such fear? He wondered about the private, personal Hammond, yet knew instinctively that whatever private questions he had would never be answered.
Hammond was like that. Perhaps all the people who did what Hammond did were like that. Men in shadows; their women in unending tunnels of fear. Pockets of fear.
And then there was …
Halidon
.
What did it mean? What was it?
Was it a black organization?
Possibly. Probably not, however, Hammond had said. At least, not exclusively. It had too many informational resources, too much apparent influence in powerful sectors. Too much money.
The word had surfaced under strange and horrible circumstances. The British agent attached to the previous Dunstone survey had been one of two men killed in a bush fire that began inside a bamboo camp on the banks of the Martha Brae River, deep within the Cock Pit country. Evidence indicated that the two dead members of the survey had tried to salvage equipment within the fire, collapsed from the smoke, and burned in the bamboo inferno.
But there was something more; something so appalling that even Hammond found it difficult to recite it.
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
Hammond was like that. Perhaps all the people who did what Hammond did were like that. Men in shadows; their women in unending tunnels of fear. Pockets of fear.
And then there was …
Halidon
.
What did it mean? What was it?
Was it a black organization?
Possibly. Probably not, however, Hammond had said. At least, not exclusively. It had too many informational resources, too much apparent influence in powerful sectors. Too much money.
The word had surfaced under strange and horrible circumstances. The British agent attached to the previous Dunstone survey had been one of two men killed in a bush fire that began inside a bamboo camp on the banks of the Martha Brae River, deep within the Cock Pit country. Evidence indicated that the two dead members of the survey had tried to salvage equipment within the fire, collapsed from the smoke, and burned in the bamboo inferno.
But there was something more; something so appalling that even Hammond found it difficult to recite it.
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
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