The Cry of the Halidon (3 page)

“Faculty and laboratory pressures are no less aggravating than those outside. Why not get paid for them?”

“Yes. We agreed you like money.”

“Don’t you?”

Warfield laughed, and his laugh was genuine and loud. His thin, short body fairly shook with pleasure as he brought Alex a refill. “Excellent reply. Really quite fine.”

“It wasn’t that good.”

“But you’re interrupting me,” said Warfield as he returned to his chair. “It’s my intention to impress you.”

“Not about myself, I hope.”

“No. Our thoroughness … You are from a close-knit family, secure academic surroundings—”

“Is this necessary?” asked McAuliff, fingering his glass, interrupting the old man.

“Yes, it is,” replied Warfield simply, continuing as though his line of thought was unbroken. “Your father was—and is, in retirement—a highly regarded agro-scientist; your mother, unfortunately deceased, a delightfully romantic soul adored by all. It was she who gave you the ‘Tarquin,’ and until she died you never denied the initial or the name. You had an older brother, a pilot, shot down in the last days of the Korean War; you yourself made a splendid record in Vietnam. Upon receipt of your doctorate, it was assumed that you would continue the family’s academic tradition. Until personal tragedy propelled you out of the laboratory. A young woman—your fiancée—was killed on the streets of New York. At night. You blamed yourself … and others. You were to have met her. Instead, a hastily called, quite unnecessary research meeting prohibited it … Alexander Tarquin McAuliff fled the university. Am I drawing an accurate picture?”

“You’re invading my privacy. You’re repeating information that may be personal but hardly classified. Easy to piece together. You’re also extremely obnoxious. I don’t think I have to have lunch with you.”

“A few more minutes. Then it is your decision.”

“It’s my decision right now.”

“Of course. Just a bit more.… Dr. McAuliff embarked on a new career with extraordinary precision. He hired out to several established geological-survey firms, where his work was outstanding; then left the companies and underbid them on upcoming contracts. Industrial construction knows no national boundaries: Fiat builds in Moscow; Moscow in Cairo; General Motors in Berlin; British Petroleum in Buenos Aires; Volkswagen in New Jersey, U.S.A.; Renault in Madrid—I could go on for hours. And everything begins with a single file folder profuse with complicated technical
paragraphs describing what is and is not possible in terms of construction upon the land. Such a simple, taken-for granted exercise. But without that file, nothing else is possible.”

“Your few minutes are about up, Warfield. And, speaking for the community of surveyors, we thank you for acknowledging our necessity. As you say, we’re so often taken for granted.” McAuliff put his glass down on the table next to his armchair and started to get up.

Warfield spoke quietly, precisely. “You have twenty-three bank accounts, including four in Switzerland; I can supply the code numbers if you like. Others in Prague, Tel Aviv, Montreal, Brisbane, São Paulo, Kingston, Los Angeles, and, of course, New York, among others.”

Alexander remained immobile at the edge of his chair and stared at the little old man. “You’ve been busy.”

“Thorough. Nothing patently illegal; none of the accounts is enormous. Altogether they total two million four hundred-odd U.S. dollars, as of several days ago when you flew from New York. Unfortunately, the figure is meaningless. Due to international agreements regarding financial transfers, the money cannot be centralized.”

“Now I know I don’t want to have lunch with you.”

“Perhaps not. But how would you like another two million dollars? Free and clear, all American taxes paid. Deposited in the bank of your choice.”

McAuliff continued to stare at Warfield. It was several moments before he spoke.

“You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“Utterly.”

“For a
survey
?”

“Yes.”

“There are five good houses right here in London. For that kind of money, why call on me? Why not use them?”

“We don’t want a firm. We want an individual. A man we have investigated thoroughly; a man we believe will honor the most important aspect of the contract. Secrecy.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“Not at all. A financial necessity. If word got out, the
speculators would move in. Land prices would skyrocket, the project would become untenable. It would be abandoned.”

“What is it? Before I give you my answer, I have to know that.”

“We’re planning to build a city. In Jamaica.”

M
cAuliff politely rejected Warfield’s offer to have Preston’s car brought back to Belgravia for him. Alex wanted to walk, to think in the cold winter air. It helped him to sort out his thoughts while in motion; the brisk, chilling winds somehow forced his concentration inward.

Not that there was so much to think about as to absorb. In a sense, the hunt was over. The end of the intricate maze was in sight, after eleven years of complicated wandering. Not for the money per se. But for money as the conveyor belt to independence.

Complete. Total. Never having to do what he did not wish to do.

Ann’s death—murder—had been the springboard. Certainly the rationalization, he understood that. But the rationalization had solid roots, beyond the emotional explosion. The research meeting—accurately described by Warfield as “quite unnecessary”—was symptomatic of the academic system.

All laboratory activities were geared to justifying whatever grants were in the offing. God! How much useless activity! How many pointless meetings! How often useful work went unfinished because a research grant did not materialize or a department administrator shifted priorities to achieve more obvious
progress
for
progress
-oriented foundations.

He could not fight the academic system; he was too angry to join its politics. So he left it.

He could not stand the companies, either. Jesus! A
different set of priorities, leading to only one objective: profit. Only profit. Projects that didn’t produce the most favorable “profit picture” were abandoned without a backward glance.

Stick to business. Don’t waste time
.

So he left the companies and went out on his own. Where a man could decide for himself the price of immediate values. And whether they were worth it.

All things considered, everything … everything Warfield proposed was not only correct and acceptable, it was glorious. An unencumbered, legitimate two million dollars for a survey Alex knew he could handle.

He knew vaguely the area in Jamaica to be surveyed: east and south of Falmouth, on the coast as far as Duncan’s Bay; in the interior into the Cock Pit. It was actually the Cock Pit territory that Dunstone seemed most interested in: vast sections of uninhabited—in some cases, unmapped—mountains and jungles. Undeveloped miles, ten minutes by air to the sophistication of Montego Bay, fifteen to the expanding, exploding New Kingston.

Dunstone would deliver him the specific degree marks within the next three weeks, during which time he was to assemble his team.

He was back on the Strand now, the Savoy Court several blocks away. He hadn’t resolved anything, really; there was nothing to resolve, except perhaps the decision to start looking for people at the university. He was sure there would be no lack of interested applicants; he only hoped he could find the level of qualification he needed.

Everything was fine. Really fine.

He walked down the alley into the court, smiled at the doorman, and passed the thick glass doors of the Savoy. He crossed the reservations desk on the right and asked for any messages.

There were none.

But there was something else. The tuxedoed clerk behind the counter asked him a question.

“Will you be going upstairs, Mr. McAuliff?”

“Yes … yes, I’ll be going upstairs,” answered Alex, bewildered at the inquiry. “Why?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Why do you ask?” McAuliff smiled.

“Floor service, sir,” replied the man, with intelligence in his eyes, assurance in his soft British voice. “In the event of any cleaning or pressing. These are frightfully busy hours.”

“Of course. Thank you.” Alex smiled again, nodded his appreciation, and started for the small brass-grilled elevator. He had tried to pry something else from the Savoy man’s eyes, but he could not. Yet he knew something else was there. In the six years he had been staying at the hotel, no one had ever asked him if he was “going upstairs.” Considering English—Savoy—propriety, it was an unlikely question.

Or were his cautions, his Dunstone cautions, asserting themselves too quickly, too strongly?

Inside his room, McAuliff stripped to shorts, put on a bathrobe, and ordered ice from the floor steward. He still had most of a bottle of Scotch on the bureau. He sat in an armchair and opened a newspaper, considerately left by room service.

With the swiftness for which the Savoy stewards were known, there was a knock on his corridor door. McAuliff got out of the chair and then stopped.

The Savoy stewards did not knock on hallway doors—they let themselves into the foyers. Room privacy was obtained by locking the bedroom doors, which opened onto the foyers.

Alex walked rapidly to the door and opened it. There was no steward. Instead, there was a tall, pleasant-looking middle-aged man in a tweed overcoat.

“Mr. McAuliff?”

“Yes?”

“My name is Hammond. May I speak with you, sir?”

“Oh? Sure … certainly.” Alex looked down the hallway
as he gestured the man to pass him. “I rang for ice; I thought you were the steward.”

“Then may I step into your … excuse me, your lavatory, sir? I’d rather not be seen.”

“What? Are you from Warfield?”

“No, Mr. McAuliff. British Intelligence.”

“T
hat was a sorry introduction, Mr. McAuliff. Do you mind if I begin again?” Hammond walked into the bed-sitting room. Alex dropped ice cubes into a glass.

“No need to. I’ve never had anyone knock on my hotel door, say he’s with British Intelligence, and ask to use the bathroom. Has kind of a quaint ring to it.… Drink?”

“Thank you. Short, if you please; a touch of soda will be fine.”

McAuliff poured as requested and handed Hammond his glass. “Take off your coat. Sit down.”

“You’re most hospitable. Thank you.” The Britisher removed his tweed overcoat and placed it carefully on the back of a chair.

“I’m most curious, that’s what I am, Mr. Hammond.” McAuliff sat by the window, the Englishman across from him. “The clerk at the desk; he asked if I was going upstairs. That was for you, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, it was. He knows nothing, however. He thinks the managers wished to see you unobtrusively. It’s often done that way. Over financial matters, usually.”

“Thanks very much.”

“We’ll set it right, if it disturbs you.”

“It doesn’t.”

“I was in the cellars. When word reached me, I came up the service elevator.”

“Rather elaborate—”

“Rather necessary,” interrupted the Englishman. “For the
past few days, you’ve been under continuous surveillance. I don’t mean to alarm you.”

McAuliff paused, his glass halfway to his lips. “You just have. I gather the surveillance wasn’t yours.”

“Well, you could say we observed—from a distance—both the followers and their subject.” Hammond sipped his whiskey and smiled.

“I’m not sure I like this game,” said McAuliff quietly.

“Neither do we. May I introduce myself more completely?”

“Please do.”

Hammond removed a black leather identification case from his jacket pocket, rose from the chair, and crossed to McAuliff. He held out the flat case and flipped it open. “There is a telephone number below the seal. I’d appreciate it if you would place a call for verification, Mr. McAuliff.”

“It’s not necessary, Mr. Hammond. You haven’t asked me for anything.”

“I may.”

“If you do, I’ll call.”

“Yes, I see.… Very well.” Hammond returned to his chair. “As my credentials state, I’m with Military Intelligence. What they do not say is that I have been assigned to the Foreign Office and Inland Revenue. I’m a financial analyst.”

“In the Intelligence service?” Alex got out of his chair and went to the ice bucket and the whiskey. He gestured at them. Hammond shook his head. “That’s unusual, isn’t it? I can understand a bank or a brokerage office, not the cloak-and-dagger business.”

“The vast majority of intelligence gathering is allied with finance, Mr. McAuliff. In greater or lesser degrees of subtlety, of course.”

“I stand corrected.” Alex replenished his drink and realized that the ensuing silence was Hammond’s waiting for him to return to his chair. “When I think about it, I see what you mean,” he said, sitting down.

“A few minutes ago, you asked if I were with Dunstone, Limited.”

“I don’t think I said that.”

“Very well. Julian Warfield—same thing.”

“It was a mistake on my part. I’m afraid I don’t remember asking you anything.”

“Yes, of course. That’s an essential part of your agreement. There can be no reference whatsoever to Mr. Warfield or Dunstone or
anyone
or
-thing
related. We understand. Quite frankly, at this juncture we approve wholeheartedly. Among other reasons, should you violate the demands of secrecy, we think you’d be killed instantly.”

McAuliff lowered his glass and stared at the Englishman, who spoke so calmly, precisely. “That’s preposterous,” he said simply.

“That’s Dunstone, Limited,” replied Hammond softly.

“Then I think you’d better explain.”

“I shall do my best. To begin with, the geophysical survey that you’ve contracted for is the second such team to be sent out—”

“I wasn’t told that,” interrupted Alex.

“With good reason. They’re dead. I should say, ‘disappeared and dead.’ No one’s been able to trace the Jamaican members; the whites are dead, of that we are sure.”

“How so? I mean, how can you be sure?”

“The best of all reasons, Mr. McAuliff. One of the men was a British agent.”