Not castoffs, not in-fitting stolen property.
The Tribe of Acquaba was deep within a jungle primeval but it was
not-like so many of the isolated hill people-a worn-out race of
poverty-stricken primitives scratching a bare subsistence from the land.
Along the paths and around the dwellings Alex could see strong black
bodies and clear black eyes, the elements of balanced diets and sharp
intelligence.
“We shall go directly to Daniel,” said Malcolm to the guide. “You are
relieved now. And thank you.”
The guide turned right, down a dirt path that seemed to be tunneled
under a dense web of thick jungle vines. He was removing his pistol
belt, unbuttoning his field jacket. The commando was home, reflected
McAuliff. He could take off his costume-so purposely ragged.
Malcolm gestured, interrupting Alex’s thought. The path on which they
had been walking under an umbrella of macca-fats and ceibas veered left
into a clearing of matted spider grass. This open area extended beyond
the conduit of rushing water that shot out from the base of the high
waterfall streaming down the mountain. On the other side of the wide,
banked gully the ground sloped toward a barricade of rock; beyond were
the grazing fields that swung right, bordering the eastern shore of the
lake.
In the huge pasture, men could be seen walking with staffs toward the
clusters of livestock. It was late afternoon, the heat of the sun was
lessening. It was time to shelter the cattle for the night, thought
McAuliff.
He had been absently following Malcolm, more concerned with observing
everything he could of the strange, is ‘ plated village, when he
realized where the Halidonite was leading them.
Toward the base of the mountain and the waterfall.
They reached the edge of the lake-feeding channel and turned left. Alex
saw that the conduit of water was deeper than it appeared from a
distance. The banks were about eight feet in height; the definition he
had been from the plateau was a result of carefully placed rocks,
embedded in the earth of the embankments. This natural phenomenon had
been controlled by man, like the seeded fields, generations ago.
There were three crossings of wooden planks with waist high railings,
each buttressed into the sides of the embankments, where there were
stone steps … placed many decades ago. The miniature bridges were
spaced about fifty yards apart.
Then McAuliff saw it; barely saw it, as it was concealed behind a
profusion of tall trees, immense giant fern, and hundreds of flowering
vines at the base of the mountain.
It was a wooden structure. A large cabinlike dwelling whose base
straddled the channel, the water rushing out from under the huge pilings
that supported the hidden edifice. On each side of the pilings were
steps-again in stone, again placed generations ago-that led up to a wide
catwalk fronting the building. In the center of the planked catwalk was
a door. It was closed.
From any distance–certainly from, the air-the building was completely
concealed.
Its length was perhaps thirty feet, its width impossible to determine,
as it seemed to disappear into the jungle and the crashing waterfall.
As they approached the stone steps, McAuliff saw something else, which
so startled him that he had to stop and stare.
On the west side of the building, emerging from within and scaling
upward into the tangling mass of foliage, were thick black cables.
Malcolm turned and smiled at Alex’s astonishment. “Our contact with the
outside, McAuliff. Radio signals that are piped into telephone trunk
lines throughout the island. Not unlike cellular phones, but generally
much clearer than the usual telephone service. All untraceable, of
course. Now let us see Daniel.”
“Who is Daniel?”
“He is our Minister of Council. He is an elective office.
Except that his term is not guided by the calendar.”
“Who elects him?”
The Halidonite’s smile faded somewhat. “The council.”
“Who elects it?”
“The tribe.”
“Sounds like regular politics.”
“Not exactly,” said Malcolm enigmatically. “Come.
Daniel’s waiting.”
The Halidonite opened the door, and McAuliff walked into a large
high-ceilinged room with windows all around the upper wall. The sounds
of the waterfall could be heard; these were mingled with the myriad
noises of the jungle outside.
There were wooden chairs–chairs fashioned by hand, not machinery. In
the center of the back wall, in front of a second, very large, thick
door was a table, at which sat a black girl in her late twenties. On
her “desk” were papers, and at her left was a word processor on a white
computer table. The incongruity of such equipment in such a place
caused Alex to stare.
And then he swallowed as he saw a telephones sophisticated, push-button
console-on a stand to the girl’s right.
“This is Jeanine, Dr. McAuliff. She works for Daniel.”
The girl stood, her smile brief and tenuous. She acknowledged Alex with
a hesitant nod; her eyes were concerned as she spoke to Malcolm. “Was
the trip all right?”
“Since I brought back our guest, I cannot say it was wildly successful.”
“Yes,” replied Jeanine, her expression of concern now turned to fear.
“Daniel wants to see you right away. This way … Dr. McAuliff.”
The girl crossed to the door and rapped twice. Without waiting for a
reply, she twisted the knob and opened it ‘ Malcolm came alongside Alex
and gestured him inside’ McAuliff walked hesitantly through the door
frame and into the office of the Halidon’s Ministry of Council.
The room was large, with a single, enormous leadedglass window taking up
most of the rear wall. The view was both strange and awesome. Twenty
feet beyond the glass was the midsection of the waterfall; it took up
the entire area; there was nothing but endless tons of crashing water,
its sound muted but discernible. In front of the window was a long,
thick hatch table, its dark wood glistening. Behind it stood the man
named Daniel, Minister of Council.
He was a Jamaican with sharp Afro-European features, slightly more than
medium height and quite slender. His shoulders were broad, however; his
body tapered like that of a long-distance runner. He was in his early
forties, perhaps.
It was difficult to tell: his face had lean youth, but his eyes were not
young.
He smiled briefly, cordially, but not enthusiasticallyat McAuliff and
came around the table, his hand extended.
As he did so, Alex saw that Daniel wore white casual slacks and a dark
blue shirt open at the neck. Around his throat was a white silk
kerchief, held together by a gold ring. It was a kind of uniform,
thought Alex. As Malcolm’s robes were a uniform.
” Welcome, Doctor. I will not ask you about your trip. I have made it
too many times myself. It’s a bitch.”
Daniel shook McAuliffs hand. “It’s a bitch,” said Alex warily.
The minister abruptly turned to Malcolm. “What’s the report? I can’t
think of any reason to give it privately. Or is there?”
“No … Piersall’s documents are valid. They’re sealed, and McAuliff
has them ready to fly out from a location within a twenty-five-mile
radius of the Martha Brae base camp. Even he doesn’t know where. We
have three days, Daniel.”
The minister stared at the priest figure. Then he walked slowly back to
his chair behind the hatch table without speaking. He stood immobile,
his hands on the surface of the wood, and looked up at Alex.
“So by the brilliant persistence of an expatriate island fanatic we face
… castration. Exposure renders us impotent, you know, Dr. McAuliff.
We will be plundered. Stripped of our possessions. And the
responsibility is yours … you.
A geologist in the employ of Dunstone, Limited. And a most unlikely
recruit in the service of British Intelligence.”
Daniel looked over at Malcolm. “Leave us alone, please.
And be ready to start out for Montego.”
“When?”
“That will depend on our visitor. He will be accompanying you.”
“I will?”
“Yes, Dr. McAuliff. If you are alive.”
here is but a single threat one human being can make against another
that must be listened to. That threat’s obviously the taking of life.”
Daniel had walked to the enormous window framing the cascading, unending
columns of water. “In the absence of overriding ideological issues,
usually associated with religion or national causes, I think you will
agree.”
“And because I’m not motivated religiously or nationally, you expect the
threat to succeed.” McAuliff remained standing in front of the long,
glistening hatch table. He had not been offered a chair.
“Yes,” replied the Halidon’s Minister of Council, turning from the
window. “I am sure it has been said to you before that Jamaica’s
concerns are not your concerns.”
“It’s. . . ‘not my war’ is the way it was phrased.”
“Who said that to you? Charles Whitehall or Barak Moore?”
“Barak Moore is dead,” said Alex.
The minister was obviously surprised. His reaction, however, was a
brief moment of thoughtful silence. Then he spoke quietly. “I am