«That’s rather black and white, chap.»
«That’s rather exactly what you just said! Suppose you’re mistaken?»
«We’re not.»
«You know goddamn well I can’t prove that either. If I go back to Warfield and tell him about this little informal chat, I’ll lose the contract the second I open my mouth. And the largest fee any surveyor 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. McAuliff?»
«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 words. 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.’»
4
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 vehicles—taxis driven by M.I.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.I.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’ll fall 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.