So Alex had to go out onto the Strand, into succeeding pubs and chemists’ shops to public telephones until Hammond’s line answered. He was sure he was being observed—by someone—and thus he had to pretend annoyance each time he hung up after an unanswered call. He found that he had built the fabric of a lie, should Warfield question him. His lie was that he was trying to reach Alison Booth and cancel a lunch date they had for the following day. They did have a lunch date, which he had no intention of canceling, but the story possessed sufficient truth to be valid.
Build on part of the truth. Attitude and reaction. M.I.5.
Finally, Hammond’s telephone was answered, by a man who stated casually that he had gone out for a late supper.
A late supper! Good God!… Global cartels, international collusion in the highest places, financial conspiracies, and a late supper.
In reasoned tones, as opposed to McAuliff’s anxiety, the man told him that Hammond would be alerted. Alex was not satisfied; he insisted that Hammond be at his telephone—if he had to wait all night—until he, Alex, made contact after the Warfield appointment.
It was 11:45. Still no St. James Rolls-Royce. He looked around at the few pedestrians on High Holborn, walking through the heavy mist. He wondered which, if any, was concerned with him.
The pocket of fear.
He wondered, too, about Alison. They had had dinner for the third night in succession; she had claimed she had a lecture to prepare, and so the evening was cut short. Considering the complications that followed, it was a good thing.
Alison was a strange girl. The professional who covered her vulnerability well; who never strayed far from that circle of quiet humor that protected her. The half laugh, the warm blue eyes, the slow, graceful movement of her hands … these were her shields, somehow.
There was no problem in selecting her as his first choice … professionally. She was far and away the best applicant for the team. Alex considered himself one of the finest rock-strata specialists on both continents, yet he wasn’t sure he wanted to pit his expertise against hers. Alison Gerrard Booth was really good.
And lovely.
And he wanted her in Jamaica.
He had prepared an argument for Warfield, should Dunstone’s goddamn security computers reject her. The final clearance of his selections was the object of the night’s conference.
Where was the goddamned black ship of an automobile? It was ten minutes to midnight.
«Excuse me, sir,» said a deep, almost guttural voice behind McAuliff.
He turned, and saw a man about his own age, in a brown mackinaw; he looked like a longshoreman or a construction worker.
«Yes?»
«It’s m’ first time in London, sir, and I thinks I’m lost.»
The man then pointed up at the street sign, barely visible in the spill of the lamp through the mist. «This says Chancery Lane, which is supposed to be near a place called Hatton, which is where I’m supposed to meet m’ friends. I can’t find it, sir.»
Alex gestured to his left. «It’s up there two or three blocks.»
The man pointed again, as a simpleton might point, in the direction of McAuliff’s gesture. «Up there, sir?»
«That’s right.»
The man shook his arm several times, as if emphasizing. «You’re sure, sir?» And then the man lowered his voice and spoke rapidly. «Please don’t react, Mr. McAuliff. Continue as though you are explaining. Mr. Hammond will meet you in Soho; there’s an all-night club called The Owl of Saint George. He’ll be waiting. Stay at the bar, he’ll reach you. Don’t worry about the time. He doesn’t want you to make any more telephone calls. You’re being watched.»
McAuliff swallowed, blanched, and waved his hand—a little too obviously, he felt—in the direction of Hatton Garden. He, too, spoke quietly, rapidly, «Jesus! If I’m being watched, so are you!»
«We calculate these things—»
«I don’t like your addition! What am I supposed to tell Warfield? To let me off in Soho?»
«Why not? Say you feel like a night out. You’ve nothing scheduled in the morning. Americans like Soho; it’s perfectly natural. You’re not a heavy gambler, but you place a bet now and then.»
«Christ! Would you care to describe my sex life?»
«I could, but I won’t.» The guttural, loud North Country voice returned. «Thank you, sir. You’re very kind, sir. I’m sure I’ll find m’ friends.»
The man walked swiftly away into the night mist toward Hatton Garden. McAuliff felt his whole body shiver; his hands trembled. To still them, he reached into his pocket for cigarettes. He was grateful for the opportunity to grip the metal of his lighter.
It was five minutes to twelve. He would wait until several minutes past and then leave. His instructions were to «return to the Savoy»; another meeting would be set. Did that mean it was to be scheduled later that night? In the morning hours? Or did «return to the Savoy» simply mean that he was no longer required to remain at the corner of High Holborn and Chancery Lane? He was free for the evening?
The words were clear, but the alternative interpretation was entirely feasible. If he chose, he could—with a number of stops—make his way into Soho, to Hammond. The network of surveillance would establish the fact that Warfield had not appeared for the appointment. The option was open.
My God! thought Alex. What’s happening to me? Words and meanings … options and alternates. Interpretations of … orders!
Who the hell gave him orders!
He was not a man to be commanded!
But when his hand shook as he raised his cigarette to his lips, he knew that he was—for an indeterminate period of time. Time in a hell he could not stand; he was not free.
The dual hands on his wristwatch converged. It was midnight. To goddamn hell with all of them! He would leave! He would call Alison and tell her he wanted to come over for a drink … ask her if she would let him. Hammond could wait all night in Soho. Where was it? The Owl of Saint George. Silly fucking name!
To hell with him!
The Rolls-Royce sped out of the fog from the direction of Newgate, its deep-throated engine racing, a powerful intrusion in the otherwise still street. It swung alongside the curb in front of McAuliff and stopped abruptly. The chauffeur got out of his seat, raced around the long hood of the car, and opened the rear door for Alex.
It all happened so quickly that McAuliff threw away his cigarette and climbed in, bewildered; he had not adjusted to the swift change of plans. Julian Warfield sat in the far right corner of the huge rear seat, his tiny frame dwarfed by the vehicle’s expansive interior.
«I’m sorry to have kept you waiting until the last minute, Mr. McAuliff. I was detained.»
«Do you always do business with one eye on secrecy, the other on shock effect?» asked Alex, settling back in the seat, relieved to feel he could speak with confidence.
Warfield replied by laughing his hard, old-man’s laugh. «Compared to Ross Perot, I’m a used-car salesman.»
«You’re still damned unsettling.»
«Would you care for a drink? Preston has a bar built in right there.» Warfield pointed to the felt back of the front seat. «Just pull on that strap.»
«No, thank you. I may do a little drinking later, not now.»
Easy. Easy, McAuliff, he thought to himself.