“This ganja country? I thought it was north,” said Tucker.
The Jamaican laughed. “Ganja, weed, poppy … north, west, east. It is a healthy export industry, mon. But not ours. Come, let us go inside.”
The door of the miniature farmhouse opened as the three of them approached. In the frame stood the light-skinned man whom Alex had first seen in a striped apron behind the counter at Tallon’s.
The interior of the small house was primitive: wooden chairs, a thick round table in the center of the single room, an army cot against the wall. The jarring contradiction was a complicated radio set on a table to the right of the door. The light in the window was far from the shaded lamp in front of the machinery; a generator could be heard providing what electricity was necessary.
All this McAuliff observed within seconds of entering. Then he saw a second man, standing in shadows across the room, his back toward the others. The body—the cut of the coat, the shoulders, the tapered waist, the tailored trousers—was familiar.
The man turned around; the light from the table illuminated his features.
Charles Whitehall stared at McAuliff and then nodded once, slowly.
The door opened, and the driver of the Chevrolet entered with the third Jamaican. He walked to the round table in the center of the room and sat down. He removed his baseball cap, revealing a large shaved head.
“My name is Moore. Barak Moore, Mr. McAuliff. To ease your concerns, the woman, Alison Booth, has been called. She was told that you went down to the Ministry for a conference.”
“She won’t believe that,” replied Alex.
“If she cares to check further, she will be informed that you are with Latham at a warehouse. There is nothing to worry about, mon.”
Sam Tucker stood by the door; he was relaxed but curious. And strong; his thick arms were folded across his chest, his lined features—tanned by the California sun—showed his age and accentuated his leather strength. Charles Whitehall stood by the window in the left wall, his elegant, arrogant face exuding contempt.
The light-skinned black attendant from Tallon’s fish market and the two Jamaican “guerrillas” had pulled their chairs back against the far right wall, away from the center of attention. They were telegraphing the fact that Barak Moore was their superior.
“Please, sit down.” Barak Moore indicated the chairs around the table. There were three. Tucker and McAuliff looked at each other; there was no point in refusing. They walked to the table and sat down. Charles Whitehall remained standing by the window. Moore glanced up at him. “Will you join us?”
“If I feel like sitting,” answered Whitehall.
Moore smiled and spoke while looking at Whitehall. “Charley-mon finds it difficult to be in the same room with me, much less at the same table.”
“Then why is he here?” asked Sam Tucker.
“He had no idea he was going to be until a few minutes before landing. We switched pilots in Savanna-la-Mar.”
“His name is Charles Whitehall,” said Alex, speaking to Sam. “He’s part of the survey. I didn’t know he was going to be here either.”
“What’s your field, boy?” Tucker leaned back in his chair and spoke to Whitehall.
“Jamaica … boy.”
“I meant no offense, son.”
“You are offensive,” was Whitehall’s simple reply.
“Charley and me,” continued Barak Moore, “we are at the opposite poles of the politic. In your country, you have the term ‘white trash’; he considers me ‘black garbage.’ For roughly the same reason. He thinks I’m too crude, too loud, too unwashed. I am an uncouth revolutionary in Charley-mon’s eyes … he is a graceful rebel, you see.” Moore swept his hand in front of him, balletically, insultingly. “But our rebellions are different, very different, mon. I want Jamaica for all the people. He wants it for only a few.”
Whitehall stood motionless as he replied. “You are as blind now as you were a decade ago. The only thing that has changed is your name, Bramwell Moore.” Whitehall sneered vocally as he continued. “Barak … as childish and meaningless as the social philosophy you espouse; the sound of a jungle toad.”
Moore swallowed before he answered. “I’d as soon kill you, I think you know that. But it would be as counterproductive as the solutions you seek to impose on our homeland. We have a common enemy, you and I. Make the best of it, fascisti-mon.”
“The vocabulary of your mentors. Did you learn it by rote, or did they make you read?”
“Look!” McAuliff interrupted angrily. “You can fight or call names, or kill each other for all I give a damn, but I want to get back to the hotel!” He turned to Barak Moore. “Whatever you have to say, get it over with.”
“He has a point, Charley-mon,” said Moore. “We come later. I will, as they say, summarize. It is a brief summary, mon. That there are development plans for a large area of the island—plans that exclude the people—is now established. Dr. Piersall’s death confirms it. That your geological survey is tied to those plans, we logically assume. Therefore, the Ministry of Education and the Royal Society are—knowingly or unknowingly—concealing the identity of those financial interests. Furthermore, Mr. McAuliff here is not unaware of these facts, because he deals with British Intelligence through the despicable Westmore Tallon.… That is the summary. Where do we go?” Moore stared at Alex, his eyes small black craters in a huge mountain of dark skin. “We have the right to go somewhere, Mr. McAuliff.”
“Before you shove him against the wall, boy,” interjected Sam Tucker, to Alex’s surprise, “remember, I’m no part of you. I don’t say I won’t be, but I’m not now.”
“I should think you’d be as interested as we are, Tucker.” The absence of the “Mr.,” McAuliff thought, was Moore’s hostile response to Sam’s use of the word “boy.” Moore did not realize that Tucker used the term for everyone.
“Don’t mistake me,” added Sam. “I’m interested. Just don’t go running off too fast at the mouth. I think you should say what you know, Alex.”
McAuliff looked at Tucker, then Moore, then over at Whitehall. Nothing in Hammond’s instructions included such a confrontation. Except the admonition to keep it simple; build on part of the truth.
“The people in British Intelligence—and everything they represent—want to stop this development as much as you do. But they need information. They think the Halidon has it. They want to make contact with the Halidon. I’m supposed to try and make that contact.”
Alex wasn’t sure what to expect from his statement, but certainly not what happened. Barak Moore’s blunt features, grotesque under the immense shaven head, slowly changed from immobility to amusement, from amusement to the pinched flesh of outright mirth; it was a humor based in cruelty, however. His large mouth opened, and a coughing, malevolent laugh emerged.
From the window there was another sound, another laugh: higher and jackallike. Charles Whitehall’s elegant neck was stretched back, his head tilted toward the ceiling, his arms folded across his tailored jacket. He looked like some thin, black Oriental priest finding amusement in a novice’s ignorance.
The three Jamaicans in the row of chairs, their white teeth gleaming in the shadows, were smiling, their bodies shaking slightly in silent laughter.
“What’s so goddamn funny?” asked McAuliff, annoyed by the undefined humiliation.
“Funny, mon? Many times more than funny. The mongoose chases the deadly snake, so the snake wants to make friends?” Moore laughed his hideous laugh once again. “It is not in any law of nature, mon!”
“What Moore is telling you, Mr. McAuliff,” broke in Whitehall, approaching the table, “is that it’s preposterous to think the Halidon would cooperate with the English. It is inconceivable. It is the Halidons of this island who drove the British from Jamaica. Put simply, M.I. Six is not to be trusted.”
“What is the Halidon?” Alex watched the black scholar, who stood motionless, his eyes on Barak Moore.
“It is a
force,” said Whitehall quietly.
McAuliff looked at Moore; he was returning Whitehall’s stare. “That doesn’t say very much, does it?”
“There is no one in this room who can tell you more, mon.” Barak Moore shifted his gaze to Alex.
Charles Whitehall spoke. “There are no identities, McAuliff. The Halidon is an unseen curia, a court that has no chambers. No one is lying to you. Not about this. This small contingent here, these three men; Moore’s elite corps, as it were—”
“Your words, Charley-mon! We don’t use them! Elite!” Barak spat out the word.
“Immaterial,” continued Whitehall. “I venture to say there are no more than five hundred people in all Jamaica who have heard of the Halidon. Less then fifty who know for certain any of its members. Those who do would rather face the pains of Obeah than reveal identities.”
“Obeah!” Sam Tucker’s comment was in his voice. He had no use for the jingoistic diabolism that filled thousands upon thousands of native minds with terror—Jamaica’s counterpart of the Haitian voodoo. “Obeah’s horseshit, boy! The sooner your hill and village people learn that, the better off they’ll be!”
“If you think it’s restricted to the hills and the villages, you are sadly mistaken,” said Whitehall. “We in Jamaica do not offer Obeah as a tourist attraction. We have too much respect for it.”
Alex looked up at Whitehall. “Do you have respect for it? Are you a believer?”
Whitehall leveled his gaze at McAuliff, his eyes knowing—with a trace of humor. “Yes, Mr. McAuliff, I have respect for Obeah. I have traced its strains to its origins in Mother Africa. I have seen what it’s done to the veldt, in the jungles. Respect; I do not say commitment or belief.”
“Then the Halidon is an organization.” McAuliff took out his cigarettes. Barak Moore reached over to accept one; Sam leaned forward in his chair. Alex continued. “A secret society that has a lot of clout. Why?… Obeah?”
“Partly, mon,” answered Moore, lighting his cigarette like a man who does not smoke often. “It is also very rich. It is whispered that it possesses wealth beyond anyone’s thinking, mon.”
Suddenly, McAuliff realized the obvious. He looked back and forth between Charles Whitehall and Barak Moore.
“Christ Almighty! You’re as anxious to reach the Halidon as I am! As British Intelligence is!”
“That is so, mon.” Moore crushed out his barely smoked cigarette on the surface of the table.
“Why?” asked Alex.
Charles Whitehall replied. “We are dealing with two giants, Mr. McAuliff. One black, one white. The Halidon must win.”
15
The meeting in the isolated farmhouse high in the hills of the Blue Mountains lasted until two o’clock in the morning.
The common objective was agreed to: contact with the Halidon.
And since Barak Moore’s and Charles Whitehall’s judgment that the Halidon would not deal directly with British Intelligence was convincing, McAuliff further agreed to cooperate with the two black antagonists. Barak and his “elite” guerrillas would provide additional safety for the survey team. Two of the three men sitting against the wall of the farmhouse would fly to Ocho Rios and be hired as carriers.
If the Jamaicans suspected he knew more than he was telling them, they did not press him, thought Alex. They accepted his story—now told twice to Whitehall—that initially he had taken the survey as an investment for future work. From Kingston. M.I.6 was a complication thrust upon him.
It was as if they understood he had his own concerns, unrelated to theirs. And only when he was sure those concerns were not in conflict would he be completely open. Insane circumstances had forced him into a war he wanted no part of, but one thing was clear above all other considerations: the safety of those he had brought to the island.
Two things. Two million dollars.
From either enemy, Dunstone, Limited, or British Intelligence.
“M.I. Five in London did not tell you, then, who is behind this land rape,” said Barak Moore—not asking a question—continuing immediately. “It goes beyond their Kingston flunkies, mon.”
“If the British reach the Halidon, they’ll tell them what they know,” said McAuliff. “I’m sure of that. They want to pool their information, that much they’ve told me.”
“Which means the English assume the Halidon know a great deal,” added Whitehall pensively. “I wonder if that is so.”
“They have their reasons,” said Alex cautiously. “There was a previous survey team.”
The Jamaicans knew of it. Its disappearance was either proof of the Halidon’s opposition or an isolated act of theft and murder by a roving band of primitive hill people in the Cock Pit. There was no way to tell.
Circles within circles.
What of the Marquis de Chatellerault? Why had he insisted upon meeting with Whitehall in Savanna-la-Mar?
“The marquis is a nervous man,” said Whitehall. “He claims to have widespread interests on the island. He smells bad fish with this survey.”
“Has it occurred to you that Chatellerault is himself involved?” McAuliff spoke directly to the black scholar. “M.I. Five and Six think so. Tallon told me that this afternoon.”
“If so, the marquis does not trust his colleagues.”
“Did Chatellerault mention anyone else on the team?” asked Alex, afraid of the answer.
Whitehall looked at McAuliff and replied simply. “He made several allusions, and I told him that I wasn’t interested in side issues. They were not pertinent; I made that clear.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Sam Tucker raised his scraggy eyebrows, his expression dubious. “What the hell was pertinent? What did he want?”
“To be kept informed of the survey’s progress. Report all developments.”
“Why did he think you’d do that?” Sam leaned forward in the chair.
“I would be paid handsomely, to begin with. And there could be other areas of interest, which, frankly, there are not.”
“Ha, mon!” interjected Moore. “You see, they believe Charley-mon can be bought! They know better with Barak Moore!”
Whitehall looked at the revolutionary, dismissing him. “There is little to pay you for.” He opened his silver cigarette case; Moore grinned at the sight of it. Whitehall closed it slowly, placed it at his right, and lighted his cigarette with a match. “Let’s go on. I’d rather not be here all night.”
“Okay, mon.” Barak glanced at each man quickly. “We want the same as the English. To reach the Halidon.” Moore pronounced the word in the Jamaican dialect: hollydawn. “But the Halidon must come to us. There must be a strong reason. We cannot cry out for them. They will not come into the open.”
“I don’t understand a damn thing about any of this,” said Tucker, lighting a thin cigar, “but if you wait for them, you could be sitting on your asses a long goddamn time.”
“We think there is a way. We think Dr. Piersall provided it.” Moore hunched his shoulders, conveying a sense of uncertainty, as if he was not sure how to choose his words. “For months Dr. Piersall tried to … define the Halidon. To seek it out, to understand. He went back into Caribe history, to the Arawak, to Africa. To find meaning.” Moore paused and looked at Whitehall. “He read your books, Charley-mon. I told him you were a bad liar, a diseased goat. He said you did not lie in your books.… From many small things, Dr. Piersall put together pieces of the puzzle, he called it. His papers are in Carrick Foyle.”
“Just a minute.” Sam Tucker was irritated. “Walter talked a goddamned streak for two days. On the Martha Brae, in the plane, at the Sheraton. He never mentioned any of this. Why didn’t he?” Tucker looked over at the Jamaicans against the wall, at the two who had been with him since Montego Bay.
The black man who had spoken in the Chevrolet replied. “He would have, mon. It was agreed to wait until McAuliff was with you. It is not a story one repeats often.”
&nbs
p; “What did the puzzle tell him?” asked Alex.
“Only part, mon,” said Barak Moore. “Only part of the puzzle was complete. But Dr. Piersall arrived at several theories. To begin with, Halidon is an offshoot from the Coromanteen tribe. They isolated themselves after the Maroon wars, for they would not agree to the treaties that called upon the Maroon nation—the Coromantees—to run down and capture runaway slaves for the English. The Halidon would not become bounty hunters of brother Africans. For decades they were nomadic. Then, perhaps two hundred, two hundred and fifty years ago, they settled in one location. Unknown, inaccessible to the outside world. But they did not divorce themselves from the outside world. Selected males were sent out to accomplish what the elders believed should be accomplished. To this day it is so. Women are brought in to bear children so that the pains of inbreeding are avoided.… And two final points: The Halidon community is high in the mountains where the winds are strong, of that Piersall was certain. And last, the Halidon has great riches. These are the pieces of the puzzle; there are many missing.”
No one spoke for a while. Then Tucker broke the silence.
“It’s a hell of a story,” said Sam, “but I’m not sure where it gets us. Our knowing it won’t bring them out. And you said we can’t go after them. Goddamn! If this … tribe has been in the mountains for two hundred years and nobody’s found them, we’re not likely to, boy! Where is ‘the way’ Walter provided?”
Charles Whitehall answered. “If Dr. Piersall’s conclusions are true, the way is in the knowledge of them, Mr. Tucker.”
“Would you explain that?” asked Alex.
In an unexpected show of deference, the erudite scholar turned to the rough-hewn guerrilla. “I think … Barak Moore should amplify. I believe the key is in what he said a few minutes ago. That the Halidon must have a strong reason to contact us.”
“You are not mistaken, mon. Dr. Piersall was certain that if word got to the Halidon that their existence—and their great wealth—had been confirmed by a small band of responsible men, they would send an emissary. They guard their wealth above all things, Piersall believed. But they have to be convinced beyond doubt.… That is the way.”