Strange, contradictory forests that were filled with the west verdance of tropic growth and the cold massive-ness of sky-reaching black and green associated with northern climates. Dense macca-fat palms stood next to silk-cotton, or ceiba, trees that soared out of sight, their tops obscured by the midgrowth. Mountain cabbage and bull thatch, orchid and moss, fungi and eucalyptus battled for their individual rights to coexist in the Oz-like jungle primeval.
The ground was covered with ensnaring spreads of fern and pteridophyte, soft, wet and treacherous. Pools of swamp-like mud were hidden in the thick, crowded sprays of underbrush. Sudden hills rose out of nowhere, remembrances of Oligocene upheavals, never to be settled back into the cradle of the earth.
The sounds of the screeching bat and parrot and tanager intruded on the forest’s undertones; jungle rats and the mongoose could be heard intermittently in their unseen games of death. Every now and then there was the scream of a wild pig, pursuing or in panic.
And far in the distance, in the clearing of the riverbank, were the mountains, preceded by sudden stretches of untamed grassland. Strangely gray with streaks of deep green and blue and yellow—rain and hot sunlight in an unceasing interchange.
All this fifteen minutes by air from the gaudy strips of Montego.
Unbelievable.
McAuliff had made contact with the north-coast contacts of British Intelligence. There were five, and he had reached each one.
They had given him another reason to consign R. C. Hammond to the despised realm of the manipulator. For the Intelligence people were of small comfort. They stated perfunctorily their relief at his reporting, accepted his explanations of routine geographic chores that kept him occupied, and assured him—with more sound than conviction—that they were at his beck and call.
One man, the M.I.6 contact from Port Maria, drove down the coast to Bengal Court to meet with Alex. He was a portly black merchant who limited his identification to the single name of Garvey. He insisted on a late-night rendezvous in the tiny bar of the motel, where he was known as a liquor distributor.
It did not take McAuliff long to realize that Garvey, ostensibly there to assure him of total cooperation and safety, was actually interrogating him for a report that would be sent back to London. Garvey had the stench and look of a practiced informer about him. The stench was actuaclass="underline" the man suffered from body odor, which could not be concealed by liberal applications of bay rum. The look was in his eyes—ferretlike, and a touch bloodshot. Garvey was a man who sought out opportunities and enjoyed the fruits thereof.
His questions were precise, McAuliff’s answers apparently not satisfactory. And all questions led to the one question, the only one that mattered: Any progress concerning the Halidon? Anything?
Unknown observers, strangers in the distance … a signal, a sign—no matter how remote or subtle? Anything?
«Absolutely nothing» was a hard reply for Garvey to accept.
What about the men in the green Chevrolet who had followed him in Kingston? Tallon had traced them to the anthropologist Walter Piersall. Piersall had been a white agitator … common knowledge. Piersall had telephoned McAuliff … the Courtleigh switchboard cooperated with M.I.6. What did Piersall want?
Alex claimed he did not—could not—know, as Piersall had never reached him. An agitator, white or black, was an unpredictable bearer of unpredictable news. Predictably, this agitator had had an accident. It might be presumed—from what little McAuliff had been told by Tallon and others—that Piersall had been closing in on Dunstone, Limited; without a name, of course. If so, he, McAuliff, was a logical person to reach. But this was conjecture; there was no way to confirm it as fact.
What had happened to the late-arriving Samuel Tucker? Where had he been?
Drinking and whoring in Montego Bay. Alex was sorry he had caused so much trouble about Sam; he should have known better. Sam Tucker was an incorrigible wanderer, albeit the best soil analyst in the business.
The perspiring Garvey was bewildered, frustrated by his confusion. There was too much activity for McAuliff to remain so insulated.
Alex reminded the liaison in short, coarse words that there was far too much survey activity—logistical, employment, above all government paperwork—for him not to be insulated. What the hell did Garvey think he had been doing?
The interview lasted until 1:30 in the morning. Before leaving, the M.I.6 contact reached into his filthy briefcase and withdrew a metallic object the size of a pen-and-pencil case, with its approximate thickness. It was a miniaturized radio-signal transmitter, set to a specific frequency. There were three thick, tiny glass lights across the top of the small panel. The first, explained Garvey, was a white light that indicated sufficient power for sending when turned on—not unlike the illuminated filigree of a strobe light. The second, a red light, informed the operator that his signal was being transmitted. The third, a green light, confirmed the reception of the signal by a corresponding device within a radius of twenty-five miles. There would be two simple codes, one for normal conditions, one for emergency. Code One was to be transmitted twice daily, once every twelve hours. Code Two, when aid was needed.
The receiving set, said Garvey, was capable of defining the signal within a diameter of one thousand yards by means of an attached radarscope with terrain coordinates. Nothing was left to chance. Unbelievable.
The incredible assumption, therefore, was that the Intelligence men would never be more than twenty-five miles away, and Hammond’s «guaranteed» safety factor was the even more ridiculous assumption that the jungle distance could be traversed and the exact location pinpointed within a time period that precluded danger.
R. C. Hammond was a winner, thought McAuliff.
«Is this everything?» McAuliff asked the sweating Garvey. «This goddamn metal box is our protection?»
«There are additional precautions,» Garvey replied enigmatically. «I told you, nothing is left to chance—»
«What the hell does that mean?»
«It means you are protected. I am not authorized to speak further. As a matter of fact, mon, I do not know anything further. I am, like you, merely an employee. I do what I am told to do, say what I am told to say… And now I have said enough. I have an uncomfortable drive back to Port Maria.»
The man named Garvey rose from the table, picked up his tattered briefcase, and waddled toward the door of the dimly lit room. Before leaving, however, he could not help himself.
He stopped at the bar, where one of the motel’s managers was standing, and solicited an order of liquor.
McAuliff shook his thoughts loose as he heard the voices of Ruth and Peter Jensen behind him. He was sitting on a dried mudflat above the riverbank; the Jensens were talking as they walked across the clearing from their bivouac tent. It amazed Alex—they amazed him. They walked so casually, so normally, over the chopped Cock Pit ground cover; one might think they had entered Regent’s Park for a stroll.
«Majestic place in its way, rather,» said Peter, removing the ever-present pipe from between his teeth.
«It is the odd combination of color and substance, don’t you think, Alex?» Ruth had her arm linked through her husband’s. A noonday walk down the Strand. «One is so very sensuous, the other so massive and intricate.»
«You make the terms sound contradictory, darling. They’re not, you know.» Peter chuckled as his wife feigned minor exasperation.