The Cry of the Halidon (40 page)

“We are committed,” interrupted the Halidonite, who looked at his two companions and spoke gently. “Leave us alone, please.”

In warning, both men removed the weapons from their belts as they pulled Alex to his feet. As ordered, they retreated into the field. McAuliff watched them. A ragged-clothed twosome with the unlikely jackets and pistol belts. “They not only do as you say, they protect you from yourself.”

The priest figure also looked at his retreating subordinates. “When we are in our formative years, we are all given batteries of tests. Each is assigned areas of instruction and future responsibility from the results. I often think grave errors are made.” The man tugged at his caftan and turned to McAuliff. “We must deal now with each other, must we not? As I am sure you have surmised, I was an impermanent member of M.I. Five.”

“An ‘infiltrator’ is the word that comes to mind.”

“A very successful one, Doctor. Hammond himself twice recommended me for citations. I was one of the best West Indian specialists. I was reluctant to leave. You—and those maneuvering you—created the necessity.”

“How?”

“Your survey suddenly contained too many dangerous components. We could live with several, but when we found out that your closest associate on the geological team—Mr. Tucker—was apparently a friend of Walter Piersall, we
knew we had to keep you under a microscope.… Obviously, we were too late.”

“What were the other components?”

The priest figure hesitated. He touched his forehead, where a grass burn had developed from his fall to the ground. “Do you have a cigarette? This very comfortable sheet has one disadvantage: there are no pockets.”

“Why do you wear it?”

“It is a symbol of authority, nothing more.”

McAuliff reached into his pocket, withdrew a pack of cigarettes, and shook one up for the Halidonite. As he lighted it for him, he saw that the black hollows in the very black skin beneath the eyes were stretched in exhaustion. “What were the dangerous components?”

“Oh, come, Doctor, you know them as well as I do.”

“Maybe I don’t; enlighten me. Or is that too dangerous, too?”

“Not now. Not at this point. The
reality
is the danger. Piersall’s documents are the reality. The … components are inconsequential.”

“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.

T
hey 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.

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.”