he came through the door. The two men talked briefly and then went back
inside the room.
No more than three minutes had’elapsed when Tucker and the doctor’s aide
were seen again, this time somewhat comically as they backed into the
door frame simultaneously. Each held his arm outstretched; in each hand
was an aerosol can, clouds of mist spewing from both.
Tucker and the black aide had systematically sprayed the interior of the
room.
Once finished, they crossed to the plastic bags, the case, and the large
cylinder. They picked up the objects, spoke briefly again, and started
for the lawn.
Out on the water, the fishing boat was halfway to the point of the cove.
But something had happened. It had stopped; it bobbed gently on the
calm surface, no longer traveling forward. Peter could see the now tiny
figure of Lawrence standing up in the bow, then crouching, then standing
up again. The skipper was gesturing, his movements excited.
The boat pushed forward once more, only to turn slowly and change
direction. It did not continue on its course-if the point was, indeed,
its course. Instead, it headed for the open sea.
Jensen lay on the moist sand for the next fifteen minutes, watching the
small craft progressively become a black dot within a gray-black ocean
splashed with orange sunlight. He could not read the thoughts of the
two Jamaicans; he could not see the things that were happening on that
boat so illogically far out on the water. But his knowledge of tides
and currents, his observations during the last three hours, led his
conclusions to one end.
The man on the stretcher had died. His corpse would soon be stripped of
identification, weighted down with net lead, and thrown into the water,
eventually to be carried by floor currents far away from the island of
Jamaica. Perhaps to be washed ashore weeks or months from now on some
Cayman reef or, more fortuitously, torn apart and devoured by the
predators of the deep.
Peter knew it was time to call Warfield, meet with Julian Warfield.
Immediately.
McAuliff rolled over on his side, the sharp pain in his shoulder
suddenly surging through his chest. He sat up quickly, momentarily
bewildered. He focused his thoughts.
It was morning; the night before had been a series of terrifying
confusions. The pieces would have to be put back together, plans made.
He looked down at Alison, beside him. She was breathing deeply,
steadily, in complete sleep. If the evening had been a nightmare for
him, it had been no less a torment for her.
Perhaps worse. At least he had been in motion, constant, unceasing
movement. She had been waiting, thinking; he had had no time for
thoughts. It was worse to wait. In some ways.
Slowly, as silently as he could, he swung his legs over the side of the
bed and stood up. His whole body was stiff, his joints pained him,
especially his kneecaps.
It was understandable. The muscles he had used last night were, dormant
strings of an unused instrument, called into play by a panicked
conductor. The allusion was proper, thought Alex-about his thoughts. He
nearly smiled as he conjured up the phrase: so out of tune. Everything
was out oftune.
But the notes were forming recognizable chords …
somewhere. In the distance. There was a melody of sorts that could be
vaguely distinguished.
Yet not distinguished. Hardly noble. Not yet.
An odor assaulted his nostrils. It was not the illusion of spice and
vanilla, but nevertheless sweet. If there was an association, it was
south Oriental … Java, the Sunda Trench, pungent, a bit sickening. He
crossed quietly to the terrace door, about to open it, when he realized
he was naked. He walked silently to a chair by the curtained window,
where he had thrown a pair of swimming trunks several days ago. He
removed them from the wooden rim and put them on.
“I hope they’re not wet,” said Alison from the bed. “The maid service
here is a touch lacking, and I didn’t hang them up.”
“Go back to sleep,” Alex replied. “You were asleep a moment ago. Very
much asleep.”
“I’m very much awake now. Good heavens, it’s a quarter past eight.”
“And?”
“Nothing, really … I just didn’t think we’d sleep this long.”
“It’s not long. We didn’t get to bed until after three. Considering
everything that happened, noon would have been too early.”
“How’s your arm? The shoulder?”
“A little sore … like most of me. Not crippling.”
“What is that terrible smell?” Alison sat up; the sheet fell away,
revealing a curiously prim nightgown, opaque cotton with buttons. She
saw Alex’s gaze, the beginning of a smile on his lips. She glanced down
and laughed. “My granty nightshirt. I put it on after you fell asleep.
It was chilly, at d you hadn’t the slightest interest in anything but
philosophical discourse.”
He walked to the edge of the bed and sat down beside her.
“I was long-winded, wasn’t I?”
“I couldn’t shut you up; there was simply no way. You drank a great
deal of Scotch-how’s your head, incidentally?”
“Fine. As though I’d had Ovaltine.”
“. . . straight alcohol wouldn’t have stayed with you either. I’ve
seen that kind of reaction before, too…. Sorry.
I forgot you object to my British pronouncements.”
“I made a few myself last night. I withdraw my objections.”
“Do you still believe them? Your pronouncements? As they say … in
the cold logic of the morning?”
“I think I do; the thrust of my argument being that no one fights better
for his own turf than he who lives on it, depends on it…. Yes, I
believe it. I’d feel more confident if Barak hadn’t been hurt.”
“Strange name, Barak.”
“Strange man. And very strong. He’s needed, Alison.
Boys can become men quickly, but they’re still not seasoned. His ken is
needed.”
“By whom?”
McAuliff looked at her, at the lovely way her eyebrows rose quizzically
above her clear, light blue eyes. “By his own side,” he answered
simply.
“Which is not Charles Whitehall’s side.” There was no question implied.
“No. They’re very different. And I think it’s necessary … at this
point, under these circumstances … that Barak’s faction be as viable
as Charley-Union’s.”
“That concern strikes me as dangerously close to interference, darling.”
“I know. It’s just that everything seems so complicated to me. But it
doesn’t to Whitehall. And it doesn’t to Barak Moore. They see a simple
division muddled up by second and third parties…. Don’t you see?
They’re not distracted. They first go after one objective, then
another, and another, knowing ultimately they’ll have to deal with each
other.
Neither one loses sight of that. Each stores his apples as he goes
along.”
“What?” Alison leaned back on the pillow, watching McAuliff as he stared
blankly at the wall. “I don’t follow that.”
“I’m not sure I can explain it. A wolf pack surrounds its victims, who
huddle into the center. The dogs set up an erratic rhythm of attack,
taking turns lunging in and out around the circle until the quarry’s
confused to the point of exhaustion. Then the wolves close in.” Alex
stopped; he was uncertain.
“I gather Charles and this Barak are the victims,” said Alison, trying
to help him.
“Jamaica’s the victim, and they’re Jamaica. The wolves the enemies-are
Dunstone and all it represents: Warfield and his crowd of … global
manipulators-the Chatelleraults of this world; British Intelligence,
with its elitists, like Tallon and his crowd of opportunists; the Crafts
of this island … internal bleeders, you could call them. Finally,
maybe even this Halidon, because you can’t control what you can’t find;
and even if you find it, it may not be controllable…. There are a lot
of wolves.”
“There’s a lot of confusion,” added Alison.
McAuliff turned and looked at her. “For us. Not for them.
That’s what’s remarkable. The victims have worked out a strategy: Take
each wolf as it lunges. Destroy it.”
:’What’s that got to do with apples?”
“I jumped out of the circle and went into a straight line.”
“Aren’t we abstract,” stated Alison Booth.
“It’s valid. As any army-and don’t kid yourself, Charles Whitehall and
Barak Moore have their armies-as any army moves forward, it maintains
its lines of supply. In this case, support. Remember. When all the
wolves have been killed, they face each other. Whitehall and Moore both
are piling up apples … support.” McAuliff stopped again and got up
from the bed. He’Walked toward the window to the right of the terrace
doors, pulled the curtain, and looked out at the beach. “Does any of
this make sense to you?” he asked softly.
” It’s very political, I think, and I’m not much at that sort of thing.
But you’re describing a rather familiar pattern. I’d say–2′ “You bet
your life I am,” interrupted Alex, speaking slowly and turning from the
windows. “Historical precedents unlimited … and I’m no goddamn