«No apologies necessary. You stayed just within the lines. You were very convincing.»
«Really, Alex, you’re a bit much.» Ferguson moved back. A Jamaican woman, basket balanced on her head, hurried past. «I said I was sorry. I’m sure you’ve had the occasion to overindulge.»
«Very often. As a matter of fact, I was a hell of a lot drunker than you last night.»
«I don’t know what you’re implying, chap, and frankly, my head’s too painful to play anagrams. Now, for the last time, I apologize.»
«For the wrong sins, Jimbo-mon. Let’s go back and find some real ones. Because I have some questions.»
Ferguson awkwardly straightened his perennial slouch and whisked away the shock of hair on his forehead. «You’re really quite abusive. I have shopping to do.»
The young man started to walk around McAuliff. Alex grabbed his arm and slammed him back into the stucco wall. «Save your money. Do it in London.»
«No!»
Ferguson’s body stiffened; the taut flesh around his eyes stretched further. «No, please,» he whispered.
«Then let’s start with the suitcases.» McAuliff released the arm, holding Ferguson against the wall with his stare.
«I told you,» the young man whined. «You were having trouble. I tried to help.»
«You bet your ass I had trouble! And not only with Customs. Where did my luggage go? Our luggage? Who took it?»
«I don’t know. I swear I don’t!»
«Who told you to write that note?»
«No one told me! For God’s sake, you’re crazy!»
«Why did you put on that act last night?»
«What act?»
«You weren’t drunk—you were sober.»
«Oh, Christ Almighty, I wish you had my hangover. Really—»
«Not good enough, Jimbo-mon. Let’s try again. Who told you to write that note?»
«You won’t listen to me—»
«I’m listening. Why are you following me? Who told you to follow me this morning?»
«By God, you’re insane!»
«By God, you’re fired!»
«No!… You can’t. Please.» Ferguson’s voice was frightened again, a whisper.
«What did you say?» McAuliff placed his right hand against the wall, over Ferguson’s frail shoulder. He leaned into the strange young man. «I’d like to hear you say that again. What can’t I do?»
«Please … don’t send me back. I beg you.» Ferguson was breathing through his mouth; spots of saliva had formed on his thin lips. «Not now.»
«Send you back? I don’t give a goddamn where you go! I’m not your keeper, little boy.» Alex removed his hand from the wall and yanked his jacket from under his left arm. «You’re entitled to return-trip airfare. I’ll draw it for you this afternoon, and pay for one more night at the Courtleigh. After that, you’re on your own. Go wherever the hell you please. But not with me; not with the survey.»
McAuliff turned and abruptly walked away. He entered the narrow alleyway and took up his position in the line of laconic strollers. He knew the stunned Ferguson would follow. It wasn’t long before he heard him. The whining voice had the quality of controlled hysteria. Alex did not stop or look back.
«McAuliff! Mr. McAuliff! Please!» The English tones echoed in the narrow brick confines, creating a dissonant counterpoint to the lilting hum of a dozen Jamaican conversations. «Please, wait… Excuse me, excuse me, please. I’m sorry, let me pass, please …»
«What you do, mon?! Don’t push me.»
The verbal objections did not deter Ferguson; the bodily obstructions were somewhat more successful. Alex kept moving, hearing and sensing the young man closing the gap slowly. It was eerily comic: a white man chasing another white man in a dark, crowded passageway that was exclusively—by civilized cautions—a native thoroughfare. McAuliff was within feet of the exit to Duke Street when he felt Ferguson’s hand gripping his arm.
«Please. We have to talk … not here.»
«Where?»
They emerged on the sidewalk. A long, horse-drawn wagon filled with fruits and country vegetables was in front of them at the curb. The sombreroed owner was arguing with customers by a set of ancient scales; several ragged children stole bananas from the rear of the vehicle. Ferguson still held McAuliff’s arm.
«Go to the Devon House. It’s a tourist—»
«I know.»
«There’s an outside restaurant.»
«When?»
«Fifteen minutes.»
The taxi drove into the long entrance of Devon House, a Georgian monument to an era of English supremacy and white, European money. Circular floral gardens fronted the spotless columns; rinsed graveled paths wove patterns around an immense fountain. The small outdoor restaurant was off to the side, the tables behind tall hedges, the diners obscured from the front. There were only six tables, McAuliff realized. A very small restaurant; a difficult place in which to follow someone without being observed. Perhaps Ferguson was not as inexperienced as he appeared to be.
«Well, hello, chap!»
Alex turned. James Ferguson had yelled from the central path to the fountain; he now carried his camera and the cases and straps and meters that went with it. «Hi,» said McAuliff, wondering what role the young man intended to play now.
«I’ve got some wonderful shots. This place has quite a history, you know.» Ferguson approached him, taking a second to snap Alex’s picture.
«This is ridiculous,» replied McAuliff quietly. «Who the hell are you trying to fool?»
«I know exactly what I’m doing. Please cooperate.» And then Ferguson returned to his play-acting, raising his voice and his camera simultaneously. «Did you know that this old brick was the original courtyard? It leads to the rear of the house, where the soldiers were housed in rows of brick cubicles.»
«I’m fascinated.»
«It’s well past elevenses, old man,» continued an enthusiastic, loud Ferguson. «What say to a pint? Or a rum punch? Perhaps a spot of lunch.»
There were only two other separate couples within the small courtyard restaurant. The men’s straw hats and bulging walking shorts complemented the women’s rhinestoned sunglasses; they were tourists, obviously unimpressed with Kingston’s Devon House. They would soon be talking with each other, thought McAuliff, making happier plans to return to the bar of the cruise ship or, at least, to a free-port strip. They were not interested in Ferguson or himself, and that was all that mattered.
The Jamaican rum punches were delivered by a bored waiter in a dirty white jacket. He did not hum or move with any rhythmic punctuation, observed Alex. The Devon House restaurant was a place of inactivity. Kingston was not Montego Bay.
«I’ll tell you exactly what happened,» said Ferguson suddenly, very nervously; his voice once more a panicked whisper. «And it’s everything I know. I worked for the Craft Foundation, you knew all about that. Right?»
«Obviously,» answered McAuliff. «I made it a condition of your employment that you stay away from Craft. You agreed.»
«I didn’t have a choice. When we got off the plane, you and Alison stayed behind; Whitehall and the Jensens went on ahead to the luggage pickup. I was taking some infrared photographs of the airport… I was in between, you might say. I walked through the arrival gate, and the first person I saw was Craft himself; the son, of course, not the old fellow. The son runs the Foundation now. I tried to avoid him. I had every reason to; after all, he sacked me. But I couldn’t. And I was amazed—he was positively effusive. Filled with apologies; what outstanding work I had done, how he personally had come to the airport to meet me when he heard I was with the survey.» Ferguson swallowed a portion of his punch, darting his eyes around the brick courtyard. He seemed to have reached a block, as if uncertain how to continue.