The overriding generalization was shared by everyone: the Cock Pit was an extraordinarily fruitful landmass with abundant reserves of rich soil, available water, and unbelievable deposits of gases and ores.
All this was accepted as fact before morning of the third day. McAuliff listened as Peter Jensen summed it up with frightening clarity.
«It’s inconceivable that no one’s gone in and developed. I daresay Brasilia couldn’t hold a candle! Three-quarters of the life force is right here, waiting to be used!»
The reference to the city carved out of the Brazilian jungles made Alex swallow and stare at the enthusiastic, middle-aged, pipe-smoking minerals expert.
We’re going to build a city… Julian Warfield’s words.
Unbelievable. And viable.
It did not take great imagination to understand Dunstone, Limited, now. The project was sound, taking only gigantic sums of capital to set it in motion; sums available to Dunstone. And once set in motion, the entire island could be tied to the incredible development. Armies of workers, communities, one source.
Ultimately, the government.
Kingston could not, would not turn it off. Once in motion—one source—the benefits would be overwhelming and undeniable. The enormity of the cash flow alone could subvert the parliament. Slices of the gigantic pie.
Economically and psychologically, Kingston would become dependent on Dunstone, Limited.
So complicated, yet so basically, ingeniously simple.
Once they have Kingston, they have the laws of the land in their vaults. To shape as they will. Dunstone will own a nation… R. C. Hammond’s words.
It was nearly midnight; the carriers were banking the fires under the scrutiny of the two runners, Marcus and Justice Hedrik. The black revolutionary, Lawrence, was playing his role as one of the crew, subservient and pleasant, but forever scanning the forests beyond, never allowing himself to be too far away from Alison Booth.
The Jensens and Ferguson had gone to their tents. McAuliff, Sam Tucker, and Alison sat around a small bivouac table, the light of the dying fires flickering across their faces as they talked quietly.
«Jensen’s right, Alexander,» said Tucker, lighting a thin cigar. «Those behind this know exactly what they’re doing. I’m no expert, but one strike, one hint of a mother lode, and you couldn’t stop the speculation money.»
«It’s a company named Dunstone.»
«What is?»
«Those behind … the company’s called Dunstone; the man’s name is Warfield. Julian Warfield. Alison knows.»
Sam held the cigar between his fingers and looked at McAuliff. «They hired you.» Tucker’s statement was spoken slowly, a touch gruffly.
«He did,» replied Alex. «Warfield did.»
«Then this Royal Society grant … the Ministry, and the Institute, are covers.»
«Yes.»
«And you knew it from the beginning.»
«So does British Intelligence. I wasn’t just acting as an informer, Sam. They trained me … as best they could over a couple of weeks.»
«Was there any particular reason why you kept it a secret, Alexander?» Tucker’s voice—especially as capped with McAuliff’s name—was not comforting. «I think you should have told me. Especially after that meeting in the hills. We’ve been together a long time, boy… No, I don’t think you acted properly.»
«He was generously proper, Sam,» said Alison, with a combination of precision and warmth. «For your benefit. I speak from experience. The less you’re aware of, the better your prospects. Take my word for it.»
«Why should I?» asked Tucker.
«Because I’ve been there. And because I was there, I’m here now.»
«She tied in against Chatellerault. That’s what I couldn’t tell you. She worked for Interpol. A data bank picked out her name; it was made to look so completely logical. She wanted to get out of England—»
«Had to get out, my darling… Do you see, Sam? The computer was Interpol’s; all the intelligence services are first cousins, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. M.I. Five ran a cross-reference, and here I am. Valuable bait, another complication … Don’t be anxious to learn too much. Alex was right.»
The ensuing silence was artificial. Tucker inhaled on his thin cigar, the unasked questions more pronounced by their absence. Alison whisked strands of hair, let down for the evening, off her forehead. McAuliff poured himself a small quantity of Scotch. Finally Sam Tucker spoke.
«It’s fortunate I trust you, Alexander.»
«I know that. I counted on it.»
«But why?» continued Sam quietly. «Why in hell did you do it? You’re not that hungry. Why did you work for them?»
«For whom? Or which? Dunstone or British Intelligence?»
Tucker paused, staring at Alex before he replied. «Jesus, I don’t know. Both, I guess, boy.»
«I accepted the first before the second showed up. It was a good contract, the best I’d ever been offered. Before I realized it, I was locked in. I was convinced I couldn’t get out … by both sides. At one point, it was as simple as staying alive. Then there were guarantees and promises … and more guarantees and more promises.» McAuliff stared across the clearing; it was strange. Lawrence was crouched over the embers of a fire, looking at them. «Before you know it, you’re in some kind of crazy cell block, hurtling around the confining space, bouncing off the walls … that’s not a very sane picture.»
«Move and countermove, Sam,» interrupted Alison. «They’re experts.»
«Who? Which?» Tucker leaned forward in his chair, holding Alison with his old eyes.
«Both,» answered the girl firmly. «I saw what Chatellerault did to my husband. I know what Interpol did to me.»
The silence returned once more, less strained than before. And once again, Sam Tucker broke it softly.
«You’ve got to define your enemies, Alexander. I get the feeling you haven’t done that … present company expected as allies, I sincerely hope.»
«I’ve defined them as best I can. I’m not sure those definitions will hold. It’s complicated, at least for me.»
«Then simplify, boy. When you’re finished, who wants you hanged the quickest?»
McAuliff looked at Alison. «Again, both. Dunstone literally; M.I. Five and Six figuratively. One dead, the other dependent—subject to recall. A name in a data bank. That’s very real.»
«I agree,» said Tucker, relighting his thin cigar. «Now, let’s reverse the process. Who can you hang the quickest? The surest?»
Alex laughed quietly, joined by Alison. The girl spoke. «My Lord, you do think alike.»
«That doesn’t answer the question. Who the quickest?»
«Dunstone, I imagine. At the moment, it’s more vulnerable. Warfield made a mistake; he thinks I’m really hungry. He thinks he bought me because he made me a part of them. They fall, I fall … I’d have to say Dunstone.»
«All right,» replied Sam, assuming the mantle of a soft-spoken attorney. «Enemy number one defined as Dunstone. You can extricate yourself by simple blackmaiclass="underline" third-person knowledge, documents tucked away in lawyers’ offices. Agreed?»
«Yes.»
«That leaves enemy number two: Her Majesty’s Intelligence boys. Let’s define them. What’s their hook into you?»
«Protection. It’s supposed to be protection.»
«Not noticeably successful, would you say, son?»
«Not noticeably successful,» said Alex in agreement. «But we’re not finished yet.»