and clear, all American taxes paid. Deposited in the bank of your
choice.”
McAuliff continued to stare at Warfield. It was several moments before
he spoke.
“You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“Utterly.”
“For a survey?”
“Yes.”
“There are five good houses right here in London. For that kind of
money, why call on me? Why not use them?”
“We don’t want a firm. We want an individual. A man we have
investigated thoroughly; a man we believe will honor the most important
aspect of the contract. Secrecy.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“Not at all. A financial necessity. If word got out, the speculators
would move in. Land prices would skyrocket, the project would become
untenable. It would be abandoned.”
“What is it? Before I give you my answer, I have to know that.”
“We’re planning to build a city. In Jamaica.”
McAuliff politely rejected Warfield’s offer to have Preston’s car
brought back to Belgravia for him.
Alex wanted to walk, to think in the cold winter air.
It helped him to sort out his thoughts while in motion; the brisk,
chilling winds somehow forced his concentration inward.
Not that there was so much to think about as to absorb. In a sense, the
hunt was over. The end of the intricate maze was in sight, after eleven
years of complicated wandering.
Not for the money per se. But for money as the conveyor belt to
independence.
Complete. Total. Never having to do what he did not wish to do.
Ann’s death-murder-had been the springboard. Certainly the
rationalization, he understood that. But the rationalization had solid
roots, beyond the emotional explosion.
The research meeting-accurately described by Warfield as “quite
unnecessary’@-was symptomatic of the academic system.
All laboratory activities were geared to justifying what ever grants
were in the offing. God! How much useless activity! How many
pointless meetings! How often useful work went unfinished because a
research grant did not materialize or a department administrator shifted
priorities to achieve more obvious progress for progress-oriented
foundations.
He could not fight the academic system; he was too angry to join its
politics. So he left it.
He could not, stand the companies, either. Jesus! Afferent set of
priorities, leading to only one objective: fit. Only profit. Projects
that didn’t produce the most.”
“profit picture” were abandoned without a backward glance.
Stick to business. Don’t waste time.
So he left the companies and went out on his own. Where a man could
decide for himself the price of immediate values. And whether they were
worth it.
All things considered, everything … everything Warfield proposed was
not only correct and acceptable, it was glorious. An unencumbered,
legitimate two million dollars for a survey Alex knew he could handle.
He knew vaguely the area in Jamaica to be surveyed: east and south of
Falmouth, on the coast as far as Duncan’s Bay; in the interior into the
Cock Pit. It was actually the Cock Pit territory that Dunstone seemed
most interested in: vast sections of uninhabited-in some cases, umnapped
mountains and jungles. Undeveloped miles, ten minutes by air to the
sophistication of Montego Bay, fifteen to the expanding, exploding New
Kingston.
Dunstone would deliver him the specific degree marks within the next
three weeks, during which time he was to assemble his team.
He was back on the Strand now, the Savoy Court several blocks away. He
hadn’t resolved anything, really; there was nothing to resolve, except
perhaps the decision to start looking for people at the university. He
was sure there would be no lack of interested applicants; he only hoped
he could find the level of qualification he needed.
Everything was fine. Really fine.
He walked down the alley into the court, smiled at the doorman, and
passed the thick glass doors of the Savoy. He crossed the reservations
desk on the right and asked for any messages.
There were none.
But there was something else. The tuxedoed clerk behind the counter
asked him a question.
“Will you be going upstairs, Mr. McAuliff?”
“Yes … Yes, I’ll be going upstairs,” answered Alex, bewildered at the
inquiry. “Why?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Why do you ask?” McAuliff smiled.
“Floor service, sir,” replied the man, with intelligence in his eyes,
assurance in his soft British voice. “In the event of any cleaning or
pressing. These are frightfully busy hours.”
“Of course. Thank you.” Alex smiled again, nodded his appreciation, and
started for the small brass-grilled elevator. He had tried to pry
something else from the Savoy man’s eyes, but he could not. Yet he knew
something else was there. In the six years he had been staying at the
hotel, no one had ever asked him if he was “going upstairs.” Considering
English-Savoy-propriety, it was an unlikely question.
Or were his cautions, his Dunstone cautions, asserting themselves too
quickly, too strongly?
Inside his room, McAuliff stripped to shorts, put on a bathrobe, and
ordered ice from the floor steward. He still had most of a bottle of
Scotch on the bureau. He sat in an armchair and opened a newspaper,
considerately left by room service.
With the swiftness for which the Savoy stewards were known, there was a
knock on his corridor door. McAuliff got out of the chair and then
stopped.
The Savoy stewards did not knock on hallway doors they let themselves
into the foyers. Room privacy was obtained by locking the bedroom
doors, which opened onto the foyers.
Alex walked rapidly to the door and opened it. There was no steward.
Instead, there was a tall, pleasant-looking middle-aged man in a tweed
overcoat.
“Mr. McAuliff?”
“Yes?”
“My name is Hammond. May I speak with you, sir?”
“Oh? Sure … certainly.” Alex looked down the hallway he gestured the
man to pass him. “I rang for ice; I thought you were the steward.”
“Then may I step into your … excuse me, your lavatory, sir? I’d
rather not be seen.”
“What? Are you from Warfield?”
“No, Mr. McAuliff. British Intelligence. That was a sorry
introduction, Mr. McAuliff, Do you mind if I begin again?” Hammond
walked into the The-sitting room. Alex dropped ice cubes into a glass.
“No need to. I’ve never had anyone knock on my hotel door, say he’s
with British Intelligence, and ask to use the bathroom. Has kind of a
quaint ring to it…. Drink?”
“Thank you. Short, if you please; a touch of soda will be fine.”
McAuliff poured as requested and handed Hammond his glass. “Take off
your coat. Sit down.”
“You’re most hospitable. Thank you.” The Britisher removed his tweed
overcoat and placed it carefully on the back of a chair.
“I’m most curious, that’s what I am, Mr. Hammond.”
McAuliff sat by the window, the Englishman across from him. “The clerk
at the desk; he asked if I was going upstairs.
That was for you, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, it was. He knows nothing, however. He thinks the managers wished
to see you unobtrusively. It’s often done that way. Over financial
matters, usually.”
“Thanks very much.”
“We’ll set it right, if it disturbs you.”
“It doesn’t.”
“I was in the cellars. When word reached me, I came up the service
elevator.”
“Rather elaborate “Rather necessary,” interrupted the Englishman. “For
the past few days, you’ve been under continuous surveillance. I don’t
mean to alarm you.”
McAuliff paused, his glass halfway to his lips. “You just have. I
gather the surveillance wasn’t yours.”
“Well, you could say we observed-from a distance both the followers and
their subject.” Hammond sipped his whiskey and smiled.
“I’m not sure I like this game,” said McAuliff quietly.
“Neither do we. May I introduce myself more completely?”
“Please do.”
Hammond removed a black leather identification case from his jacket
pocket, rose from the chair, and crossed to McAuliff. He held out the
flat case and flipped it open.
“There is a telephone number below the seal. I’d appreciate it if you
would place a call for verification, Mr. McAuliff.”
“It’s not necessary, Mr. Hammond. You haven’t asked me for anything.”
“If you do, I’ll call.”
“Yes, I see…. Very well.” Hammond returned to his chair. “As my
credentials state, I’m with Military Intelligence. What they do not say
is that I have been assigned to the Foreign Office and Inland Revenue.
I’m a financial analyst.”
“In the Intelligence service?” Alex got out of his chair and went to the
ice bucket and the whiskey. He gestured at them. Hammond shook his
head. “That’s unusual, isn’t it? I can understand a bank or a
brokerage office, not the cloakand-dagger business.”
“The vast ma ority of intelligence gathering is allied with finance, Mr.
McAuliff. In greater or lesser degrees of subtlety, of course.”
“I stand corrected.” Alex replenished his drink and realized that the
ensuing silence was Hammond’s waiting for him to return to his chair.
“When I think about it, I see what you mean,” he said, sitting down.
“A few minutes ago, you asked if I were with Dunstone, Limited.”
“I don’t think I said that.”
“Very well. Julian Warfield-same thing.”