his fingers as he did so. He knew the concealment was unnecessary; he would not radio for aid. He would not jam the frequency with cries of emergency. It had been made clear that at the first sight of hostile forces, each member of the survey team would be shot through the head, Alison Booth and Sam Tucker the first to be executed.
The remainder of the understanding was equally clear. Sam Tucker would continue to send the signals every twelve hours. Alexander would return with the runner into the grassland. From there, with the 'priest' he would be taken to the hidden community of the Halidon. Until he returned, the team was a collective hostage.
Alison, Sam, Charles Whitehall and Lawrence would be told the truth. The others would not. The Jensens, James Ferguson and the crew would be given another explanation, a bureaucratic one readily acceptable to professional surveyors: During the night a radio message from Kingston had been relayed by Falmouth; the Ministry of the Interior required McAuliffs presence in Ocho Rios; there were difficulties with the Institute. It was the sort of complication to which survey directors were subjected. Field work was constantly interrupted by administrative foul-ups.
When the priest figure suggested the time of absence be no less than three full days, Alex demanded to know the reason for so long a period. 'I can't answer that, McAuliff.'
'Then why should I agree to it?'
'It is only time. Then, too, are we not at checkmate... Mr Bones? We fear exposure perhaps more than you fear for your lives.'
'I won't concede that.'
'You do not know us. Give yourself the margin to learn. You will not be disappointed.'
'You were told to say three days, then?'
'I was.'
'Which presumes that whoever told you to say it expected you to bring me to them.'
'It was a distinct probability.'
Alexander agreed to three full days.
The black revolutionary, Lawrence, was rubbing a penicillin salve over Charles Whitehall's bare back. The rope burns were deep; whoever had lashed Charley-mon had done so in fever-pitch anger. The ropes on both men had been removed after McAuliffs talk with them.
Alexander had made it clear he would brook no further interference. Their causes were expendable.
'Your arrogance is beyond understanding, McAuliff!' said Charles Whitehall, suppressing a grimace as Lawrence touched a sensitive burn.
'I accept the rebuke. You're very qualified in that department.'
'You are not equipped to deal with these people. I have spent my life, my entire life, stripping away the layers of Jamaican - Caribbean - history!'
'Not your entire life, Charley-mon,' replied Alex, calmly but incisively. 'I told you last night. There's the little matter of your extra-scholastic activity. "The black Caesar riding up Victoria Park on nigger-Pompei's horse..."'
'What?'
'They're not my words, Charley.' Lawrence suddenly pressed his fist into a raw lash mark on Whitehall's shoulder. The scholar arched his neck back in pain. The revolutionary's other hand was close to his throat. Neither man moved; Lawrence spoke.
'You don't ride no nigger horse, mon. You den walk like everybody else.'
Charles Whitehall stared over his shoulder at the blur of the brutal, massive hand poised for assault. 'You play the fool, you know. Do you think any political entity with a power structure based in wealth will tolerate you! Not for a minute, you egalitarian jackal. You will be crushed.'
'You do not seek to crush us, mon?'
'I seek only what is best for Jamaica. Everyone's energies will be used to that end.'
'You're a regular Pollyanna,' broke in Alex, walking towards the two men.
Lawrence looked up at McAuliff, his expression equal parts of suspicion and dependence. He removed his hand and reached for the tube of penicillin salve. 'Put on your shirt, mon. Your skin is covered,' he said, twisting the small cap onto the medicine tube.
'I'm leaving in a few minutes,' said McAuliff, standing in front of Whitehall. 'Sam will be in charge; you're to do as he says. Insofar as possible, the work is to continue normally. The Halidon will stay out of sight... at least as far as the Jensens and Ferguson are concerned.'
'How can that be?' asked Lawrence.
'It won't be difficult,' answered Alex. 'Peter is drilling for gaspocket sediment a mile and a half southwest. Ruth is due east in a quarry; the runner we know as "Justice" will be with her. Ferguson is across the river working some fern groves. All are separated, each will be watched.'
'And me?' Whitehall buttoned his expensive cotton safari shirt as though dressing for a concert at Covent Garden. 'What