seen through a single window. On the right were two other... structures. Not buildings, not houses or cabins, nothing really definable; just free-form, sagging silhouettes... translucent? Yes... wires, cloth. Or netting... They were large tentlike covers, supported by numerous poles. And then Alex understood: beyond the tents the ground was matted flat and along the border, spaced every thirty or forty feet apart, were unlit cradle torches. The tents were camouflaged hangars; the ground a landing strip.
They were at an unmarked airfield in the mountains.
The Chevrolet slowed down as it approached what turned out to be a small farmhouse. There was an ancient tractor beyond the edge of the building; field tools -ploughs, shoulder yokes, pitchforks - were scattered about carelessly. In the moonlight the equipment looked like stationary relics. Unused, dead remembrances only.
Camouflage.
As the hangars were camouflaged.
An airfield no map would indicate.
'Mr McAuliff? Mr Tucker? If you would come with me, please.' The black spokesman by the window opened the door and stepped out. Sam and Alex did the same. The driver and the third Jamaican remained inside, and when the disembarked passengers stepped away from the car, the driver accelerated the motor and sped off down the dirt road.
'Where are they going?' asked McAuliff anxiously.
'To conceal the automobile,' answered the black. 'Kingston sends out ganga air patrols at night, hoping to find such fields as these. With luck to spot light aircraft on narcotics runs.'
'This ganga country? I thought it was north,' said Tucker.
The Jamaican laughed. 'Ganga, weed, poppy... north, west, east. It is a healthy export industry, mon. But not ours... Come, let us go inside.'
The door of the miniature farmhouse opened as the three of them approached. In the frame stood the light-skinned black whom Alex had first seen in a striped apron behind the counter at Tallon's.
The interior of the small house was primitive: wooden chairs, a thick round table in the centre of the single room, an army cot against the wall. The jarring contradiction was a complicated radio set on a table to the right of the door. The light in the window was from the shaded lamp in front of the machinery; a generator could be heard providing what electricity was necessary.
All this McAuliff observed within seconds of entering. Then he saw a second man, standing in shadows across the room, his back towards the others. The body - the cut of the coat, the shoulders, the tapered waist, the tailored trousers - was familiar.
The man turned around; the light from the table lamp illuminated his features.
Charles Whitehall stared at McAuliff and then nodded once, slowly.
The door opened, and the driver of the Chevrolet entered with the third black. He walked to the round table in the centre of the room and sat down. He removed his baseball cap, revealing a large shaven head.
'My name is Moore. Barak Moore, Mr McAuliff. To ease your concerns, the woman, Alison Booth, has been called. She was told that you went down to the Ministry for a conference.'
'She won't believe that,' replied Alex.
'If she cares to check further, she will be informed that you are with Latham at a warehouse. There is nothing to worry about, mon.'
Sam Tucker stood by the door; he was relaxed but curious. And strong; his thick arms were folded across his chest, his lined features - tanned by the California sun -showed his age and accentuated his leathery strength. Charles Whitehall stood by the window in the left wall, his elegant, arrogant face exuding contempt.
The light-skinned black from Tallon's Fish Market and the two Jamaican 'guerrillas' had pulled their chairs back against the far right wall, away from the centre of attention. They were telegraphing the fact that Barak Moore was their superior.
'Please, sit down.' Barak Moore indicated the chairs around the table. There were three. Tucker and McAuliff looked at each other; there was no point in refusing. They walked to the table and sat down. Charles Whitehall remained standing by the window. Moore glanced up at him. 'Will you join us?'
'If I feel like sitting,' answered Whitehall.
Moore smiled and spoke while looking at Whitehall. 'Charley-mon finds it difficult to be in the same room with me, much less at the same table.'
'Then why is he here?' asked Sam Tucker.
'He had no idea he was going to be until a few minutes before landing. We switched pilots in Savanna-la-Mar.'
'His name is Charles Whitehall,' said Alex, speaking to Sam. 'He's part of the survey. I didn't know he was going