The Cry of the Halidon (45 page)

The cry reached a crescendo, a terrible screaming rush of air that swelled to a pitch of frenzy.
No human ears could stand it!
thought Alex as he trembled … as he had never before trembled in his life.

And then it was over and the silence returned.

McAuliff slowly sat up, lowering his hands, gripping the stone beneath him in an effort to control the violent spasms he felt shooting through his flesh. His eyes were blurred from the blood which had raced to his temples; they cleared slowly, in stages, and he looked out at the rows of Halidonites, at these chosen members of the Tribe of Acquaba.

They were—each one all—still staring, eyes fixed on the ancient, withered body behind the golden reeds.

Alex knew they had remained exactly as they were throughout the shattering madness that had nearly driven him out of his mind.

He turned to Daniel; involuntarily he gasped. The Minister of Council, too, was transfixed, his black eyes wide, his jaw set, his face immobile. But he was different from all the others; there were tears streaming down Daniel’s cheeks.

“You’re mad … all of you,” said Alex quietly. “You’re insane.”

Daniel did not respond. Daniel could not hear him. He was in a hypnotic state.

They all were. Everyone in that carved-out shell beneath the earth. Nearly a hundred men and women inextricably held by some force beyond his comprehension.

Autosuggestion. Self-somnipathy. Group hypnosis. Whatever the catalyst, each individual in that primitive amphitheater was mesmerized beyond reach. On another plane … time and space unfamiliar.

Alexander felt himself an intruder; he was observing a ritual too private for his eyes.

Yet he had not asked to be here. He had been forced in—ripped out of place—and made to bear witness.

Still, the witnessing filled him with sorrow. And he could not understand. So he looked over at the body that was once the giant, Acquaba.

He stared at the shriveled flesh of the once-black face. At the closed eyes, so peaceful in death. At the huge hands folded so strongly across the reddish black robe.

Then back at the face … the eyes … the eyes …

Oh my God! Oh, Christ!

The shadows were playing tricks … terrible, horrible tricks.

The body of Acquaba moved
.

The eyes opened; the fingers of the immense hands spread, the wrists turned, the arms raised … inches above the ancient cloth
.

In supplication
.

And then there was nothing.

Only a shriveled corpse behind a latticework of gold.

McAuliff pressed himself back against the wall of stone, trying desperately to find his sanity. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, gripping the rock beneath him. It could
not
have
happened
! It was some sort of mass hallucination by way of theatrical trickery accompanied by group expectation and that damned unearthly ear-shattering sound! Yet he had
seen
it! And it was horrifyingly effective. He did not know how long it was—a minute, an hour, a decade of terror—until he heard Daniel’s words.

“You
saw
it.” A statement made gently. “Do not be afraid. We shall never speak of it again. There is no harm. Only good.”

“I … I …” Alexander could not talk. The perspiration rolled down his face. And the carved-out council ground was cool.

Daniel stood up and walked to the center of the platform of rock. Instead of addressing the Tribe of Acquaba, he turned to McAuliff. His words were whispered, but,
as before, they were clear and precise, echoing off the walls.

“The lessons of Acquaba touch all men, as the lessons of all prophets touch all men. But few listen. Still, the work must go on. For those who can do it. It is really as simple as that. Acquaba was granted the gift of great riches … beyond the imaginations of those who will never listen; who will only steal and corrupt. So we go out into the world without the world’s knowledge. And we do what we can. It must ever be so, for if the world knew, the world would impose itself and the Halidon, the Tribe of Acquaba, and the lessons of Acquaba would be destroyed.… We are not fools, Dr. McAuliff. We know with whom we speak, with whom we share our secrets. And our love. But do not mistake us. We can kill; we will kill to protect the vaults of Acquaba. In that we are dangerous. In that we are absolute. We will destroy ourselves and the vaults if the world outside interferes with us.

“I, as Minister of Council, ask you to rise, Dr. McAuliff. And turn yourself away from the Tribe of Acquaba, from this Council of the Halidon, and face the wall. What you will hear, staring only at stone, are voices, revealing locations and figures. As I mentioned, we are not fools. We understand the specifics of the marketplace. But you will not see faces, you will never know the identities of those who speak. Only know that they go forth bearing the wealth of Acquaba.

“We dispense vast sums throughout the world, concentrating as best we can on the areas of widespread human suffering. Pockets of famine, displacement, futility. Untold thousands are helped daily by the Halidon. Daily. In practical ways.

“Please rise and face the wall, Dr. McAuliff.”

Alexander got up from the block of stone and turned. For a brief instant his eyes fell on the corpse of Acquaba. He looked away and stared at the towering sheet of rock.

Daniel continued. “Our contributions are made without thought of political gain or influence. They are made because we have the concealed wealth and the commitment to make them. The lessons of Acquaba.

“But the world is not ready to accept our ways, Acquaba’s ways. The global mendacity would destroy us, cause us to destroy ourselves, perhaps. And that we cannot permit.

“So understand this, Dr. McAuliff. Beyond the certainty of your own death, should you reveal what you know of the Tribe of Acquaba, there is another certainty of far greater significance than your life: the work of the Halidon will cease. That is our ultimate threat.”

One by one, the voices recited their terse statements:

“Afro axis. Ghana. Fourteen thousand bushels of grain. Conduit: Smythe Brothers, Capetown. Barclay’s Bank.”

“Sierra Leone. Three tons of medical supplies. Conduit: Baldazi Pharmaceuticals, Algiers. Bank of Constantine.”

“Indo-China axis. Vietnam, Mekong, Quan Tho provinces. Radiology and laboratory personnel and supplies. Conduit: Swiss Red Cross. Bank of America.”

“Southwest Hemisphere axis. Brazil. Rio de Janeiro. Typhoid serum. Conduit: Surgical Salizar. Banco Terceiro, Rio.”

“Northwest Hemisphere axis. West Virginia. Appalachia. Twenty-four tons food supplies. Conduit: Atlantic Warehousing. Chase Manhattan. New York.”

“India axis. Dacca. Refugee camps. Inoculation serums, medicals. Conduit: International Displacement Organization. World Bank. Burma.…”

The voices of men and women droned on, the phrases clipped, yet somehow gentle. It took nearly an hour, and McAuliff began to recognize that many spoke twice, but always with different information. Nothing was repeated.

Finally there was silence.

A long period of silence. And then Alexander felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned, and Daniel’s eyes bore in on him.

“Do you understand?”

“Yes, I understand,” McAuliff said.

They walked across the field toward the lake. The sounds of the forest mingled with the hum of the mountains and the crashing of the waterfall nearly a mile to the north.

They stood on the embankment, and Alex bent down, picked up a smile stone, and threw it into the black, shining lake that reflected the light of the moon. He looked at Daniel.

“In a way, you’re as dangerous as the rest of them. One man … with so much … operating beyond reach. No checks, no balances. It would be so simple for good to become evil, evil good. Malcolm said your … term isn’t guided by a calendar.”

“It is not. I am elected for life. Only I can terminate my office.”

“And pick your successor?”

“I have influence. The Council, of course, has the final disposition.”

“Then I think you’re more dangerous.”

“I do not deny it.”

T
he trip to Montego was far easier than the circuitous march from the Martha Brae. To begin with, most of the journey was by vehicle.

Malcolm, his robes replaced by Savile Row clothing, led Alexander around the lake to the southeast, where they were met by a runner who took them to the base of a mountain cliff, hidden by jungle. A steel lift, whose thick chains were concealed by mountain rocks, carried them up the enormous precipice to a second runner, who placed them in a small tram, which was transported by cable on a path below the skyline of the forest.

At the end of the cable ride, a third runner took them through a series of deep caves, identified by Malcolm as the Quick Step Grotto. He told Alex that the Quick Step was named for seventeenth-century buccaneers who raced from Bluefield’s Bay overland to bury treasure at the bottom of the deep pools within the caves. The other derivation—the one many believed to be more appropriate—was that if a traveler did not watch his feet, he could easily slip and plummet into a crevice. Injury was certain, death not impossible.

McAuliff stayed close to the runner, his flashlight beamed at the rocky darkness in front of him.

Out of the caves, they proceeded through a short stretch of jungle to the first definable road they had seen. The runner activated a portable radio; ten minutes later a Land Rover came out of the pitch-black hollows from the west and the runner bid them good-bye.

The rugged vehicle traveled over a crisscross pattern of
back country roads, the driver keeping his engine as quiet as possible, coasting on descending hills, shutting off his headlights whenever they approached a populated area. The drive lasted a half hour. They passed through the Maroon village of Accompong and swung south several miles to a flat stretch of grassland.

In the darkness, on the field’s edge, a small airplane was rolled out from under a camouflage of fern and acacia. It was a two-seater Comanche; they climbed in, and Malcolm took the controls.

“This is the only difficult leg of the trip,” he said as they taxied for takeoff. “We must fly close to the ground to avoid interior radar. Unfortunately, so do the ganja aircraft, the drug smugglers. But we will worry less about the authorities than we will about collision.”

Without incident, but not without sighting several ganja planes, they landed on the grounds of an outlying farm, southwest of Unity Hall. From there it was a fifteen-minute ride into Montego Bay.

“It would arouse suspicions for us to stay in the exclusively black section of the town. You, for your skin, me for my speech and my clothes. And tomorrow we must have mobility in the white areas.”

They drove to the Cornwall Beach Hotel and registered ten minutes apart. Reservations had been made for adjoining but not connecting rooms.

It was two o’clock in the morning, and McAuliff fell into bed exhausted. He had not slept in forty-eight hours. And yet, for a very long time, sleep did not come.

He thought about so many things. The brilliant, lonely, awkward James Ferguson and his sudden departure to the Craft Foundation. Defection, really. Without explanation. Alex hoped Craft was Jimbo-mon’s solution. For he would never be trusted again.

And of the sweetly charming Jensens … up to their so-respectable chins in the manipulations of Dunstone, Limited.

Of the “charismatic leader” Charles Whitehall, waiting to ride “nigger-Pompey’s horse” through Victoria Park.
Whitehall was no match for the Halidon. The Tribe of Acquaba would not tolerate him.

Nor did the lessons of Acquaba include the violence of Lawrence, the boy-man giant … successor to Barak Moore. Lawrence’s “revolution” would not come to pass. Not the way he conceived it.

Alex wondered about Sam Tucker. Tuck, the gnarled rocklike force of stability. Would Sam find what he was looking for in Jamaica? For surely he was looking.

But most of all McAuliff thought about Alison. Of her lovely half laugh and her clear blue eyes and the calm acceptance that was her understanding. How very much he loved her.

He wondered, as his consciousness drifted into the gray, blank void that was sleep, if they would have a life together.

After the madness.

If he was alive.

If they were alive.

He had left a wake-up call for 6:45. Quarter to twelve, London time. Noon. For the Halidon.

The coffee arrived in seven minutes. Eight minutes to twelve. The telephone rang three minutes later. Five minutes to noon, London time. It was Malcolm, and he was not in his hotel room. He was at the Associated Press Bureau, Montego Bay office, on St. James Street. He wanted to make sure that Alex was up and had his radio on. Perhaps his television set as well.

McAuliff had both instruments on.

Malcolm the Halidonite would call him later.

At three minutes to seven—twelve, London time—there was a rapid knocking on his hotel door. Alexander was startled. Malcolm had said nothing about visitors; no one knew he was in Montego Bay. He approached the door.

“Yes?”

The words from the other side of the wood were spoken hesitantly, in a deep, familiar voice.

“Is that you … McAuliff?”

And instantly Alexander understood. The symmetry, the timing was extraordinary; only extraordinary minds could conceive and execute such a symbolic coup.

He opened the door.

R. C. Hammond, British Intelligence, stood in the corridor, his slender frame rigid, his face an expression of suppressed shock.

“Good God. It is you. I didn’t believe him. Your signals from the river … There was nothing irregular, nothing at all!”

“That,” said Alex, “is about as disastrous a judgment as I’ve ever heard.”

“They dragged me out of my rooms in Kingston before daylight. Drove me up into the hills—”

“And flew you to Montego,” completed McAuliff, looking at his watch. “Come in, Hammond. We’ve got a minute and fifteen seconds to go.”

“For what?”

“We’ll both find out.”