was ever offered.”
“May I ask the amount? Just academic interest.” McAuliff looked at
Hammond. “What would you say to two million dollars?”
“I’d say I’m surprised he didn’t offer three. Or four. Why not? You
wouldn’t live to spend it.”
Alex held the Englishman’s eyes. “Translated, that means if Dunstone’s
enemies don’t kill me, Dunstone will?”
“It’s what we believe. There’s no other logical conclusion. Once your
work is finished.”
“I see . . .” McAuliff walked slowly to the whiskey and poured
deliberately, as if measuring. He did not offer anything to Hammond.
“If I confront Warfield’with what you’ve told me, you’re really saying
that he’d….
“Kill you? Are those the words that stick, Mr. McAulifV”
“I don’t have much cause to employ those kind of words, Mr. Hammond.”
“Naturally. No one ever gets used to them…. Yes, we think he would
kill you. Have you killed, of course. After picking your brains.”
McAuliff leaned against the wall, staring at the whiskey in his glass,
but not drinking. “You’re not giving me an alternative, are you?”
“Of course we are. I can leave these rooms; we never met.”
“Suppose someone sees you? That surveillance you spoke of.”
“They won’t see me; you will have to take my word for that.” Hammond
leaned back in the chair. He brought his fingers together pensively.
“Of course, under the circumstances, we’d be in no position to offer
protection. From either faction-”
“Protection from the unprovable,” interjected Alex softly.
“Yes.”
“No alternative . . .” McAuliff pushed himself away from the wall and
took several swallows of whiskey. “Except one, Hammond. Suppose I
cooperate, on the basis that there may be substance to your charges …
or theories, or whatever you call them. But I’m not accountable to
you.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“I don’t accept orders blindly. No puppet strings. I want that
condition-on the record. If that’s the phrase.”
“It must be. I’ve used it frequently.”
McAuliff crossed in front of the Englishman to the arm of his chair.
“Now put it in simple word . What am I supposed to do?”
Hammond’s voice was calm and precise. “There are two objectives. The
first, and most vital, is Dunstone’s opposition. Those knowledgeable
enough and fanatical enough to have killed the first survey team. If
uncovered, it is conceivable that they will lead you to the second and
equally important objective: the names of Dunstone’s unknown hierarchy.
The faceless men in London, Paris, Berlin, Washington …
even one or two. We’d be grateful for anything specific.”
“How do I begin?”
“With very little, I’m afraid. But we do have something.
It’s only a word, a name, perhaps. We don’t know. But we have every
reason to think it’s terribly important.”
“A word?”
“Yes. ‘Halidon.”
It was like working in two distinct spheres of reality, neither
completely real. During the days, McAuliff conferred with the men and
women in the University of London’s geophysics laboratories, gathering
personnel data for his survey team. The university was Dunstone’s
cover-along with the Royal Historical Society-and neither was aware that
Dunstone’s finances were behind the expedition.
During the nights, into the early morning hours, he met with R. C.
Hammond, British Intelligence, in small, guarded houses on dimly lit
streets in Kensington and Chelsea.
These locations were reached by two changes of vehicle staxis driven by
MI-5. And for each meeting Alex was provided with a cover story
regarding his whereabouts: a dinner party, a girl, a crowded restaurant
he was familiar with; nothing out of the ordinary, everything easily
explained and verifiable.
The sessions with Hammond were divided into areas of instruction: the
political and financial climate of Jamaica, M-1.5 contacts throughout
the island, and basic skills-with instruments-in communication and
countersurveillance.
At several sessions, Hammond brought in West Indian specialists’@-black
agents who were capable of answering just about any question McAuliff
might raise. He had few questions; he had surveyed for the Kaiser
bauxite interests near Oracabessa, a little over a year ago, a fact he
suspected had led Julian Warfield to him.
When they were alone, R. C. Hammond droned on about the attitudes and
reactions Alex should foster.
Always build on part of the truth … keeping it simple …
the basics easily confirmed …
You’ll find it quite acceptable to operate on different levels …
naturally, instinctively. Your concentration will separate
independently …
Very rapidly your personal antennae will be activated …
second nature. You’lfall into a rhythm … the connecting link between
your divided objectives …
The British agent was never emphatic, simply redundant.
Over and over again, he repeated the phrases, with minor variations in
the words.
Alex understood. Hammond was providing him with fundamentals: tools and
confidence.
“Your contact in Kingston will be given to you in a few days; we’re
still refining. Kingston’s a mess; trust isn’t easily come by there.”
“Whose trust?” asked McAuliff.
“Good point,” replied the agent. “Don’t dwell on it.
That’s our job. Memorize everyone else.”
Alex looked at the typewritten names on the paper that was not to be
removed from the house in Kensington.
“You’ve got a lot of people on your payroll.”
“A few too many. Those that are crossed out were on double rosters.
Ours and the C.I.A’s. Your Central Intelligence Agency has become too
political in recent years.”
“Are you concerned about leaks?”
“Yes, Dunstone, Limited, is alive in Washington. Elusive, but very much
alive.”
The mornings found him entering Dunstone’s sphere of reality, the
University of London. He discovered that it was easier than he’d
thought to shut out the previous night’s concerns. Hammond’s theory of
divided objectives was borne out; he did fall into a rhythm. His
concentration was now limited to professional concern-the building of
his survey team.
It was agreed that the number should not exceed eight, preferably fewer.
The areas of expertise would be the normal ones: shale, limestone, and
bedrock stratification; water and gas-pocket analyses; vegetation-soil
and botanical research; and finally, because the survey extended into
the interior regions of the Cock Pit country, someone familiar with the
various dialects and outback customs.
Warfield had thought this last was superfluous; Alex knew better.
Resentments ran high in Jamaica.
McAuliff had made up his mind about one member of the team, a soil
analyst from California named Sam Tucker.
Sam was an immense, burly man in his fifties, given to whatever excesses
could be found in any immediate vicinity, but a top professional in his
field. He was also the most reliable man Alex had ever known, a strong
friend who had worked surveys with him from Alaska to last year’s Kaiser
job in Oracabessa. McAuliff implied that if Julian Warfield withheld
approval from Sam, he might have to find himself another surveyor.
It was a hollow threat, all things considered, but it was worth the risk
of having to back down. Alex wanted Sam with him in Jamaica. The
others would be new, unproven; Tucker had worn well over the years. He
could be trusted.
Warfield ran a Dunstone check on Sam Tucker and agreed there was nothing
prejudicial beyond certain minor idiosyncrasies. But Sam was to be no
different from any other member; none was to be informed of Dunstone’s
interests. Obviously.
None would be. Alex meant it. More than Warfield realized. If there
was any truth to R. C. Hammond’s astonishing pronouncements. Everyone
on the survey would be told the same story. Given a set of facts
engineered by Dunstone, Limited. Even the organizations involved
accepted the facts as truth; there was no reason not to. Financial
grants were not questioned; they were academic holy writ. Coveted,
revered, never debated.
The geological survey had been made possible through a grant from the
Royal Historical Society, encouraged by the Commonwealth Activities
Committee, House of Lords. The expedition was to be a joint endeavor of
the University of London and the Jamaican Ministry of Education. All
salaries, expenses, disbursements of any kind were to be made through
the bursar’s office at the university. The Royal Society would
establish lines of bank credit, and the university was to draw on those
funds.
s compatible with endeavors of the Commonwealth Committee at Lords,
whose members peopled and paid for most royal societies. It was another
not-to-be-forgotten link with Britannia. A study which would be
acknowledged in textbooks for years to come.
For, according to Jamaican ministry, there were no records of this
particular territory having been subjected to a geophysical survey of
any dimensions.
Obviously.
And if there was, certainly no one was going to bring them up.
Academic holy writ.
The university rip-off. One did not question.
The selection of Alexander McAuliff for the post of survey director was
acknowledged to be an embarrassment to both the society and the
university. But the American was the Jamaican ministry’s choice. One
suffered such insults from the former colonies.
One took the money; one did not debate.
Holy writ.
Everything was just complicated enough to be academically viable,