The Cry of the Halidon

by Robert Ludlum

  The table rose en masse; surrounding couples turned. The waiter put the bottle down quickly and started toward Ferguson; he was joined by Peter Jensen, who was the nearest.

  “Oh, Lord,” said Jensen, kneeling down. “I think the poor fellow’s going to be sick. Ruth, come help.… You there, waiter. Give me a hand, chap!”

  The Jensens, aided by two waiters now, gently lifted the young botanist into a sitting position, unloosened his tie, and generally tried to reinstate some form of consciousness. Charles Whitehall, standing beside McAuliff, picked up two napkins and lobbed them across the table onto the floor near those administering aid. Alex watched the Jamaican’s actions; it was not pleasant. Ferguson’s head was nodding back and forth; moans of impending illness came from his lips.

  “I think this is as good a time as any for me to leave,” said Whitehall. “Twenty minutes?”

  McAuliff nodded. “Or thereabouts.”

  The Jamaican turned to Alison, delicately took her hand, kissed it, and smiled. “Good night, my dear.”

  With minor annoyance, Alex sidestepped the two of them and walked over to the Jensens, who, with the waiters’ help, were getting Ferguson to his feet.

  “We’ll bring him to his room,” said Ruth. “I warned him about the rum; it doesn’t go with whiskey. I don’t think he listened.” She smiled and shook her head.

  McAuliff kept his eyes on Ferguson’s face. He wondered if he would see what he saw before. What he had been watching for over an hour.

  And then he did. Or thought he did.

  As Ferguson’s arms went limp around the shoulders of a waiter and Peter Jensen, he opened his eyes. Eyes that seemingly swam in their sockets. But for the briefest of moments, they were steady, focused, devoid of glaze. Ferguson was doing a perfectly natural thing any person would do in a dimly lit room. He was checking his path to avoid obstacles.

  And he was—for that instant—quite sober.

  Why was James Ferguson putting on such a splendidly embarrassing performance? McAuliff would have a talk with the young man in the morning. About several things, including a “whiskey-slanted” note that resulted in a suitcase that triggered the dial of an electric scanner.

  “Poor lamb. He’ll feel miserable in the morning.” Alison had come alongside Alex. Together they watched the Jensens take Ferguson out the door.

  “I hope he’s just a poor lamb who went astray for the night and doesn’t make a habit of it.”

  “Oh, come on, Alex, don’t be old-auntie. He’s a perfectly nice young man who’s had a pint too many.” Alison turned and looked at the deserted table. “Well, it seems the party’s over, doesn’t it?”

  “I thought we agreed to keep it going.”

  “I’m fading fast, darling; my resolve is weakening. We also agreed to check my luggage with your little magic box. Shall we?”

  “Sure.” McAuliff signaled the waiter.

  They walked down the hotel corridor; McAuliff took Alison’s key as they approached her door. “I have to see Whitehall in a few minutes.”

  “Oh? How come? It’s awfully late.”

  “He said he wanted to speak to me. Privately. I have no idea why. I’ll make it quick.” He inserted the key, opened the door, and found himself instinctively barring Alison in the frame until he had switched on the lights and looked inside.

  The single room was empty, the connecting door to his still open, as it had been when they left hours ago.

  “I’m impressed,” whispered Alison, resting her chin playfully on the outstretched, forbidding arm that formed a bar across the entrance.

  “What?” He removed his arm and walked toward the connecting door. The lights in his room were on—as he had left them. He closed the door quietly, withdrew the scanner from his jacket, and crossed to the bed, where Alison’s two suitcases lay alongside each other, he held the instrument above them; there was no movement on the dial. He walked rapidly about the room, laterally and vertically blessing it from all corners. The room was clean. “What did you say?” he asked softly.

  “You’re protective. That’s nice.”

  “Why were the lights off in this room and not in mine?” He had not heard her words.

  “Because I turned them off. I came in here, got my purse, used some lipstick, and went back into your room. There’s a switch by the door. I used it.”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “You were upset at the time. I gather my room isn’t the center of attention yours is.” Alison walked in and closed the corridor door.

  “No, it’s not, but keep your voice low. Can those goddamn things listen through doors and walls?”

  “No, I don’t think so.” She watched him take her suitcases from the bed and carry them across the room. He stood by the closet, looking for a luggage rack. There was none. “Aren’t you being a little obvious?”

  “What?”

  “What are you doing with my bags? I haven’t unpacked.”

  “Oh.” McAuliff could feel the flush on his face. He felt like a goddamn idiot. “I’m sorry. I suppose you could say I’m compulsively neat.”

  “Or just compulsive.”

  He carried the bags back to the bed and turned to look at her, the suitcases still in his hands. He was so terribly tired. “It’s been a rotten day … a very confusing day,” he said. “The fact that it’s not over yet is discouraging as hell; there’s still Whitehall to go.… And in the next room, if I snore or talk in my sleep or go to the bathroom with the door open, everything is recorded somewhere on a tape. I can say it doesn’t bother me, but it doesn’t make me feel any better, either. I’ll tell you something else, too, while I’m rambling. You are a lovely, lovely girl, and you’re right, I’m compulsive … for example, at this moment I have the strongest compulsion to hold you and kiss you and feel your arms around me, and … you are so goddamn desirable … and you have such a beautiful smile and laugh … and all I want to do is hold you and forget everything else.… Now I’m finished rambling, and you can tell me to go to hell because I’m not relevant.”

  Alison Booth stood silently, looking at McAuliff for what seemed to him far too long. Then she walked slowly, deliberately, to him.

  “Do you know how silly you look holding those suitcases?” she whispered as she leaned forward and kissed him on the lips.

  He dropped the bags; the noise of their contact with the floor made them both smile. He pulled her to him and the comfort was splendid, the warm, growing excitement a special thing. And as he kissed her, their mouths moistly exploring, pressing, widening, he realized Alison was trembling, gripping him with a strength that was more than a desire to be taken. Yet it was not fear; there was no hesitancy, no holding back, only anxiety.

  He lowered her gently to the bed; as he did so, she unbuttoned the silk blouse and guided his hands to her breasts. She closed her eyes as he caressed her and whispered.

  “It’s been a terribly long time, Alex. Do you think Whitehall could wait a while longer? You see, I don’t think I can.”

  They lay beside each other, naked, under the soft covers. She rose on her elbow, her hair falling over her face, and looking at him. She traced his lips with her fingers and bent down, kissing him, outlining his lips now with her tongue.

  “I’m absolutely shameless,” she said, laughing softly. “I want to make love to you all night long. And most of the day … I’m parched and I’ve been to the well and I want to stay here.”

  He reached up and let her hair fall through his fingers. He followed the strands downward to the swell of her body and cupped her left breast. “We’ll take the minimum time out for food and sleep.”

  There was the faint ring of a telephone. It came from the direction of the connecting door. From his room.

  “You’re late for Charles Whitehall,” said Alison. “You’d better go answer it.”

  “Our goddamn Sir Noël.” He climbed out of the bed, walked rapidly to the door, opened it, and went into the room. As he picked up the teleph
one, he looked at the drawn curtains of his balcony doors; he was grateful for Alison’s experience. Except for his socks—why his socks?—he was naked.

  “I said twenty minutes, Mr. McAuliff. It’s nearly an hour.” Whitehall’s voice was quietly furious.

  “I’m sorry. I told you ‘thereabouts.’ For me, an hour is ‘thereabouts.’ Especially when someone gives me orders at this time of night and he’s not bleeding.”

  “Let’s not argue. Will you be here soon?”

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “Twenty minutes.” Alex hung up the telephone a bit harder than was necessary and looked over at his suitcase. Whoever was on the other end of that line knew he was going out of the room to meet someone who had tried to issue him orders at three o’clock in the morning. He would think about it later.

  “Do you know how positively handsome you are? All over,” said Alison as he came back into the room.

  “You’re right, you’re shameless.”

  “Why do you have your knee socks on? It looks peculiar.” She sat up, pulling the sheet over her breasts, and reached for the cigarettes on the night table.

  “Light me one, will you please? I’ve got to get dressed.” McAuliff looked around the bed for the clothing he had removed in such haste a half hour ago.

  “Was he upset?” She handed him a cigarette as he pulled on his trousers and picked up his shirt from the floor.

  “He was upset. He’s also an arrogant son of a bitch.”

  “I think Charles Whitehall wants to strike back at someone or something,” said Alison, watching him absently. “He’s angry.”

  “Maybe it’s recognition. Not granted to the extent he thinks it should be.” McAuliff buttoned his shirt.

  “Perhaps. That would account for his dismissing the compliments.”

  “The what?” he asked.

  “His little entertainment downstairs tonight was frighteningly thought out. It wasn’t prepared for a nightclub. It was created for Covent Garden. Or the grand hall of the United Nations.”

  He tapped gently on Whitehall’s door, and when it opened, McAuliff found the Jamaican dressed in an embroidered Japanese hopi coat. Beneath the flowery garment, Whitehall wore his pinstriped trousers and velvet slippers.

  “Come in, please. This time you’re early. It’s not yet fifteen minutes.”

  “You’re obsessed with time. It’s after three in the morning; I’d rather not look at my watch.” Alex closed the door behind him. “I hope you have something important to tell me. Because if you don’t, I’m going to be damned angry.”

  Whitehall had crossed to the bureau; he picked up a folded piece of paper from the top and indicated a chair for McAuliff. “Sit down, please. I, too, am quite exhausted, but we must talk.”

  Alex walked to the armchair and sat down. “Go ahead.”

  “I think it’s time we had an understanding. It will in no way affect my contributions to the survey.”

  “I’m relieved to hear that. I didn’t hire you to entertain the troops downstairs.”

  “A dividend,” said Whitehall coldly. “Don’t knock it; I’m very good.”

  “I know you are. What else is new?”

  The scholar tapped the paper in his hands. “There’ll be periods when it will be necessary for me to be absent. Never more than a day or two at a time. Naturally, I’ll give you advance notice, and if there are problems—where possible—I shall rearrange my schedule.”

  “You’ll what?” McAuliff sat forward in the chair. “Where … possible … you’ll fit your time to mine? That’s goddamn nice of you. I hope the survey won’t be a burden.”

  Whitehall laughed, impersonally. “Not at all. It was just what I was looking for. And you’ll see, you’ll be quite pleased … although I’m not sure why I should be terribly concerned. You see, I cannot accept the stated reasons for this survey. And I suspect there are one or two others, if they spoke their thoughts, who share my doubts.”

  “Are you suggesting that I hired you under false pretenses?”

  “Oh, come now,” replied the black scholar, his eyes narrowing in irritation. “Alexander McAuliff, a highly confidential, one-man survey company whose work takes him throughout the world … for very large fees, abruptly decides to become academically charitable? To take from four to six months away from a lucrative practice to head up a university survey?” Whitehall laughed like a nervous jackal, walked rapidly to the curtains of the room’s balcony doors, and flipped one side partially open. He twisted the latch and pulled the glass panel several inches inward; the curtain billowed in the night breeze.

  “You don’t know the specifics of my contract,” said Alex noncommittally.

  “I know what universities and royal societies and ministries of education pay. It’s not your league, McAuliff.” The Jamaican returned to the bed and sat down on the edge. He brought the folded paper to his chin and stared at Alex.

  McAuliff hesitated, then spoke slowly. “In a way, aren’t you describing your own situation? There were several people in London who didn’t think you’d take the job. It was quite a drop in income for you.”

  “Precisely. Our positions are similar; I’m sure for very different reasons.… Part of my reasoning takes me to Savanna-la-Mar in the morning.”

  “Your friend on the plane?”

  “A bore. Merely a messenger.” Whitehall held up the folded piece of paper. “He brought me an invitation. Would you care to read it?”

  “You wouldn’t offer unless it was pertinent.”

  “I have no idea whether it is or not. Perhaps you can tell me.”

  Alex took the paper extended to him and unfolded it. It was hotel stationery. The Georges V, Paris. The handwriting was slanted, the strokes rapid, words joined in speed.

  My dear Whitehall—

  Forgive this hastily written note but I have just learned that we are both en route to Jamaica. I for a welcome rest and you, I understand, for more worthwhile pursuits.

  I should deem it an honor and a pleasure to meet with you. Our mutual friend will give you the details. I shall be staying in Savanna-la-Mar, albeit incognito. He will explain.

  I do believe our coming together at the earliest would be mutually beneficial. I have long admired your past (?) island activities. I ask only that our meeting and my presence in Jamaica remain confidential. Since I so admire your endeavors, I know you will understand.

  Chatellerault

  Chatellerault …?

  The Marquis de Chatellerault.

  David Booth’s “employer.” The man behind a narcotics network that spread throughout most of Europe and the Mediterranean. The man Alison feared so terribly that she carried a lethal-looking cylinder of gas with her at all times!

  McAuliff knew that Whitehall was observing him. He forced himself to remain immobile, betraying only numbness on his face and in his eyes.

  “Who is he?” asked McAuliff blandly. “Who’s this Chatel … Chatellerault?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Whitehall,” said Alex in weary exasperation. “Stop playing games. I’ve never heard of him.”

  “I thought you might have.” The scholar was once again staring at McAuliff. “I thought the connection was rather evident.”

  “What connection?”

  “To whatever your reasons are for being in Jamaica. Chatellerault is, among other things, a financier with considerable resources. The coincidence is startling, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” McAuliff glanced down at Chatellerault’s note. “What does he mean by your past, ‘question mark,’ island activities?”

  Whitehall paused before replying. When he did, he spoke quietly, thus lending emphasis to his words. “Fifteen years ago I left my homeland because the political faction for which I worked … devotedly, and in secret … was forced underground. Further underground, I should say. For a decade we have remained dormant—on the
surface. But only on the surface. I have returned now. Kingston knows nothing. It therefore demands confidentiality. I have, with considerable risk, broken this confidence as an article of faith. For you … please. Why are you here, McAuliff? Perhaps it will tell me why such a man as Chatellerault wishes a conference.”

  Alex got out of the chair and walked aimlessly toward the balcony doors. He moved because it helped him concentrate. His mind was racing, some abstract thoughts signaling a warning that Alison was in danger … others balking, not convinced.

  He crossed to the back of the chair facing Whitehall’s bed and gripped the cloth firmly. “All right, I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll tell you why I’m here, if you’ll spell out this … activity of yours.”

  “I will tell you what I can,” replied Charles, his eyes devoid of deceit. “It will be sufficient, you will see. I cannot tell you everything. It would not be good for you.”

  “That’s a condition I’m not sure I like.”

  “Please. Trust me.”

  The man was not lying, that much was clear to Alex. “Okay … I know the north coast; I worked for Kaiser’s bauxite. I’m considered very pro—that is, I’ve put together some good teams and I’ve got a decent reputation—”

  “Yes, yes. To the point, please.”

  “By heading up this job, the Jamaican government has guaranteed me first refusal on twenty percent of any industrial development for the next six years. That could mean millions of dollars. It’s as simple as that.”

  Whitehall sat motionless, his hands still folded beneath his chin, an elegant little boy in a concerned man’s body. “Yes, that is plausible,” he said finally. “In much of Kingston, everything’s for sale. It could be a motive for Chatellerault.”

  Alex remained behind the chair. “All right. Now, that’s why I’m here. Why are you?”

  “It is good you told me of your arrangement. I shall do my best to see that it is lived up to. You deserve that.”