Free The Cry of the Halidon by Robert Ludlum

grass and hashish.
    McAuliff made his way through the tangled network of soft flesh, separating thrusting arms and protruding shoulders gently but firmly, finally reaching the rear of the bar area.
    The Owl of Saint George was at its undulating peak. The psychedelic lights exploded against the walls and ceiling in rhythmic Crescendos; bodies were concave and convex, none seemingly upright, all swaying, writhing violently.
    Hammond was seated in a circular booth with five others: two men and three women. Alex paused, concealed by drinkers and dancers, and looked at Hammond’s gathering. It was funny; not sardonically funny, humorously funny. Hammond and his middle-aged counterpart across the table were dressed in the “straight” fashion, as were two of the three women, both of them past forty. The remaining couple was young, hip, and profuse with black leather and zippers. The picture was instantly recognizable: parents indulging the generation gap, uncomfortable but game.
    McAuliff remembered the man’s words on High Holborn.
Stay at the bar, he’ll reach you
. He maneuvered his way to within arm’s length of the mahogany and managed to shout his order to the black Soho bartender with hair so short he looked bald. McAuliff wondered when Hammondwould make his move; he did not want to wait long. He had a great deal to say to the British agent.
    “Pardon, but you are a chap named McAuliff, aren’t you?” The shouted question caused Alex to spill part of his drink. The shouter was the young man from Hammond’s table. Hammond was not wasting time.
    “Yes. Why?”
    “My girl’s parents recognized you. Asked me to invite you over.”
    The following moments, McAuliff felt, were like a play within a play. A brief, staged exercise with acutely familiar dialogue, acted out in front of a bored audience of other, more energetic actors. But with a surprise that made Alex consider Hammond’s skill in a very favorable light.
    He
did
know the middle-aged man across from Hammond. And his wife. Not well, of course, but they were acquaintances. He’d met them two or three times before, on previous London trips. They weren’t the sort of memorable people one recognized on the street—or in The Owl of Saint George—unless the circumstances were recalled.
    Hammond was introduced by his correct name and McAuliff was seated next to him.
    “How the hell did you arrange this?” asked Alex after five excruciating minutes remembering the unmemorable with the acquaintances. “Do they know who you are?”
    “Laugh occasionally,” answered Hammond with a calm, precise smile. “They believe I’m somewhere in that great government pyramid, juggling figures in poorly lit rooms.… The arrangements were necessary. Warfield has doubled his teams on you. We’re not happy about it; he may have spotted us, but, of course, it’s unlikely.”
    “He’s spotted something, I guarantee it.” Alex bared his teeth, but the smile was false. “I’ve got a lot to talk to you about. Where can we meet?”
    “Here. Now,” was the Britisher’s reply. “Speak occasionally to the others, but it’s perfectly acceptable that we strike up a conversation. We might use it as a basis for lunch or drinks in a day or two.”
    “No way. I leave for Kingston the day after tomorrow in the morning.”
    Hammond paused, his glass halfway to his lips. “So soon? We didn’t expect that.”
    “It’s insignificant compared to something else.… Warfield knows about Halidon. That is, he asked me what
I
knew about it.”
    “What?”
    “Mr. McAuliff?” came the shouted inquiry from across the table. “Surely you know the Bensons, from Kent …”
    The timing was right, thought Alex. Hammond’s reaction was one of astonishment. Shock that changed swiftly to angered acceptance. The ensuing conversation about the unremembered Bensons would give Hammond time to think. And Alex wanted him to think.
    “What
exactly
did he say?” asked Hammond. The revolving