for certain assignments he might find for them. Inside the government and out; on the temporary staffs of companies... within England and without; always in the highest professional capacities, pursuing their professional labours.
All charges were dropped by the Crown. Terrible mistakes had been made against most respected members of the academic community. Scotland Yard had apologized. Actually apologized.
Peter and Ruth never refused Julian; their loyalty was unquestioned.
Which was why Peter was now on his stomach in the cold, damp sand while the light of a Caribbean dawn broke over the eastern horizon. He was behind a mound of coral rock with a perfect view of McAuliff's oceanside terrace. Julian's last instructions had been specific.
Find out who comes to see him. Who's important to him. Get identities, if you can. But for God's sake, stay in the background. We'll need you both in the interior.
Julian had agreed that McAuliff's disappearances - into Kingston, into taxis, into an unknown car at the gates of the Courtleigh Manor - all meant that he had interests in Jamaica other than Dunstone, Limited.
It had to be assumed that he had broken the primary article of faith. Secrecy.
If so, McAuliff could be transferred... forgotten without difficulty. But before that happened, it was essential to discover the identity of Dunstone's island enemy.
Or enemies.
In a very real sense, the survey itself was secondary to that objective. Definitely secondary. If it came down to it, the survey could be sacrificed if, by that sacrifice, identities were revealed.
And Peter knew he was nearer those identities now... in this early dawn on the beach of Bengal Court.
It had begun three hours ago.
Peter and Ruth had retired a little past midnight. Their room was in the east wing of the motel, along with Ferguson's and Charles Whitehall's. McAuliff, Alison, and Sam Tucker were in the west wing, the division signifying only old friends, new lovers, and late drinkers.
They heard it around one o'clock: an automobile swerving into the front drive, its wheels screeching, then silent, as if the driver had heard the noise and suddenly become alarmed by it.
It had been strange. Bengal Court was no kind of nightclub, no 'drum-drum' watering hole that catered to the swinging and/or younger tourist crowds. It was quiet, with very little to recommend it to the image of fast drivers. As a matter of fact, Peter Jensen could not remember having heard any automobiles drive into Bengal Court after nine o'clock in the evening since they had been there.
He had risen from the bed and walked out on the terrace, and had seen nothing. He had walked around the east end of the motel to the edge of the front parking lot, where he did see something; something extremely alarming, barely visible.
In the far section of the lot, in shadows, a large black man - he believed he was black - was lifting the unconscious figure of another man out of the rear seat of an automobile. Then, farther beyond, a white man ran across the lawn from around the corner of the west wing. It was Sam Tucker. He approached the black carrying the unconscious form, gave instructions - pointing to the direction from which he had come - and continued to the automobile, silently closing the rear door.
Sam Tucker was supposed to be in Ocho Rios with McAuliff. It seemed unlikely that he would have returned to Bengal Court alone.
And as Jensen pondered this, there was the outline of another figure on the west lawn. It was Alison Booth. She gestured to the black man; she was obviously excited, trying to remain in control of herself. She led the large black man into the darkness around the far corner.
Peter Jensen suddenly had a sinking feeling. Was the unconscious figure Alexander McAuliff? Then he rethought the immediate visual picture. He could not be sure - he could barely see, and everything was happening so rapidly - but as the black passed under the dim spill of a parking light, the bobbing head of his charge extended beyond his arms. Peter had been struck by the oddness of it. The head appeared to be completely bald... as if shaven.
Sam Tucker looked inside the automobile, seemed satisfied, then raced back across the west lawn after the others.
Peter remained crouched in his concealed position after the figure had disappeared. It was extraordinary. Tucker and Alison Booth were not in Ocho Rios; a man had been hurt, apparently quite seriously, and instead of taking him directly inside the