So did McAuliff.
The second shale-bedrock analyst was listed as A. Gerrard Booth. Booth was a university applicant personally recommended by Ralston in the following manner:
«I promised Booth I’d bring these papers and articles to your attention. I do believe Booth would be a fine asset to the survey.»
Professor Ralston had given McAuliff a folder filled with A. Gerrard Booth’s studies of sheet strata in such diverse locations as Turkey, Corsica, Zaire, and Australia. Alex recalling having read several of the articles in National Geologist, and remembered them as lucid and professional. Booth was good; Booth was better than good.
Booth was also a woman. A. Gerrard Booth was known to her colleagues as Alison; no one bothered with the middle name.
She had one of the most genuine smiles McAuliff had ever seen. It was more a half laugh—one might even say masculine, but the word was contradicted by her complete femininity. Her eyes were blue and alive and level, the eyes of a professional. Her handshake was firm, again professional. Her light brown hair was long and soft and slightly waved—brushed repeatedly, thought Alex, for the interview. Her age was anywhere from late twenties to middle thirties; there was no way to tell by observation, except that there were laugh lines at the corners of her eyes.
Alison Booth was not only good and a woman; she was also, at least on first meeting, a very attractive, outgoing person. The term «professional» kept recurring to McAuliff as they spoke.
«I made Roily—Dr. Ralston—promise to omit the fact that I was a woman. Don’t hold him responsible.»
«Were you so convinced I was antifeminist?»
She raised her hand and brushed her long, soft hair away from the side of her lovely face. «No preformed hostility, Dr. McAuliff. I just understand the practical obstacles. It’s part of my job to convince you I’m qualified.» And then, as if she were aware of the possible double entendre, Alison Booth stopped smiling and smoothed her skirt … professionally.
«In fieldwork and the laboratory, I’m sure you are qualified.»
«Any other considerations would be extraneous, I should think,» said the woman, with a slight trace of English aloofness.
«Not necessarily. There are environmental problems, degrees of physical discomfort, if not hardship.»
«I can’t conceive of Jamaica being in that league with Zaire or the Aussie Outback. I’ve surveyed in those places.»
«I know—»
«Roily told me,» interrupted Alison Booth, «that you would not accept tour references until you had interviewed us.»
«Group isolation tends to create fallible judgments. Insupportable relationships. I’ve lost good men in the past because other good men reacted negatively to them for the wrong reasons.»
«What about women?»
«I used the term inclusively, not exclusively.»
«I have very good references, Dr. McAuliff. For the right reasons.»
«I’ll request them.»
«I have them with me.» Alison unbuckled the large leather purse on her lap, extracted two business envelopes, and placed them on the edge of McAuliff’s desk. «My references, Dr. McAuliff.»
Alex laughed as he reached for the envelopes. He looked over at the woman; her eyes locked with his. There was both a good-humored challenge and a degree of supplication in her expression. «Why is this survey so important to you, Miss Booth?»
«Because I’m good and I can do the job,» she answered simply.
«You’re employed by the university, aren’t you?»
«On a part-time basis, lecture and laboratory. I’m not permanent … by choice, incidentally.»
«Then it’s not money.» McAuliff made a statement.
«I could use it; I’m not desperate, however.»
«I can’t imagine your being desperate anywhere,» he said, with a partial smile. And then Alex saw—or thought he saw—a trace of a cloud across her eyes, an instant of concern that left as rapidly as it had come. He instinctively pressed further. «But why this tour? With your qualifications, I’m sure there are others. Probably more interesting, certainly more money.»
«The timing is propitious,» she replied softly, with precise hesitation. «For personal reasons that have absolutely nothing to do with my qualifications.»
«Are there reasons why you want to spend a prolonged period in Jamaica?»
«Jamaica has nothing to do with it. You could be surveying Outer Mongolia for all that it matters.»
«I see.» Alex replaced the two envelopes on the desk. He intentionally conveyed a trace of indifference. She reacted.
«Very well, Dr. McAuliff. It’s no secret among my friends.» The woman held her purse on her lap. She did not grip it; there was no intensity about her whatsoever. When she spoke, her voice was steady, as were here eyes. She was the total professional again. «You called me Miss Booth; that’s incorrect. Booth is my married name. I regret to say the marriage was not successful; it was terminated recently. The solicitousness of well-meaning people during such times can be boring. I’d prefer to be out of touch.»
McAuliff returned her steady gaze, trying to evoke something beyond her words. There was something, but she would not allow his prying further; her expression told him that … professionally.
«It’s not relevant. I apologize. But I appreciate your telling me.»
«Is your … responsibility satisfied?»
«Well, my curiosity, at any rate.» Alex leaned forward, elbows on the desk, his hands folded under his chin. «Beyond that, and I hope that it’s not improper, you’ve made it possible for me to ask you to have dinner with me.»
«I think that would depend on the degree of relevance you ascribed to my acceptance.» Alison’s voice was polite, but not cold. And there was that lovely humor in her eyes.
«In all honesty, I do make it a point to have dinner or a long lunch, even a fair amount of drinks, with those I’m thinking about hiring. But right now, I’m reluctant to admit it.»
«That’s a very disarming reply, Dr. McAuliff,» she said, her lips parted, laughing her half laugh. «I’d be delighted to have dinner with you.»
«I’ll do my damnedest not to be solicitous. I don’t think it’s necessary at all.»
«And I’m sure you’re never boring.»
«Not relevantly.»
5
McAuliff stood on the corner of High Holborn and Chancery and looked at his watch. The numbers glowed in the mist-laden London darkness; it was 11:40. Preston’s Rolls-Royce was ten minutes late. Or perhaps it would not appear at all. His instructions were that if the car did not arrive by midnight, he was to return to the Savoy. Another meeting would be scheduled.
There were times when he had to remind himself whose furtive commands he was following, wondering whether he in turn was being followed. It was a degrading way to live, he reflected: the constant awareness that locked a man into a pocket of fear. All the fiction about the shadow world of conspiracy omitted the fundamental indignity intrinsic to that world. There was no essential independence; it was strangling.
This particular evening’s rendezvous with Warfield had necessitated a near-panic call to Hammond, for the British agent had scheduled a meeting himself, for one in the morning. That is, McAuliff had requested it, and Hammond had set the time and the place. And at 10:20 that night the call had come from Dunstone: Be at High Holborn and Chancery at 11:30, an hour and ten minutes from then.
Hammond could not, at first, be found. His highly secret, private telephone at M.I.5 simply did not answer. Alex had been given no other number, and Hammond had told him repeatedly never to call the office and leave his name. Nor was he ever to place a call to the agent from his rooms at the Savoy. Hammond did not trust the switchboards at either establishment. Nor the open frequencies of cellular phones.