verdancy of tropic growth and the cold massiveness 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 primaeval.
The ground was covered with ensnaring spreads of fern and pteridophyte, soft, wet and treacherous. Pools of swamplike 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 river bank, were the mountains, preceded by sudden stretches of untamed grassland. Strangely grey 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. Holcroft 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 MI5 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 sight of a practiced informer about him. The stench was actual: The man suffered from body odour, which could not be concealed by liberal applications of bay rum. The sight 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, McAuliffs 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 blacks 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 MI5. 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?
The interview lasted until 1.30 in the morning. Before leaving, the MI5 contact reached into his filthy briefcase and withdrew a metallic object the size of a pen-and-pencil case, with its