with a nervous giggle. 'Don't cater to him.' She looked briefly at her husband; McAuliff wished he could have seen her eyes. 'Peter just wants to convince himself he's a hop-skip from a pub.'
'Rubbish. Just idle conversation, old girl...'
'I think he's bored with us, Ruth,' said Alex laughing softly, almost intimately. 'I think he wants to see new faces.'
'As long as it's not new bodies, my dear, the tolerance is possible,' retorted Ruth Jensen with throated caricature.
The three of them laughed out loud.
McAuliff knew the humour was forced. Mistakes had been made, and the Jensens were afraid.
Peter was looking for new faces... or a new face. A face he believed Alex expected.
Who was it?
Was it possible... remotely possible that the Jensens were not what they seemed?
There was the sound of whistling from a path in the north bush. Charles Whitehall emerged into the clearing, his safari uniform pressed and clean, in counterpoint to the rumpled clothes of Marcus Hedrik, the older brother of the two Cock Pit runners. Marcus remained a respectful distance behind Whitehall, his passive black face inscrutable.
McAuliff rose from the ground and spoke to the Jensens. 'It's Charley. There's a hill community several miles west of the river; he was going to try to hire a couple of hands.'
Ruth and Peter took their cue, because they very much wanted to. 'Well, we've still got some equipment sorting to do,' said the husband, rising quickly.
'Indeed we do! Help me up, luv.'
The Jensens waved to Charles Whitehall and rapidly started for their tent.
McAuliff met Whitehall at the midpoint of the clearing. The black scholar dismissed Marcus Hedrik, instructing him to issue preparation orders to the rest of the crew about the evening patrols. Alex was fascinated to watch and listen to Charley-mon speaking to the runner. He fell easily into the hill country patois - damn near indecipherable to McAuliff - and used his hands and eyes in gestures and looks that were absolutely compatible with the obtuse speech.
'You do that very well,' said Alex as the runner trudged out of hearing.
'I should. It's what you hired me for. I am the best there is.'
'That's one of the things I like about you, Charley. You take compliments so gracefully.'
'You did not hire me for my graces. They are a bonus you don't deserve.' Whitehall allowed himself a slight smile. 'You enjoy calling me "Charley," McAuliff?' added the elegant black.
'Do you object?'
'Not really. Because I understand. It is a defence mechanism; you Americans are rife with them. "Charley" is an idiomatic leveller, peculiarly indigenous to the sixties and seventies. The Vietcong were "Charley," so too the Cambodians and the Laotians; even your man on the American street. It makes you feel superior. Strange that the name should be Charley, is it not?'
'It happens to be your name.'
'Yes, of course, but I think that is almost beside the point.' The black looked away briefly, then back at Alex. 'The name "Charles" is Germanic in origin, actually. Its root meaning is "full grown" or possibly - here scholars differ - "great size." Is it not interesting that you Americans take just such a name and reverse its connotation?'
McAuliff exhaled audibly and spoke wearily. 'I accept the lesson for the day and all its subtle anti-colonialism. I gather you'd prefer I call you "Charles," or "Whitehall," or perhaps "Great Black Leader."'
'Not for a moment. "Charley" is perfectly fine. Even amusing. And, after all, it is better than "Rufus."'
'Then what the hell is this all about?'
Whitehall smiled - again, only slightly - and lowered his voice. 'Until ten seconds ago, Marcus Hedrik's brother had been standing behind the lean-to on our left. He was trying to listen to us. He is gone now.'
Alex whipped his head around. Beyond the large tarpaulin lean-to, erected to cover some camp furniture against a forest shower, Justice Hedrik could be seen walking slowly towards two other crewmen across the clearing. Justice was younger than his brother Marcus, perhaps in his late twenties, and stockily muscular.
'Are you sure? I mean, that he was listening to us?'
'He was carving a piece of ceiba wood. There is too much to do to waste time carving artifacts. He was listening. Until I looked over at him.'
'I'll remember that.'
'Yes. Do. But do not give it undue emphasis. Runners are splendid fellows when they are taking in tourist groups; the tips are generous. I suspect neither brother is too pleased to be with us. Our trip is professional - worse, academically professional. There is