'What's your field, boy?' Tucker leaned back in his chair and spoke to Whitehall.
'Jamaica... boy.'
'I meant no offence, son.'
'You are offensive' was Whitehall's simple reply.
'Charley and me,' continued Barak Moore, 'we are at the opposite poles of the politic. In your country, you have the term "white trash"; he considers me "black garbage." For roughly the same reasons: He thinks I'm too crude, too loud!, too unwashed. I am an uncouth revolutionary in Charley-mon's eyes... he is a graceful rebel, you see.' Moore swept his hand in front of him, balletically, insultingly. 'But our rebellions are different, very different, mon. I want Jamaica for all the people. He wants it for only a few.'
Whitehall stood motionless as he replied. 'You are as blind now as you were a decade ago. The only thing that has changed is your name, Bramwell Moore.' Whitehall sneered vocally as he continued. ''Barak ... as childish and meaningless as the social philosophy you espouse; the sound of a jungle toad.'
Moore swallowed before he answered. 'I'd as soon kill you, I think you know that. But it would be as counterproductive as the solutions you seek to impose on our homeland. We have a common enemy, you and I. Make the best of it, fascisti-mon.'
'The vocabulary of your mentors. Did you learn it by rote, or did they make you read?'
'Look,' McAuliff interrupted angrily. 'You can fight or call names, or kill each other for all I give a damn, but I want to get back to the hotel!' He turned to Barak Moore. 'Whatever you have to say, get it over with.'
'He has a point, Charley-mon,' said Moore. 'We come later... I will, as they say, summarize. It is a brief summary, mon... That there are development plans for a large area of the island - plans that exclude the people - is now established. Dr Piersall's death confirms it. That your geological survey is tied to those plans, we logically assume; therefore, the Ministry and the Royal Society are - knowingly or unknowingly - concealing the identity of the financial interest. Furthermore, Mr McAuliff here is not unaware of these facts, because he deals with British Intelligence through the despicable Westmore Tallon... That is the summary. Where do we go?' Moore stared at Alex, his eyes small black craters in a huge mountain of dark skin. 'We have a right to go somewhere, Mr McAuliff.'
'Before you shove him against the wall, boy,' interjected Sam Tucker, to Alex's surprise, 'remember, I'm no part of you. I don't say I won't be, but I'm not now.'
'I should think you'd be as interested as we are, Tucker.' The absence of the "Mister," McAuliff thought, was Moore's hostile response to Sam's use of the word "boy." Moore did not realize that Tucker used the term for everyone.
'Don't mistake me,' added Sam. 'I'm interested. Just don't go running off too fast at the mouth... I think you should say what you know, Alex.'
McAuliff looked at Tucker, then Moore, then over at Whitehall. Nothing in Holcroft's instructions included such a confrontation. Except the admonition to keep it simple; build on part of the truth.
'The people in British Intelligence - and everything they represent - want to stop this development as much as you do. But they need information. They think the Halidon has it. They want to make contact with the Halidon. I'm supposed to try and make that contact.'
Alex wasn't sure what to expect from his statement, but certainly not what happened. Barak Moore's blunt features, grotesque under the immense shaven head, slowly changed from immobility to amusement, from amusement to the pinched flesh of outright mirth; it was a humour based in cruelty, however. His large mouth opened, and a coughing, malevolent laugh emerged.
From the window there was another sound, another laugh: higher and jackal-like. Charles Whitehall's elegant neck was stretched back, his head tilted towards the ceiling, his arms folded across his tailored jacket. He looked like some thin, black Oriental priest finding amusement in a novice's ignorance.
The three Jamaicans in the row of chairs, their white teeth gleaming in the shadows, were smiling, their bodies shaking slightly in silent laughter.
'What's so goddamn funny?' asked McAuliff, annoyed by the undefined humiliation.
'Funny, mon? Many times more than funny. The mongoose chases the deadly snake, so the snake wants to make friends?' Moore laughed his hideous laugh once again. 'It is not in any law of nature, mon!'
'What Moore is telling you, Mr McAuliff,' broke in