forward, throwing Alex into the felt. In the front seat, McAuliff saw that there were three men. The driver wore a baseball cap; the third man - nearly as large as Sam Tucker - was squeezed between the driver and the Jamaican who had met him inside the Courtleigh lobby. Alex turned back to Tucker.
'What is all this, Sam? Where the hell have you been?'
The answer, however, did not come from Sam Tucker. Instead, the black by the window, the man who had led Alex down the driveway, turned and spoke quietly.
'Mr Tucker has been with us, Mr McAuliff... If events can be controlled, we are your link to the Halidon.'
Chapter Fourteen
FOURTEEN
They drove for nearly an hour. Always climbing, higher and higher, it seemed to McAuliff. The winding roads snaked upward, the turns sudden, the curves hidden by sweeping waterfalls of tropic greenery. There were stretches of unpaved road. The automobile took them poorly; the whining of the low gear was proof of the strain.
McAuliff and Sam Tucker spoke quietly, knowing their conversation was overheard by those in front. That knowledge did not seem to bother Tucker.
Sam's story was totally logical, considering his habits and life style. Sam Tucker had friends, or acquaintances, in many parts of the world no one knew about. Not that he intentionally concealed their identities, only that they were part