Alison threatened to leave the Corsican job.
David was hysterical. He insisted he would be killed, and Alison as well. He painted a picture of such widespread, powerful corruption-without-conscience that Alison, fearing for both their lives, relented. She agreed to finish the work in Corsica, but made it clear their marriage was finished. Nothing would alter that decision.
So she believed at the time.
But one late afternoon in the field—on the water, actually—Alison was taking bore samples from the ocean floor several hundred yards offshore. In the small cabin cruiser were two men. They were agents of Interpol. They had been following her husband for a number of months. Interpol was gathering massive documentation of criminal evidence. It was closing in.
«Needless to say, they were prepared for his arrival. My room was as private as yours was intended to be this evening…»
The case they presented was strong and clear. Where her husband had described a powerful network of corruption, the Interpol men told of another world of pain and suffering and needless, horrible death.
«Oh, they were experts,» said Alison, her eyes remembering, her smile compassionately sad. «They brought photographs, dozens of them. Children in agony, young men, girls destroyed. I shall never forget those pictures. As they intended I would not…»
Their appeal was the classic recruiting approach: Mrs. David Booth was in a unique position; there was no one like her. She could do so much, provide so much. And if she walked away in the manner she had described to her husband—abruptly, without explanation—there was the very real question of whether she would be allowed to do so.
My God, thought McAuliff as he listened, the more things change … The Interpol men might have been Hammond speaking in a room at the Savoy Hotel.
The arrangements were made, schedules created, a reasonable period of time specified for the «deterioration» of the marriage. She told a relieved Booth that she would try to save their relationship, on the condition that he never again speak to her of his outside activities.
For half a year Alison Gerrard Booth reported the activities of her husband, identified photographs, planted dozens of tiny listening devices in hotel rooms, automobiles, their own apartment. She did so with the understanding that David Booth—whatever the eventual charges against him—would be protected from physical harm. To the best of Interpol’s ability.
Nothing was guaranteed.
«When did it all come to an end?» asked Alex.
Alison looked away, briefly, at the dark, ominous panorama of the Blue Mountains, rising in blackness several miles to the north. «When I listened to a very painful recording. Painful to hear; more painful because I had made the recording possible.»
One morning after a lecture at the university, an Interpol man arrived at her office in the Geology Department. In his briefcase he had a cassette machine and a cartridge that was a duplicate of a conversation recorded between her husband and a liaison from the Marquis de Chatellerault, the man identified as the overlord of the narcotics operation. Alison sat and listened to the voice of a broken man drunkenly describing the collapse of his marriage to a woman he loved very much. She heard him rage and weep, blaming himself for the inadequate man that he was. He spoke of his refused entreaties for the bed, her total rejection of him. And at the last, he made it clear beyond doubt that he loathed using her; that if she ever found out, he would kill himself. What he had done, almost too perfectly, was to exonerate her from any knowledge whatsoever of Chatellerault’s operation. He had done it superbly.
«Interpol reached a conclusion that was as painful as the recording. David had somehow learned what I was doing. He was sending a message. It was time to get out.»
A forty-eight-hour divorce in far-off Haiti was arranged. Alison Booth was free.
And, of course, not free at all.
«Within a year, it will all close in on Chatellerault, on David … on all of them. And somewhere, someone will put it together: Booth’s wife …»
Alison reached for her drink and drank and tried to smile.
«That’s it?» said Alex, not sure it was all.
«That’s it, Dr. McAuliff. Now, tell me honestly, would you have hired me had you known?»
«No, I would not. I wonder why I didn’t know.»
«It’s not the sort of information the university, or Emigration, or just about anyone else would have.»
«Alison?» McAuliff tried to conceal the sudden fear he felt. «You did hear about this job from the university people, didn’t you?»
The girl laughed and raised her lovely eyebrows in mock protest. «Oh, Lord, it’s tell-all time!… No, I admit to having a jump; it gave me time to compile that very impressive portfolio for you.»
«How did you learn of it?»
«Interpol. They’d been looking for months. They called me about ten or twelve days before the interview.»
McAuliff did not have to indulge in any rapid calculations.
Ten or twelve days before the interview would place the date within reasonable approximation of the afternoon he had met with Julian Warfield in Belgrave Square.
And later with a man named Hammond from British Intelligence.
The stinging pain returned to McAuliff’s stomach. Only it was sharper now, more defined. But he couldn’t dwell on it. Across the dark-shadowed patio, a man was approaching. He was walking to their table unsteadily. He was drunk, thought Alex.
«Well, for God’s sake, there you are! We wondered where the hell you were! We’re all in the bar inside. Whitehall’s an absolute riot on the piano! A bloody black Noël Coward! Oh, by the way, I trust your luggage got here. I saw you were having problems, so I scribbled a note for the bastards to send it along. If they could read my whiskey slant.»
Young James Ferguson dropped into an empty chair and smiled alcoholically at Alison. He then turned and looked at McAuliff, his smile fading as he was met by Alex’s stare.
«That was very kind of you,» said McAuliff quietly.
And then Alexander saw it in Ferguson’s eyes. The focused consciousness behind the supposedly glazed eyes.
James Ferguson was nowhere near as drunk as he pretended to be.
9
They expected to stay up most of the night. It was their silent, hostile answer to the «horrid little buggers.» They joined the others in the bar and, as a good captain should, McAuliff was seen talking to the maître d’; all knew the evening was being paid for by their director.
Charles Whitehall lived up to Ferguson’s judgment. His talent was professional; his island patter songs—filled with Caribbean idiom and Jamaican wit—were funny, brittle, cold, and episodically hot. His voice had the clear, high-pitched thrust of a Kingston balladeer; only his eyes remained remote. He was entertaining and amusing, but he was neither entertained nor amused himself, thought Alex.
He was performing.
And finally, after nearly two hours, he wearied of the chore, accepted the cheers of the half-drunken room, and wandered to the table. After receiving individual shakes, claps, and hugs from Ferguson, the Jensens, Alison Booth, and Alex, he opted for a chair next to McAuliff. Ferguson had been sitting there—encouraged by Alex—but the young botanist was only too happy to move. Unsteadily.
«That was remarkable!» said Alison, leaning across McAuliff, reaching for Whitehall’s hand. Alex watched as the Jamaican responded; the dark Caribbean hand—fingernails manicured, gold ring glistening—curled delicately over Alison’s as another woman’s might. And then, in contradiction, Whitehall raised her wrist and kissed her fingers.