The Cry of the Halidon Read online

  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.

  Warfield ran a Dunstone check on Sam Tucker and agreed there was nothing prejudicial beyond certain minor idiosyncrasies. But Sam was to be no different from any other member; none was to be informed of Dunstone’s interests. Obviously.

  None would be. Alex meant it. More than Warfield realized. If there was any truth to R. C. Hammond’s astonishing pronouncements. Everyone on the survey would be told the same story. Given a set of facts engineered by Dunstone, Limited. Even the organizations involved accepted the facts as truth; there was no reason not to. Financial grants were not questioned; they were academic holy writ. Coveted, revered, never debated.

  The geological survey had been made possible through a grant from the Royal Historical Society, encouraged by the Commonwealth Activities Committee, House of Lords. The expedition was to be a joint endeavor of the University of London and the Jamaican Ministry of Education. All salaries, expenses, disbursements of any kind were to be made through the bursar’s office at the university. The Royal Society would establish lines of bank credit, and the university was to draw on those funds.

  The reason for the survey was compatible with endeavors of the Commonwealth Committee at Lords, whose members peopled and paid for most royal societies. It was another not-to-be-forgotten link with Britannia. A study which would be acknowledged in textbooks for years to come. For, according to Jamaican ministry, there were no records of this particular territory having been subjected to a geophysical survey of any dimensions.

  Obviously.

  And if there was, certainly no one was going to bring them up.

  Academic holy writ.

  The university rip-off. One did not question.

  The selection of Alexander McAuliff for the post of survey director was acknowledged to be an embarrassment to both the society and the university. But the American was the Jamaican ministry’s choice. One suffered such insults from the former colonies.

  One took the money; one did not debate.

  Holy writ.

  Everything was just complicated enough to be academically viable, thought McAuliff. Julian Warfield understood the environs through which he maneuvered.

  As did R. C. Hammond of British Intelligence.

  And Alex began to realize that he would have to catch up. Both Dunstone, Limited, and M.I.5 were committed to specific objectives. He could get lost in those commitments. In some ways, he had lost already. But choosing the team was his immediate concern.

  McAuliff’s personnel approach was one he had used often enough to know it worked. He would not interview anyone whose work he had not read thoroughly; anyone he did interview had already proven himself on paper. Beyond the specific areas of expertise, he cared about adaptability to the physical and climatic requirements, and to the give-and-take of close-quarters association.

  He had done his work. He was ready.

  “My secretary said you wanted to see me, Dr. McAuliff.” The speaker at the door was the chairman of the Geophysics Department, a bespectacled, gaunt academician who tried not to betray his resentment of Alex. It was obvious that the man felt cheated by both the Royal Society and Kingston for not having been chosen for McAuliff’s job. He had recently completed an excellent survey in Anguilla; there were too many similarities between that assignment and the Jamaican grant for comfort.

  “Good Lord,” said Alex. “I expected to come to your office.” He crossed to his desk and smiled awkwardly. He had been standing by the single window, looking out over a miniature quadrangle, watching students carrying books, thankful that he was no longer part of that world. “I think I’ll be ready to start the interviews this afternoon.”

  “So soon?”

  “Thanks mainly to you, Professor Ralston. Your recommendations were excellent.” McAuliff wasn’t being polite; the academician’s candidates were good—on paper. Of the ten final prospects, exactly half were from Ralston; the remaining five were freelancers highly thought of by two London survey firms. “I’m inclined just to take your people without seeing any others,” continued Alex, now being polite. “But the Kingston ministry is adamant that I interview these.” McAuliff handed Ralston a sheet of paper with the five nonuniversity names.

  “Oh, yes. I recognize several,” said Ralston, his voice now pleasantly acknowledging Alex’s compliment. “A couple here are … a couple, you know.”

  “What?”

  “Man-and-wife team. The Jensens.”

  “There’s one Jensen. Who’s the woman?”

  “R. L. Wells. That’s Ruth Wells, Jensen’s wife.”

  “I didn’t realize … I can’t say that fact is in their favor.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m not sure,” answered Alex sincerely. “I’ve never had a married couple on a survey. Silly reaction, isn’t it? Do you know anybody else there?”

  “One fellow. I’d rather not comment.”

  “Then I wish you would.”

  “Ferguson. James Ferguson. He was a student of mine. Very outspoken chap. Quite opinionated, if you know what I mean.”

  “But he’s a botanist, a plant specialist, not a geology man.”

  “Survey training; geophysics was his curriculum secondary. Of course, it was a number of years ago.”

  McAuliff sorted out some papers of the desk. “It couldn’t have been too many. H
e’s only been on three tours, all in the past four years.”

  “It wasn’t, actually. And you should see him. He’s considered quite good, I’m told.”

  “Here are your people,” said Alex, offering a second page to Ralston. “I chose five out of the eight you submitted. Any more surprises there? Incidentally, I hope you approve.”

  Ralston read the list, adjusting his spectacles and pursing his lips as he did so. “Yes, I thought you’d select these. You realize, of course, that this Whitehall chap is not one of us. He was recommended by the West Indies Studies. Brilliant fellow, according to the chairs. Never met him myself. Makes quite a lot of money on the lecture circuits.”

  “He’s black, isn’t he?”

  “Oh, certainly. He knows every tongue, every dialect, every cultural normality and aberration in the Antilles. His doctoral thesis traced no fewer than twenty-seven African tribes to the islands. From the Bushwadie to the Coromantees. His research of Indian-African integration is the standard reference. He’s quite a dandy, too, I believe.”

  “Anyone else you want to talk about?”

  “No, not actually. You’ll have a difficult time deciding between your shale-bedrock experts. You’ve two very decent ones here. Unless your … immediate reactions take precedence. One way or the other.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Ralston smiled. “It would be presumptuous of me to comment further.” And then the professor added quickly, “Shall I have someone set up the appointments?”

  “Thanks, I’d appreciate it. If schedules can be organized with all ten, I’d like an hour apiece over the next few days; whatever order is convenient for everyone.”

  “An hour …”

  “I’ll call back those I want to talk with further. No sense in wasting everyone’s time.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  One applicant disqualified himself the moment he walked into McAuliff’s cubicle. The fact that he was more drunk than sober at one o’clock in the afternoon might have been explained, but instead was used as the excuse to eliminate him for a larger problem: he was crippled in his right leg and unlikely to withstand the rigors of the expedition. Three men were crossed off for identical conditions: each was obviously hostile to West Indians—a spreading English virus, Britain’s parallel to Americus Redneckus.

  The Jensens—Peter Jensen and Ruth Wells—were delightful surprises, singly and together. They were in their early fifties, bright, confident, and good-natured. A childless couple, they were financially secure and genuinely interested both in each other and in their work. His expertise was ore minerals; hers, the sister science of paleontology—fossils. His had direct application, hers was removed but academically justifiable.

  “Might I ask you some questions, Dr. McAuliff?” Peter packed his pipe, his voice pleasant.

  “By all means.”

  “Can’t say that I know much about Jamaica, but this seems like a damned curious trip. I’m not sure I understand. What’s the point?”

  Alex was grateful for the opportunity to recite the explanation created by Dunstone, Limited. He watched the ore man closely as he spoke, relieved to see the light of recognition in the geologist’s eyes. When he finished, he paused and added, “I don’t know if that clears up anything.”

  “Oh my word, it certainly does, chap. Burke’s Peerage strikes again!” Peter Jensen chuckled, glancing at his wife. “The royal H has been hard pressed to find something to do. Its members at Lords simply provided it. Good show. I trust the university will make a pound or two.”

  “I’m afraid the budget’s not that loose.”

  “Really?” Peter Jensen held his pipe as he looked at McAuliff. “Then perhaps I don’t understand. You’ll forgive me, but you’re not known in the field as a particularly inexpensive director … quite rightfully, let me add. Your reputation precedes you.”

  “From the Balkans to Australia,” added Ruth Wells Jensen, her expression showing minor irritation with her husband. “And if you have a separate arrangement, it’s none of Peter’s bloody business.”

  Alex laughed softly. “You’re kind, both of you. But there’s nothing special. I got caught, it’s as simple as that. I’ve worked for companies on the island; I hope to again. Often. All geophysical certificates are issued by Kingston, and Kingston asked for me. Let’s call it an investment.”

  Again McAuliff watched Peter Jensen closely; he had rehearsed the answer. The Britisher looked once more at his wife. Briefly. Then he chuckled, as he had done seconds before.

  “I’d do the same, chap. But God help the survey I was director on.”

  “It’s one I’d avoid like a May Day in Trafalgar,” said Ruth, matching her husband’s quiet laugh. “Who have you set, if it’s proper to ask? Anyone we might know?”

  “Nobody yet. I’ve really just started—”

  “Well,” interrupted Peter Jensen, his eyes alive with humor, “since you suffer from inadequate freight charges, I should tell you we’d rather not be separated. Somewhat used to each other by now. If you’re interested in one of us, the other would take half till to straggle along.”

  Whatever doubts remained for Alex were dispelled by Ruth Wells Jensen’s words. She mimicked her husband’s professorial tones with good-natured accuracy. “Half till, old chap, can be negotiated. Our flat’s damned cold this time of year.”

  The Jensens would be hired.

  The third nonuniversity name, James Ferguson, had been accurately described by Ralston as outspoken and opinionated. These traits, however, were the results of energy and impatience, it seemed to McAuliff. Ferguson was young—twenty-six—and was not the sort to survive, much less thrive, in an academic environment. Alex recognized in Ferguson much of his younger self: consummate interest in his subject, intolerance of the research world in which it was studied. A contradiction, if not a conflict of objectives. Ferguson freelanced for agro-industry companies, and his best recommendation was that he rarely was out of work in a market not famous for excessive employment. James Ferguson was one of the best vegetation specialists around.

  “I’d love to get back to Jamaica,” said the young man within seconds after the preliminary interview began. “I was in Port Maria for the Craft Foundation two years ago. It’s my judgment the whole bloody island is a gold mine if the fruit and synthetic industries would allow development.”

  “What’s the gold?” asked McAuliff.

  “The baracoa fibers. In the second growth stages. A banana strain could be developed that would send the nylon and the tricot boys into panic, to say nothing of the fruit shippers.”

  “Can you prove it?”

  “Damn near did, I think. That’s why I was thrown out by the Foundation.”

  “You were thrown out?”

  “Quite unceremoniously. No sense hiding the fact; don’t care to, really. They told me to stick to business. Can you imagine? You’ll probably run across a few negatives about me, if you’re interested.”

  “I’m interested, Mr. Ferguson.”

  The interview with Charles Whitehall disturbed McAuliff. That was to say, the man disturbed him, not the quality of information received. Whitehall was a black cynic, a now-Londoner whose roots and expertise were in the West Indies but whose outlook was aggressively self-perpetuating. His appearance startled McAuliff. For a man who had written three volumes of Caribbean history, whose work was, in Ralston’s words, “the standard reference,” Charles Whitehall looked barely as old as James Ferguson.

  “Don’t let my appearance fool you, Mr. McAuliff,” said Whitehall, upon entering the cubicle and extending his hand to Alex. “My tropic hue covers the years better than paler skin. I’m forty-two years old.”

  “You read my thoughts.”

  “Not necessarily. I’m used to the reaction,” replied Whitehall, sitting down, smoothing his expensive blazer, and crossing his legs, which were encased in pinstriped trousers.

  “Since you don’t waste words, Dr. Whitehall, neither w
ill I. Why are you interested in this survey? As I gather, you can make a great deal more money on the lecture circuit. A geophysical survey isn’t the most lucrative employment.”

  “Let’s say the financial aspects are secondary; one of the few times in my life that they will be, perhaps.” Whitehall spoke while removing a silver cigarette case from his pocket. “To tell you the truth, Mr. McAuliff, there’s a certain ego fulfillment in returning to one’s country as an expert under the aegis of the Royal Historical Society. It’s really as simple as that.”

  Alex believed the man. For, as he read him, Whitehall was a scholar far more honored abroad than at home. It seemed that Charles Whitehall wanted to achieve an acceptance commensurate with his scholarship that had been denied him in the intellectual—or was it social?—houses of Kingston.

  “Are you familiar with the Cock Pit country?”

  “As much as anyone who isn’t a runner. Historically and culturally, much more so, of course.”

  “What’s a runner?”

  “Runners are hill people. From the mountain communities. They hire out as guides, when you can find one. They’re primitives, really. Who have you hired for the survey?”

  “What?” Alex’s thoughts were on runners.

  “I asked who was going with you. On the survey team. I’d be interested.”

  “Well … not all the posts have been filled. There’s a couple named Jensen—ores and paleo; a young botanist, Ferguson. An American friend of mine, a soil analyst, name of Sam Tucker.”

  “I’ve heard of Jensen, I believe. I’m not sure, but I think so. I don’t know the others.”

  “Did you expect to?”

  “Frankly, yes. Royal Society projects generally attract very high-caliber people.” Whitehall delicately tapped his cigarette on the rim of an ashtray.

  “Such as yourself?” asked McAuliff, smiling.

  “I’m not modest,” replied the black scholar, returning Alex’s smile with an open grin. “And I’m very much interested. I think I could be of service to you.”

  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: