as it must... he wants it more his way than less.'
'What you're saying - getting away from circles and straight lines - is that you don't approve of Barak's "army" being weakened. Is that it?'
'Not now. Not at this moment.'
'Then you are interfering. You're an outsider taking an inside position. It's not your... turf, my darling.'
'But I brought Charley here. I gave him his respectability, his cover. Charley's a son of a bitch.'
'Is Barak Moore a saint?'
'Not for a second. He's a son of a bitch, too. And it's important that he is.' McAuliff returned to the window. The morning sun was striking the panes of glass, causing tiny modules of condensation. It was going to be a hot day.
'What are you going to do?' Alison sat forward, prepared to get up as she looked over at Alex.
'Do?' he asked quietly, his eyes concentrating on something outside the window. 'What I was sent here to do; what I'm being paid one million dollars to do. Complete the survey or find this Halidon. Whichever comes first. Then get us out of here... on our terms.'
'That sounds reasonable,' said Alison, rising from the bed. 'What is that sickening odour?'
'Oh? I forgot to tell you. They were going to spray down your room, get rid of the medicine smells.' McAuliff stepped closer to the window and shaded his eyes from the rays of the morning sun.
'The ether or disinfectant or whatever it was was far more palatable. My bathing suit's in there. May I get it?'
'What?' Alex was not listening, his attention on the object of his gaze outside.
'My bathing suit, darling. It's in my room.'
McAuliff turned from the window, oblivious to her words. 'Wait here. I'll be right back.' He walked rapidly to the terrace door, opened it, and ran out.
Alison looked after him, bewildered. She crossed to the window to see what Alex had seen. It took several seconds to understand; she was helped by watching McAuliff run across the sand towards the water.
In the distance, down at the beach, was the lone figure of a large black man staring out at the ocean. It was Lawrence.
Alex approached the tall Jamaican, wondering if he should call out. Instinctively, he did not. Instead, he cleared his throat when he was within ten yards; cleared it loud enough to be heard over the sound of the lapping small waves.
Lawrence turned around. Tears were in his eyes, but he did not blink or change the muscles of his face. He was a child-man accepting the agonies of a very personal torment.
'What happened?' asked McAuliff softly, walking up to the shirtless boy-giant.
'I should have listened to you, mon. Not to him. He was wrong, mon.'
'Tell me what happened,' repeated Alex.
'Barak is dead. I did what he ordered me to do and he is dead. I listened to him and he is dead, mon.'
'He knew the risk; he had to take it. I think he was probably right.'
'No... He was wrong because he is dead. That makes him wrong, mon.'
'Floyd's gone... Barak. Who is there now?'
Lawrence's eyes bore into McAuliffs; they were red from silent weeping, and beyond the pride and summoned strength, there was the anguish of a child. And the pleading of a boy. 'You and me, mon. There is no one else... You will help me, mon?'
Alex returned the rebel's stare; he did not speak.
Welcome to the seat of revolution, McAuliff thought to himself.Chapter Twenty
TWENTY
James Ferguson was exhilarated. It was the feeling he had when momentous things happened in the lens of a microscope and he knew he was the first observer - or, at least, the first witness who recognized a casual effect for what it was.
Like the baracoa fibre.
He was capable of great imagination when studying the shapes and densities of microscopic particles. A giant manipulating a hundred million infinitesimal subjects.
It was a form of total control.
He had control now. Over a man who did not know what it was like to have to protest too loudly over the inconsequential because no one paid attention; to be forever down to his last few quid in the bank because none paid him the value of his work.
All that was changing. He could think about a great many things that were preposterous fantasies only yesterday: his own laboratories with the most expensive equipment - electronic, computerized, databanked; throwing away the little budget pads that told him whom he had last borrowed from.
A Maserati. He would buy a Maserati. Arthur Craft had one, why