“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.”
Warfeld 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 Warfeld, 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 — 2′ “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. “Th ‘ is 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 confidenceto 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 every 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—2’ “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?”
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.”
The following moments, McAuliff felt, were like a play within a play. A
brief, staged exercise with acutely familiar dialogue, acted out in
front of a bored audience of other, more energetic actors. But with a
surprise that made Alex consider Hammond’s skill in a very favorable
light.
He did know the middle-aged man across from Hammond. And his wife. Not
well, of course, but they were acquaintances. He’d met them two or
three times before, on previous London trips. They weren’t the sort of
memorable people one recognized on the street–or in The Owl of Saint
George-unless the circumstances were recalled.
Hammond was introduced by his correct name and McAuliff was seated next
to him.
“How the hell did you arrange this?” asked Alex after five excruciating
minutes remembering the unmemorable with the acquaintances. “Do they
know who you are?”
“Laugh occasionally,” answered Hammond with a calm, precise smile. “They
believe I’m somewhere in that great government pyramid, juggling figures
in poorly lit rooms…. The arrangements were necessary. Warfeld has
doubled his teams on you. We’re not happy about it; he may have spotted
us, but, of course, it’s unlikely.”
“He’s spotted something, I guarantee it.” Alex bared his teeth, but the
smile was false. “I’ve got a lot to talk to you about. Where can we
meet?”
“Here. Now,” was the Britisher’s reply. “Speak occasionally to the
others, but it’s perfectly acceptable that we strike up a conversation.
We might use it as a basis for lunch or drinks in a day or two.”
“No way. I leave for Kingston the day after tomorrow in the morning.”
Hammond paused, his glass halfway to his lips. “So soon? We didn’t
expect that.”
“It’s insignificant compared to something else….
Warfield knows about Halidon. That is, he asked me what I knew about