The two men had been bound by bamboo shoots to separate trees, each next to valuable survey equipment. They had been consumed in the conflagration, for the simple reason that neither could run from it. But the agent had left a message, a single word scratched on the metal casing of a geoscope.
Halidon.
Inspection under a microscope gave the remainder of the horror story: particles of human tooth enamel. The agent had scratched the letters with broken teeth.
Halidon … holly-dawn.
No known definition. A word? A name? A man? A three-beat sound?
What did it mean?
«It’s beautiful isn’t it,» said Alison, looking beyond him through the window.
«You’re awake.»
«Someone turned on a radio and a man spoke … endlessly.» She smiled and stretched her long legs. She then inhaled in a deep yawn, which caused her breasts to swell against the soft white silk of her blouse. McAuliff watched. And she saw him watching, and smiled again—in humor, not provocation. «Relevancy, Dr. McAuliff. Remember?»
«That word’s going to get you into trouble, Ms. Booth.»
«I’ll stop saying it instantly. Come to think, I don’t believe I used it much until I met you.»
«I like the connection; don’t stop.»
She laughed and reached for her pocketbook, on the deck between them.
There was a sudden series of rise-and-fall motions as the plane entered air turbulence. It was over quickly, but during it Alison’s open purse landed on its side—on Alex’s lap. Lipstick, compact, matches, and a short thick tube fell out, wedging themselves between McAuliff’s legs. It was one of those brief, indecisive moments. Pocketbooks were unfair vantage points, somehow unguarded extensions of the private self. And Alison was not the type to reach swiftly between a man’s legs to retrieve property.
«Nothing fell on the floor,» said Alex awkwardly, handing Alison the purse. «Here.»
He picked up the lipstick and the compact with his left hand, his right on the thick tube, which, at first, seemed to have a very personal connotation. As his eyes were drawn to the casing, however, the connotation became something else. The tube was a weapon, a compressor. On the cylinder’s side were printed words:
312
GAS CONTENTS
FOR MILITARY AND/OR POLICE USE ONLY
AUTHORISATION NUMBER
4316
RECORDED
: 1–6
The authorization number and the date had been handwritten in indelible ink. The gas compressor had been issued by British authorities a month ago.
Alison took the tube from his hand. «Thank you,» was all she said.
«You planning to hijack the plane? That’s quite a lethal-looking object.»
«London has its problems for girls … women these days. There were incidents in my building. May I have a cigarette? I seem to be out.»
«Sure.» McAuliff reached into his shirt pocket and withdrew the cigarettes, shaking one up for her. He lighted it, then spoke softly, very gently. «Why are you lying to me, Alison?»
«I’m not. I think it’s presumptuous of you to think so.»
«Oh, come on.» He smiled, reducing the earnestness of his inquiry. «The police, especially the London police, do not issue compressors of gas because of ‘incidents.’ And you don’t look like a colonel in the Women’s Auxiliary Army.» As he said the words, Alex suddenly had the feeling that perhaps he was wrong. Was Alison Booth an emissary from Hammond? Not Warfield, but British Intelligence?
«Exceptions are made. They really are, Alex.» She locked her eyes with his; she was not lying.
«May I venture a suggestion? A reason?»
«If you like.»
«David Booth?»
She looked away, inhaling deeply on her cigarette. «You know about him. That’s why you kept asking questions the other night.»
«Yes. Did you think I wouldn’t find out?»
«I didn’t care … no, that’s not right; I think I wanted you to find out if it helped me get the job. But I couldn’t tell you.»
«Why not?»
«Oh, Lord, Alex! Your own words; you wanted the best professionals, not personal problems! For all I knew, you’d have scratched me instantly.» Her smile was gone now. There was only anxiety.
«This Booth must be quite a fellow.»
«He’s a very sick, very vicious man. But I can handle David. I was always able to handle him. He’s an extraordinary coward.»
«Most vicious people are.»
«I’m not sure I subscribe to that. But it wasn’t David. It was someone else. The man he worked for.»
«Who?»
«A Frenchman. A marquis. Chatellerault is his name.»
The team took separate taxis into Kingston. Alison remained behind with McAuliff while he commandeered the equipment with the help of the Jamaican government people attached to the Ministry of Education. Alex could feel the same vague resentment from the Jamaicans that he had felt with the academicians in London; only added now was the aspect of pigmentation. Were there no black geologists? they seemed to be thinking.
The point was emphasized by the Customs men, their khaki uniforms creased into steel. They insisted on examining each box, each carton, as though each contained the most dangerous contraband imaginable. They decided to be officially thorough as McAuliff stood helplessly by long after the aircraft had taxied into a Palisados berth. Alison remained ten yards away, sitting on a luggage dolly.
An hour and a half later, the equipment had been processed and marked for in-island transport to Boscobel Airfield, in Ocho Rios. McAuliff’s temper was stretched to the point of gritted teeth and a great deal of swallowing. He grabbed Alison’s arm and marched them both toward the terminal.
«For heaven’s sake, Alex, you’re bruising my elbow!» said Alison under her breath, trying to hold back her laughter.
«Sorry … I’m sorry. Those goddamned messiahs think they inherited the earth! The bastards!»
«This is their island—»
«I’m in no mood for anticolonial lectures,» he interrupted. «I’m in the mood for a drink. Let’s stop at the lounge.»
«What about our bags?»
«Oh. Christ! I forgot. It’s this way, if I remember,» said Alex, pointing to a gate entrance on the right.
«Yes,» replied Alison. «‘Incoming Flights’ usually means that.»
«Be quiet. My first order to you as a subordinate is not to say another word until we get our bags and I have a drink in my hand.»
But McAuliff’s command, by necessity, was rescinded. Their luggage was nowhere in sight. And apparently no one knew where it might be; all passenger baggage stored on Flight 640 from London had been picked up. An hour ago.
«We were on that flight. We did not pick up our bags. So, you see, you’re mistaken,» Alex said curtly to the luggage manager.
«Then you look-see, mon,» answered the Jamaican, irritated by the American’s implication that he was less than efficient. «Every suitcase taken—nothing left. Flight Six forty all here, mon! No place other.»
«Let me talk to the British Air representative. Where is he?»
«Who?»
«Your boss, goddammit!»
«I top mon!» replied the black man angrily.
Alex held himself in check. «Look, there’s been a mix-up. The airline’s responsible, that’s all I’m trying to say.»
«I think not, mon,» interjected the luggage manager defensively as he turned to a telephone on the counter. «I will call British Air.»
«All heart.» McAuliff spoke softly to Alison. «Our bags are probably on the way to Buenos Aires.» They waited while the man spoke briefly on the phone.