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.
Alison, Sam, Charles Whitehall, and Lawrence would be told the truth. The others would not. The Jensens, James Ferguson, and the crew would be given another explanation, a bureaucratic one readily acceptable to professional surveyors: During the night a radio message from Kingston had been relayed by Falmouth; the Ministry of the Interior required McAuliff’s presence in Ocho Rios; there were difficulties with the Institute. It was the sort of complication to which survey directors were subjected. Fieldwork was constantly interrupted by administrative foul-ups.
When the priest figure suggested the time of absence be no less than three full days, Alex demanded to know the reason for so long a period.
“I can’t answer that, McAuliff.”
“Then why should I agree to it?”
“It is only time. Then, too, are we not at checkmate … Mr. Bones? We fear exposure perhaps more than you fear for your lives.”
“I won’t concede that.”
“You do not know us. Give yourself the margin to learn. You will not be disappointed.”
“You were told to say three days, then?”
“I was.”
“Which presumes that whoever told you to say it expected you to bring me to them.”
“It was a distinct probability.”
Alexander agreed to three fall days.
Lawrence, was rubbing a penicillin salve over Charles Whitehall’s bare back. The rope burns were deep; whoever had lashed Charley-mon had done so in fever-pitch anger. The ropes on both men had been removed after McAuliff’s talk with them. Alexander had made it clear he would brook no further interference. Their causes were expendable.
“Your arrogance is beyond understanding, McAuliff!” said Charles Whitehall, suppressing a grimace as Lawrence touched a sensitive burn.
“I accept the rebuke. You’re very qualified in that department.”
“You are not equipped to deal with these people. I have spent my life, my entire life, stripping away the layers of Jamaican—Caribbean—history!”
“Not your entire life, Charley,” replied Alex, calmly but incisively. “I told you last night. There’s the little matter of your extra-scholastic activity. ‘The black Caesar riding up Victoria Park on nigger-Pompey’s horse.’ ”
“What?”
“They’re not my words, Charley.”
Lawrence suddenly pressed his fist into a raw lash mark on Whitehall’s shoulder. The scholar arched back his neck in pain. The revolutionary’s other hand was close to his throat. Neither man moved; Lawrence spoke. “You don’t ride no nigger horse, mon. You den walk like everybody else.”
Charles Whitehall stared over his shoulder at the blur of the brutal, massive hand poised for assault. “You play the fool, you know. Do you think any political entity with a power structure based on wealth will tolerate you? Not for a minute, you egalitarian jackal. You will be crushed.”
“You do not seek to crush us, mon?”
“I seek only what is best for Jamaica. Everyone’s energies will be used to that end.”
“You’re a regular Pollyanna,” broke in Alex, walking toward the two men.
Lawrence looked up at McAuliff, his expression equal parts of suspicion and dependence. He removed his hand and reached for the tube of penicillin salve. “Put on your shirt, mon. Your skin is covered,” he said, twisting the small cap onto the medicine tube.
“I’m leaving in a few minutes,” said McAuliff, standing in front of Whitehall. “Sam will be in charge; you’re to do as he says. Insofar as possible, the work is to continue normally. The Halidon will stay out of sight … at least as far as the Jensens and Ferguson are concerned.”
“How can that be?” asked Lawrence.
“It won’t be difficult,” answered Alex. “Peter is drilling for gas-pocket sediment a mile and a half southwest. Ruth is due east in a quarry; the runner we know as Justice will be with her. Ferguson is across the river working some fern groves. All are separated, each will be watched.”
“And me?” Whitehall buttoned his expensive cotton safari shirt as though dressing for a concert at Covent Garden. “What do you propose for me?”
“You’re confined to the clearing, Charley-mon. For your own sake, don’t try to leave it. I can’t be responsible if you do.”
“You think you have any say about anything now, McAuliff?”
“Yes, I do. They’re as much afraid of me as I am of them. Just don’t try to upset the balance, either of you. I buried a man on an Alaskan job a number of years ago. Sam will tell you, I know the standard prayers.”
Alison stood on the riverbank, looking down at the water. The heat of the early sun was awakening the late sleepers of the forest. The sounds were those of combative foraging; flyer against flyer, crawler fighting crawler. The green vines dangling from the tall macca-fat palms glistened with the moisture rising from below; fern and moss and matted cabbage growth bordered the slowly flowing currents of the Martha Brae offshoot. The water was morning-clear, bluish-green.
“I went to your tent,” said McAuliff, walking up to her. “Sam said you were out here.”
She turned and smiled. “I wasn’t really disobeying, my darling. I’m not running anywhere.”
“Nowhere to go. You’ll be all right.… The runner’s waiting for me.”
Alison took two steps and stood in front of him. She spoke quietly, barely above a whisper. “I want to tell you something, Alexander T. McAuliff. And I refuse to be dramatic or tearful or anything remotely theatrical because those are crutches and both of us can walk without them. Six weeks ago I was running. Quite desperately, trying my goddamnedest to convince myself that by running I was escaping—which I knew underneath was absurd. In Kingston I told you how absurd it was. They can find you. Anywhere. The computers, the data banks, the horrid, complicated tracers they have in their cellars and in their hidden rooms are too real
now. Too thorough. And there is no life underground, in remote places, always wondering. I don’t expect you to understand this, and, in a way, it’s why what you’re doing is right.… ‘Do unto others before they do unto you.’ That’s what you said. I believe that’s a terrible way to think. And I also believe it’s the only way we’re going to have a life of our own.”
McAuliff touched her face with his fingers. Her eyes were bluer than he had ever seen them. “That sounds dangerously like a proposal.”
“My wants are simple, my expressions uncomplicated. And, as you said once, I’m a damned fine professional.”
“ ‘McAuliff and Booth. Surveyors. Offices: London and New York.’ That’d look good on the letterhead.”
“You wouldn’t consider ‘Booth and McAuliff’? I mean, alphabetically—”
“No, I wouldn’t,” he interrupted gently as he put his arms around her.
“Do people always say silly things when they’re afraid?” she asked, her face buried in his chest.
“I think so,” he replied.
Peter Jensen reached down into the full pack and felt his way among the soft articles of clothing. The canvas was stuffed. Jensen winced as he slid the object of his search up the sides of the cloth.
It was the Luger. It was wrapped in plastic, the silencer detached, tied to the barrel in plastic also.
His wife stood by the entrance flap of their tent, the slit folded back just sufficiently for her to look outside. Peter unwrapped both sections of the weapon and put the silencer in the pocket of his field jacket. He pressed the release, slid out the magazine, and reached into his other pocket for a box of cartridges. Methodically he inserted the magazine until the spring was taut, the top bullet ready for chamber insertion. He slid the magazine back into the handle slot and cracked it into position.
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 t
o 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.
Shortly after five in the afternoon, while high in the Flagstaff range, they came to the end of a mountain pass. Suddenly in front of them was a plateau of grassland about a half mile long and no more than five hundred yards wide. The plateau fronted the banks of a mountain cliff, at three-quarters altitude. Malcolm led them to the right, to the western edge. The slope of the plateau descended into thick jungle, as dense and forbidding as any McAuliff had ever seen.
“That is called the Maze of Acquaba,” said Malcolm, seeing the look of astonishment on Alex’s face. “We have borrowed a custom from ancient Sparta. Each male child, on his eleventh birthday, is taken into the core and must remain for a period of four days and nights.”
The Cry of the Halidon: A Novel Page 32
