not, without telling him. It was almost three years; he was about out of his mind. They were going to leave England. Go to Buenos Aires.'
'He could always say no. They couldn't force him.'
'Don't be naive, darling. Every name you learn is another hook, each new method of operation you report is an additional notch in your expertise.' Alison laughed sadly. 'You've travelled to the land of the informer. You've got a stigmata all your own.'
'I'll tell you again: Chatellerault can't touch you.'
She paused before acknowledging his words, his anxiety. 'This may sound strange to you, Alex. I mean, I'm not a brave person - no brimfuls of courage for me - but I have no great fear of him. The appalling thing... the fear is them. They wouldn't let me go. No matter the promises, the agreements, the guarantees. They couldn't resist. A file somewhere, or a computer, was activated and came up with his name; automatically mine appeared in a data bank. That was it: factor X plus factor Y, subtotal - your life is not your own. It never stops. You live with the fear all over again.'
Alex took her by the shoulders. 'There's no law, Alison. We can pack; we can leave.'
'My darling, my darling... You can't. Don't you see? Not that way. It's what's behind you: the agreements, the countless files filled with words, your words... you can't deny them. You cross borders, you need papers; you work, you need references. You drive a car or take a plane or put money in a bank... They have all the weapons. You can't hide. Not from them.'
McAuliff let go of her and stood up. He picked up the smooth, shiny cylinder of gas from the bedside table and looked at the printing and the inked date of issue. He walked aimlessly to the balcony doors and instinctively breathed deeply; there was the faint, very faint, aroma of vanilla with the slightest trace of a spice.
Bay rum and vanilla.
Jamaica.
'You're wrong, Alison. We don't have to hide. For a lot of reasons, we have to finish what we've started; you're right about that. But you're wrong about the conclusion. It does stop. It will stop.' He turned back to her. 'Take my word for it.'
'I'd like to. I really would. I don't see how.'
'An old infantry game. Do unto others before they can do unto you. The Holcrofts and the Interpols of this world use us because we're afraid. We know what they can do to what we think are our well-ordered lives. That's legitimate; they're bastards. And they'll admit it... But have you ever thought about the magnitude of disaster we can cause them! That's also legitimate, because we can be bastards, too. We'll play this out - with armed guards on all our flanks. And when we're finished, we'll be finished. With them.
Charles Whitehall sat in the chair, the tiny glass of Pernod on the table beside him. It was six o'clock in the morning; he had not been to bed. There was no point in trying to sleep; sleep would not come.
Two days on the island and the sores of a decade ago were disturbed. He had not expected it; he had expected to control everything. Not be controlled.
His enemy now was not the enemy - enemies - he had waited ten years to fight: the rulers in Kingston; worse, perhaps, the radicals like Barak Moore. It was a new enemy, every bit as despicable, and infinitely more powerful, because it had the means to control his beloved Jamaica.
Control by corruption; ultimately own... by possession.
He had lied to Alexander McAuliff. In Savanna-la-Mar, Chatellerault openly admitted that he was part of the Trelawny Parish conspiracy. British Intelligence was right. The marquis's wealth was intrinsic to the development of the raw acreage on the north coast and in the Cock Pit, and he intended to see that his investment was protected. Charles Whitehall was his first line of protection, and if Charles Whitehall failed, he would be destroyed. It was as simple as that. Chatellerault was not the least obscure about it. He had sat opposite him and smiled his thin Gallic smile and recited the facts... and names... of the covert network Whitehall had developed on the island over the past decade.
He had capped his narrative with the most damaging information of all: the timetable and the methods Charles and his political party expected to follow on their road to power in Kingston.