«I may do that anyway, mightn’t I? I do have that option.»
«You like money.»
«Very much.»
Julian Warfield placed his glass down and brought his thin, small hands together. «Alexander T. McAuliff. The ‘T’ is for Tarquin, rarely, if ever, used. It’s not even on your stationery; rumor is you don’t care for it…»
«True. I’m not violent about it.»
«Alexander Tarquin McAuliff, forty-four years old. B.S., M.S., Ph.D., but the title of Doctor is used as rarely as his middle name. The geology departments of several leading American universities, including California Tech and Columbia, lost an excellent research fellow when Dr. McAuliff decided to put his expertise to more commercial pursuits.» The man smiled, his expression one of how-am-I-doing; but, again, not a question.
«Faculty and laboratory pressures are no less aggravating than those outside. Why not get paid for them?»
«Yes. We agreed you like money.»
«Don’t you?»
Warfield laughed, and his laugh was genuine and loud. His thin, short body fairly shook with pleasure as he brought Alex a refill. «Excellent reply. Really quite fine.»
«It wasn’t that good.»
«But you’re interrupting me,» said Warfield as he returned to his chair. «It’s my intention to impress you.»
«Not about myself, I hope.»
«No. Our thoroughness … You are from a close-knit family, secure academic surroundings—»
«Is this necessary?» asked McAuliff, fingering his glass, interrupting the old man.
«Yes, it is,» replied Warfield simply, continuing as though his line of thought was unbroken. «Your father was—and is, in retirement—a highly regarded agro-scientist; your mother, unfortunately deceased, a delightfully romantic soul adored by all. It was she who gave you the ‘Tarquin,’ and until she died you never denied the initial or the name. You had an older brother, a pilot, shot down in the last days of the Korean War; you yourself made a splendid record in Vietnam. Upon receipt of your doctorate, it was assumed that you would continue the family’s academic tradition. Until personal tragedy propelled you out of the laboratory. A young woman—your fiancée—was killed on the streets of New York. At night. You blamed yourself … and others. You were to have met her. Instead, a hastily called, quite unnecessary research meeting prohibited it … Alexander Tarquin McAuliff fled the university. Am I drawing an accurate picture?»
«You’re invading my privacy. You’re repeating information that may be personal but hardly classified. Easy to piece together. You’re also extremely obnoxious. I don’t think I have to have lunch with you.»
«A few more minutes. Then it is your decision.»
«It’s my decision right now.»
«Of course. Just a bit more… Dr. McAuliff embarked on a new career with extraordinary precision. He hired out to several established geological-survey firms, where his work was outstanding; then left the companies and underbid them on upcoming contracts. Industrial construction knows no national boundaries: Fiat builds in Moscow; Moscow in Cairo; General Motors in Berlin; British Petroleum in Buenos Aires; Volkswagen in New Jersey, U.S.A.; Renault in Madrid—I could go on for hours. And everything begins with a single file folder profuse with complicated technical paragraphs describing what is and is not possible in terms of construction upon the land. Such a simple, taken-for granted exercise. But without that file, nothing else is possible.»
«Your few minutes are about up, Warfield. And, speaking for the community of surveyors, we thank you for acknowledging our necessity. As you say, we’re so often taken for granted.» McAuliff put his glass down on the table next to his armchair and started to get up.
Warfield spoke quietly, precisely. «You have twenty-three bank accounts, including four in Switzerland; I can supply the code numbers if you like. Others in Prague, Tel Aviv, Montreal, Brisbane, São Paulo, Kingston, Los Angeles, and, of course, New York, among others.»
Alexander remained immobile at the edge of his chair and stared at the little old man. «You’ve been busy.»
«Thorough. Nothing patently illegal; none of the accounts is enormous. Altogether they total two million four hundred-odd U.S. dollars, as of several days ago when you flew from New York. Unfortunately, the figure is meaningless. Due to international agreements regarding financial transfers, the money cannot be centralized.»
«Now I know I don’t want to have lunch with you.»
«Perhaps not. But how would you like another two million dollars? Free 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.»
2
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 whatever 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! A different set of priorities, leading to only one objective: profit. Only profit. Projects that didn’t produce the most favorable «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, unmapped—mountains and jungles. Undeveloped miles, ten minutes by air to the sophistication of Montego Bay, fifteen to the expanding, exploding New Kingston.