“Why?” asked Alex.
Charles Whitehall replied. “We are dealing with two giants, Mr.
McAuliff. One black, one white. The Halidon must win.”
he meeting in the isolated farmhouse high in the hills of the Blue
Mountains lasted until two o’clock in the morning.
The common objective was agreed to: contact with the Halidon.
And since Barak Moore’s and Charles Whitehall’s judgment that the
Halidon would not deal directly with British Intelligence was
convincing, McAuliff further agreed to cooperate with the two black
antagonists. Barak and his elite” guerrillas would provide additional
safety for the survey team. Two of the three men sitting against the
wall of the farmhouse would fly to Ocho Rios and be hired as carriers.
If the Jamaicans suspected he knew more than he was telling them, they
did not press him, thought Alex. They accepted his story-now told twice
to Whitehall-that initially he had taken the survey as an investment for
future work. From Kingston. MI-6 was a complication thrust upon him.
It was as if they understood he had his own concerns, unrelated to
theirs. And only when he was sure those concerns were not in conflict
would he be completely open.
Insane circumstances had forced him into a war he wanted no part of, but
one thing was clear above all other considerations: the safety of those
he had brought to the island.
Two things. Two million dollars.
From either enemy, Dunstone, Limited, or British Intelligence.
“M.I. Five in London did not tell you, then, who is behind this land
rape,” said Barak Moore-not asking a 4question continuing immediately.
“It goes beyond their Kingston flunkies, mon.”
“If the British reach the Halidon, they’ll tell them what they know,”
said McAuliff. “I’m sure of that. They want to pool their information,
that much they’ve told me.”
“Which means the English assume the Halidon know a great deal,” added
Whitehall pensively. “I wonder if that is so.”
“They have their reasons,” said Alex cautiously. “There was a previous
survey team.”
The Jamaicans knew of it. Its disappearance was either proof of the
Halidon’s opposition or an isolated act of theft and murder by a roving
band of primitive hill people in the Cock Pit. There was no way to
tell.
Circles within circles.
What of the Marquis de Chatellerault? Why had he insisted upon meeting
with Whitehall in Savanna-la-Mar?
“The marquis is a nervous man,” said Whitehall. “He claims to have
widespread interests on the island. He smells bad fish with this
survey.”
“Has it occurred to you that Chatellerault is himself involved?”
McAuliff spoke directly to the black scholar.
“M.I. Five and Six think so. Tallon told me that this afternoon.”
“If so, the marquis does not trust his colleagues.”
“Did Chatellerault mention anyone else on the team?”
asked Alex, afraid of the answer.
Whitehall looked at McAuliff and replied simply. “He made several
allusions, and I told him that I wasn’t interested in side issues. They
were not pertinent; I made that clear.”
:’Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Sam Tucker raised his scraggy eyebrows, his expression dubious. “What
the hell was pertinent? What did he want?”
“To be kept informed of the survey’s progress. Report all
developments.”
“Why did he think you’d do that?” Sam leaned forward in the chair.
“I would be paid handsomely, to begin with. And there could be other
areas of interest, which, frankly, there are not.”
“Ha, mon!” interjected Moore. “You see, they believe Charley-mon can be
bought! They know better with Barak Moore!”
Whitehall looked at the revolutionary, dismissing him.
“There is little to pay you for.” He opened his silver cigarette case;
Moore grinned at the sight of it. Whitehall closed it slowly, placed it
at his right, and lighted his cigarette with a match. “Let’s go on. I’d
rather not be here all night.”
“Okay, mon.” Barak glanced at each man quickly. “We want the same as
the English. To reach the Halidon.” Moore pronounced the word in the
Jamaican dialect: hollydawn.
“But the Halidon must come to us. There must be a strong reason. We
cannot cry out for them. They will not come into the open.”
“I don’t understand a damn thing about any of this,” said Tucker,
lighting a thin cigar, “but if you wait for them, you could be sitting
on your asses a long goddamn time.”
“We think there is a way. We think Dr. Piersall provided it.” Moore
hunched his shoulders, conveying a sense of uncertainty, as if he was
not sure how to choose his words.
“For months Dr. Piersall tried to … define the Halidon. To seek it
out, to understand. He went back into Caribe history, to the Arawak, to
Africa. To find meaning.” Moore paused and looked at Whitehall. “He
read your books, Charleymon. I told him you were a bad liar, a diseased
goat. He said you did not lie in your books…. From many small
things, Dr. Piersall put together pieces of the puzzle, he called it.
His papers are in Carrick Foyle.”
“Just a minute.” Sam Tucker was irritated. “Walter talked a goddamned
streak for two days. On the Martha Brae, in the plane, at the Sheraton.
He never mentioned any of this.
Why didn’t he?” Tucker looked over at the Jamaicans against the wall, at
the two who had been with him since Montego Bay.
The black man who had spoken in the Chevrolet replied.
“He would have, mon. It was agreed to wait until McAuliff was with you.
It is not a story one repeats often.”
“What did the puzzle tell him?” asked Alex.
“Only part, mon,” said Barak Moore. “Only part of the puzzle was
complete. But Dr. Piersall arrived at several theories. To begin
with, Halidon is an offshoot from the Coromanteen tribe. They isolated
themselves after the Maroon wars, for they would not agree to the
treaties that called upon the Maroon nation-the Coromantees-to run down
and capture runaway slaves for the English. The Halidon would not
become bounty hunters of brother Africans. For decades they were
nomadic. Then, perhaps two hundred, two hundred and fifty years ago,
they settled in one location.
Unknown, inaccessible to the outside world. But they did not divorce
themselves from the outside world. Selected males were sent out to
accomplish what the elders believed should be accomplished. To this day
it is so. Women are brought in to bear children so that the pains of
inbreeding are avoided…. And two final points: The Halidon community
is high in the mountains where the winds are strong, of that Piersall
was certain. And last, the Halidon has great fiches. These are the
pieces of the puzzle; there are many missing.”
No one spoke for a while. Then Tucker broke the silence.
. “It’s a hell of a story,” said Sam, “but I’m not sure where it gets
us. Our knowing it won’t bring them out. And you said we can’t go
after them. Goddamn! If this … tribe has been in the mountains for
two hundred years and nobody’s found them, we’re not likely to, boy!
Where is ‘the way’
Walter provided?”
Charles Whitehall answered. “If Dr. Piersall’s conclusions are true,
the way is in the knowledge of them, Mr. Tucker.”
“Would you explain that?” asked Alex.
In an unexpected show of deference, the erudite scholar turned to the
rough-hewn guerrilla. “I think … Barak Moore should amplify. I
believe the key is in what he said a few minutes ago. That the Halidon
must have a strong reason to contact us.”
“You are not mistaken, mon. Dr. Piersall was certain that if word got
to the Halidon that their existence-and their great wealth-had been
confirmed by a small band of responsible men, they would send an
emissary. They guard their wealth above all things, Piersall believed.
But they have to be convinced beyond doubt…. That is the way.”
“Who do you convince?” asked Alex.
“Someone must travel to Maroon Town, on the border of the Cock Pit. This
person should ask for an audience with the Colonel of the Maroon people,
offer to pay much, much money. It was Dr. Piersall’s belief that this
man, whose title is passed from one generation to the next within the
same tribal family, is the only link to the Halidon.”
“The story is told to him, then?”
“No, McAuliff, mon! Not even the Colonel of the Maroons is to be so
trusted. At any rate, it would be meaningless to him. Dr. Piersall’s
studies hinted that the Halidon kept open one perpetual line to the
African brothers. It was called nagarro-”
“The Akwamu tongue,” broke in Whitehall. “The language is extinct, but
derivations exist in the Ashanti and Mossai-Grusso dialects. Nagarro is
an abstraction, best translated to mean ‘a spirit materialized.”
“A spirit . . .” Alex began to repeat the phrase, then stopped.
“Proof… proof of something real.”
“Yes,” replied Whitehall.
“Where is it?” asked McAuliff.
“The proof is in the meaning of another word,” said Barak Moore. “Them