crazy cell block, hurtling around the confining space, bouncing off the
walls … that’s not a very sane picture.”
“Move and countermove, Sam,” interrupted Alison.
“They’re experts.”
“Who? Which?” Tucker leaned forward in his chair, holding Alison with
his old eyes.
“Both,” answered the girl firmly. “I saw what Chatellerault did to my
husband. I know what Interpol did to me.”
The silence returned once more, less strained than before.
And once again, Sam Tucker broke it softly.
“You’ve got to define your enemies, Alexander. I get the feeling you
haven’t done that … present company expected as allies, I sincerely
hope.”
“I’ve defined them as best I can. I’m not sure those definitions will
hold. It’s complicated, at least for me.”
“Then simplify, boy. When you’re finished, who wants you hanged the
quickest?”
McAuliff looked at Alison. “Again, both. Dunstone literally; M.I. Five
and Six figuratively. One dead, the other dependent-subject to recall.
A name in a data bank. That’s very real.”
“I agree,” said Tucker, relighting his thin cigar. “Now, let’s reverse
the process. Who can you hang the quickest?
The surest?”
Alex laughed quietly, joined by Alison. The girl spoke.
“My Lord, you do think alike.”
“That doesn’t answer the question. Who the quickest?”
“Dunstone, I imagine. At the moment, it’s more vulnerable. Warfield
made a mistake; he thinks I’m really hungry.
He thinks he bought me because he made me a part of them.
They fall, I fall … I’d have to say Dunstone.”
“All right,” replied Sam, assuming the mantle of a softspoken attorney.
“Enemy number one defined as Dunstone.
You can extricate yourself by simple blackmail: thirdperson knowledge,
documents tucked away in lawyers’ offices. Agreed?”
“Yes.
“That leaves enemy number two: Her Majesty’s Intelligence boys. Let’s
define them. What’s their hook into you?”
“Protection. It’s supposed to be protection.”
“Not noticeably successful, would you say, son?”
“Not noticeably successful,” said Alex in agreement.
“But we’re not finished yet.”
“We’ll get to that; don’t rush. What’s your hook into them?”
McAuliff paused in thought. “Their methods … and their contacts, I
think. Exposing their covert operations.”
Really the same as with Dunstone, isn’t it?” Tucker was zeroing in on
his target.
“Again, yes.”
“Let’s go back a second. What does Dunstone offer?”
“Money. A great deal of money. They need this survey.”
“Are you prepared to lose it?”
“Hell, yes! But I may not have to-2′ “That’s immaterial. I assume
that’s part of the ‘guarantees and promises.”
“That’s right.”
“But it’s not a factor. You haven’t stolen from the thieves. In any
way can they get you indicted as one of them?”
“Christ, no! They may think so, but they’re wrong.”
“Then there are your answers. Your definitions. Eliminate the hooks
and the offers. Theirs. The money and the protection. Lose one-the
money; make the other unnecessary-the protection. You’re dealing from
strength, with your own hooks. You make whatever offers you wish.”
“You jumped, Sam,” said McAuliff slowly. “Or you forgot. We’re not
finished; we may need the protection. If we take it, we can’t deny it.
We’d be a joke. The Iran-Contra syndrome. Worms crawling over each
other.”
Sam Tucker put down his thin cigar in the ashtray on the table and
reached for the bottle of Scotch. He was about to speak, but was
interrupted by the sight of Charles Whitehall walking out of a jungle
path into the clearing. Whitehall looked around, then crossed rapidly
to Lawrence, who was still over the coals of the banked fire, the orange
glow coloring his skin a bronzed black. The two men spoke.
Lawrence stood up, nodded once, and started toward the jungle path.
Whitehall watched him briefly, then turned and looked over at McAuliff,
Sam, and Alison.
With urgency, he began walking across the clearing to them.
“There’s your protection, Alexander,” said Sam quietly as Whitehall
approached. “The two of them. They may despise each other, but they’ve
got a common hate that works out fine for you. For all of us, goddamnit
… Bless their beautiful hides.”
“The courier has returned.” Charles Whitehall adjusted the light of the
Coleman lantern in his tent. McAuliff stood inside the canvas flap of
the doorway-Whitehall had insisted that Alex come with him; he did not
wish to speak in front of Alison and Sam Tucker.
“You could have told the others.”
“That will be a … multilateral decision. Personally, I would not
subscribe to it.”
“Why not?”
“We must be extremely careful. The less that is known by them, the
better.”
McAuliff pulled out a pack of cigarettes and walked to the single
nylon-strapped chair in the center of the tent. He sat down, knowing
that Charley-mon would not; the man was too agitated, trying almost
comically to remain calm.
“That’s funny. Alison used the same words a little while ago. For
different reasons … What’s the message from Maroon Town?”
“Affirmative! The colonel will meet with us. What’s more important-so
much more important-is that his reply was in units of four!”
Whitehall approached the chair, his eyes filled with that messianic
anxiety Alex had seen in Drax Hall. “He made a counterproposal for our
meeting. Unless he hears otherwise, he will assume it is acceptable. He
asks for eight days. And rather than four hours after sundown, he
requests the same four hours after two in the morning. Two in the
morning!
Diagrammatically to the right of the setting sun. Don’t you see? He
understands, McAuliff. He understands! Piersall’s first step is
confirmed!”
“I thought it would be,” replied Alex lamely, not quite sure how to
handle Whitehall’s agitation.
“It doesn’t matter to you, does it?” The Jamaican stared at McAuliff
incredulously. “A scholar made an extraordinary discovery. He’d
followed elusive threads in the archives going back over two hundred
years. His work proved out; it could have enormous academic impact. The
story of Jamaica might well have to be rewritten…. Can’t you see?”
“I can see you’re excited, and I can understand that. You should be.
But right now, I’m concerned with a less erudite problem. I don’t like
the delay.”
Whitehall silently exploded in exasperation. He looked up at the canvas
ceiling, inhaled deeply, and quickly regained his composure. The
judgment he conveyed was obvious: the blunt mind in front of him was
incapable of being reached. He spoke with condescending resignation.
“It’s good. It indicates progress.”
“Why?”
“I did not tell you, but I included a message with our request for a
meeting. It was admittedly a risk but I felt unilaterally-that it was
worth taking. It could expedite our objective with greater speed. I
told the courier to say the request came from … new believers of
Acquaba.”
McAuliff tensed; he was suddenly angry with Whitehall, but had the
presence to minimize his anger. The horrible memory of the fate of the
first Dunstone survey came to mind. “For such a brilliant guy, I think
that was pretty stupid, Charley-mon.”
“Not stupid. A calculated risk. If the Halidon decides to make contact
on the strength of Piersall’s code, it will arrive at that decision only
after it learns more about us. It will send out for information; it
will see that I am part of the unit. The elders of the Halidon will
know of my credentials, my scholarship,. my contributions to the
Jamaican story.
These will be in our favor.”
Alex leaped out of the chair and spoke quietly, viciously.
“You egomaniacal son of a bitch! Has it occurred to you that your …
other credentials may not be favorable? You could be the one piece of
rotten meat!”
“Impossible! ” you arrogant prick! I won’t have the lives of this team
jeopardized by your inflated opinion of yourself! I want protection,
and I’m going to get it!”
There was a rustling outside the tent. Both men whipped around toward
the canvas flap of the entrance. The canvas parted, and the black
revolutionary, Lawrence, walked in slowly, his hands in front of him,
bound by rope. Behind Lawrence, was another man. In the shadowed
darkness it appeared to be the runner Marcus Hedrik. In his hand was a
gun. It was jabbed into the flash of his prisoner.
The captor spoke quietly. “Do not go for your weapons.
Don’t make noise. Just stay exactly where you are.”
“Who are you?” asked McAuliff, amazed that Hedrik’s voice had lost the
hesitant, dull tones he had heard for the better part of a week. “You’re
not Marcus!”
“For the moment, that is not important.”
“Garvey!” whispered Alex. “Garvey said it! He said there were others
… he didn’t know who. You’re with British Intelligence!”
“No,” replied the large man softly, even politely. “Two of your
carriers were English agents. They’re dead. And the obese Garvey had
an accident on the road to Port Maria. He is dead also.”
“Then–2’ “It is not you who will ask the questions, Mr. McAuliff. It
is I. You will tell me … you new believers … what you know of