between social and political factions within Jamaica. He was suddenly a
jealous guardian of the islanders’ rights, an enemy of the outside
exploiters.
“I’ve seen it happen dozens of times, Alexander,” said Sam. “From the
Tasman to the Caribbean; it’s a kind of island fever. Obssession …
oneness, I think. Men migrate for taxes or climate or whatever the hell
and they turn into self-proclaimed protectors of their sanctuaries …
the Catholic convert telling the pope he’s not with it . . .”
In his cross-island proselytizing, Piersall began to hear whispers of an
enormous land conspiracy. In his own backyard in the parish of
Trelawny. At first he dismissed them; they involved men with whom one
might disagree, but whose integrity was not debated. Men of
extraordinary stature.
The conspiratorial syndrome was an ever-present nuisance in any growing
government; Piersall understood that.
In Jamaica it was given credence by the influx of foreign capital
looking for tax havens, by a parliament ordering more reform programs
than it could possibly control, and by a small, wealthy island
aristocracy trying to protect itself the bribe was an all-too-prevalent
way of life.
Piersall had decided, once and for all, to put the whispered rumors to
rest. Four months ago he’d gone to the Ministry of Territories and
filed a resolution of intent to purchase by way of syndication twenty
square miles of land on the north border of the Cock Pit. It was a
hamnless gesture, really. Such a purchase would take years in the
courts and involve the satisfactory settling of historic island
treaties; his point was merely to prove Kingston’s willingness to accept
the filing. That the land was not controlled by outsiders.
“Since that day, Alexander, Piersall’s life was made a hell.” Sam Tucker
lit a thin native cigar; the aromatic smoke whipped out the open window
into the onrushing darkness.
“He was harassed by the police, pulled into the parish courts dozens of
times for nonsense; his lectures were canceled at the university and the
Institute; his telephone tapped–conversations – repeated by government
attorneys … Finally, the whispers he tried to silence killed him.”
McAuliff said nothing for several moments. “Why was Piersall so anxious
to contact you?” he asked Tucker.
“In my cable I told him I was doing a big survey in Trelawny. A project
out of London by way of Kingston. I didn’t want him to think I was
traveling six thousand miles to be his guest; he was a busy man,
Alexander.”
“But you were in Kingston tonight. Not in a bamboo camp on the Martha
Brae. Two of these men”-McAuliff gestured front-“followed me this
afternoon. In this car.”
“Let me answer you, Mr. McAuliff,” said the Jamaican by the window,
turning and placing his arm over the seat.
“Kingston intercepted Mr. Tuck’s cable; they made klingkling addition,
mon. They thought Mr. Tuck was mixed UP with Dr. Piersall in bad
ways. Bad ways for them, mon.
They sent dangerous men to Mo’Bay. To find out what Tuck was doing-”
“How do you know this?” broke in Alex.
For the briefest instant, the man by the window glanced at the driver.
It was difficult to tell in the dim light and rushing shadows, but
McAuliff thought the driver nodded imperceptibly.
“We took the men who came to Mo’bay after Mr. Tuck.
That is all you need to know, mon. What was learned caused Dr. Piersall
much concern. So much, mon, that we flew to Kingston. To reach you,
mon … Dr. Piersall was killed for that.”
“Who killed him?”
“If we knew that there would be dead men hanging in Victoria Park.”
“What did you learn … from the men in Montego?”
Again, the man who spoke seemed to glance at the driver.
In seconds he replied, “That people in Kingston believed Dr. Piersall
would interfere further. When he went to find you, mon, it was their
proof. By killing him they took a big sea urchin out of their foot.”
“And you don’t know who did it-”
“Hired niggers, mon,” interrupted the black man.
“It’s insane!” McAuliff spoke to himself as much as to Sam Tucker.
“People killing people … men following other men. It’s goddamn
crazy!”
“Why is it crazy to a man who visits Tallon’s fish market?” asked the
Jamaican suddenly.
“How did-” McAuliff stopped. He was confused; he had been so careful.
“How did you know that? I lost you at the racetrack!”
The Jamaican smiled, his bright teeth catching the light from the
careening reflections through the windshield.
“Ocean trout is not really preferable to the freshwater variety, mon.”
The counterman! The nonchalant counterman in the striped linen apron.
“The man behind the counter is one of you. That’s pretty good,” said
McAuliff quietly.
“We’re very good, Westmore Tallon is a British agent.
So like the English: enlist the clandestine help of the vested
interests. And so fundamentally stupid. Tallon’s senile Etonian
classmates might trust him; his countrymen do not.”
The Jamaican removed his arm from the seat and turned front. The answer
was over.
Sam Tucker spoke pensively, openly. “Alexander …
now tell me what the hell is going on. What. have you done, boy?”
McAuliff turned to Sam. The huge, vital, capable old friend was staring
at him through the darkness, the rapid flashes of light bouncing across
his face. Tucker’s eyes held confusion and hurt. And anger.
What in hell had he done, thought Alex.
“Here we are, mon,” said the driver in the baseball cap, who had not
spoken throughout the trip.
McAuliff looked out the windows. The ground was flat now, but high in
the hills and surrounded by them. Everything was sporadically
illuminated by a Jamaican moon filtering through the low-flying clouds
of the Blue Mountains.
They were on a dirt road; in the distance, perhaps a quarter of a mile
away, was a structure, a small cabinlike building.
A dim light could be seen through a single window. On the right were
two other … structures. Not buildings, not houses or cabins, nothing
really definable; just free-form, sagging silhouettes … translucent?
Yes … wires, cloth. Or netting … They were large tentlike covers,
supported by numerous poles. And then Alex understood: beyond the tents
the ground was matted flat, and along the border, spaced every thirty or
forty feet apart, were unlit cradle torches. The tents were camouflaged
hangars; the ground was a landing strip.
They were at an unmarked airfield in the mountains.
The Chevrolet slowed down as it approached what turned out to be a small
farmhouse. There was an ancient tractor beyond the edge of the
building; field tools-plows ‘ shoulder yokes, pitchforks-were scattered
about carelessly. In the moonlight the equipment looked like stationary
relics. Unused, dead remembrances only.
Camouflage.
As the hangars were camouflaged.
An airfield no map would indicate.
“Mr. McAuliM Mr. Tucker? If you would come with me, please.” The
black spokesman by the window opened the door and stepped out. Sam and
Alex did the same. The driver and the third Jamaican remained inside,
and when the disembarked passengers stepped away from the car, the
driver accelerated and sped off down the dirt road.
“Where are they going?” asked McAuliff anxiously.
“To conceal the automobile,” answered the black man.
“Kingston sends out ganja air patrols at night, hoping to find such
fields as these. With luck to spot light aircraft on narcotics runs.”
“This ganja country? I thought it was north,” said Tucker.
The Jamaican laughed. “Ganja, weed, poppy … north, west, east. It
is a healthy export industry, mon. But not ours. Come, let us go
inside.”
The door of the miniature farmhouse opened as the three of them
approached. In the frame stood the light-skinned man whom Alex had
first seen in a striped apron behind the counter at Tallon’s.
The interior of the small house was primitive: wooden chairs, a thick
round table in the center of the single room, an army cot against the
wall. The jarring contradiction was a complicated radio set on a table
to the right of the door. The light in the window was far from the
shaded lamp in front of the machinery; a generator could be heard
providing what electricity was necessary.
All this McAuliff observed within seconds of entering.
Then he saw a second man, standing in shadows across the room, his back
toward the others. The body-the cut of the coat, the shoulders, the
tapered waist, the tailored trousers was familiar.
The man turned around; the light from the table illuminated his
features.
Charles Whitehall stared at McAuliff and then nodded once, slow The door
opened, and the driver of the Chevrolet entered with the third Jamaican.
He walked to the round table in the center of the room and sat down. He
removed his baseball cap, revealing a large shaved head.
“My name is Moore. Barak Moore, Mr. McAuliff. To ease your concerns,
the woman, Alison Booth, has been called. She was told that you went