The Cry of the Halidon (7 page)

“Why not? Say you feel like a night out. You’ve nothing scheduled in the morning. Americans like Soho; it’s perfectly natural. You’re not a heavy gambler, but you place a bet now and then.”

“Christ! Would you care to describe my sex life?”

“I could, but I won’t.” The guttural, loud North Country voice returned. “Thank you, sir. You’re very kind, sir. I’m sure I’ll find m’ friends.”

The man walked swiftly away into the night mist toward Hatton Garden. McAuliff felt his whole body shiver; his hands trembled. To still them, he reached into his pocket for cigarettes. He was grateful for the opportunity to grip the metal of his lighter.

It was five minutes to twelve. He would wait until several minutes past and then leave. His instructions were to “return to the Savoy”; another meeting would be set. Did that mean it was to be scheduled later that night? In the morning hours? Or did “return to the Savoy” simply mean that he was no longer required to remain at the corner of High Holborn and Chancery Lane? He was free for the evening?

The words were clear, but the alternative interpretation was entirely feasible. If he chose, he could—with a number of stops—make his way into Soho, to Hammond. The network of surveillance would establish the fact that Warfield had not appeared for the appointment. The option was open.

My God!
thought Alex.
What’s happening to me? Words and meanings … options and alternates. Interpretations of … orders!

Who the hell gave
him
orders!

He was
not
a man to be commanded!

But when his hand shook as he raised his cigarette to his lips, he knew that he was—for an indeterminate period of time. Time in a hell he could not stand; he was not free.

The dual hands on his wristwatch converged. It was midnight. To goddamn hell with all of them! He
would
leave! He would call Alison and tell her he wanted to come over for a drink … ask her if she would let him. Hammond could wait all night in Soho. Where was it? The Owl of Saint George. Silly fucking name!

To hell with him!

The Rolls-Royce sped out of the fog from the direction of Newgate, its deep-throated engine racing, a powerful intrusion in the otherwise still street. It swung alongside the curb in front of McAuliff and stopped abruptly. The chauffeur got out of his seat, raced around the long hood of the car, and opened the rear door for Alex.

It all happened so quickly that McAuliff threw away his cigarette and climbed in, bewildered; he had not adjusted to the swift change of plans. Julian Warfield sat in the far right corner of the huge rear seat, his tiny frame dwarfed by the vehicle’s expansive interior.

“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting until the last minute, Mr. McAuliff. I was detained.”

“Do you always do business with one eye on secrecy, the other on shock effect?” asked Alex, settling back in the seat, relieved to feel he could speak with confidence.

Warfield replied by laughing his hard, old-man’s laugh. “Compared to Ross Perot, I’m a used-car salesman.”

“You’re still damned unsettling.”

“Would you care for a drink? Preston has a bar built in right there.” Warfield pointed to the felt back of the front seat. “Just pull on that strap.”

“No, thank you. I may do a little drinking later, not now.”
Easy. Easy, McAuliff
, he thought to himself.
For Christ’s sake, don’t be obvious. Hammond can wait all night. Two minutes ago, you were going to let him do just that!

The old man took an envelope from his jacket pocket. “I’ll give you the good news straight off. There’s no one we
objected to strenuously, subject to minor questions. On the contrary, we think you finalized your selections rather ingeniously.…”

According to Warfield, the initial reaction at Dunstone to his list of first choices was negative. Not because of security—subject to those minor questions—nor quality. McAuliff had done his homework. But from a conceptual viewpoint. The idea of female members of a geological survey expedition was rejected out of hand, the central issue being that of less strength, not necessarily weakness. Any project entailing travel had, by tradition, a masculine identification; the intrusion of the female was a disquieting component. It could only lead to complications—any number of them.

“So we crossed off two of your first choices, realizing that by eliminating the Wells woman, you would also lose her husband, Jensen.… Three out of the first five rejected; knew you’d be unhappy, but then, you
did
understand.… Later, it came to me. By George, you’d outthought the lot of us!”

“I wasn’t concerned with any strategies, Warfield. I was putting together the best team I could.” McAuliff felt he had to interject the statement.

“Perhaps not consciously, and qualitatively you have a splendid group. But the inclusion of the two ladies, one a wife and both superior in their fields, was a profound improvement.”

“Why?”

“It provides—they provide—a unique ingredient of innocence. A patina of scholarship, actually; an aspect we had overlooked. A dedicated team of men and women—on a grant from the Royal Society—so different somehow from an all-male survey expedition. Really, most remarkable.”

“That wasn’t my intention. I hate to disabuse you.”

“No disabusement whatsoever. The result is the same. Needlessly said, I pointed out this consideration to the others, and they agreed instantly.”

“I have an idea that whatever you might ‘point out’ would be instantly agreed to. What are the minor questions?”

“ ‘Incidental information you might wish to consider’ is a better description.” The old man reached up and snapped on a reading lamp. He then removed several pages from his overcoat, unfolded them, and placed them in front of the envelope. He adjusted his glasses and scanned the top paper. “The husband and wife, this Jensen and Wells. They’re quite active in leftish political circles. Peace marches, ban-the-bombing, that sort of thing.”

“That doesn’t have any bearing on their work. I doubt they’ll be organizing the natives.” McAuliff spoke wearily, on purpose. If Warfield intended to raise such “questions,” he wanted the financier to know he thought them irrelevant.

“There is a great deal of political instability in Jamaica; unrest, to be precise. It would not be in our interests for any of your people to be outspoken on such matters.”

McAuliff shifted in his seat and looked at the little old man—tiny lips pursed, the papers held in his thin, bony fingers under the pin spot of yellow light, giving his ancient flesh a sallow color. “Should the occasion arise—and I can’t conceive of it—when the Jensens make political noises, I’ll quiet them. On the other hand, the inclusion of such people might be an asset to you. They’d hardly, knowingly, work for Dunstone.”

“Yes,” said Warfield quietly. “That, too, occurred to us. This chap Ferguson. He ran into trouble with the Craft Foundation.”

“He ran into a potentially vital discovery concerning baracoa fibers, that’s what he ran into. It scared the hell out of Craft and Craft’s funding resources.”

“
We
have no fight with Craft. We don’t want one. The fact that he’s with you could raise eyebrows. Craft’s well thought of in Jamaica.”

“There’s no one as good as Ferguson, certainly not the alternate, and he was the best of those remaining. I’ll keep Ferguson away from Craft.”

“That is essential. We cannot permit him otherwise.”

Charles Whitehall, the black scholar-dandy, was a psychological mess, according to Dunstone’s data banks. Politically he was a conservative, a black conservative who might
have led the Kingston reactionaries had he remained on the island. But his future was not in Jamaica, and he had recognized it early. He was bitter over the fact. Warfield hastened to add, however, that his negative information was balanced—and more—by Whitehall’s academic standing. His interest in the survey was ultimately a positive factor; his inclusion tended to remove any commercial stain from the project. To compound the complications of this very complex man, Whitehall was a Class Triple A Black Belt practitioner of jukato, a more intricate and deadly development of judo.

“Our contacts in Kingston are quite impressed with his being with you. I suspect they’ll offer him a chair at the West Indies University. I think he’ll probably accept, if they pay him enough. Now, we come to the last submission.” Warfield removed his glasses, placed them on his lap with the papers, and rubbed the bridge of his thin bony nose. “Mrs. Booth … Mrs. Alison Gerrard Booth.”

Alex felt the stirring of resentment. Warfield had already told him that Alison was acceptable; he did not want to hear intimate, private information dredged up by Dunstone’s faceless men or whirring machines.

“What about her?” asked McAuliff, his voice careful. “Her record speaks for itself.”

“Unquestionably. She’s extremely qualified … and extremely anxious to leave England.”

“She’s explained that. I buy it. She’s just been divorced, and the circumstances, I gather, are not too pleasant … socially.”

“Is that what she told you?”

“Yes. I believe her.”

Warfield replaced his glasses and flipped the page in front of him. “I’m afraid there’s a bit more to it than that, Mr. McAuliff. Did she tell you who her husband was? What he did for a living?”

“No. And I didn’t ask her.”

“Yes … well, I think you should know. David Booth is from a socially prominent family—viscount status, actually—that hasn’t had the cash flow of a pound sterling for a
generation. He is a partner in an export-import firm whose books indicate a barely passable subsistence. Yet Mr. Booth lives extremely well. Several homes—here and on the Continent—drives expensive cars, belongs to the better clubs. Contradictory, isn’t it?”

“I’d say so. How does he do it?”

“Narcotics,” said Julian Warfield, as if he had just given the time of day. “David Booth is a courier for Franco-American interests operating out of Corsica and Marseilles.”

For the next few moments both men were silent. McAuliff understood the implication, and finally spoke. “Mrs. Booth was on surveys in Corsica, Zaire, and Turkey. You’re suggesting that she’s involved.”

“Possibly; not likely. If so, unwittingly. After all, she did divorce the chap. What we are saying is that she undoubtedly learned of her husband’s involvement; she’s afraid to remain in England. We don’t think she plans to return.”

Again, there was silence, until McAuliff broke it.

“When you say ‘afraid,’ I presume you mean she’s been threatened.”

“Quite possibly. Whatever she knows could be damaging. Booth didn’t take the divorce action very well. Not from the point of view of affection—he’s quite a womanizer—but, we suspect, for reasons related to his travels.” Warfield refolded the pages and put them back into his overcoat pocket.

“Well,” said Alex, “that’s quite a … minor explosion. I’m not sure I’m ready for it.”

“I gave you this information on Mrs. Booth because we thought you’d find out for yourself. We wanted to prepare you, not to dissuade you.”

McAuliff turned sharply and looked at Warfield. “You want her along because she might … might possibly be valuable to you. And not for geological reasons.”
Easy, McAuliff. Easy!

“Anything is conceivable in these complicated times.”

“I don’t like it!”

“You haven’t thought about it. It is our opinion that she’s infinitely safer in Jamaica than in London. You are concerned,
aren’t you? You’ve seen her frequently during the past week.”

“I don’t like being followed, either.” It was all Alex could think to say.

“Whatever was done was minimal and for your protection,” replied Warfield quickly.

“Against what? For Christ’s sake, protection from whom?” McAuliff stared at the little old man, realizing how much he disliked him. He wondered if Warfield would be any more explicit than Hammond on the subject of protection. Or would he admit the existence of a prior Jamaican survey? “I think I have a right to be told,” he added angrily.

“You shall be. First, however, I should like to show you these papers. I trust everything will be to your satisfaction.” Warfield lifted the flap of the unsealed envelope and withdrew several thin pages stapled together on top of a single page of stationery. They were onionskin carbons of his lengthy letter of agreement signed in Belgrave Square over a week ago. He reached above, snapped on his own reading lamp, took the papers from Warfield, and flipped over the carbons to the thicker page of stationery. Only it wasn’t stationery; it was a Xerox copy of a letter deposit transfer from the Chase Manhattan Bank in New York. The figures were clear: On the left was the amount paid into his account by a Swiss concern; on the right, the maximum taxes on that amount, designated as income, to the Swiss authorities and the United States Internal Revenue Service.

The net figure was $1,270,000.

He looked over at Warfield. “My first payment was to have been twenty-five percent of the total contract upon principal work of the survey. We agreed that would be the team’s arrival in Kingston. Prior to that date, you’re responsible only for my expenses and, if we terminate, five hundred a day for my time. Why the change?”

“We’re very pleased with your preliminary labors. We wanted to indicate our good faith.”

“I don’t believe you—”

“Besides,” continued Warfield, raising his voice over Alex’s objections, “there’s been no contractual change.”

“I know what I signed.”

“Not too well, apparently. Go on, read the agreement. It states clearly that you will be paid a
minimum
of twenty-five percent;
no later
than the end of the business day we determined to be the start of the survey. It says nothing about an excess of twenty-five percent; no prohibitions as to an earlier date. We thought you’d be pleased.” The old man folded his small hands like some kind of Gandhi the Nonviolent in Savile Row clothes.

McAuliff reread the transfer letter from Chase Manhattan. “This bank transfer describes the money as payment for services rendered as of today’s date. That’s past tense, free and clear. You’d have a hard time recouping if I didn’t go to Jamaica. And considering your paranoia over secrecy, I doubt you’d try too hard. No, Mr. Warfield, this is out of character.”