over the curb.
Four seconds later they sped through the stone gates.
And Alexander turned right. East. Back toward Miranda Hill.
He knew Hammond was stunned; that did not matter.
There was still no time for explanations, and the Englishman seemed to
understand. He said nothing.
Several minutes later, at the first intersecting road, McAuliff jumped
the light and swung left. North. The sign read CORNICHE ANNEX.
Hammond spoke.
“You’re heading toward the shore road?”
“Yes. It’s called Gloucester. It goes through Montego and becomes
Route One.”
:,So you’re behind the Dunstone car … the Mercedes.”
“Yes.
“And may I presume that since the last word’@-here Hammond held up the
walkie-talkie—–@’any of them received was from that park, there’s a
more direct way back to it? A faster way?”
“Yes. Two. Queen’s Drive and Comiche Road. They branch off from
Gloucester.”
“Which, of course, would be the routes they would take.”
“They’d better.”
“And naturally, they would search the park.”
“I hope so.”
R. C. Hammond pressed back into the seat. It was a gesture of
temporary relaxation. Not without a certain trace of admiration.
“You’re a very apt student, Mr. McAuliff.”
“To repeat myself, it’s a rotten school,” said Alexander.
They waited in the darkness, in the overgrowth at the edge of the field.
The crickets hammered out the passing seconds. They had left the
Pontiac miles away on a deserted back road in Catherine Mount and walked
to the farm on the outskirts of Drax Hall, where they found a stream and
cleaned themselves up, washing the blood off their skin and soaking
their clothes. They had waited until nightfall before making the last
few miles of the trip. Cautiously, shelter to shelter; when on the
road, as far out of sight as possible.
Finally using the tracks of the Jamaica Railway as their guideline.
There had been a road map in the glove compartment of the automobile,
and they studied it. It was maddening. Most of the streets west of
Montego proper were unmarked, lines without names, and always there were
the alleys without lines. They passed through a number of ghetto
settlements, aware that the inhabitants had to be sizing them up–two
white men without conceivable business in the area. There was profit in
an assault on such men.
Hammond had insisted that they both carry their jackets, their weapons
very much in evidence in their belts.
Subalterns crossing through hostile colonial territory, letting the wog
natives know they carried the firesticks that spat death.
Ludicrous.
But there was no assault.
They crossed the Montego River at Westgate; a half mile away were the
railroad tracks. They ran into an itinerant tramp enclave-a hobo camp,
Jamaica-style-and Hammond did the talking.
The Englishman said they were insurance inspectors for the company; they
had no objections to the filthy campsite so long as there was no
interference with the line. But should there be interference, the
penalties would be stiff indeed.
Ludicrous.
Yet no one bothered them, although the surrounding black eyes were
filled with hatred.
There was a freight pickup at Drax Hall. A single platform with two
wire-encased light bulbs illuminating the barren site. Inside the
weather-beaten rain shelter was an old man drunk on cheap rum.
Painstakingly they elicited enough information from him for McAuliff to
get his bearings. Vague, to be sure, but enough to determine the
related distances from the highway, which veered inland at Parish Wharf,
to the farm district in the southwest section.
By 9:30 they had reached the field.
Now, Alex looked at his watch. It was 10:30.
He was not sure he had made the right decision. He was only sure that
he could not think of any other. He had recalled the lone farmhouse on
the property, remembered seeing a light on inside. There was no light
now. It was deserted.
There was nothing else to do but wait.
An hour passed, and the only sounds were those of the Jamaican night:
the predators foraging, victims taken, unending struggles-immaterial to
all but the combatants.
It was nearly the end of the second hour when they heard it.
Another sound.
An automobile. Driving slowly, its low-geared, muted engine signaling
its apprehension. An intruder very much aware of its transgression.
Minutes later, in the dim light of a moon sheeted with clouds, they
watched a long figure run across the field, first to the north end,
where a single torch was ignited, then to the south-perhaps four hundred
yards-where the action was repeated. Then the figure dashed once more
to the opposite end.
Another sound. Another intruder. Also muted-this from the darkness of
the sky.
An airplane, its engine idling, was descending rapidly.
It touched ground, and simultaneously the torch at the north end was
extinguished. Seconds later the aircraft came to a stop by the flame at
the south end. A man jumped out of the small cabin; the fire was put
out instantly.
“Let’s go!” said McAuliff to the British agent. Together the two men
started across the field.
They were no more than fifty yards into the grass when it happened.
The impact was so startling, the shock so complete, that Alex screamed
involuntarily and threw himself to the ground, his pistol raised, ready
to fire.
Hammond remained standing.
For two immensely powerful searchlights had caught them in the blinding
convergence of the cross-beams.
“Put down your weapon, McAuliff,” came the words from beyond the
blinding glare.
And Daniel, Minister of Council for the Tribe of Acquaba, walked through
the light.
“When you came into the area you tripped the photoelectric alarms.
Nothing mysterious.”
W They were in the automobile, Daniel in front with the driver, Hammond
and Alexander in the backseat. They had driven away from the field, out
of Drax Hall, along the coast into Lucca Harbour. They parked on a
deserted section of a dirt road overlooking the water. The road was one
of those native offshoots on the coastal highway unspoiled by
trespassing tourists. The moon was brighter by the ocean’s edge,
reflected off the rippling surface, washing soft J yellow light over
their faces.
As they were driving, McAuliff had a chance to study the car they were
in. From the outside it looked like an ordinary, not-very-distinguished
automobile of indeterminate make and vintage-like hundreds of island
vehicles, made from parts cannibalized from other cars. Yet inside the
fundamental difference was obvious: it was a precision-tooled mobile
fortress and communications center. The windows were of thick,
bullet-proof glass; rubber slots were evident in the rear and side
sections-slots that were for the highblasting, short-barreled shotguns
clamped below the back of the front seat. Under the dashboard was a
long panel with dials and switches; a telephone was locked into a recess
between two microphones. The engine, from the sound of it, was one of
the most powerful Alex had ever heard.
The Halidon went first class in the outside world.
Daniel was in the process of dismissing McAuliff s astonishment at the
events of the past two hours. It seemed important to the minister that
he convey the reality of the situation. The crisis was sufficiently
desperate for Daniel to leave the community; to risk his life to be in
command.
It was as though he wanted very much for R. C Hammond to realize he was
about to deal with an extremely sensible and hard-nosed adversary.
“We had to make sure you were alone … the two of you, of course. That
you were not somehow followed. There were tense moments this afternoon.
You handled yourselves expertly, apparently. We could not help you.
Congratulations.”
“What happened to Malcolm?” asked Alex.
Daniel paused, then spoke quietly, sadly. “We do not know yet. We are
looking…. He is safe-or dead. There is no middle ground.” Daniel
looked at Hammond. “Malcolm is the man you know as Joseph Myers,
Commander Hammond.”
McAuliff shifted his gaze to the agent. So Hammond the manipulator was
a Commander. Commander Hammond, liar, manipulator … and
risker-of-life to save another’s.
Hammond reacted to Daniel’s words by closing his eyes for precisely two
seconds. The information was a professional burden he did not care for;
the manipulator was outflanked again.
“Do I have a single black man working for me? For the Service?”
The minister smiled gently. “By our count, seven. Three, however, are
quite ineffectual.”
“Thank you for enlightening me. I’m sure you can furnish me with
identities…. They all look so much alike, you see.”
Daniel accepted the cliched insult calmly, his smile disappearing, his
eyes cold in the yellow moonlight. “Yes. I understand the problem.
There appears to be so little to distinguish us … from such a
viewpoint. Fortunately, there are other standards. You will not be
needing the identities.”
Hammond returned Daniel’s look without intimidation.
“McAuliff conveyed your demands. I say to you what I said to him.
They’re impossible, of course-”
“Please, Commander Hammond,” said Daniel rapidly, ‘q pp- interrupting,
“there are so many complications, let us not compound them with lies.