«But you were in Kingston tonight. Not in a bamboo camp on the Martha Brae. Two of these men»—McAuliff gestured front—«followed me this afternoon. In this car.»
«Let me answer you, Mr. McAuliff,» said the Jamaican by the window, turning and placing his arm over the seat. «Kingston intercepted Mr. Tuck’s cable; they made kling-kling addition, mon. They thought Mr. Tuck was mixed up with Dr. Piersall in bad ways. Bad ways for them, mon. They sent dangerous men to Mo’Bay. To find out what Tuck was doing—»
«How do you know this?» broke in Alex.
For the briefest instant, the man by the window glanced at the driver. It was difficult to tell in the dim light and rushing shadows, but McAuliff thought the driver nodded imperceptibly.
«We took the men who came to Mo’bay after Mr. Tuck. That is all you need to know, mon. What was learned caused Dr. Piersall much concern. So much, mon, that we flew to Kingston. To reach you, mon … Dr. Piersall was killed for that.»
«Who killed him?»
«If we knew that there would be dead men hanging in Victoria Park.»
«What did you learn … from the men in Montego?»
Again, the man who spoke seemed to glance at the driver. In seconds he replied, «That people in Kingston believed Dr. Piersall would interfere further. When he went to find you, mon, it was their proof. By killing him they took a big sea urchin out of their foot.»
«And you don’t know who did it—»
«Hired niggers, mon,» interrupted the black man.
«It’s insane!» McAuliff spoke to himself as much as to Sam Tucker. «People killing people … men following other men. It’s goddamn crazy!»
«Why is it crazy to a man who visits Tallon’s fish market?» asked the Jamaican suddenly.
«How did—» McAuliff stopped. He was confused; he had been so careful. «How did you know that? I lost you at the racetrack!»
The Jamaican smiled, his bright teeth catching the light from the careening reflections through the windshield. «Ocean trout is not really preferable to the freshwater variety, mon.»
The counterman! The nonchalant counterman in the striped linen apron. «The man behind the counter is one of you. That’s pretty good,» said McAuliff quietly.
«We’re very good. Westmore Tallon is a British agent. So like the English: enlist the clandestine help of the vested interests. And so fundamentally stupid. Tallon’s senile Etonian classmates might trust him; his countrymen do not.»
The Jamaican removed his arm from the seat and turned front. The answer was over.
Sam Tucker spoke pensively, openly. «Alexander … now tell me what the hell is going on. What have you done, boy?»
McAuliff turned to Sam. The huge, vital, capable old friend was staring at him through the darkness, the rapid flashes of light bouncing across his face. Tucker’s eyes held confusion and hurt. And anger.
What in hell had he done, thought Alex.
«Here we are, mon,» said the driver in the baseball cap, who had not spoken throughout the trip.
McAuliff looked out the windows. The ground was flat now, but high in the hills and surrounded by them. Everything was sporadically illuminated by a Jamaican moon filtering through the low-flying clouds of the Blue Mountains. They were on a dirt road; in the distance, perhaps a quarter of a mile away, was a structure, a small cabinlike building. A dim light could be seen through a single window. On the right were two other … structures. Not buildings, not houses or cabins, nothing really definable; just free-form, sagging silhouettes … translucent? Yes … wires, cloth. Or netting … They were large tentlike covers, supported by numerous poles. And then Alex understood: beyond the tents the ground was matted flat, and along the border, spaced every thirty or forty feet apart, were unlit cradle torches. The tents were camouflaged hangars; the ground was a landing strip.
They were at an unmarked airfield in the mountains.
The Chevrolet slowed down as it approached what turned out to be a small farmhouse. There was an ancient tractor beyond the edge of the building; field tools—plows, shoulder yokes, pitchforks—were scattered about carelessly. In the moonlight the equipment looked like stationary relics. Unused, dead remembrances only.
Camouflage.
As the hangars were camouflaged.
An airfield no map would indicate.
«Mr. McAuliff? Mr. Tucker? If you would come with me, please.» The black spokesman by the window opened the door and stepped out. Sam and Alex did the same. The driver and the third Jamaican remained inside, and when the disembarked passengers stepped away from the car, the driver accelerated and sped off down the dirt road.
«Where are they going?» asked McAuliff anxiously.
«To conceal the automobile,» answered the black man. «Kingston sends out ganja air patrols at night, hoping to find such fields as these. With luck to spot light aircraft on narcotics runs.»
«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.