cradle of the earth.
The sounds of the screeching bat and parrot and tanager intruded on the
forest’s undertones; jungle rats and the mongoose could be heard
intermittently in their unseen games of death. Every now and then there
was the scream of a wild pig, pursuing or in panic.
And far in the distance, in the clearing of the riverbank, were the
mountains, preceded by sudden stretches of untamed grassland. Strangely
gray with streaks of deep green and blue and yellow-rain and hot
sunlight in an unceasing interchange.
All this fifteen minutes by air from the gaudy strips of Montego.
Unbelievable.
McAuliff had made contact with the north-coast contacts of British
Intelligence. There were five, and he had reached each one. They had
given him another reason to consign Hammond to the despised realm of the
manipulator. For the Intelligence people were of small comfort. They
stated perfunctorily their relief at his reporting, accepted his
explanations of routine geographic chores that kept him occupied, and
assured him-with more sound than conviction-that they were at his beck
and call.
One man, the MI-6 contact from Port Maria, drove down the coast to
Bengal Court to meet with Alex. He was a portly black merchant who
limited his identification to the single name of Garvey. He insisted on
a late-night rendezvous in the tiny bar of the motel, where he was known
as a liquor distributor.
It did not take McAuliff long to realize that Garvey, ostensibly there
to assure him of total cooperation and safety, was actually
interrogating him for a report that would be sent back to London. Garvey
had the stench and look of a practiced informer about him. The stench
was actual: the man suffered from body odor, which could not be
concealed by liberal applications of bay rum. The look was in his
eyes-ferretlike, and a touch bloodshot. Garvey was a man who sought out
opportunities and enjoyed the fruits thereof.
His questions were precise, McAuliff s answers apparently not
satisfactory. And all questions led to the one question, the only one
that mattered: Any progress concerning the Halidon?
Anything?
Unknown observers, strangers in the distance … a signal, a sign-no
matter how remote or subtle?
Anything?
“Absolutely nothing” was a hard reply for Garvey to accept.
What about the men in the green Chevrolet who had followed him in
Kingston? Tallon had traced them to the anthropologist Walter Piersall.
Piersall had been a white agitator… common knowledge. Piersall’had
telephoned McAuliff… the Courtleigh switchboard cooperated with MI-6.
What did Piersall want?
Alex claimed he did not–could not-know, as Piersall had never reached
him. An agitator, white or black, was an unpredictable bearer of
unpredictable news. Predictably, this agitator had had an accident. It
might be presumed from what little McAuliff had been told by Tallon and
others-that Piersall had been closing in on Dunstone, Limited; without a
name, of course. If so, he, McAuliff, was a logical person to reach.
But this was conjecture; there was no way to confirm it as fact.
What had happened to the late-arriving Samuel Tucker?
Where had he been?
Drinking and whoring in Montego Bay. Alex was sorry he had caused so
much trouble about Sam; he should have known better. Sam Tucker was an
incorrigible wanderer, albeit the best soil analyst in the business.
The perspiring Garvey was bewildered, frustrated by his confusion. There
was too much activity for McAuliff to remain so insulated.
Alex reminded the liaison in short, coarse words that there was far too
much survey activity-logistical, employment, above all government
paperwork-for him not to be insulated. What the hell did Garvey think
he had been doing?
The interview lasted until 1:30 in the morning. Before leaving, the
MI-6 contact reached into his filthy briefcase and withdrew a metallic
object the size of a pen-and-pencil case, with its approximate
thickness. It was a miniaturized radio-signal transmitter, set to a
specific frequency. There were three thick, tiny glass lights across
the top of the small panel. The first, explained Garvey, was a white
light that indicated sufficient power for sending when turned on-not
unlike the illuminated filigree of a strobe light. The second, a red
light, informed the operator that his signal was being transmitted. The
third, a green light, confirmed the reception of the signal by a
corresponding device within a radius of twenty-five miles. There would
be two simple codes, one for normal conditions, one for emergency. Code
One was to be transmitted twice daily, once every twelve hours. Code
Two, when aid was needed.
The receiving set, said Garvey, was capable of defining the signal
within a diameter of one thousand yards by means of an attached
radarscope with terrain coordinates. Nothing was left to chance.
Unbelievable.
The incredible assumption, therefore, was that the Intelligence men
would never be more than twenty-five miles away, and Hammond’s
“guaranteed” safety factor was the even more ridiculous assumption that
the jungle distance could be traversed and the exact location pinpointed
within a time period that precluded danger.
R. C. Hammond was a winner, thought McAuliff
“Is this everything?” McAuliff asked the sweating Garvey. “This goddamn
metal box is our protection?”
“There are additional precautions,” Garvey replied enigmatically. “I
told you, nothing is left to chance-”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It means you are protected. I am not authorized to speak further. As
a matter of fact, mon, I do not know anything further. I am, like you,
merely an employee. I do what I am told to do, say what I am told to
say…. And now I have said enough. I have an uncomfortable drive back
to Port Maria.”
The man named Garvey rose from the table, picked up his tattered
briefcase, and waddled toward the door of the dimly lit room. Before
leaving, however, he could not help him self He stopped at the bar,
where one of the motel’s managers was standing, and solicited an order
of liquor.
McAuliff shook his thoughts loose as he heard the voices of Ruth and
Peter Jensen behind him. He was sitting on a dried mudflat above the
riverbank; the Jensens were talking as they walked across the clearing
from their bivouac tent. It amazed Alex-they amazed him. They walked
so casually, so normally, over the chopped Cock Pit ground cover; one
might think they had entered Regent’s Park for a stroll.
“Majestic place in its way, rather,” said Peter, removing the
ever-present pipe from between his teeth.
“It is the odd combination of color and substance, don’t you think,
Alex?” Ruth had her arm linked through her husband’s. A noonday walk
down the Strand. “One is so very sensuous, the other so massive and
intricate.”
“You make the terms sound contradictory, darling.
They’re not, you know.” Peter chuckled as his wife feigned minor
exasperation.
“He has an incorrigibly pornographic mind, Alex. Pay no attention.
Still, he’s right. It is majestic. And positively dense. Where’s
Alison?”
“With Ferguson and Sam. They’re testing the water.”
“Jimbo-mon’s going to use up all of his film, I dare say,” muttered
Peter as he helped his wife to sit down next to McAuliff “That new
camera he brought back from Montego has consumed him.”
“Frightfully expensive, I should think.” Ruth smoothed the unsmoothable
cloth of her bivouac slacks, like a woman not used to being without a
skirt. Or a woman who was nervous. “For a boy who’s always saying he’s
bone-stony, quite an extravagance.”
“He didn’t buy it; he borrowed it,” said Alex. “From a friend he knew
last year in Port Antonio.”
“That’s right, I forgot.” Peter relit his pipe as he spoke.
“You were all here last year, weren’t you?”
“Not all, Peter. Just Sam and me; we worked for Kaiser.
And Ferguson. He was with the Craft Foundation. No one else.”
” Well, Charles is Jamaican,” intruded Ruth nervously.
Surely he flies back and forth. Heaven knows, he must be rich enough.”
:’That’s a rather brass speculation, luv.”
“Oh, come off it, Peter. Alex knows what I mean.”
McAuliff laughed. “I don’t think he worries about money.
He’s yet to submit his bills for the survey outfits. I have an idea
they’re the most expensive in Harrod’s Safari Shop.”
“Perhaps@ he’s embarrassed” said Peter, smiling. “He looks as though he
had jumped right off the cinema screen. The black hunter; very
impressive image, if somewhat contrived.”
“Now you’re the one who’s talking brass, luv. Charles is impressive.”
Ruth turned to Alex. “My overage Lochinvar is green with envy.”
“That camera’s damn well new … not the sort of thing one lends, I
shouldn’t think.” Peter looked at McAuliff as he spoke the non sequitur.
” Depends on the friend, I guess,” replied Alex, aware that Peter was
implying something beyond his words. “Ferguson can be a likable guy.”
“Very, ” added Ruth. “And so helpless, somehow. Except when he’s over
his equipment. Then he’s positively a whiz.”
“Which is all I really care about.” McAuliff addressed this judgment to