a warm night, with no breeze, and humid. Fat clouds, flying low and threatening rain, blocked the moon; the antiquated street lamps threw a subdued light in counterpoint to the gaudy neons of white and orange that announced the diversions of Montego Bay night life.
Ferguson reached Harbour Street and turned left. He stopped under a street lamp and checked his watch again. It was ten minutes past midnight; Craft had specified 12.15. In five minutes, he would have a thousand dollars.
Pier Six was directly ahead on his right, across the street. There was no ship in the dock, no activity within the huge loading area beyond the high linked fence; only a large naked bulb inside a wire casing that lit up the sign:
PIER SIX
HAMMOND LINES
He was to stand under the lamp, in front of the sign, and wait for a man to drive up in a Triumph sportscar. The man would ask him for identification. Ferguson would show him his passport and the man would give him the envelope.
So simple. The entire transaction would take less than thirty seconds. And change his life.
Craft had been stunned; speechless, actually, until he had found his voice and screamed a torrent of abuse... until, again, he realized the futility of his position. Craft the Younger had gone too far. He had broken laws and would be an object of scorn and embarrassment. James Ferguson could tell a story of airport meetings and luggage and telephone calls and industrial espionage... and promises.
Such promises.
But his silence could be purchased. Craft could buy his confidence for a first payment of one thousand dollars. If Craft did not care to do so, Ferguson was sure the Kingston authorities would display avid interest in the details of his story.
No, he had not spoken to anyone... yet. But things had been written down. (Lies Craft could not trace, of course.) That did not mean he was incapable of finding the spoken words; such capability was very much within his province... as the first payment was within Craft's province. One cancelled the other; which would it be?
And so it was.
Ferguson crossed Harbour Street and approached the wire-encased light and the sign. A block and a half away, crowds of tourists swelled into the street, a one-way flow towards the huge passenger terminal and the gangplanks of a cruise ship. Taxis emerged out of side streets and alleys from the centre of Montego Bay, blowing their horns anxiously, haltingly making their way to the dock. Three bass-toned whistles filled the air, vibrating the night, signifying that the ship was giving a warning: All passengers were to be on board.
He heard the Triumph before he saw it. There was the gunning of an engine from the darkness of a narrow side street diagonally across from Pier Six. The shiny, red, low-slung sportscar sped out of the dark recess and coasted to a stop in front of Ferguson. The driver was another Craft employee, one he recognized from a year ago. He did not recall the man's name; only that he was a quick, physical person, given to arrogance. He would not be arrogant now.
He wasn't. He smiled in the open car and gestured Ferguson to come over. 'Hello, Fergy. It's been a long time.'
Ferguson hated the nickname 'Fergy'; it had dogged him for most of his life. Just when he had come to think it was part of a schoolboy past, someone - always someone unpleasant, he reflected - used it. He felt like correcting the man, reminding him of his messenger status, but he did not. He simply ignored the greeting.
'Since you recognize me, I assume there's no need to show you my identification,' said James, approaching the Triumph.
'Christ, no! How've you been?'
'Well, thank you. Do you have the envelope? I'm in a hurry.'
'Sure. Sure, I do, Fergy... Hey, you're a pistol, buddy! Our friend is pissing rocks! He's half out of his skull, you know what I mean?'
'I know what you mean. He should be. The envelope, please.'
'Sure.' The driver reached into his jacket and withdrew an envelope. He then leaned over and handed it to Ferguson. 'You're supposed to count it. If it's all there, just give me back the envelope... make any kind of mark on it you like. Oh, here's a pen.' The man opened the glove compartment and took out a ballpoint pen and held it up for Ferguson.
'That's not necessary. He wouldn't try to cheat me.'