«You wanted to be taken?»
«No, not actually. It was always a possibility, I knew that … Any ideas, chap? At the moment, it’s your show.»
«One, and I don’t know how good it is. An airfield; it’s a farm, I guess. West, on the highway. Near a place called Drax Hall… Let’s go.» Alex reached for the knob on the door to the lobby.
«Not that way,» said Hammond. «They’ll be watching the lobby. The street, too, I expect. Downstairs. Delivery entrance … maintenance, that sort of thing. There’s bound to be one in the cellar.»
«Wait a minute.» McAuliff had grabbed the Englishman’s arm, physically forcing him to respond. «Let’s you and I get something clear. Right now. You’ve been had. Taken. Your own people sold you out. So there won’t be any stopping for phone calls, for signaling anyone on the street. We run but we don’t stop. For anything. You do and you’re on your own. I disappear and I don’t think you can handle that.»
«Who in hell do you think I’m going to get in touch with? The Prime Minister?»
«I don’t know. I just know that I don’t trust you. I don’t trust liars. Or manipulators. And you’re both, Hammond.»
«We all do what we can,» replied the agent coldly, his eyes unwavering. «You’ve learned quickly, Alexander. You’re an apt pupil.»
«Reluctantly. I don’t think much of the school.»
And the race in the blinding sunlight had begun.
They ran up the curving driveway of the basement garage, directly into a tan Mercedes sedan that was not parked at that particular entrance by coincidence. Hammond and Alexander saw the startled look on the face of the white driver; then the man reached over across the seat for a transistor radio.
In the next few seconds Alex witnessed an act of violence he would never forget as long as he lived. An act performed with cold precision.
R. C. Hammond reached into both of his pockets and took out the Rycee automatic in his right hand, a steel cylinder in his left. He slapped the cylinder onto the barrel of the weapon, snapped in a clip, and walked directly to the door of the tan Mercedes-Benz. He opened it, held his hand low, and fired two shots into the driver, killing him instantly.
The shots were spits. The driver fell onto the dashboard; Hammond reached down and picked up the radio with his left hand.
The sun was bright; the strolling crowds kept moving. If anyone knew an execution had taken place, none showed it.
The British agent closed the door almost casually.
«My God …» It was as far as Alex got.
«It was the last thing he expected,» said Hammond rapidly. «Let’s find a taxi.»
The statement was easier made than carried out. Cabs did not cruise in Montego Bay. The drivers homed like giant pigeons back to appointed street corners, where they lined up in European fashion, as much to discuss the progress of the day with their peers as to find additional fares. It was a maddening practice; during these moments it was a frightening one for the two fugitives. Neither knew where the cab locations were, except the obvious—the hotel entrance—and that was out.
They rounded the corner of the building, emerging on a free-port strip. The sidewalks were steaming hot; the crowds of gaudy, perspiring shoppers were pushing, hauling, tugging, pressing faces against the window fronts, foreheads and fingers smudging the glass, envying the unenviable … the shiny. Cars were immobilized in the narrow street, the honking of horns, interspersed with oaths and threats as Jamaican tried to out-chauffeur Jamaican for the extra tip … and his manhood.
Alexander saw him first, under a green-and-white sign that read MIRANDA HILL with an arrow pointing south. He was a heavyset, dark-haired white man in a brown gabardine suit, the jacket buttoned, the cloth stretched across muscular shoulders. The man’s eyes were scanning the streams of human traffic, his head darting about like that of a huge pink ferret. And clasped in his left hand, buried in the flesh of his immense left hand, was a walkie-talkie identical to the one Hammond had taken out of the Mercedes.
Alex knew it would be only seconds before the man spotted them. He grabbed Hammond’s arm and wished to God both of them were shorter than they were.
«At the corner! Under the sign … Miranda Hill. The brown suit.»
«Yes. I see.» They were by a low-hanging awning of a free-port liquor store. Hammond swung into the entrance, begging his pardon through the swarm of tourists, their Barbados shirts and Virgin Island palm hats proof of yet another cruise ship. McAuliff followed involuntarily; the Britisher had locked Alex’s arm in a viselike grip, propelling the American in a semicircle, forcing him into the crowded doorway.
The agent positioned the two of them inside the store, at the far corner of the display window. The line of sight was direct; the man under the green-and-white sign could be seen clearly, his eyes still searching the crowds. «It’s the same radio,» said Alex.
«If we’re lucky he’ll use it. I’m sure they’ve set up relays. I know that’s him. He’s Unio Corso.»
«That’s like a Mafia, isn’t it?»
«Not unlike. And far more efficient. He’s a Corsican gun. Very high-priced. Warfield would pay it.» Hammond clipped his phrases in a quiet monotone; he was considering strategies. «He may be our way out.»
«You’ll have to be clearer than that,» said Alex.
«Yes, of course.» The Englishman was very imperiously polite. And maddening. «By now they’ve circled the area, I should think. Covering all streets. Within minutes they’ll know we’ve left the hotel. The signal won’t fool them for long.» Hammond lifted the transistor radio as unobtrusively as possible to the side of his head and snapped the circular switch. There was a brief burst of static; the agent reduced the volume. Several nearby tourists looked curiously; Alexander smiled foolish at them. Outside on the corner, underneath the sign, the Corsican suddenly brought his radio to his ear. Hammond looked at McAuliff. «They’ve just reached your room.»
«How do you know?»
«They report a cigarette still burning in the ashtray. Nasty habit. Radio on … I should have thought of that.» The Englishman pursed his lips abruptly; his eyes indicated recognition. «An outside vehicle is circling. The … W.I.S. claims the signal is still inside.»
«W.I.S.?»
Hammond replied painfully. «West Indian Specialist. One of my men.»
«Past tense,» corrected Alex.
«They can’t raise the Mercedes,» said Hammond quickly. «That’s it.» He swiftly shut off the radio, jammed it into his pocket, and looked outside. The Corsican could be seen listening intently to his instrument. Hammond spoke again. «We’ll have to be very quick. Listen and commit. When our Italian finishes his report, he’ll put the radio to his side. At that instant we’ll break through at him. Get your hands on that radio. Hold it no matter what.»
«Just like that?» asked McAuliff apprehensively. «Suppose he pulls a gun?»
«I’ll be beside you. He won’t have time.»
And the Corsican did not.
As Hammond predicted, the man under the sign spoke into the radio. The agent and Alex were beneath the low awning on the street, concealed by the crowds. The second the Corsican’s arm began to descend from the side of his head, Hammond jabbed McAuliff’s ribs. The two men broke through the flow of people toward the professional killer.
Alexander reached him first; the man started. His right hand went for his belt, his left automatically raised the radio. McAuliff grabbed the Corsican’s wrist and threw his shoulder into the man’s chest, slamming him against the pole supporting the sign.
Then the Coriscan’s whole face contorted spastically; a barking, horrible sound emerged from his twisted mouth. And McAuliff felt a burst of warm blood exploding below.