in Alexander's eyes: Sam had to leave them alone. Tucker left, making it clear that he would be with Alison. He expected Alex to speak with them before retiring. Sam did not notice the ropes on Lawrence's hands in the shadowed corner and McAuliff was grateful that he did not.
'Marcus Hedrik' was not the runner's name. Marcus and Justice Hedrik had been replaced; where they were was of no consequence insisted this unnamed member of the Halidon. What was of paramount consequence was the whereabouts of the Piersall document.
Always leave something to trade off... in the last extremity. The words of R. C. Holcroft. The documents. McAuliffs ploy.
The Halidonite probed with infinite care every aspect of Piersall's conclusions as related by Charles Whitehall. The black scholar traced the history of the Acquaba sect, but he would not reveal the nagarro: the meaning of the Halidon. The 'runner' neither agreed nor disagreed; he was simply an interrogator. He was also a perceptive and cautious man. Once satisfied that Charles Whitehall would tell him no more, he ordered him to remain inside his tent with Lawrence. They were not to leave; they would be shot if they tried. His fellow 'runner' would stay on guard.
The Halidonite recognized the intransigence of McAuliffs position. Alex would tell him nothing. Faced with that, he ordered Alex under gunpoint to walk out of the campsite.
As they proceeded up a path towards the grasslands, McAuliff began to understand the thoroughness of the Halidon - that small part of it to which he was exposed. Twice along the alley of dense foliage, the man with the weapon commanded him to stop. There followed a brief series of guttural parrot calls, responded to in kind. Alex heard the softly spoken words of the man with the gun.
'The bivouac is surrounded, Mr McAuliff. I'm quite sure Whitehall and Tucker, as well as your couriers, know that now. The birds we imitate do not sing at night.'
'Where are we going?'
'To meet with someone. My superior, in fact. Continue, please.'
They climbed for another twenty minutes; a long jungle hill suddenly became an open grassland, a field that seemed extracted from some other terrain, imposed on a foreign land surrounded by wet forests and steep mountains.
The moonlight was unimpeded by clouds; the field was washed with dull yellow. And in the centre of the wild grass stood two men. As they approached, McAuliff saw that one of the men was perhaps ten feet behind the first, his back to them. The first man faced them.
The Halidonite facing them was dressed in what appeared to be ragged clothes, but with a loose field jacket and boots. The combined effect was a strange, unkempt paramilitary appearance. Around his waist was a pistol belt and holster. The man ten feet away and staring off in the opposite direction was in a caftan held together in the middle by a single thick rope.
Priest like. Immobile.
'Sit on the ground, Dr McAuliff,' instructed the strangely ragged paramilitary man, in clipped tones used to command.
Alex did so. The use of the title 'Doctor' told him the unfamiliarity was more his than theirs.
The subordinate who had marched him up from the camp approached the priest figure. The two men fell into quiet conversation, walking slowly into the grass while talking. The two figures receded over a hundred yards into the dull yellow field.
They stopped.
'Turn around, Dr McAuliff.' The order was abrupt; the black man above him had his hand on his holster. Alex pivoted in his sitting position and faced the descending forest from which he and the runner had emerged.
The waiting was long and tense. Yet McAuliff understood that his strongest weapon - perhaps his only viable strength - was calm determination.
He was determined; he was not calm.
He was frightened in the same way he had experienced fear before. In the Korean hills; alone, no matter the number of troops; waiting to witness his own single annihilation.
Pockets of fear.
'It is an extraordinary story, is it not, Dr McAuliff?'
That voice. My God! He knew that voice.
He pressed his arms against the ground and started to whip his head and body around.
His temple crashed into the hard steel of a pistol; the agonizing pain shot through his face and chest. There was a series of bright flashes in front of his eyes as the pain reached a sensory crescendo.
It subsided to a numbing ache, and he could feel a trickle of blood on his neck.