Ruth heard the metallic click and turned around. «Do you have to do this?»
«Yes. Julian was very clear. McAuliff was my selection, his concurrence a result of that choice. McAuliff’s made contact. With whom? With what? I must find out.» Peter pulled open his jacket and shoved the Luger down between a triangle of leather straps sewn into the lining. He buttoned the field jacket and stood up straight. «Any bulges, old girl? Does it show?»
«No.»
«Good. Hardly the fit of Whitehall’s uniform, but I dare say a bit more comfortable.»
«You will be careful? It’s so dreadful out there.»
«All that camping you dragged me on had a purpose. I see that now, my dear.» Peter smiled and returned to his pack, pushing down the contents, pulling the straps into buckling position. He inserted the prongs, tugged once more, and slapped the bulging outsides. He lifted the canvas sack by the shoulder harness and let it fall to the dirt. «There! I’m set for a fortnight if need be.»
«How will I know?»
«When I don’t come back with my carrier. If I pull it off right, he might even be too petrified to return himself.» Peter saw the tremble on his wife’s lips, the terrible fear in her eyes. He motioned for her to come to him, which she did. Rushing into his arms.
«Oh, God, Peter—»
«Please, Ruth. Shhh. You mustn’t,» he said, stroking her hair. «Julian has been everything to us. We both know that. And Julian thinks we’d be very happy at Peale Court. Dunstone will need many people in Jamaica, he said. Why not us?»
When the unknown carrier came into camp, James Ferguson could see that the runner he knew as Marcus Hedrik was as angry as he was curious. They were all curious. McAuliff had left early that morning for the coast; it seemed strange that the carrier had not met him on the river. The carrier insisted he had seen no one but wandering hill people, some fishing, some hunting—no white man.
The carrier had been sent by the Government Employment Office, a branch in Falmouth that knew the survey was looking for additional hands. The carrier was familiar with the river offshoot, having grown up in Weston Favel, and was anxious for work. Naturally, he had the proper papers, signed by some obscure functionary at G.E.O., Falmouth.
At 2:30 in the afternoon, James Ferguson, having rested after lunch, sat on the edge of his cot, prepared to gather up his equipment and head back into the field. There was a rustling outside his tent. He looked up, and the new carrier suddenly slapped open the flap and walked in. He was carrying a plastic tray.
«I say—»
«I pick up dishes, mon,» said the carrier rapidly. «Alla time be very neat.»
«I have no dishes here. There’s a glass or two need washing…»
The carrier lowered his voice. «I got message for Fergomon. I give it to you. You read it quick.» The runner reached into his pocket and withdrew a sealed envelope. He handed it to Ferguson.
James ripped the back and pulled out a single page of stationery. It was the stationery of The Craft Foundation, and Ferguson’s eyes were immediately pulled to the signature. It was known throughout Jamaica—the scrawl of Arthur Craft Senior, the semiretired but all-powerful head of the Craft enterprises.
My dear James Ferguson:
Apologies from a distance are always most awkward and often the most sincere. Such is the present case.
My son has behaved badly, for which he, too, offers his regrets. He sends them from the South of France where he will be residing for an indeterminate—but long—period of time.
To the point: your contributions in our laboratories on the baracoa experiments were immense. They led the way to what we believe can be a major breakthrough that can have a widespread industrial impact. We believe this breakthrough can be accelerated by your immediate return to us. Your future is assured, young man, in the way all genius should be rewarded. You will be a very wealthy man.
However, time is of the essence. Therefore I recommend that you leave the survey forthwith—the messenger will explain the somewhat odd fashion of departure but you may be assured that I have apprised Kingston of my wishes and they are in full agreement. (The baracoa is for all Jamaica.) We’re also in mutual agreement that it is unnecessary to involve the survey director, Dr. McAuliff as his immediate interests are rightfully in conflict with ours. A substitute botanist will join the survey within a matter of days.
I look forward to renewing our acquaintance.
Very truly yours,
Arthur Craft, Senior
James Ferguson held his breath in astonishment as he reread the letter.
He had done it.
He had really done it.
Everything.
He looked up at the carrier, who smiled and spoke softly.
«We leave late afternoon, mon. Before dark. Come back early from your work. I will meet you on the riverbank and we will go.»
27
The priest figure identified himself by the single name of Malcolm. They traveled south on hidden routes that alternated between steep rocky climbs, winding grottoes, and dense jungle. The Halidonite in the ragged clothes and the field jacket led the way, effortlessly finding concealed paths in the forests and covered openings that led through long dark tunnels of ancient stone—the dank smell of deep grotto waters ever present, the bright reflection of stalactites, suspended in alabaster isolation, caught in the beams of flashlights.
It seemed to McAuliff that at times they were descending into the cellars of the earth, only to emerge from the darkness of a grotto onto higher ground. A geological phenomenon, tunneled caves that inexorably progressed upward, evidence of oceanic-terrestrial upheavals that bespoke an epoch of incredible geophysical combustion. The cores of mountains rising out of the faults and trenches, doing infinite battle to reach the heat of the sun.
Twice they passed hill communities by circling above them on ridges at the edge of the forest. Malcolm both times identified the sects, telling of their particular beliefs and the religious justification for their withdrawal from the outside world. He explained that there were approximately twenty-three Cock Pit communities dedicated to isolation. The figure had to be approximate, for there was ever present the rebellion of youth who found in their intermittent journeys to the marketplace temptations outweighing the threats of Obeah. Strangely enough, as one community, or two or three, disintegrated, there were always others that sprang up to take their places … and often their small villages.
«The ‘opiate of the people’ is often an escape from simple hardship and the agonizing pointlessness of the coastal towns.»
«Then eliminate the pointlessness.» Alex remembered the sights of Old Kingston, the corrugated tin shacks across from the abandoned, filthy barges peopled by outcasts; the emaciated dogs, the bone-thin cats, the eyes of numbed futility on the young-old women. The man with no teeth praying for the price of a pint of wine, defecating in the shadows of dark alleys.
And three blocks above, the shining, immaculate banks with their shining, tinted windows. Shining, immaculate, and obscene in their choice of location.
«Yes, you are right,» replied Malcolm the Halidonite. «It is the pointlessness that erodes the people most rapidly. It is so easy to say ‘give meaning.’ And so difficult to know how. So many complications.»
They continued their journey for eight hours, resting after difficult sections of jungle and steep clifflike inclines and endless caves. McAuliff judged that they had gone no further than seventeen, perhaps eighteen miles into the Cock Pit country, each mile more treacherous and enervating than the last.