When he hung up the telephone last night, James had felt a wave of calm come over him. The sort of quiet confidence he experienced in a laboratory, where his eye and mind were very sure indeed.
He would have to be cautious, but he could do it.
He had gotten drunk when he realized that.
And now his head and stomach were in pain. But he could stand them; they were bearable now. Things were going to be different.
He looked at his watch. His goddamn Timex. It was 6.25. A cheap watch, but accurate.
Instead of a Timex there might be a Piaget Chronometer in his future. And new, very expensive camera equipment. And a real bank balance.
And a new life.
If he was cautious.
The telephone rang on Peter Jensen's side of the bed, but his wife heard it first.
'Peter... Peter! For heaven's sake, the phone.'
'What?... What, old girl?' Peter Jensen blinked his eyes; the room was dark, but there was daylight beyond the drawn curtains.
The telephone rang again. Short bursts of bell; the kind of rapid blasts hotel switchboards practice. Nimble fingers, irritated guests.
Peter Jensen reached over and switched on the light. The travelling clock read ten minutes to eight.
Again the shrill bell, now steady.
'Damn!' sputtered Peter as he realized the instrument was beyond the lamp, requiring him to reach farther. 'Yes, yes! Hello?'
'Mr Peter Jensen, please?' said the unfamiliar male voice.
'Yes. What is it? This is Jensen.'
'Cable-International, Mr Jensen. A wire arrived for you several minutes ago. From London. Shall I read it? It's marked urgent, sir.'
'No!' replied Peter quickly, firmly. 'No, don't do that. I've been expecting it; it's rather long, I should think.'
'Yes, sir, it is.'
'Just send it over right away, if you please. Can you do that? The Courtleigh Manor. Room 401. It won't be necessary to stop at the desk.'
'I understand, Mr Jensen. Right away. There'll be a charge for an unscheduled - '
'Of course, of course,' interrupted Peter. 'Just send it over, please.'
'Yes, sir.'
Twenty-five minutes later, the messenger from Cable-International arrived. Moments before, room service had wheeled in a breakfast of melon, tea, and scones. Peter Jensen opened the two-page cablegram and spread it out over the linen cloth on his side of the table. There was a pencil in his hand.
Across from him, Ruth held up a page of paper, scanning it over the rim of her cup. She, too, had a pencil, at the side of the saucer.
The company name is "Parkhurst,"' said Peter.
'Check,' said Ruth, putting down her tea. She placed the paper alongside, picked up the pencil, and made a mark on the page.
'The address is "Sheffield By The Glen."' Peter looked over at her.
'Go ahead,' replied Ruth, making a second notation.
'The equipment to be inspected is microscopes.'
'Very well.' Ruth made a third mark on the left of the page, went back to her previous notes, and then darted her eyes to the bottom right. 'Are you ready?'
'Yes.'
Ruth Wells Jensen, palaeontologist, proceeded to recite a series of numbers. Her husband started at the top of the body of the cablegram and began circling words with his pencil. Several times he asked his wife to repeat a number. As she did so, he counted from the previous circle and circled another word.
Three minutes later, they had finished the exercise. Peter Jensen swallowed some tea and reread the cablegram to himself. His wife spread jam on two scones and covered the teapot with the cozy.
'Warfield is flying over next week. He agrees. McAuliff has been reached.'
Chapter Seventeen
PART THREE
The North Coast
SEVENTEEN
Holcroft's words kept coming back to McAuliff: You'll find it quite acceptable to operate on different levels. Actually, it evolves rather naturally, even instinctively. You'll discover that you tend to separate your concentrations.
The British Intelligence agent had been right. The survey was in its ninth day, and Alex found that for hours at a time he had no other thoughts but the immediate work at hand.
The equipment had been trucked from Boscobel Airfield straight through to Puerto Seco, on Discovery Bay. Alex, Sam Tucker, and Alison Booth flew into Ocho Rios ahead of the others and allowed themselves three days of luxury at the San Souci while McAuliff ostensibly hired a crew - two of the five of which had been agreed upon in an isolated farmhouse high in the hills of the Blue Mountains. Alex found - as he'd expected - that Sam and Alison got along extremely well. Neither was difficult to like; each possessed an easy humour, both