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’twant 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
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’twant 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
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