He brought the folded paper to his chin and stared at Alex.
McAuliff hesitated, then spoke slowly. “In a way, aren’t you describing
your own situation? There were several people in London who didn’t
think you’d take the job. It was quite a drop in income for you.”
“Precisely. Our-positions are similar; I’m sure for very different
reasons…. Part of my reasoning takes me to Savanna-la-Mar in the
morning.”
“Your friend on the plane?”
“A bore. Merely a messenger.” Whitehall held up the folded piece of
paper. “He brought me an invitation, Would you care to read it?”
“You wouldn’t offer unless it was pertinent.”
“I have no idea whether it is or not. Perhaps you can tell me.”
Alex took the paper extended to him and unfolded it. It was hotel
stationery. The Georges V, Paris. The handwriting was slanted, the
strokes rapid, words joined in speed.
My dear Whitehall Forgive this hastily written note but I have just
learned that we are both enroute to Jamaica. For a welcome rest and
you, I understand, for more worth while pursuits.
P I should deem it an honor and a pleasure to meet with you. Our mutual
friend will give you the details. I shall be staying in Savanna-la-Mar,
albeit incognito.
He will explain.
I do believe our coming together at the earliest would be mutually
beneficial. I have long admired your past (?) island activities. I ask
only that our meeting and my presence in Jamaica remain confidential.
Since I so admire your endeavors, I know you will understand.
Chatellerault Chatellerault … ?
The Marquis de Chatellerault.
David Booth’s “employer.” The man behind a narcotics network that spread
throughout most of Europe and the Mediterranean. The man Alison feared
so terribly that she carried a lethal-looking cylinder of gas with her
at all times!
McAuliff knew that Whitehall was observing him. He forced himself to
remain immobile, betraying only numbness on his face and in his eyes.
“Who is he?” asked McAuliff blandly. “Who’s this Chatel …
Chatellerault?”
“You don’t know?”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Whitehall,” said Alex in weary exasperation.
“Stop playing games. I’ve never heard of him.”
“I thought you might have.” The scholar was once again staring at
McAuliff. “I thought the connection was rather evident.”
“What connection?”
“To whatever your reasons are for being in Jamaica.
Chatellerault is, among other things, a financier with considerable
resources. The coincidence is startling, wouldn’t you agree?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” McAuliff glanced down at
Chatellerault’s note. “What does he mean by your past, ‘question mark,
island activities?”
Whitehall paused before replying. When he did, he spoke quietly, thus
lending emphasis to his words. “Fifteen years ago I left my homeland
because the political faction for which I worked … devotedly, and in
secret … was forced underground. Further underground, I should say.
For a decade we have remained dormant–on the surface. But only on the
surface. I have returned now. Kingston knows nothing. It therefore
demands confidentiality. I have, with considerable risk, broken this
confidence as an article of faith. For you … please. Why are you
here, McAulif?” Perhaps it will tell me why such a man as Chatellerault
wishes a conference.”
Alex got out of the chair and walked aimlessly toward the balcony doors.
He moved because it helped him concentrate. His mind was racing, some
abstract thoughts signaling a warning that Alison was in danger …
others balking, not convinced.
He crossed to the back of the chair facing Whitehall’s bed and gripped
the cloth firmly. “All right, I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll tell you
why I’m here, if you’ll spell out this … activity of yours.”
“I will tell you what I can,” replied Charles, his eyes devoid of
deceit. “It will be sufficient, you will see. I cannot tell you
everything. It would not be good for you.”
“That’s a condition I’m not sure I like.”
“Please. Trust me.”
The man was not lying, that much was clear to Alex.
“Okay … I know the north coast; I worked for Kaiser’s bauxite. I’m
considered very pro-that is, I’ve put together some good teams and I’ve
got a decent reputation–2’ “Yes, yes. To the point, please.”
“By heading up this job, the Jamaican government has guaranteed me first
refusal on twenty percent of any industrial development for the next six
years. That could mean millions of dollars. It’s as simple as that.”
Whitehall sat motionless, his hands still folded beneath his chin, an
elegant little boy in a concerned man’s body.
“Yes, that is plausible,” he said finally. “In much of Kingston,
everything’s for sale. It could be a motive for Chatellerault.”
Alex remained behind the chair. “All right. Now, that’s why I’m here.
Why are you?”
“It is good you told me of your arrangement. I shall do my best to see
that it is lived up to. You deserve that.”
:’What the hell does that mean?”
“It means I am here in a political capacity. A solely Jamaican concern.
You must respect that condition … and my confidence. I’d deny it
anyway, and you would soil your foreigner’s hands in things Jamaican.
Ultimately, however, we will control Kingston.”
:’Oh, Christ! Comes the goddamn revolution!”
“Of a different sort, Mr. McAuliff. Put plainly, I’m a fascist.
Fascism is the only hope for my island.”
NIL
McAuliff opened his eyes, raised his wrist from beneath the covers, and
saw that it was 10:25. He M had intended to get up by 8:30-9:00 at the
latest.
He had a man to see. A man with arthritis at a fish store called
Tallon’s.
He looked over at Alison. She was curled up away from him, her hair
sprayed over the sheets, her face buried in the pillow. She had been
magnificent, he thought. No, he thought, they had been magnificent
together. She had been … what was the word she used? Parched. She
had said: “I’m parched and I’ve been to the well . . .” And she had
been.
Magnificent. And warm, meaningful.
Yet still the thoughts came back.
A name that meant nothing to him twenty-four hours ago was suddenly an
unknown force to be reckoned with, separately put forward by two people
who were strangers a week ago.
Chatellerault. The Marquis de Chatellerault.
Currently in Savanna-la-Mar, on the southwest coast of Jamaica.
Charles Whitehall would be seeing him shortly, if they had not met by
now. The black fascist and the French financier. It sounded like a
vaudeville act.
But Alison Booth carried a deadly cylinder in her handbag, in the event
she ever had occasion to meet him. Or meet with those who worked for
him.
What was the connection? Certainly there had to be one.
He stretched, taking care not to wake her. Although he wanted to wake
her and hold her and run his hands’over her body and make love to her in
the morning.
He couldn’t. There was too much to do. Too much to think about.
He wondered what his instructions would be. And how long it would take
to receive them. And what the man with arthritis at a fish store named
Tallon’s would be like. And, no less important, where in God’s name was
Sam Tucker?
He was to be in Kingston by tomorrow. It wasn’t like Sam to just take
his leave without a word; he was too kind a man.
And yet, there had been times …
When would they get the word to fly north and begin the actual work on
the survey?
He was not going to get the answers staring up at the ceiling from
Alison Booth’s bed. And he was not going to make any telephone calls
from his room.
He smiled as he thought about the “horrid little buggers” in his
suitcase. Were there horrid little men crouched over dials in dark
rooms waiting for sounds that never came?
There was a certain comfort in that.
“I can hear you thinking.” Alison’s voice was muffled in the pillow.
“Isn’t that remarkable?”
“It’s frightening.”
She rolled over, her eyes shut, and smiled and reached under the
blankets for him. “You also stretch quite sensually.” She caressed the
flatness of his stomach, and then his thighs, and then McAuliff knew the
answers would have to wait. He pulled her to him; she opened her eyes
and raised the covers so there was nothing between them.
The taxi let him off at Victoria’s South Parade. The thoroughfare was
aptly named, in the nineteenth-century sense. The throngs of people
flowing in and out of the park’s entrance were like crowds of brightly
colored peacocks, strutting, half acknowledging, quickening steps only
to stop and gape.
McAuliff walked into the park, doing his best to look like Idling
tourist. Intermittently he could feel the hostile, questioning glances
as he made his way up the gravel path to the center of the park. It
occurred to him that he had not seen a single other white person; he had