It took him nearly a month of sleepless days and nights, using
logarithmic charts of phonetics, hieroglyphs, and African symbols of
daily survival.
When he was finished, he was satisfied. He had broken the ancient code.
It was too dangerous to include it in this summary. For in the event of
his death–or murder-this summary might fall into the wrong hands.
Therefore, there was a second archive case containing the secret.
The second without the first was meaningless.
Instructions were left with one man. To be acted upon in the event he
was no longer capable of doing so himself.
Charles Whitehall turned over the last page. His face and neck were
drenched with sweat. Yet it was cool in the shack. Two partially
opened windows in the south wall let in the breezes from the hills of
Drax Hall, but they could not put out the nervous fires of his anxiety.
Truths had been learned. A greater, overwhelming truth was yet to be
revealed.
That it would be now, he was certain.
The scholar and the patriot were one again.
The Praetorian of Jamaica would enlist the Halidon.
20 ames Ferguson, at the fashionable bar in Montego Bay, was
exhilarated. It was the feeling he had when momentous things happened in
the lens of a microscope and he knew he was the first observer—or, at
least, the first witness who recognized a causal effect for what it was.
Like the baracoa fiber.
He was capable of great imagination when studying the S es and densities
of microscopic particles. A giant manipulating a hundred million
infinitesimal subjects. It was a form of control.
He had control now. Over a man who did not know what it was like to
have to protest too loudly over the inconsequential because no one paid
attention; to be forever down to his last few quid in the bank because
none paid him the value of his work.
All that was changing. He could think about a great many things that
were preposterous fantasies only yesterday: his own laboratories with
the most expensive equipmentelectronic, computerized, data-banked;
throwing away the little budget pads that told him whom he had last
borrowed from.
A Maserati. He would buy a Maserati. Arthur Craft had one, why
shouldn’t he?
Arthur Craft was paying for it.
Ferguson looked at his watch-his too inexpensive Timex-and signaled the
bartender to total his bill.
When the bartender did not come over in thirty seconds, Ferguson reached
for the tab in front of him and turned it over. It was simple enough to
add: a dollar and fifty cents, twice.
James Ferguson then did what he had never done in his life. He took out
a five-dollar bill, crumpled it up in his hand, got off the bar stool,
and threw the wadded bill toward the cash register several yards in
front of him. The bill bounced off the bottles on the lighted shelf and
arced to the floor.
He started for the entrance.
There was machismo in his gesture; that was the word, that was the
feeling.
In twenty’ minutes, he would meet the emissary from y Craft the Younger.
Down off Harbour Street, near Parish Wharf, on Pier Six. The man would
be obsequious-he had no choice-and give him an envelope containing three
thousand dollars.
Three thousand dollars.
In a single envelope; not saved in bits and pieces over months of
budgeting, nor with the tentacles of Inland Revenut or debtors past,
reaching out to cut it in half. It was his to do with as he pleased. To
squander, to throw away on silly things, to pay a girl to get undressed
and undress him and do things to him that were fantasies … only
yesterday.
He had borrowed-taken a salary advance, actually from McAuliff. Two
hundred dollars. There was no reason to repay it. Not now. He would
simply tell McAuliff . . .
Alex; from now on it would be Alex, or perhaps Lex-very informal, very
sure … to deduct the silly money from his paycheck. All at once, if
he felt like it. It was inconsequential; it didn’t really matter.
And it certainly didn’t, thought Ferguson.
Every month Arthur Craft would give him an envelope.
The agreed-upon amount was three thousand dollars in each envelope, but
that was subject to change. Related to cost of living, as it were.
Increased as his appetites and comforts increased. Just the beginning.
Ferguson crossed St. James Square and proceeded toward the waterfront.
It was a warm night, with no breeze, and humid. Fat clouds, flying low
and threatening rain, blocked the moon; the antiquated streetlamps threw
a subdued light in counterpoint to the gaudy neons of white and orange
that announced the diversions of Montego Bay night life.
Ferguson reached Harbour Street and turned left. He stopped under a
streetlamp and checked his watch again. It was ten minutes past
midnight; Craft had specified 12:15. In five minutes, he would have
three thousand dollars.
Pier Six was directly ahead on his right, across the street.
There was no ship in the dock, no activity within the huge loading area
beyond the high linked fence; only a large naked bulb inside a wire
casing that lit up the sign:
PIER SIX
MONTEGO LINES
He was to stand under the lamp, in front of the sign, and wait for a man
to drive up in a Triumph sports car. The man would ask him for
identification. Ferguson would show him his passport and the man would
give him the envelope.
So simple. The entire transaction would take less than thirty seconds.
And change his life.
Craft had been stunned; speechless, actually, until he had found his
voice and screamed a torrent of abuse … until, again, he realized the
futility of his position. Craft the Younger had gone too far. He had
broken laws and would be an object of scorn and embarrassment. James
Ferguson could tell a story of airport meetings and luggage and
telephone calls and industrial espionage … and promises.
Such promises.
But his silence could be purchased. Craft could buy his confidence for
a first payment of three thousand dollars. If Craft did not care to do
so, Ferguson was sure the Kingston authorities would display avid
interest in the details of his story.
No, he had not spoken to anyone yet. But things had been written down.
(Lies Craft could not trace, of course.) That did not mean he was
incapable of finding the spoken words; such capability was very much
within his province … as the first payment was within Craft’s
province. One canceled the other: which would it be?
And so it was.
Ferguson crossed Harbour Street and approached the wire-encased light
and the sign. A block and a half away, crowds of tourists swelled into
the street, a one-way flow toward the huge passenger terminal and the
gangplanks of a cruise ship. Taxis emerged out of side streets and
alleys from the center of Montego Bay, blowing their horns anxiously,
haltingly making their way to the dock. Three basstoned whistles filled
the air, vibrating the night, signifying that the ship was giving a
warning: all passengers were to be on board.
He heard the Triumph before he saw it. There was the gunning of an
engine from the darkness of a narrow side street diagonally across from
Pier Six. The shiny, red, lowslung sports car sped out of the dark
recess and coasted to a stop in front of Ferguson. The driver was
another Craft employee, one he recognized from a year ago. He did not
recall the man’s name; only that he was a quick, physical person, given
to arrogance. He would not be arrogant now.
He wasn’t. He smiled in the open car and gestured Ferguson to come
over. “Hello, Fergy! It’s been a long time.”
Ferguson hated the nickname “Fergy”; it had dogged him for most of his
life. Just when he had come to think it was part of a schoolboy past,
someone-always someone unpleasant, he reflected-used it. He felt like
correcting the man, reminding him of his messenger status, but he did
not.
He simply ignored the greeting.
“Since you recognize me, I assume there’s no need to show you my
identification,” said James, approaching the Triumph.
“Christ, no! How’ve you been?”
“Well, thank you. Do you have the envelope? I’m in a hurry.”
“Sure. Sure, I do, Fergy…. Hey, you’re a pistol, buddy!
Our friend is pissing rocks! He’s half out of his skull, you knoA what
I mean?”
“I know what you mean. He should be. The envelope, please.”
“Sure.” The driver reached into his jacket and withdrew an envelope. He
then leaned over and handed it to Ferguson.
“You’re supposed to count it. If it’s all there, just give me back the
envelope … make any kind of mark on it you like.
Oh, here’s a pen.” The man opened the glove compartment and took out a
ballpoint pen and held it up for Ferguson.