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.»
«Faith, Mr. McAuliff. Your generation overlooks it.» The financier smiled benignly.
«I don’t wish to be rude, but I don’t think you ever had it. Not that way. You’re a manipulator, not an ideologue. I repeat: out of character.»
«Very well.» Warfield unfolded his delicate hands, still retaining the Gandhi pose under the yellow light. «It leads to the protection of which I spoke and which, rightly, you question. You are one of us, Alexander Tarquin McAuliff. A very important and essential part of Dunstone’s plans. In recognition of your contributions, we have recommended to our directors that you be elevated—in confidence—to their status. Ergo, the payments made to you are the initial monies due one of our own. As you say, it would be out of character for such excessive payments to be made otherwise.»
«What the hell are you driving at?»
«In rather abrupt words, don’t ever try to deny us. You are a consenting participant in our work. Should you at any time, for whatever motive, decide you do not approve of Dunstone, don’t try to separate yourself. You’d never be believed.»
McAuliff stared at the now smiling old man. «Why would I do that?» he asked softly.
«Because we have reason to believe there are … elements most anxious to stop our progress. They may try to reach you; perhaps they have already. Your future is with us. No one else. Financially, perhaps ideologically … certainly legally.»
Alex looked away from Warfield. The Rolls had proceeded west into New Oxford, south on Charing Cross, and west again on Shaftesbury. They were approaching the outer lights of Piccadilly Circus, the gaudy colors diffused by the heavy mist.
«Who were you trying to call so frantically this evening?» The old man was not smiling now.
McAuliff turned from the window. «Not that it’s any of your damned business, but I was calling—not frantically—Mrs. Booth. We’re having lunch tomorrow. Any irritation was due to your hastily scheduled meeting and the fact that I didn’t want to disturb her after midnight. Who do you think?»
«You shouldn’t be so hostile—»
«I forgot,» interrupted Alex. «You’re only trying to protect me. From … elements.»
«I can be somewhat more precise.» Julian Warfield’s eyes bore into Alex’s, with an intensity he had not seen before. «There would be no point in your lying to me, so I expect the truth. What does the word ‘Halidon’ mean to you, Mr. McAuliff?»
6
The screaming, hysterical cacophony of the acid-rock music caused a sensation of actual pain in the ears. The eyes were attacked next, by tear-provoking layers of heavy smoke, thick and translucent—the nostrils reacting immediately to the pungent sweetness of tobacco laced with grass and hashish.
McAuliff made his way through the tangled network of soft flesh, separating thrusting arms and protruding shoulders gently but firmly, finally reaching the rear of the bar area.
The Owl of Saint George was at its undulating peak. The psychedelic lights exploded against the walls and ceiling in rhythmic Crescendos; bodies were concave and convex, none seemingly upright, all swaying, writhing violently.
Hammond was seated in a circular booth with five others: two men and three women. Alex paused, concealed by drinkers and dancers, and looked at Hammond’s gathering. It was funny; not sardonically funny, humorously funny. Hammond and his middle-aged counterpart across the table were dressed in the «straight» fashion, as were two of the three women, both of them past forty. The remaining couple was young, hip, and profuse with black leather and zippers. The picture was instantly recognizable: parents indulging the generation gap, uncomfortable but game.
McAuliff remembered the man’s words on High Holborn.
Stay at the bar, he’ll reach you. He maneuvered his way to within arm’s length of the mahogany and managed to shout his order to the black Soho bartender with hair so short he looked bald. McAuliff wondered when Hammond would make his move; he did not want to wait long. He had a great deal to say to the British agent.
«Pardon, but you are a chap named McAuliff, aren’t you?» The shouted question caused Alex to spill part of his drink. The shouter was the young man from Hammond’s table. Hammond was not wasting time.
«Yes. Why?»
«My girl’s parents recognized you. Asked me to invite you over.»