penicillin salve. “Put on your shirt, Union. Your skin is covered,” he
said, twisting the small cap onto the medicine tube.
“I’m leaving in a few minutes,” said McAuliff, standing in front of
Whitehall. “Sam will be in charge; you’re to do as he says. In so far
as possible, the work is to continue normally. The Halidon will stay
out of sight … at least as far as the Jensens and Ferguson are
concerned.”
“How can that be?” asked Lawrence.
“It won’t be difficult,” answered Alex. “Peter is drilling for
gas-pocket sediment a mile and a half southwest. Ruth is due east in a
quarry; the runner we know as Justice will be with her. Ferguson is
across the river working some fern groves. All are separated, each will
be watched.”
“And me?” Whitehall buttoned his expensive cotton safari shirt as though
dressing for a concert at Covent Garden. “What do you propose for me?”
“You’re confined to the clearing, Charley-mon. For your own sake, don’t
try to leave it. I can’t be responsible if you do.”
“You think you have any say about anything now, McAuliff?”
“Yes, I do. They’re as much afraid of me as I am of them.
Just don’t try to upset the balance, either of you. I buried a man on
an Alaskan job a number of years ago. Sam will tell you, I know the
standard prayers.”
Alison stood on the riverbank, looking down at the water.
The heat of the early sun was awakening the late sleepers of the forest.
The sounds were those of combative foraging; flyer against flyer,
crawler fighting crawler. The green vines dangling from the tall
macca-fat palms glistened with the moisture rising from below; fern and
moss and matted cabbage growth bordered the slowly flowing currents of
the Martha Brae offshoot. The water was morning-clear, bluish-green.
“I went to your tent,” said McAuliff, walking up to her.
“Sam said you were out here.”
She turned and smiled. “I wasn’t really disobeying, my darling. I’m
not running anywhere.”
“Nowhere to go. You’ll be all right…. The runner’s waiting for me.”
Alison took two steps and stood in front of him. She spoke quietly,
barely above a whisper. “I want to tell you something, Alexander T.
McAuliff. And I refuse to be dramatic or tearful or anything remotely
theatrical because those are crutches and both of us can walk without
them.
Six weeks ago I was running. Quite desperately, trying my goddamnedest
to convince myself that by running I was escaping-which I knew
underneath was absurd. In Kingston I told you how absurd it was. They
can find you.
Anywhere. The computers, the data banks, the horrid, complicated
tracers they have in their cellars and in their hidden rooms are too
real now. Too thorough. And there is no life underground, in remote
places, always wondering. I don’t expect you to understand this, and,
in a way, it’s why what you’re doing is right….. Do unto others
before they do unto you.” That’s what you said. I believe that’s a
terrible way to think. And I also believe it’s the only way we’re going
to have a life of our own.”
McAuliff touched her face with his fingers. Her eyes were bluer than he
had ever seen them. “That sounds dangerously like a proposal.”
And, as you said once, I’m a damned fine professional.” “My wants are
simple, my expressions uncomplicated.
“‘McAuliff and Booth. Surveyors. Offices: London and New York.” That’d
look good on the letterhead.”
“You wouldn’t consider ‘Booth and McAuliff ? I mean, alphabetically-”
“No, I wouldn’t,” he interrupted gently as he put his arms around her.
“Do people always say silly things when they’re afraid?” she asked, her
face buried in his chest.
“I think so,” he replied.
Peter Jensen reached down into the full pack and felt his way among the
soft articles of clothing. The canvas was stuffed. Jensen winced as he
slid the object of his search up the sides of the cloth.
It was the Luger. It was wrapped in plastic, the silencer detached,
tied to the barrel in plastic also.
His wife stood by the entrance flap of their tent, the slit folded back
just sufficiently for her to look outside.
Peter unwrapped both sections of the weapon and put the silencer in the
pocket of his field jacket. He pressed the release, slid out the
magazine, and reached into his other pocket for a box of cartridges.
Methodically he inserted the magazine until the spring was taut, the top
bullet ready for chamber insertion. He slid the magazine back into the
handle slot and cracked it into position.
Ruth heard the metallic click and turned around. “Do you have to do
this?”
“Yes. Julian was very clear. McAuliff was my selection, his
concurrence a result of that choice. McAuliff’s made contact. With
whom? With what? I must find out.” Peter pulled open his jacket and
shoved the Luger down between a triangle of leather straps sewn into the
lining. He buttoned the field jacket and stood up straight. “Any
bulges, old girl?
Does it show?”
“No.
“Good. Hardly the fit of Whitehall’s uniform, but I dare say a bit more
comfortable.”
“You will be careful? It’s so dreadful out there.”
“All that camping you dragged me on had a purpose. I see that now, my
dear.” Peter smiled and returned to his pack, pushing down the contents,
pulling the straps into buckling position. He inserted the prongs,
tugged once more, and slapped the bulging outsides. He lifted the
canvas sack by the shoulder harness and let it fall to the dirt. “There!
I’m set for a fortnight if need be.”
“How will I know?”
“When I don’t come back with my carrier. If I pull it off right, he
might even be too petrified to return himself.”
Peter saw the tremble on his wife’s lips, the terrible fear in her eyes.
He motioned for her to come to him, which she did. Rushing into his
arms.
“Oh, God, Peter-”
“Please, Ruth. Shhh. You mustn’t,” he said, stroking her hair. “Julian
has been everything to us. We both know that. And Julian thinks we’d
be very happy at Peale Court.
Dunstone will need many people in Jamaica, he said. Why not us?”
When the unknown carrier came into camp, James Ferguson could see that
the runner he knew as Marcus Hedrik was as angry as he was curious. They
were all curious.
McAuliff had left early that morning for the coast; it seemed strange
that the carrier had not met him on the river. The carrier insisted he
had seen no one but wandering hill people, some fishing, some hunting-no
white man.
The carrier had been sent by the Government Employment Office, a branch
in Falmouth that knew the survey was looking for additional hands. The
carrier was familiar with the river offshoot, having grown up in Weston
Favel, and was anxious for work. Naturally, he had the proper papers,
signed by some obscure functionary at G.E.O., Falmouth.
At 2:30 in the afternoon, James Ferguson, having rested after lunch, sat
on the edge of his cot, prepared to gather up his equipment and head
back into the field. There was a rustling outside his tent. He looked
up, and the new carrier suddenly slapped open the flap and walked in. He
was carrying a plastic tray.
I say—@’ “I pick up dishes, Mon,” said the carrier rapidly. “Alla
time be very neat.”
“I have no dishes here. There’s a glass or two need washing. . .
The carrier lowered his voice. “I got message for FergoMon. I give it
to you. You read it quick.” The runner reached into his pocket and
withdrew a sealed envelope. He handed it to Ferguson.
James ripped the back and pulled out a single page of stationery. It
was the stationery of The Craft Foundation, and Ferguson’s eyes were
immediately pulled to the signature. It was known throughout
Jamaica-the scrawl of Arthur Craft Senior, the semiretired but
all-powerful head of the Craft enterprises.
My dear James Ferguson:
Apologies from a distance are always most awkward and often the most
sincere. Such is the present case.
My son has behaved badly, for which he, too, offers his regrets. He
sends them from the South of France where he will be residingfor an
indeterminate-but long-period of time.
To the point: your contributions in our laboratories on the baracoa
experiments were immense. They led the way to what we believe can be a
major breakthrough that can have a widespread industrial impact.
We believe this breakthrough can be accelerated by your immediate return
to us. Your future is assured, young man, in the way all genius should
be rewarded You will be a very wealthy man.
However, time is of the essence. Therefore I recommend that you leave
the survey forthwith-the messenger will explain the somewhat odd fashion
of departure butyou may be assured that I have apprised Kingston of my