'charismatic leader' Charles Whitehall, waiting to ride 'nigger-Pompei's horse' through Victoria Park. Whitehall was no match for the Halidon. The Tribe of Acquaba would not tolerate him.
Nor did the lessons of Acquaba include the violence of Lawrence, the boy-man giant... successor to Barak Moore.
Lawrence's 'revolution' would not come to pass. Not the way he conceived it.
Alex wondered about Sam Tucker. Tuck, the gnarled rocklike force of stability. Would Sam find what he was looking for in Jamaica? For surely he was looking.
But most of all McAuliff thought about Alison. Of her lovely half laugh and her clear blue eyes and the calm acceptance that was her understanding. How very much he loved her.
He wondered, as his consciousness drifted into the grey, blank void that was sleep, if they would have a life together.
After the madness.
If he was alive.
If they were alive.
He had left a wake-up call for 6.45. Quarter to twelve, London time.
Noon. For the Halidon.
The coffee arrived in seven minutes. Eight minutes to twelve.
The telephone rang three minutes later. Five minutes to noon, London time. It was Malcolm, and he was not in his hotel room. He was at the Associated Press Bureau, Montego Bay office on St James Street. He wanted to make sure that Alex was up and had his radio on. Perhaps his television as well.
McAuliff had both instruments on.
Malcolm the Halidonite would call him later.
At three minutes to seven - twelve, London time - there was a rapid knocking on the hotel door. Alexander was startled. Malcolm had said nothing about visits; no one knew he was in Montego Bay. He approached the door.
'Yes?'
The words from the other side of the wood were spoken hesitantly, in a deep, familiar voice.
'Is that you... McAuliff?'
And instantly Alexander understood. The symmetry, the timing was extraordinary; only extraordinary minds could conceive and execute such a symbolic coup.
He opened the door.
R. C. Holcroft, British Intelligence, stood in the corridor, his slender frame rigid, his face an expression of suppressed shock.
'Good God. It is you... I didn't believe them. Your signals from the river... There is nothing irregular, nothing at all!'
'That,' said Alex, 'is about as disastrous a judgment as I've ever heard.'
'They dragged me out of my room in Kingston... before daylight. Drove me up into the hills - '
'And flew you to Montego,' completed McAuliff, looking at his watch. 'Come in, Holcroft. We've got a minute and fifteen seconds to go.'
'For what?'
'We'll both find out.'
The lilting, high-pitched Caribbean voice on the radio proclaimed over the music the hour of seven in the 'sunlight paradise of Montego Bay.' The picture on the television set was a sudden fade-in shot of a long expanse of white beach... a photograph. The announcer, in overly Anglicized tones, was extolling the virtues of 'our island life' and welcoming 'all visitors from the cold climates,' pointing out immediately that there was a blizzard in New York.
Twelve o'clock London time.
Nothing unusual.
Nothing.
Holcroft stood by the window, looking out at the blue-green waters of the bay. He was silent; his anger was the fury of a man who had lost control because he did not know the moves his opponents were making. And, more important, why they were making them.
The manipulator manipulated.
McAuliff sat on the bed, his eyes on the television set, now a travelogue fraught with lies about the 'beautiful city of Kingston.' Simultaneously, the radio on the bedside table blared its combination of cacophonic music and frantic commercials for everything from Coppertone to Hertz.
Intermittently, there was the syrupy female Voice-of-the-Ministry-of-Health, telling the women of the island that 'you do not have to get pregnant,' followed by the repetition of the weather... the forecasts never 'partly cloudy,' always 'partly sunny.'
Nothing unusual.
Nothing.
It was eleven minutes past twelve London time.
Still nothing.
And then it happened.
'We interrupt this broadcast....'
And, like an insignificant wave born of the ocean depths - unnoticed at first, but gradually swelling, suddenly bursting out of the waters and cresting in controlled fury - the pattern of terror was clear.
The first announcement was merely the prelude - a single flute outlining the significant notes of a theme shortly to be developed.
Explosion and death in Port Antonio.
The east wing of the estate of Arthur Craft had been blown up by explosives, the resulting conflagration gutting most of the house. Among the dead was feared to be the patriarch of the Foundation.
There were rumours of rifle fire preceding the series of explosions. Port Antonio was in panic.
Rifle fire. Explosives.
Rare, yes. But not unheard of on this island of scattered violence.