The Cry of the Halidon

by Robert Ludlum

  He had agreed to meet the Dunstone company man this way, but he hoped his tone of voice had conveyed his annoyance. He had been perfectly willing to take a taxi, or rent a car, or hire a chauffeur, if any or all were necessary, but if Dunstone was sending an automobile for him, why not send it to the Savoy? It wasn’t that he minded the walk; he just hated to meet people in automobiles in the middle of congested streets. It was a goddamn nuisance.

  The Dunstone man had had a short, succinct explanation that was, for the Dunstone man, the only reason necessary—for all things: “Mr. Julian Warfield prefers it this way.”

  He spotted the automobile immediately. It had to be Dunstone’s—and/or Warfield’s. A St. James Rolls-Royce, its glistening black, hand-tooled body breaking space majestically, anachronistically, among the petrol-conscious Austins, MGs, and European imports. He waited on the curb, ten feet from the crosswalk onto the bridge. He would not gesture or acknowledge the slowly approaching Rolls. He waited until the car stopped directly in front of him, a chauffeur driving, the rear window open.

  “Mr. McAuliff?” said the eager, young-old face in the frame.

  “Mr. Warfield?” asked McAuliff, knowing that this fiftyish, precise-looking executive was not.

  “Good heavens, no. The name’s Preston. Do hop in; I think we’re holding up the line.”

  “Yes, you are.” Alex got into the backseat as Preston moved over. The Englishman extended his hand.

  “It’s a pleasure. I’m the one you’ve been talking to on the telephone.”

  “Yes … Mr. Preston.”

  “I’m really very sorry for the inconvenience, meeting like this. Old Julian has his quirks, I’ll grant you that.”

  McAuliff decided he might have misjudged the Dunstone man. “It was a little confusing, that’s all. If the object was precautionary—for what reason I can’t imagine—he picked a hell of a car to send.”

  Preston laughed. “True. But then, I’ve learned over the years that Warfield, like God, moves in mysterious ways that basically are quite logical. He’s really all right. You’re having lunch with him, you know.”

  “Fine. Where?”

  “Belgravia.”

  “Aren’t we going the wrong way?”

  “Julian and God—basically logical, chap.”

  The St. James Rolls crossed Waterloo, proceeded south to the Cut, turned left until Blackfriars Road, then left again, over Blackfriars Bridge and north into Holborn. It was a confusing route.

  Ten minutes later the car pulled up to the entrance canopy of a white stone building with a brass plate to the right of the glass double doors that read SHAFTESBURY ARMS. The doorman pulled at the handle and spoke jovially.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Preston.”

  “Good afternoon, Ralph.”

  McAuliff followed Preston into the building, to a bank of three elevators in the well-appointed hallway. “Is this Warfield’s place?” he asked, more to pass the moment than to inquire.

  “No, actually. It’s mine. Although I won’t be joining you for lunch. However, I trust cook implicitly; you’ll be well taken care of.”

  “I won’t try to follow that. ‘Julian and God.’ ”

  Preston smiled noncommittally as the elevator door opened.

  Julian Warfield was talking on the telephone when Preston ushered McAuliff into the tastefully—elegantly—decorated living room. The old man was standing by an antique table in front of a tall window overlooking Belgrave Square. The size of the window, flanked by long white drapes, emphasized Warfield’s shortness. He is really quite a small man, thought Alex as he acknowledged Warfield’s wave with a nod and a smile.

  “You’ll send the accrual statistics on to Macintosh, then,” said Warfield deliberately into the telephone; he was not asking a question. “I’m sure he’ll disagree, and you can both hammer it out. Good-bye.” The diminutive old man replaced the receiver and looked over at Alex. “Mr. McAuliff, is it?” Then he chuckled. “That was a prime lesson in business. Employ experts who disagree on just about everything and take the best arguments from both for a compromise.”

  “Good advice generally, I’d say,” replied McAuliff. “As long as the experts disagree on the subject matter and not just chemically.”

  “You’re quick. I like that.… Good to see you.” Warfield crossed to Preston. His walk was like his speech: deliberate, paced slowly. Mentally confident, physically unsure. “Thank you for the use of your flat, Clive. And Virginia, of course. From experience, I know the lunch will be splendid.”

  “Not at all, Julian. I’ll be off.”

  McAuliff turned his head sharply, without subtlety, and looked at Preston. The man’s first-name familiarity with old Warfield was the last thing he expected. Clive Preston smiled and walked rapidly out of the room as Alex watched him, bewildered.

  “To answer your unspoken questions,” said Warfield, “although you have been speaking with Preston on the telephone, he is not with Dunstone, Limited, Mr. McAuliff.”

  Alexander turned back to the diminutive businessman. “Whenever I phoned the Dunstone offices for you, I had to give a number for someone to return the call—”

  “Always within a few minutes,” interrupted Warfield. “We never kept you waiting; that would have been rude. Whenever you telephoned—four times, I believe—my secretary informed Mr. Preston. At his offices.”

  “And the Rolls at Waterloo was Preston’s,” said Alex.

  “Yes.”

  “So if anyone was following me, my business is with Preston. Has been since I’ve been in London.”

  “That was the object.”

  “Why?”

  “Self-evident, I should think. We’d rather not have anyone know we’re discussing a contract with you. Our initial call to you in New York stressed that point, I believe.”

  “You said it was confidential. Everyone says that. If you meant it to this degree, why did you even use the name of Dunstone?”

  “Would you have flown over otherwise?”

  McAuliff thought for a moment. A week of skiing in Aspen notwithstanding, there had been several other projects. But Dunstone was Dunstone, one of the largest corporations in the international market. “No, I probably wouldn’t have.”

  “We were convinced of that. We knew you were about to negotiate with I.T.T. about a little matter in southern Germany.”

  Alex stared at the old man. He couldn’t help but smile. “That, Mr. Warfield, was supposed to be as confidential as anything you might be considering.”

  Warfield returned the good humor. “Then we know who deals best in confidence, don’t we? I.T.T. is patently obvious.… Come, we’ll have a drink, then lunch. I know your preference: Scotch with ice. Somewhat more ice than I think is good for the system.”

  The old man laughed softly and led McAuliff to a mahogany bar across the room. He made drinks rapidly, his ancient hands moving deftly, in counterpoint to his walk. “I’ve learned quite a bit about you, Mr. McAuliff. Rather fascinating.”

  “I heard someone was asking around.”

  They were across from one another, in armchairs. At McAuliff’s statement, Warfield took his eyes off his glass and looked sharply, almost angrily, at Alex. “I find that hard to believe.”

  “Names weren’t used, but the information reached me. Eight sources. Five American, two Canadian, one French.”

  “Not traceable to Dunstone.” Warfield’s short body seemed to stiffen; McAuliff understood that he had touched an exposed nerve.

  “I said names weren’t mentioned.”

  “Did you use the Dunstone name in any ensuing conversations? Tell me the truth, Mr. McAuliff.”

  “There’d be no reason not to tell you the truth,” answered Alex, a touch disagreeably. “No, I did not.”

  “I believe you.”

  “You should.”

  “If I didn’t, I’d pay you handsomely for your time and suggest you return to America and take up with I.T.T.”

  “I may do tha
t 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.

  Dunstone would deliver him the specific degree marks within the next three weeks, during which time he was to assemble his team.
>
  He was back on the Strand now, the Savoy Court several blocks away. He hadn’t resolved anything, really; there was nothing to resolve, except perhaps the decision to start looking for people at the university. He was sure there would be no lack of interested applicants; he only hoped he could find the level of qualification he needed.

  Everything was fine. Really fine.

  He walked down the alley into the court, smiled at the doorman, and passed the thick glass doors of the Savoy. He crossed the reservations desk on the right and asked for any messages.

  There were none.

  But there was something else. The tuxedoed clerk behind the counter asked him a question.

  “Will you be going upstairs, Mr. McAuliff?”

  “Yes … yes, I’ll be going upstairs,” answered Alex, bewildered at the inquiry. “Why?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Why do you ask?” McAuliff smiled.

  “Floor service, sir,” replied the man, with intelligence in his eyes, assurance in his soft British voice. “In the event of any cleaning or pressing. These are frightfully busy hours.”

  “Of course. Thank you.” Alex smiled again, nodded his appreciation, and started for the small brass-grilled elevator. He had tried to pry something else from the Savoy man’s eyes, but he could not. Yet he knew something else was there. In the six years he had been staying at the hotel, no one had ever asked him if he was “going upstairs.” Considering English—Savoy—propriety, it was an unlikely question.

  Or were his cautions, his Dunstone cautions, asserting themselves too quickly, too strongly?

  Inside his room, McAuliff stripped to shorts, put on a bathrobe, and ordered ice from the floor steward. He still had most of a bottle of Scotch on the bureau. He sat in an armchair and opened a newspaper, considerately left by room service.

  With the swiftness for which the Savoy stewards were known, there was a knock on his corridor door. McAuliff got out of the chair and then stopped.

  The Savoy stewards did not knock on hallway doors—they let themselves into the foyers. Room privacy was obtained by locking the bedroom doors, which opened onto the foyers.