Robert Ludlum by The Cry Of The Halidon

Author:The Cry Of The Halidon
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

PIER SIX

MONTEGO LINES

He was to stand under the lamp, in front of the sign, and wait for a man to drive up in a Triumph sports car. The man would ask him for identification. Ferguson would show him his passport and the man would give him the envelope.

So simple. The entire transaction would take less than thirty seconds.

And change his life.

Craft had been stunned; speechless, actually, until he had found his voice and screamed a torrent of abuse ... until, again, he realized the futility of his position. Craft the Younger had gone too far. He had broken laws and would be an object of scorn and embarrassment. James Ferguson could tell a story of airport meetings and luggage and telephone calls and industrial espionage ... and promises.

Such promises.

But his silence could be purchased. Craft could buy his confidence for a first payment of three thousand dollars. If Craft did not care to do so, Ferguson was sure the Kingston authorities would display avid interest in the details of his story.

No, he had not spoken to anyone yet. But things had been written down.

(Lies Craft could not trace, of course.) That did not mean he was incapable of finding the spoken words; such capability was very much within his province ... as the first payment was within Craft's province. One canceled the other: which would it be?

And so it was.

Ferguson crossed Harbour Street and approached the wire-encased light and the sign. A block and a half away, crowds of tourists swelled into the street, a one-way flow toward the huge passenger terminal and the gangplanks of a cruise ship. Taxis emerged out of side streets and alleys from the center of Montego Bay, blowing their horns anxiously, haltingly making their way to the dock. Three basstoned whistles filled the air, vibrating the night, signifying that the ship was giving a warning: all passengers were to be on board.

He heard the Triumph before he saw it. There was the gunning of an engine from the darkness of a narrow side street diagonally across from Pier Six. The shiny, red, lowslung sports car sped out of the dark recess and coasted to a stop in front of Ferguson. The driver was another Craft employee, one he recognized from a year ago. He did not recall the man's name; only that he was a quick, physical person, given to arrogance. He would not be arrogant now.

He wasn't. He smiled in the open car and gestured Ferguson to come over. "Hello, Fergy! It's been a long time."

Ferguson hated the nickname "Fergy"; it had dogged him for most of his life. Just when he had come to think it was part of a schoolboy past, someone-always someone unpleasant, he reflected-used it. He felt like correcting the man, reminding him of his messenger status, but he did not.

He simply ignored the greeting.

"Since you recognize me, I assume there's no need to show you my identification," said James, approaching the Triumph.

"Christ, no! How've you been?"

"Well, thank you. Do you have the envelope? I'm in a hurry.

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