cigarettes, shaking one up for her. He lighted it, then spoke softly, very gently. “Why are you lying to me, Alison?”
“I’m not. I think it’s presumptuous of you to think so.”
“Oh, come on.” He smiled, reducing the earnestness of his inquiry. “The police, especially the London police, do not issue compressors of gas because of ‘incidents.’ And you don’t look like a colonel in the Women’s Auxiliary Army.” As he said the words, Alex suddenly had the feeling that perhaps he was wrong. Was Alison Booth an emissary from Hammond? Not Warfield, but British Intelligence?
“Exceptions are made. They really are, Alex.” She locked her eyes with his; she was not lying.
“May I venture a suggestion? A reason?”
“If you like.”
“David Booth?”
She looked away, inhaling deeply on her cigarette. “You know about him. That’s why you kept asking questions the other night.”
“Yes. Did you think I wouldn’t find out?”
“I didn’t care … no, that’s not right; I think I wanted you to find out if it helped me get the job. But I couldn’t tell you.”
“Why not?”
“Oh, Lord, Alex! Your own words; you wanted the best professionals, not personal problems! For all I knew, you’d have scratched me instantly.” Her smile was gone now. There was only anxiety.
“This Booth must be quite a fellow.”
“He’s a very sick, very vicious man. But I can handle David. I was always able to handle him. He’s an extraordinary coward.”
“Most vicious people are.”
“I’m not sure I subscribe to that. But it wasn’t David. It was someone else. The man he worked for.”
“Who?”
“A Frenchman. A marquis. Chatellerault is his name.”
The team took separate taxis into Kingston. Alison remained behind with McAuliff while he commandeered the equipment with the help of the Jamaican government people attached to the Ministry of Education. Alex could feel the same vague resentment from the Jamaicans that he had felt with the academicians in London; only added now was the aspect of pigmentation. Were there no black geologists? they seemed to be thinking.
The point was emphasized by the Customs men, their khaki uniforms creased into steel. They insisted on examining each box, each carton, as though each contained the most dangerous contraband imaginable. They decided to be officially thorough as McAuliff stood helplessly by longafter the aircraft had taxied into a Palisados berth. Alison remained ten yards away, sitting on a luggage dolly.
An hour and a half later, the equipment had been processed and marked for in-island transport to Boscobel Airfield, in Ocho Rios. McAuliff’s temper was stretched to the point of gritted teeth and a great deal of swallowing. He grabbed Alison’s arm and marched them both toward the terminal.
“For heaven’s sake, Alex, you’re bruising my elbow!” said Alison under her breath, trying to hold back her laughter.
“Sorry … I’m
sorry
. Those goddamned messiahs think they inherited the earth! The
bastards
!”
“This
is
their island—”
“I’m in no mood for anticolonial lectures,” he interrupted. “I’m in the mood for a drink. Let’s stop at the lounge.”
“What about our bags?”
“Oh. Christ! I forgot. It’s this way, if I remember,” said Alex, pointing to a gate entrance on the right.
“Yes,” replied Alison. “ ‘Incoming Flights’ usually means that.”
“Be quiet. My first order to you as a subordinate is not to say another word until we get our bags and I have a drink in my hand.”
But McAuliff’s command, by necessity, was rescinded. Their luggage was nowhere in sight. And apparently no one knew where it might be; all passenger baggage stored on Flight 640 from London had been picked up. An hour ago.
“
We
were on that flight. We did not pick up our bags. So, you see, you’re mistaken,” Alex said curtly to the luggage manager.
“Then you look-see, mon,” answered the Jamaican, irritated by
“I’m not. I think it’s presumptuous of you to think so.”
“Oh, come on.” He smiled, reducing the earnestness of his inquiry. “The police, especially the London police, do not issue compressors of gas because of ‘incidents.’ And you don’t look like a colonel in the Women’s Auxiliary Army.” As he said the words, Alex suddenly had the feeling that perhaps he was wrong. Was Alison Booth an emissary from Hammond? Not Warfield, but British Intelligence?
“Exceptions are made. They really are, Alex.” She locked her eyes with his; she was not lying.
“May I venture a suggestion? A reason?”
“If you like.”
“David Booth?”
She looked away, inhaling deeply on her cigarette. “You know about him. That’s why you kept asking questions the other night.”
“Yes. Did you think I wouldn’t find out?”
“I didn’t care … no, that’s not right; I think I wanted you to find out if it helped me get the job. But I couldn’t tell you.”
“Why not?”
“Oh, Lord, Alex! Your own words; you wanted the best professionals, not personal problems! For all I knew, you’d have scratched me instantly.” Her smile was gone now. There was only anxiety.
“This Booth must be quite a fellow.”
“He’s a very sick, very vicious man. But I can handle David. I was always able to handle him. He’s an extraordinary coward.”
“Most vicious people are.”
“I’m not sure I subscribe to that. But it wasn’t David. It was someone else. The man he worked for.”
“Who?”
“A Frenchman. A marquis. Chatellerault is his name.”
The team took separate taxis into Kingston. Alison remained behind with McAuliff while he commandeered the equipment with the help of the Jamaican government people attached to the Ministry of Education. Alex could feel the same vague resentment from the Jamaicans that he had felt with the academicians in London; only added now was the aspect of pigmentation. Were there no black geologists? they seemed to be thinking.
The point was emphasized by the Customs men, their khaki uniforms creased into steel. They insisted on examining each box, each carton, as though each contained the most dangerous contraband imaginable. They decided to be officially thorough as McAuliff stood helplessly by longafter the aircraft had taxied into a Palisados berth. Alison remained ten yards away, sitting on a luggage dolly.
An hour and a half later, the equipment had been processed and marked for in-island transport to Boscobel Airfield, in Ocho Rios. McAuliff’s temper was stretched to the point of gritted teeth and a great deal of swallowing. He grabbed Alison’s arm and marched them both toward the terminal.
“For heaven’s sake, Alex, you’re bruising my elbow!” said Alison under her breath, trying to hold back her laughter.
“Sorry … I’m
sorry
. Those goddamned messiahs think they inherited the earth! The
bastards
!”
“This
is
their island—”
“I’m in no mood for anticolonial lectures,” he interrupted. “I’m in the mood for a drink. Let’s stop at the lounge.”
“What about our bags?”
“Oh. Christ! I forgot. It’s this way, if I remember,” said Alex, pointing to a gate entrance on the right.
“Yes,” replied Alison. “ ‘Incoming Flights’ usually means that.”
“Be quiet. My first order to you as a subordinate is not to say another word until we get our bags and I have a drink in my hand.”
But McAuliff’s command, by necessity, was rescinded. Their luggage was nowhere in sight. And apparently no one knew where it might be; all passenger baggage stored on Flight 640 from London had been picked up. An hour ago.
“
We
were on that flight. We did not pick up our bags. So, you see, you’re mistaken,” Alex said curtly to the luggage manager.
“Then you look-see, mon,” answered the Jamaican, irritated by
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