some kind of crazy cell block, hurtling through space, bouncing off the walls... that's not a very sane picture.'
'Move and counter-move, Sam,' interrupted Alison. 'They're experts.'
'Who? Which?' Tucker leaned forward in his chair, holding Alison with his old eyes.
'Both,' answered the girl firmly. I saw what Chatellerault did to my husband. I know what Interpol did to me.'
The silence returned once more, less strained than before. And once again, Sam Tucker broke it softly.
'You've got to define your enemies, Alexander. I get the feeling you haven't done that... present company excepted as allies, I sincerely hope.'
'I've defined them as best I can. I'm not sure those definitions will hold. It's complicated; at least for me.'
'Then simplify, boy. When you're finished, who wants you hanged the quickest?'
McAuliff looked at Alison. 'Again, both. Dunstone literally; MI5 figuratively. One dead, the other dependent - subject to recall. A name in a data bank. That's very real.'
'I agree,' said Tucker, relighting his thin cigar. 'Now let's reverse the process. Who can you hang the quickest? The surest?'
Alex laughed quietly, joined by Alison. The girl spoke. 'My Lord, you do think alike.'
'Answer my question, son.'
'I can protect myself... ourselves... with what I know, what I've pieced together. Both, I guess.'
'That doesn't answer the question. Who the quickest?'
'Dunstone, I imagine. At the moment, it's more vulnerable. Warfield made a mistake; he thinks I'm really hungry. He thinks he bought me because he made me a part of them. They fall, I fall... I'd have to say Dunstone.'
'All right,' replied Sam, assuming the mantle of a soft-spoken attorney. 'Enemy number one defined as Dunstone. You can extricate yourself by simple blackmail: third-person knowledge, documents tucked away in lawyers' offices. Agreed?'
'Yes.'
'That leaves enemy number two: Her Majesty's Intelligence boys. Let's define them. What's their hook into you?'
'Protection. It's supposed to be protection.'
'Not noticeably successful, would you say, son?'
'Not noticeably successful,' said Alex in agreement. 'But we're not finished yet.'
'We'll get to that; don't rush... what's your hook into them?'
McAuliff paused in thought. 'Their methods... and their contacts, I think. Exposing their covert operations.'
'Really the same as with Dunstone, isn't it?' Tucker was zeroing in on his target.
'Again, yes.'
'Let's go back a second. What does Dunstone offer?'
'Money. A great deal of money. They need this survey.'
'Are you prepared to lose it?'
'Hell, yes! But I may not have to - '
'That's immaterial. I assume that's part of the "guarantees and promises".'
'That's right.'
'But it's not a factor. You haven't stolen from the thieves. In any way can they get you indicted as one of them?'
'Christ, no! They may think so, but they're wrong.'
'Then there are your answers. Your definitions. Eliminate the hooks and the offers. Theirs. The money and the protection. Lose one - the money; make the other unnecessary - the protection. You're dealing from strength, with your own hooks. You make whatever offers you wish.' 'You jumped, Sam,' said McAuliff slowly. 'Or you forgot. We're not finished; we may need the protection. If we take it, we can't deny it. We'd be a joke. The Watergate syndrome. Worms crawling over each other.'
Sam Tucker put down his thin cigar in the ashtray on the table and reached for the bottle of Scotch. He was about to speak, but was interrupted by the sight of Charles Whitehall walking out of a jungle path into the clearing. Whitehall looked around, then crossed rapidly to Lawrence, who was still over the coals of the banked fire, the orange glow colouring his skin a bronzed black. The two men spoke. Lawrence stood up, nodded once, and started towards the jungle path. Whitehall watched him briefly, then turned and looked over at McAuliff, Sam, and Alison. With urgency, he began walking across the clearing to them.
'There's your protection, Alexander,' said Sam quietly as Whitehall approached. 'The two of them. They may despise each other, but they've got a common hate that works out fine for you. For all of us, goddamn it... Bless their beautiful black hides.'
'The courier has returned.' Charles Whitehall adjusted the light of the Coleman lantern in his tent. McAuliff stood inside the canvas flap of the doorway - Whitehall had insisted that Alex come with him; he did not wish to speak in front of Alison and Sam Tucker.
'You could have told the others.'
'That will be a... multilateral decision. Personally, I would not subscribe to it.'
'Why not?'
'We must be extremely careful. The less that is known by the more, the better.'
McAuliff pulled out a pack