down to the Ministry for a conference.”
“She won’t believe that,” replied Alex.
“If she cares to check further, she will be informed that you are with
Latham at a warehouse. There is nothing to worry about, mon.”
Sam Tucker stood by the door; he was relaxed but curious. And strong;
his thick arms were folded across his chest, his lined features-tanned
by the California sun showed his age and accentuated his leather
strength. Charles Whitehall stood by the window in the left wall, his
elegant, arrogant face exuding contempt.
The light-skinned black attendant from Tallon’s fish market and the two
Jamaican “guerrillas” had pulled their chairs back against the far right
wall, away from the center of attention. They were telegraphing the
fact that Barak Moore was their superior.
“Please, sit down.” Barak Moore indicated the chairs around the table.
There were three. Tucker and McAuliff looked at each other; there was
no point in refusing. They walked to the table and sat down. Charles
Whitehall remained standing by the window. Moore glanced up at him.
“Will you join us?”
“If I feel like sitting,” answered Whitehall.
Moore smiled and spoke while looking at Whitehall.
“Charley-mon finds it difficult to be in the same room with me, much
less at the same table.”
“Then why is he here?” asked Sam Tucker.
“He had no idea he was going to be until a few minutes before landing.
We switched pilots in Savanna-la-Mar.”
“His name is Charles Whitehall,” said Alex, speaking to Sam. “He’s part
of the survey. I didn’t know he was going to be here either.”
” What’s your field, boy?” Tucker leaned back in his chair and spoke to
Whitehall.
“Jamaica … boy.”
“I meant no offense, son.”
:’You are offensive,” was Whitehall’s simple reply.
“Charley and me,” continued Barak Moore, “we are at the opposite poles
of the politic. In your country, you have the term ‘white trash’; he
considers me ‘black garbage.” For roughly the same reason. He thinks
I’m too crude, too loud, too unwashed. I am an uncouth revolutionary in
Charley mon’s eyes … he is a graceful rebel, you see.” Moore swept
his hand in front of him, balletica y, insu ting y. “But our rebellions
are different, very different, mon. I want Jamaica for all the people.
He wants it for only a few.”
Whitehall stood motionless as he replied. “You are as blind now as you
were a decade ago. The only thing that has changed is your name,
Bramwell Moore.” Whitehall sneered vocally as he continued. “Barak …
as childish and meaningless as the social philosophy you espouse; the
sound of a jungle toad.”
Moore swallowed before he answered. “I’d as soon kill you, I think you
know that. But it would be as counterproductive as the solutions you
seek to impose on our homeland. We have a common enemy, you and I. Make
the best of it,fascisti-mon.”
“The vocabulary of your mentors. Did you learn it by rote, or did they
make you read?”
“Look!” McAuliff interrupted angrily. “You can fight or call names, or
kill each other for all I give a damn, but I want to get back to the
hotel!” He turned to Barak Moore.
“Whatever you have to say, get it over with.”
“He has a point, Charley-mon,” said Moore. “We come later. I will, as
they say, summarize. It is a brief summary, mon. That there are
development plans for a large area of the island-plans that exclude the
people-is now established. Dr. Piersall’s death confirms it. That
your geological survey is tied to those plans, we logically assume.
Therefore, the Ministry of Education and the Royal Society areknowingly
or unknowingly-concealing the identity of those financial interests.
Furthermore, Mr. McAuliff here is not unaware of these facts, because
he deals with British Intelligence through the despicable Westmore
Tallon….
That is the summary. Where do we go?” Moore stared at Alex, his eyes
small black craters in a huge mountain of dark skin. “We have the right
to go somewhere, Mr. McAuliff.”
“Before you shove him against the wall, boy,” interjected Sam Tucker, to
Alex’s surprise, “remember, I’m no part of you. I don’t say I won’t be,
but I’m not now.”
“I should think you’d be as interested as we are, Tucker.”
The absence of the “Mr.,” McAuliff thought, was Moore’s hostile response
to Sam’s use of the word “boy.” Moore did not realize that Tucker used
the term for everyone.
“Don’t mistake me,” added Sam. “I’m interested. Just don’t go running
off too fast at the mouth. I think you should say what you know, Alex.”
McAuliff looked at Tucker, then Moore, then over at Whitehall. Nothing
in Hammond’s instructions included such a confrontation. Except the
admonition to keep it simple; build on part of the truth.
“The people in British Intelligence-and everything they represent-want
to stop this development as much as you do. But they need information.
They think the Halidon has it. They want to make contact with the
Halidon. I’m supposed to try and make that contact.”
Alex wasn’t sure what to expect from his statement, but certainly not
what happened. Barak Moore’s blunt features, grotesque under the
immense shaven head, slowly changed from immobility to amusement, from
amusement to the pinched flesh of outright mirth; it was a humor based
in cruelty, however. His large mouth opened, and a coughing, malevolent
laugh emerged.
From the window there was another sound, another laugh: higher and
jackallike. Charles Whitehall’s elegant neck was stretched back, his
head tilted toward the ceiling, his arms folded across his tailored
jacket. He looked like some thin, black Oriental priest finding
amusement in a novice’s ignorance.
The three Jamaicans in the row of chairs, their white teeth gleaming in
the shadows, were smiling, their bodies shaking slightly in silent
laughter.
“What’s so goddamn funny?” asked McAuliff, annoyed by the undefined
humiliation.
“Funny, mon? Many times more than funny. The mongoose chases the
deadly snake, so the snake wants to make mds?” Moore laughed his hideous
laugh once again. “It is not in any law of nature, mon!”
“What Moore is telling you, Mr. McAuliff,” broke in Whitehall,
approaching the table, “is that it’s preposterous to think the Halidon
would cooperate with the English. It is inconceivable. It is the
Halidons of this island who drove the British from Jamaica. Put simply,
M.I. Six is not to be trusted.”
“What is the Halidon?” Alex watched the black scholar, who stood
motionless, his eyes on Barak Moore.
“It is A force,” said Whitehall quietly.
McAuliff looked at Moore; he was returning Whitehall’s stare. “That
doesn’t say very much, does it?”
“There is no one in this room who can tell you more, mon.” Barak Moore
shifted his gaze to Alex.
Charles Whitehall spoke. “There are no identities, McAuliff. The
Halidon is an unseen curia, a court that has no chambers. No one is
lying to you. Not about this. This small contingent here, these three
men; Moore’s elite corps, as it were-”
“Your words, Charley-mon! We don’t use them! Elite!”
Barak spat out the word.
“Immaterial,” continued Whitehall. “I venture to say there are no more
than five hundred people in all Jamaica who have heard of the Halidon.
Less then fifty who know for certain any of its members. Those who do
would rather face the pains of Obeah than reveal identities.”
“Obeah!” Sam Tucker’s comment was in his voice. He had no use for the
jingoistic diabolism that filled thousands upon thousands of native
minds with terror-Jamaica’s counterpart of the Haitian voodoo. “Obeah’s
horseshit, boy!
The sooner your hill and village people learn that, the better off
they’ll be!”
“if you think it’s restricted to the hills and the villages, you are
sadly mistaken,” said Whitehall. “We in Jamaica do not offer Obeah as a
tourist attraction. We have too much respect for it.”
Alex looked up at Whitehall. “Do you have respect for it?
Are you a believer?”
Whitehall leveled his gaze at McAuliff, his eyes knowing-with a trace of
humor. “Yes, Mr. McAuliff, I have respect for Obeah. I have traced
its strains to its origins in Mother Africa. I have seen what it’s done
to the veldt, in the jungles. Respect; I do not say commitment or
belief ”
“Then the Halidon is an organization.” McAuliff took out his cigarettes.
Barak Moore reached over to accept one; Sam leaned forward in his chair.
Alex continued. “A secret society that has a lot of clout. Why? …
Obeah?”
“Partly, mon,” answered Moore, lighting his cigarette like a man who
does not smoke often. “It is also very rich. It is whispered that it
possesses wealth beyond anyone’s thinking, mon.”
Suddenly, McAuliff realized the obvious. He looked back and forth
between Charles Whitehall and Barak Moore.
“Christ Almighty! You’re as anxious to reach the Halidon as I am! As
British Intelligence is!”
“That is so, mon.” Moore crushed out his barely smoked cigarette on the
surface of the table.