inoculations were required (none was), establishing bank accounts in Montego, Kingston, and Ocho Rios, and scores of additional items necessary for a long geological survey. Dunstone stayed out of the picture but was of enormous help behind the scenes. The Dunstone people told him precisely whom to contact where; the tangled webs of bureaucracy—governmental and commercial—were untangled.
He had spent one evening bringing everyone together—everyone but Sam Tucker, who would join them in Kingston. Dinner at Simpsons. It was sufficiently agreeable; all were professionals. Each sized up the others and made flattering comments where work was known. Whitehall received the most recognition—as was appropriate. He was an authentic celebrity of sorts. Ruth Jensen and Alison seemed genuinely to like each other, which McAuliff had thought would happen. Ruth’s husband, Peter, assumed a paternalistic attitude toward Ferguson, laughing gently, continuously at the young man’s incessant banter. And Charles Whitehall had the best manners, slightly aloof and very proper, with just the right traces of scholarly wit and unfelt humility.
But Alison.
He had kept their luncheon date after the madness at The Owl of Saint George and the insanity that followed in the deserted field on London’s outskirts. He had approached herwith ambivalent feelings. He was annoyed that she had not brought up the questionable activities of her recent husband. But he did not accept Hammond’s vague concern that Alison was a Warfield plant. It was senseless. She was nothing if not independent—as was he. To be a silent emissary from Warfield meant losing independence—as he knew. Alison could not do that, not without showing it.
Still, he tried to provoke her into talking about her husband. She responded with humorously “civilized” clichés, such as “let’s let sleeping dogs lie,” which he had. Often. She would not, at this point, discuss David Booth with him.
It was not relevant.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said the very masculine, in-charge tones over the aircraft’s speaker. “This is Captain Thomas. We are nearing the northeast coast of Jamaica; in several minutes we shall be over Port Antonio, descending for our approach to Palisados Airport, Port Royal. May we suggest that all passengers return to their seats. There may be minor turbulence over the Blue Mountain range. Time of arrival is now anticipated at eight-twenty, Jamaican. The temperature in Kingston is seventy-eight degrees, weather and visibility clear.…”
As the calm, strong voice finished the announcement, McAuliff thought of Hammond. If the British agent spoke over a loudspeaker, he would sound very much like Captain Thomas, Alex considered.
Hammond.
McAuliff had not ended their temporary disassociation—as Hammond phrased it—too pleasantly. He had countered the agent’s caustic pronouncement that Alex do as Hammond instructed with a volatile provision of his own: He had a million dollars coming to him from Dunstone, Limited, and he expected to collect it. From Dunstone or some other source.
Hammond had exploded. What good were two million dollars to a dead geologist? Alex should be paying for the warnings and the protection afforded him. But, in the finalanalysis, Hammond recognized the necessity for something to motivate Alexander’s cooperation. Survival was too abstract; lack of survival could not be experienced.
In the early morning hours, a letter of agreement was brought to McAuliff by a temporary Savoy floor steward; Alex recognized him as the man in the brown mackinaw on High Holborn. The letter covered the condition of reimbursement in the event of “loss of fees” with a
very
clear ceiling of one million dollars.
If he remained in one piece—and he had every expectation of so doing—he would collect. He mailed the agreement to New York.
Hammond.
He wondered what the explanation was; what could explain a wife whose whispered voice could hold
He had spent one evening bringing everyone together—everyone but Sam Tucker, who would join them in Kingston. Dinner at Simpsons. It was sufficiently agreeable; all were professionals. Each sized up the others and made flattering comments where work was known. Whitehall received the most recognition—as was appropriate. He was an authentic celebrity of sorts. Ruth Jensen and Alison seemed genuinely to like each other, which McAuliff had thought would happen. Ruth’s husband, Peter, assumed a paternalistic attitude toward Ferguson, laughing gently, continuously at the young man’s incessant banter. And Charles Whitehall had the best manners, slightly aloof and very proper, with just the right traces of scholarly wit and unfelt humility.
But Alison.
He had kept their luncheon date after the madness at The Owl of Saint George and the insanity that followed in the deserted field on London’s outskirts. He had approached herwith ambivalent feelings. He was annoyed that she had not brought up the questionable activities of her recent husband. But he did not accept Hammond’s vague concern that Alison was a Warfield plant. It was senseless. She was nothing if not independent—as was he. To be a silent emissary from Warfield meant losing independence—as he knew. Alison could not do that, not without showing it.
Still, he tried to provoke her into talking about her husband. She responded with humorously “civilized” clichés, such as “let’s let sleeping dogs lie,” which he had. Often. She would not, at this point, discuss David Booth with him.
It was not relevant.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said the very masculine, in-charge tones over the aircraft’s speaker. “This is Captain Thomas. We are nearing the northeast coast of Jamaica; in several minutes we shall be over Port Antonio, descending for our approach to Palisados Airport, Port Royal. May we suggest that all passengers return to their seats. There may be minor turbulence over the Blue Mountain range. Time of arrival is now anticipated at eight-twenty, Jamaican. The temperature in Kingston is seventy-eight degrees, weather and visibility clear.…”
As the calm, strong voice finished the announcement, McAuliff thought of Hammond. If the British agent spoke over a loudspeaker, he would sound very much like Captain Thomas, Alex considered.
Hammond.
McAuliff had not ended their temporary disassociation—as Hammond phrased it—too pleasantly. He had countered the agent’s caustic pronouncement that Alex do as Hammond instructed with a volatile provision of his own: He had a million dollars coming to him from Dunstone, Limited, and he expected to collect it. From Dunstone or some other source.
Hammond had exploded. What good were two million dollars to a dead geologist? Alex should be paying for the warnings and the protection afforded him. But, in the finalanalysis, Hammond recognized the necessity for something to motivate Alexander’s cooperation. Survival was too abstract; lack of survival could not be experienced.
In the early morning hours, a letter of agreement was brought to McAuliff by a temporary Savoy floor steward; Alex recognized him as the man in the brown mackinaw on High Holborn. The letter covered the condition of reimbursement in the event of “loss of fees” with a
very
clear ceiling of one million dollars.
If he remained in one piece—and he had every expectation of so doing—he would collect. He mailed the agreement to New York.
Hammond.
He wondered what the explanation was; what could explain a wife whose whispered voice could hold
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