It fell off, cracking and sizzling, into the metal sink. Within the case could be seen the oilcloth of a packet. His hands trembling slightly, Charles Whitehall pulled it out. He got off the stool, carrying the rolled-up oilcloth to a deserted area of the bench, and untied the nylon laces. He unwound the packet until it was flat, unzipped the inner lining, and withdrew two sheets of single-spaced typing. As he reached for the bench lamp, he looked at McAuliff.
Alex was fascinated by what he saw. Whitehall’s eyes shone with a strange intensity. It was a fever. A messianic fever. A kind of victory rooted in the absolute.
A fanatic’s victory, thought McAuliff.
Without speaking, Whitehall began to read. As he finished the first page, he slid it across the bench to Alex.
The word “Halidon” was in reality three words—or sounds—from the African Ashanti, so corrupted by later phonetics as to be hardly traceable. (Here Piersall included hieroglyphs that were meaningless to Alex.) The root word, again a hieroglyph, was in the sound leedaw, translated to convey the picture of a hollowed-out piece of wood that could be held in the hand. The leedaw was a primitive instrument of sound, a means of communication over distances in the jungles and hills. The pitch of its wail was controlled by the breath of the blower and the placement of his hand over slits carved through the surface—the basic principle of the woodwind.
The historical parallel had been obvious to Walter Piersall. Whereas the Maroon tribes, living in settlements, used an abeng—a type of bugle made from the horns of cattle—to signal their warriors or spread the alarm of an approaching white enemy, the followers of Acquaba were nomadic and could not rely on animal products with any certainty. They returned to the African custom of utilizing the most prolific material of their surroundings: wood.
Once having established the root symbol as the primitive horn, it remained for Piersall to specify the modification of the accompanying sounds. He went back to the Ashanti-Coromanteen studies to extract compatible noun roots. He found the final syllable, or sound, first. It was in the hieroglyph depicting a deep river current, or undertow, that periled man or animal in the water. Its sonic equivalent was a bass-toned wail or cry. The phonetic spelling was nwa.
The pieces of the primitive puzzle were nearly joined.
The initial sound was the symbol hayee, the Coromanteen word meaning the council of their tribal gods.
Hayee-leedaw-nwa.
The low cry of a jungle horn signifying a peril, a supplication to the council of the gods.
Acquaba’s code. The hidden key that would admit an outsider into the primitive tribal sect.
Primitive and not primitive at all.
Halidon. Hollydawn. A wailing instrument whose cry was carried by the wind to the gods.
This, then, was Dr. Walter Piersall’s last gift to his island sanctuary. The means to reach, enlist, and release a powerful force for the good of Jamaica. To convince “it” to accept its responsibility.
There remained only to determine which of the isolated communities in the Cock Pit mountains was the Halidon. Which would respond to the code of the Acquaba?
Finally, the basic skepticism of the scholar inserted itself into Piersall’s document. He did not question the existence of the Halidon; what he did speculate on was its rumored wealth and commitment. Were these more myth than current fact? Had the myth grown out of proportion to the conceivably diminished resources?
The answer was in the Cock Pit.
McAuliff finished the second page and looked over at Charles Whitehall. The black fascist had walked from the workbench to the small window overlooking the Drax Hall fields. Without turning, he spoke quietly, as though he knew Alex was staring at him, expecting him to speak.
“Now we know what must be done. But we must proceed cautiously, sure of every step. A wrong move on our part and the cry of the Halidon will vanish with the wind.”
22
The Caravel prop plane descended on its western approach to the small Boscobel airfield in Oracabessa. The motors revved in short bursts to counteract the harsh wind and rain of the sudden downpour, forcing the aircraft to enter the strip cleanly. It taxied to the far end, turned awkwardly, and rolled back toward the small, one-lever concrete passenger terminal.
Two Jamaican porters ran through the low gates to the aircraft, both holding umbrellas. Together they pushed the metal step unit to the side of the plane, under the door; the man on the left then knocked rapidly on the fuselage.
The door was slapped open by a large white man who immediately stepped out, waving aside the offer of the two umbrellas. He jumped from the top level to the ground and looked around in the rain.
His right hand was in his jacket pocket.
He turned up to the aircraft door and nodded. A second large white man disembarked and ran across the muddy space toward the concrete terminal. His right hand, too, was in his pocket. He entered the building, glanced around, and proceeded out of the exit to the parking area.
Sixty seconds later the gate by the luggage depot was swung open by the second man and a Mercedes 660 limousine drove through toward the Caravel, its wheels spinning frequently in the drenched earth.
The two Jamaicans remained by the step unit, their umbrellas waiting.
The Mercedes pulled alongside the plane, and the tiny, ancient figure of Julian Warfield was helped down the steps, his head and body shielded by the black aides. The second white man held the door of the Mercedes; his large companion was in front of the automobile, scanning the distance and the few passengers who had come out of the terminal.
When Warfield was enclosed in the backseat, the Jamaican driver stepped out and the second white man got behind the wheel. He honked the horn once; his companion turned and raced around to the left front door and climbed in.
The Mercedes’s deep-throated engine roared as the limousine backed up beyond the tail assembly of the Caravel, then belched forward and sped through the gate.
With Julian Warfield in the backseat were Peter Jensen and his wife, Ruth.
“We’ll drive to Peale Court, it’s not far from here,” said the small, gaunt financier, his eyes alive and controlled. “How long do you have? With reasonable caution.”
“We rented a car for a trip to Dunn’s Falls,” replied Peter. “We left it in the lot and met the Mercedes outside. Several hours, at least.”
“Did you make it clear you were going to the Falls?”
“Yes, I invited McAuliff.”
Warfield smiled. “Nicely done, Peter.”
The car raced over the Oracabessa road for several miles and turned into a gravel drive flanked by two white stone posts. On both were identical plaques reading PEALE COURT. They were polished to a high gloss, a rich mixture of gold and black.
At the end of the drive was a long parking area in front of a longer, one-story white stucco house with expensive wood in the doors, and many windows. It was perched on top of a steep incline above the beach.
Warfield and the Jensens were admitted by a passive, elderly black woman in a white uniform, and Julian led the way to a veranda overlooking the waters of Golden Head Bay.
The three of them settled in chairs, and Warfield politely asked the Jamaican servant to bring refreshments. Perhaps a light rum punch.
The rain was letting up; streaks of yellow and orange could be seen beyond the gray sheets in the sky.
“I’ve always been fond of Peale Court,” said Warfield. “It’s so peaceful.”
“The view is breathtaking,” added Ruth. “Do you own it, Julian?”
“No, my dear. But I don’t believe it would be difficult to acquire. Look around, if you like. Perhaps you and Peter might be interested.”
Ruth smiled and, as if on cue, rose from her chair. “I think I shall.”
She walked back through the veranda doors into the larger living room with the light brown marble floor. Peter watched her, then looked over at Julian. “Are things that serious?”
“I don
’t want her upset,” replied Warfield.
“Which, of course, gives me my answer.”
“Possibly. Not necessarily. We’ve come upon disturbing news. M.I. Five, and over here its brother, M.I. Six.”
Peter reacted as though he’d been jolted unnecessarily. “I thought we had that area covered. Completely. It was passive.”
“On the island, perhaps. Sufficient for our purposes. Not in London. Obviously.” Warfield paused and took a deep breath, pursing his narrow, wrinkled lips. “Naturally, we’ll take steps immediately to intercede, but it may have gone too far. Ultimately, we can control the Service … if we must, right out of the Foreign Office. What bothers me now is the current activity.”
Peter Jensen looked out over the veranda railing. The afternoon sun was breaking through the clouds. The rain had stopped.
“Then we have two adversaries. This Halidon—whatever in blazes it is. And British Intelligence.”
“Precisely. What is of paramount importance, however, is to keep the two separate. Do you see?”
Jensen returned his gaze to the old man. “Of course. Assuming they haven’t already joined forces.”
“They have not.”
“You’re sure of that, Julian?”
“Yes. Don’t forget, we first learned of this Halidon through M.I. Five personnel—specialist level. Dunstone’s payrolls are diverse. If contact had been made, we’d know it.”
Again Jensen looked out at the waters of the bay, his expression pensive and questioning. “Why? Why? The man was offered two million dollars.… There is nothing, nothing in his dossier that would give an inkling of this. McAuliff is suspicious of all governmental interferences … quite rabid on the subject, actually. It was one of the reasons I proposed him.”
“Yes,” said Warfield noncommittally. “McAuliff was your idea, Peter.… Don’t mistake me, I am not holding you responsible, I concurred with your choice.… Describe what happened last night. This morning.”
Jensen did so, ending with the description of the fishing boat veering off into open water and the removal of the medical equipment from the motel room. “If it was an M.I. Six operation, it was crude, Julian. Intelligence has too many facilities available to be reduced to motels and fishing boats. If we only knew what happened.”
“We do. At least, I think we do,” replied Warfield. “Late last night the house of a dead white man, an anthropologist named Piersall, was broken into, ten, twelve miles from the coast. There was a skirmish. Two men were killed that we know of; others could have been wounded. They officially called it a robbery, which, of course, it wasn’t really. Not in the sense of larceny.”
“I know the name Piersall—”
“You should. He was the university radical who filed that insane letter of intent with the Department of Territories.”
“Of course! He was going to purchase half of the Cock Pit! That was months ago. He was a lunatic.” Jensen lighted his pipe; he gripped the bowl as he did so, he did not merely hold it. “So there is a third intruder,” he said, his words drifting off quietly, nervously.
“Or one of the first two, Peter.”
“How? What do you mean?”
“You ruled out M.I. Six. It could be the Halidon.”
Jensen stared at Warfield. “If so, it would mean McAuliff is working with both camps. And if Intelligence has not made contact, it’s because McAuliff has not permitted it.”
“A very complicated young man.” The old financier placed his glass down carefully on a tiled table next to his chair. He turned slightly to look through the veranda doors; the voice of Ruth Jensen could be heard chatting with the Jamaican maid inside the house. Warfield looked back at Peter. He pointed his thin, bony finger to a brown leather case on a white wicker table across the porch. “That is for you, Peter. Please get it.”
Jensen rose from his chair, walked to the table, and stood by the case. It was smaller than the attaché variety. And thicker. Its two hasps were secure by combination locks. “What are the numbers?”
“The left lock is three zeros. The right, three fives. You may alter the combinations as you wish.” Peter bent down and began manipulating the tiny vertical dials. Warfield continued. “Tomorrow you will start into the interior. Learn everything you can. Find out who comes to see him, for certainly he will have visitors. And the minute you establish the fact that he is in actual contact, and with whom, send out Ruth on some medical pretext with the information.… Then, Peter, you must kill him. McAuliff is a keystone. His death will panic both camps, and we shall know all we need to know.”
Jensen lifted the top of the leather case. Inside, recessed in the green felt, was a brand-new Luger pistol. Its steel glistened, except for a dull space below the trigger housing where the serial number had been removed. Below the weapon was a five-inch cylinder, one end grooved.
A silencer.
“You’ve never asked this of me, Julian. Never … You mustn’t.”
Jensen turned and stared at Warfield.
“I am not asking, Peter. I am demanding. Dunstone, Limited, has given you everything. And now it needs you in a way it has not needed you before. You must, you see.”
FOUR
THE COCK PIT
23
They began at the midpoint of the western perimeter, two and a half miles south of Weston Favel, on the edge of the Cock Pit range. They made base camp on the bank of a narrow offshoot of the Martha Brae. All but the runners, Marcus and Justice Hedrik, were stunned by the seemingly impenetrable walls of jungle that surrounded them.
Strange, contradictory forests that were filled with the west verdance of tropic growth and the cold massive-ness of sky-reaching black and green associated with northern climates. Dense macca-fat palms stood next to silk-cotton, or ceiba, trees that soared out of sight, their tops obscured by the midgrowth. Mountain cabbage and bull thatch, orchid and moss, fungi and eucalyptus battled for their individual rights to coexist in the Oz-like jungle primeval.
The ground was covered with ensnaring spreads of fern and pteridophyte, soft, wet and treacherous. Pools of swamp-like mud were hidden in the thick, crowded sprays of underbrush. Sudden hills rose out of nowhere, remembrances of Oligocene upheavals, never to be settled back into the cradle of the earth.
The sounds of the screeching bat and parrot and tanager intruded on the forest’s undertones; jungle rats and the mongoose could be heard intermittently in their unseen games of death. Every now and then there was the scream of a wild pig, pursuing or in panic.
And far in the distance, in the clearing of the riverbank, were the mountains, preceded by sudden stretches of untamed grassland. Strangely gray with streaks of deep green and blue and yellow—rain and hot sunlight in an unceasing interchange.
All this fifteen minutes by air from the gaudy strips of Montego.
Unbelievable.
McAuliff had made contact with the north-coast contacts of British Intelligence. There were five, and he had reached each one.
They had given him another reason to consign R. C. Hammond to the despised realm of the manipulator. For the Intelligence people were of small comfort. They stated perfunctorily their relief at his reporting, accepted his explanations of routine geographic chores that kept him occupied, and assured him—with more sound than conviction—that they were at his beck and call.
One man, the M.I.6 contact from Port Maria, drove down the coast to Bengal Court to meet with Alex. He was a portly black merchant who limited his identification to the single name of Garvey. He insisted on a late-night rendezvous in the tiny bar of the motel, where he was known as a liquor distributor.
It did not take McAuliff long to realize that Garvey, ostensibly there to assure him of total cooperation and safety, was actually interrogating him for a report that would be sent back to London. Garvey had the stench and look of a practiced informer about him. The stench was actual: the man suffered from body odor, which could not be concealed by liberal applications of bay rum. The lo
ok was in his eyes—ferretlike, and a touch bloodshot. Garvey was a man who sought out opportunities and enjoyed the fruits thereof.
His questions were precise, McAuliff’s answers apparently not satisfactory. And all questions led to the one question, the only one that mattered: Any progress concerning the Halidon?
Anything?
Unknown observers, strangers in the distance … a signal, a sign—no matter how remote or subtle?
Anything?
“Absolutely nothing” was a hard reply for Garvey to accept.
What about the men in the green Chevrolet who had followed him in Kingston? Tallon had traced them to the anthropologist Walter Piersall. Piersall had been a white agitator … common knowledge. Piersall had telephoned McAuliff … the Courtleigh switchboard cooperated with M.I.6. What did Piersall want?
Alex claimed he did not—could not—-know, as Piersall had never reached him. An agitator, white or black, was an unpredictable bearer of unpredictable news. Predictably, this agitator had had an accident. It might be presumed—from what little McAuliff had been told by Tallon and others—that Piersall had been closing in on Dunstone, Limited; without a name, of course. If so, he, McAuliff, was a logical person to reach. But this was conjecture; there was no way to confirm it as fact.
What had happened to the late-arriving Samuel Tucker? Where had he been?
Drinking and whoring in Montego Bay. Alex was sorry he had caused so much trouble about Sam; he should have known better. Sam Tucker was an incorrigible wanderer, albeit the best soil analyst in the business.
The perspiring Garvey was bewildered, frustrated by his confusion. There was too much activity for McAuliff to remain so insulated.
Alex reminded the liaison in short, coarse words that there was far too much survey activity—logistical, employment, above all government paperwork—for him not to be insulated. What the hell did Garvey think he had been doing?