«Then tell me.»
The priest figure inhaled on his cigarette and blew the smoke into the soft breeze of the dull yellow light. «The woman you know about. There are many who fear her on the Continent. Among those, one of the Dunstone hierarchy … the Marquis de Chatellerault. Where she is, so is an arm of the Intelligence service. The boy, Ferguson, is deep with the Craft interests; actually, they fear him. Or did. And rightly so. He never understood the calamitous economic potential of his fiber work.»
«I think he did,» interrupted Alex. «And he does. He expects to make money out of Craft.»
The Halidonite laughed quietly. «They will never let him. But he is a component. Where does Craft stand? Is he part of Dunstone? Nothing happens in Jamaica that the soiled hand of Craft has not touched… Samuel Tucker I have told you about: his association with the suddenly vital Walter Piersall. Whose summons did he answer? Is he on the island because of his old friend McAuliff? Or his new friend, Piersall? Or is it coincidence?»
«It’s coincidence,» said Alex. «You’d have to know Sam to understand that.»
«But we do not, you see. We only understand that among the first telephone calls he made was one to a man who was disturbing us profoundly. Who was walking around Kingston with the secrets of two hundred years in his brain … and somewhere on paper.» The priest figure looked at McAuliff—stared at him, really. His eyes in the moonlight conveyed a supplication for Alex to understand. He looked away and continued. «Then there is Charles Whitehall. A very … very dangerous and unpredictable component. You must know his background; Hammond certainly did. Whitehall feels his time on the island has come. His is the hot mysticism of the fanatic. The black Caesar come to ride up Victoria Park on nigger-Pompey’s horse. He has followers throughout Jamaica. If there is anyone who might expose Dunstone—wittingly or otherwise—it could well be Whitehall and his fascists.»
«Hammond didn’t know that,» protested McAuliff. «He made it clear that you … the Halidon … were the only ones who could stop Dunstone.»
«Hammond is a professional. He creates internal chaos, knowing that his breakthrough can come at any instant during the panic. Would it surprise you to know that Hammond is in Kingston now?»
Alex thought for a moment. «No … but I’m surprised he hasn’t let me know it.»
«There is a reason. He doesn’t want you to fall back on him. He flew in when word was received that Chatellerault was in Savanna-la-Mar… You knew that, didn’t you?»
«He knows it because I told Westmore Tallon.»
«And then there are the Jensens. That charming, devoted couple. So normal, so lovable, really … who send back word to Julian Warfield of every move you make, of every person you make contact with; who bribe Jamaicans to spy on you… The Jensens made a huge mistake once, years ago. Dunstone, Limited, stepped in and recruited them. In exchange for obliterating that mistake.»
McAuliff looked up at the clear night sky. A single elongated cloud was drifting from a distant mountain toward the yellow moon. He wondered if the condensation would disappear before it reached the shining satellite, or blur it from beneath … envelop it from the ground.
As he was so enveloped.
«So there are the components,» said Alex aimlessly. «The Halidon knows a lot more than anyone else, it seems. And I’m not sure what that means.»
«It means, Doctor, that we are the silent caretakers of our land.»
«I don’t recall any election. Who gave you the job?»
«To quote an American writer: ‘It comes with the territory.’ It is our heritage. We do not swim in the political rivers, however. We leave those to the legitimate competitors. We do try our best to keep the pollution to a minimum.» The priest figure finished his cigarette and crushed the burning end under his sandaled foot.
«You’re killers,» said McAuliff simply. «I know that. I think that’s the worst kind of human pollution.»
«Are you referring to Dunstone’s previous survey?»
«I am.»
«You don’t know the circumstances. And I’m not the one to define them. I am here only to persuade you to give me Piersall’s documents.»
«I won’t do that.»
«Why?»
The Halidonite’s voice rose in anger, as before. His black eyes above the black hollows pierced into McAuliff’s.
«Mon?» came the shouted query from the field. The priest figure waved his arm in dismissal.
«This is not your business, McAuliff. Understand that and get out. Give me the documents and take your survey off the island before it is too late.»
«If it was that simple, I would. I don’t want your fight, goddammit. It has no appeal for me… On the other hand, I don’t relish being chased all over the globe by Julian Warfield’s guns. Can’t you understand that?»
The priest figure stood immobile. His eyes softened; his lips parted in concentration as he stared at Alexander. He spoke slowly; he was barely audible. «I warned them that it might come to this. Give me the nagarro, doctor. What is the meaning of the Halidon?»
McAuliff told him.
26
They returned to the river campsite, McAuliff and the runner who had assumed the name and function of Marcus Hedrik. There was no pretense now. As they neared the bivouac area, black men in rags could be seen in the bush, the early dawn light shafting through the dense foliage, intermittently reflecting off the barrels of their weapons.
The survey camp was surrounded, the inhabitants prisoners of the Halidon.
A hundred yards from the clearing, the runner—now preceding Alex on the narrow jungle path, pistol secure in his field jacket belt—stopped and summoned a Halidon patrol. He did so by snapping his fingers repeatedly until a large black man emerged from between the trees.
The two men spoke briefly, quietly, and when they were finished the patrol returned to his post in the tropic forest. The runner turned to McAuliff.
«Everything is peaceful. There was a skirmish with Charles Whitehall, but it was anticipated. He severely wounded the guard, but others were nearby. He is bound and back in his tent.»
«What about Mrs. Booth?»
«The woman? She is with Samuel Tucker. She was asleep a half hour ago… That Tucker, he will not sleep. He sits in the chair in front of his tent, a rifle in his hands. The others are quiet. They will be rising soon.»
«Tell me,» said Alex while the runner still faced him, «what happened to all that Arawak language? The Maroon colonel, the units of four, the eight days?»
«You forgot, Doctor. I led the Whitehall-mon to his courier. The Colonel of the Maroons never got the message. The reply you received came from us.» The runner smiled. Then he turned, gesturing for Alex to follow him into the clearing.
Under the eyes of the runner, McAuliff waited for the white light of the miniature panel to reach full illumination. When it did, he pressed the signal-transmitter button, holding his left hand over his fingers as he did so. He knew the concealment was unnecessary; he would not radio for aid. He would not jam the frequency with cries of emergency. It had been made clear that at the first sight of hostile forces, each member of the survey would be shot through the head, Alison Booth and Sam Tucker the first to be executed.
The remainder of the understanding was equally clear. Sam Tucker would continue to send the signals every twelve hours. Alexander would return with the runner into the grassland. From there, with the «priest» he would be taken to the hidden community of the Halidon. Until he returned, the team was a collective hostage.