«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—»
«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, goddammit … 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—»
«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 Acquaba.»
25
They talked for several hours, and McAuliff knew that for the time being he had saved their lives. At one point Sam Tucker interrupted, only to receive and acknowledge the plea in Alexander’s eyes: Sam had to leave them alone. Tucker left, making it clear that he would be with Alison. He expected Alex to speak with them before retiring. Sam did not notice the ropes on Lawrence’s hands in the shadowed corner, and McAuliff was grateful that he did not.