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.»