In that we are absolute.
We will destroy ourselves and the vaults if the world outside interferes
with us.
I, as Minister of Council, ask you to rise, Dr. McAuliff.
And turn yourself away from the Tribe of Acquaba, from this Council of
the Halidon, and face the wall. What you will hear, staring only at
stone, are voices, revealing locations and figures. As I mentioned, we
are not fools. We understand the specifics of the marketplace. But you
will not see faces, you will never know the identities of those who
speak. Only know that they go forth bearing the wealth of Acquaba.
“We dispense vast sums throughout the world, concentrating as best we
can on the areas of widespread human suffering. Pockets of famine,
displacement, futility. Untold thousands are helped daily by the
Halidon. Daily. In practical ways.
“Please rise and face the wall, Dr. McAuliff.”
Alexander got up from the block of stone and turned. For a brief
instant his eyes fell on the corpse of Acquaba. He looked away and
stared at the towering sheet of rock.
Daniel continued. “Our contributions are made without thought of
political gain or influence. They are made because we have the
concealed wealth and the commitment to make them. The lessons of
Acquaba.
“But the world is not ready to accept our ways, Acquaba’s ways. The
global mendacity would destroy us, cause us to destroy ourselves,
perhaps. And that we cannot permit.
“So understand this, Dr. McAuliff. Beyond the certainty of your own
death, should you reveal what you know of the Tribe of Acquaba, there is
another certainty of far greater significance than your life: the work
of the Halidon will cease. That is our ultimate threat.”
One by one, the voices recited their terse statements: “Afro axis.
Ghana. Fourteen thousand bushels of grain.
Conduit: Smythe Brothers, Capetown. Barclay’s Bank.”
“Sierra Leone. Three tons of medical supplies. Conduit: Baldazi
Pharmaceuticals, Algiers. Bank of Constantine.”
“Indo-China axis. Vietnam, Mekong, Quan Tho provinces.
Radiology and laboratory personnel and supplies. Conduit: Swiss Red
Cross. Bank of America.”
“Southwest Hemisphere axis. Brazil. Rio de Janeiro.
Typhoid serum. Conduit: Surgical Salizar. Banco erceiro, Rio.”
“Northwest Hemisphere axis. West Virginia. Appalachia.
Twenty-four tons food supplies. Conduit: Atlantic Warehousing. Chase
Manhattan. New York.”
“India axis. Dacca. Refugee camps. Inoculation serums, medicals.
Conduit: International Displacement Organization. World Bank.
Burma….”
The voices of men and women droned on, the phrases clipped, yet somehow
gentle. It took nearly an hour, and McAuliff began to recognize that
many spoke twice, but always with different information. Nothing was
repeated.
Finally there was silence.
A long period of silence. And then Alexander felt a hand on his
shoulder. He turned, and Daniel’s eyes bore in on him.
:’Do you understand?”
“Yes, I understand,” McAuliff said.
They walked across the field toward the lake. The sounds of the forest
mingled with the hum of the mountains and the crashing of the waterfall
nearly a mile to the north.
They stood on the embankment, and Alex bent down, picked up a small
stone, and threw it into the black, shining lake that reflected the
light of the moon. He looked at Daniel.
“In a way, you’re as dangerous as the rest of them. One man … with
so much … operating beyond reach. No checks, no balances. It would
be so simple for good to become evil, evil good. Malcolm said your …
term isn’t guided by a calendar.”
“It is not. I am elected for life. Only I can terminate my office.”
“And pick your successor?”
“I have influence. The Council, of course, has the final disposition.”
“Then I think you’re more dangerous.”
“I do not deny it.”
low The trip to Montego was far easier than the circuitous march from
the Martha Brae. To begin with, most of The journey was by vehicle.
Malcolm, his robes replaced by Savile Row clothing, led Alexander around
the lake to the southeast, where they were met by a runner who took them
to the base of a mountain cliff, hidden by jungle. A steel lift, whose
thick chains were concealed by mountain rocks, carried them up the
enormous precipice to a second runner, who placed them in a small tram,
which was transported by cable on a path below the skyline of the
forest.
At the end of the cable ride, a third runner took them through a series
of deep caves, identified by Malcolm as the Quick Step Grotto. He told
Alex that the Quick Step was named for seventeenth-century buccaneers
who raced from Bluefield’s Bay overland to bury treasure at the bottom
of the deep pools within the caves. The other derivationthe one many
believed to be more appropriate-was that if a traveler did not watch his
feet, he could easily slip and plummet into a crevice. Injury was
certain, death not impossible.
McAuliff stayed close to the runner, his flashlight beamed at the rocky
darkness in front of him.
Out of the caves, they proceeded through a short stretch of jungle to
the first definable road they had seen. The runner activated a portable
radio; ten minutes later a Land Rover came out of the pitch-black
hollows from the west and the runner bid them good-bye.
The rugged vehicle traveled over a crisscross pattern of back country
roads, the driver keeping his engine as quiet as possible, coasting on
descending hills, shutting off his headlights whenever they approached a
populated area. The drive lasted a half hour. They passed through the
Maroon village of Accompong and swung south several miles to a flat
stretch of grassland.
In the darkness, on the field’s edge, a small airplane was rolled out
from under a camouflage of fern and acacia. It was a two-seater
Comanche; they climbed in, and Malcolm took the controls.
“This is the only difficult leg of the trip,” he said as they taxied for
takeoff. “We must fly close to the ground to avoid interior radar.
Unfortunately, so do the garja aircraft, the drug smugglers. But we
will worry less about the authorities than we will about collision.”
Without incident, but not without sighting several garja planes, they
landed on the grounds of an outlying farm, southwest of Unity Hall. From
there it was a fifteen-minute ride into Montego Bay.
“It would arouse suspicions for us to stay in the exclusively black
section of the town. You, for your skin, me for my speech and my
clothes. And tomorrow we must have mobility the white areas.”
They drove to the Cornwall Beach Hotel and registered ten minutes apart.
Reservations had been made for adjoining but not connecting rooms.
It was two o’clock in the morning, and McAuliff fell into bed exhausted.
He had not slept in forty-eight hours. And yet, for a very long time,
sleep did not come.
He thought about so many things. The brilliant, lonely, awkward James
Ferguson and his sudden departure to the Craft Foundation. Defection,
really. Without explanation.
Alex hoped Craft was Jimbo-mon’s solution. For he would never be
trusted again.
And of the sweetly charming Jensens … up to their so-respectable
chins in the manipulations of Dunstone, Limited.
Of the “charismatic leader” Charles Whitehall, waiting to ride
“nigger-Pompey’s horse” through Victoria Park.
Whitehall was no match for the Halidon. The Tribe of Acquaba would not
tolerate him.
Nor did the lessons of Acquaba include the violence of Lawrence, the
boy-man giant … successor to Barak Moore.
Lawrence’s “revolution” would not come to pass. Not the way he
conceived it.
Alex wondered about Sam Tucker. Tuck, the gnarled rocklike force of
stability. Would Sam find what he -was looking for in Jamaica? For
surely he was looking.
But most of all McAuliff thought about Alison. Of her lovely half
-laugh and her clear blue eyes and the calm acceptance that was her
understanding. How very much he loved her.
He wondered, as his consciousness drifted into the gray, blank void that
was sleep, if they would have a life together.
After the madness.
If he was alive.
If they were alive.
He had left a wake-up call for 6:45. Quarter to twelve, London time.
Noon. For the Halidon.
The coffee arrived in seven minutes. Eight minutes to twelve. The
telephone rang three minutes later. Five minutes to noon, London time.
It was Malcolm, and he was not in his hotel room. He was at the
Associated Press Bureau, Montego Bay office, on St. James Street. He
wanted to make sure that Alex was up and had his radio on. Perhaps his
television set as well.
McAuliff had both instruments on.
Malcolm the Halidonite would call him later.
At three minutes to seven-twelve, London time-there was a rapid knocking
on his hotel door. Alexander was startled. Malcolm had said nothing
about visitors; no one knew he was in Montego Bay. He approached the
door.
“Yes?”
The words from the other side of the wood were spoken hesitantly, in a
deep, familiar voice.
“Is that you … McAuliff?”
And instantly Alexander understood. The symmetry, the timing was