Jamaica. The wolves - the enemies - are Dunstone and all it represents: Warfield and his crowd of... global manipulators - the Chatelleraults of this world; British Intelligence, with its elitists, like Tallon and his crowd of colonial opportunists; the Crafts of this island... internal bleeders, you could call them. Finally, maybe even this Halidon, because you can't control what you can't find; and even if you find it, it may not be controllable... There are a lot of wolves.'
'There's a lot of confusion,' added Alison.
McAuliff turned and looked at her. 'For us. Not for them. That's what's remarkable. The victims have worked out a strategy: Take each wolf as it lunges. Destroy it.'
'What's that got to do with... apples?'
'I jumped out of the circle and went into a straight line.'
'Aren't we abstract,' stated the girl.
'It's valid. As any army - and don't kid yourself, Charles Whitehall and Barak Moore have their armies - as any army moves forward, it maintains its lines of supply. In this case, support. Remember. When all the wolves have been killed, they face each other. Whitehall and Moore both are piling up apples... support.' McAuliff stopped again and got up from bed. He walked to the window to the right of the terrace doors, pulled the curtain, and looked out at the beach. 'Does any of this make sense to you?' he asked softly.
'It's very political, I think, and I'm not much at that sort of thing. But you're describing a rather familiar pattern, I'd say - '
'You bet your life I am,' interrupted Alex, speaking slowly and turning from the windows. 'Historical precedents unlimited... and I'm no goddamn historian. Hell, where do you want to start? Caesar's Gaul? Rome's Ferrara? China in the thirties? The Koreas, the Vietnams, the Cambodias? Half a dozen African states? The words are there, over and over again. Exploitation from outside, inside revolt - insurgence and counterinsurgence. Chaos, bloodbath, expulsion. Ultimately reconstruction in so-called compromise. That's the pattern. That's what Barak and Charley-mon expect to play out. And each knows that while he's joining the other to kill a wolf, he's got to entrench himself further in the turf at the same time. Because when the compromise comes... as it must... he wants it more his way than less.'
'What you're saying - getting away from circles and straight lines - is that you don't approve of Barak's "army" being weakened. Is that it?'
'Not now. Not at this moment.'
'Then you are interfering. You're an outsider taking an inside position. It's not your... turf, my darling.'
'But I brought Charley here. I gave him his respectability, his cover. Charley's a son of a bitch.'
'Is Barak Moore a saint?'
'Not for a second. He's a son of a bitch, too. And it's important that he is.' McAuliff returned to the window. The morning sun was striking the panes of glass, causing tiny modules of condensation. It was going to be a hot day.
'What are you going to do?' Alison sat forward, prepared to get up as she looked over at Alex.
'Do?' he asked quietly, his eyes concentrating on something outside the window. 'What I was sent here to do; what I'm being paid one million dollars to do. Complete the survey or find this Halidon. Whichever comes first. Then get us out of here... on our terms.'
'That sounds reasonable,' said Alison, rising from the bed. 'What is that sickening odour?'
'Oh? I forgot to tell you. They were going to spray down your room, get rid of the medicine smells.' McAuliff stepped closer to the window and shaded his eyes from the rays of the morning sun.
'The ether or disinfectant or whatever it was was far more palatable. My bathing suit's in there. May I get it?'
'What?' Alex was not listening, his attention on the object of his gaze outside.
'My bathing suit, darling. It's in my room.'
McAuliff turned from the window, oblivious to her words. 'Wait here. I'll be right back.' He walked rapidly to the terrace door, opened it, and ran out.
Alison looked after him, bewildered. She crossed to the window to see what Alex had seen. It took several seconds to understand; she was helped by watching McAuliff run across the sand towards the water.
In the distance, down at the beach, was the lone figure of a large black man staring out at the ocean. It was Lawrence.
Alex approached the tall Jamaican, wondering if he should call out. Instinctively, he did not. Instead, he cleared his throat when he was within ten