military dictatorship with one, non-military leader to whom all were subservient - the Praetorian of Jamaica was the title, Charles Whitehall the man.
If Kingston knew these things... well, Kingston would react.
But Chatellerault made it clear that their individual objectives were not necessarily in conflict. There were areas - philosophical, political, financial - in which their interests might easily be merged. But first came the activity on the north coast. That was immediate; it was the springboard to everything else.
The marquis did not name his partners - Whitehall got the distinct impression that Chatellerault was not entirely sure who they all were - but it was manifestly clear that he did not trust them. On one level he seemed to question motives, on another it was a matter of abilities. He spoke briefly about previous interference and/or bungling, but did not dwell on the facts.
The facts obviously concerned the first survey.
What had happened?
Was the Halidon responsible?
Was the Halidon capable of interference?
Did the Halidon really exist?
The Halidon.
He would have to analyse the anthropologist Piersall's papers; separate a foreigner's exotic fantasies from island reality. There was a time, ten years ago, when the Ras Tafarians were symbols of African terror, before they were revealed to be children stoned on grass with mud-caked hair and a collective desire to avoid work. And there were the Pocomanians, with their bearded high priests inserting the sexual orgy into the abstract generosities of the Christian ethic: a socio-religious excuse for promiscuity. Or the Anansi sects - inheritors of the long-forgotten Ashanti belief in the cunning of the spider, on which all progress in life was patterned.
There were so many. So often metaphysically paranoid; so fragmented, so obscure.
Was the Halidon - Hollydawn - any different?
At this juncture, for Charles Whitehall it didn't really matter. What mattered was his own survival and the survival of his plans. His aims would be accomplished by keeping Chatellerault at bay and infiltrating the structure of Chatellerault's financial hierarchy.
And working with his first enemy, Barak Moore.
Working with both enemies.
Jamaica's enemies.
James Ferguson fumbled for the light switch on the bedside lamp. His thrusts caused an ashtray and a glass to collide, sending both crashing to the floor. Light was coming through the drawn curtains; he was conscious of it in spite of the terrible pain in his eyes and through his head, from temple to temple. Pain that caused flashes of darkness to envelope his inner eye. He looked at his watch as he shaded his face from the dim spill of the lamp. It was 6.15.
Oh, Christ! His head hurt so, tears welled in the far corners of his eyes. Shafts of pain - sharp, immobilizing - shot down into his neck and seemed to constrict his shoulders, even his arms. His stomach was in a state of tense, muscular suspension; if he thought about it, he knew he would be sick and vomit.
There was no pretence regarding the amount of alcohol he had consumed last night. McAuliff could not accuse him of play-acting now. He had gotten drunk. Very drunk. And with damn good reason.
He had been elated.
Arthur Craft had telephoned him in panic. In panic
Craft the Younger had been caught. McAuliff had found the room where the taping was being done and beaten someone up, physically beaten him up! Craft had yelled over the telephone, demanding where McAuliff had got his name.
Not from him! Certainly not from Jimbo-mon. He had said nothing.
Craft had roared, swearing at the goddamned nigger on the tape machine, convinced the black fucker had confessed to McAuliff, adding that the goddamned nigger would never get near a courtroom.
'If it came to that.'
If it came to that.
'You never saw me,' Craft the Younger had screamed. 'We never talked! We didn't meet! You get that absolutely clear, you shaky son of a bitch!'
'Of course... of course, Mr Craft,' he had replied. 'But then, sir... we did talk, didn't we? This doesn't have to change anything.'
He had been petrified, but he had said the words. Quietly, with no great emphasis. But his message had been clear.
Arthur Craft, Junior, was in an awkward position. Craft the Younger should not be yelling; he should be polite. Perhaps even solicitous.
After all, they had talked...
Craft understood. The understanding was first indicated by his silence, then confirmed by his next statement.
'We'll be in touch.'
It had been so simple. And if Craft the Younger wanted it different, wanted things as they were not, well, Craft controlled an enormously wealthy foundation. Certainly he could find something for