Warfield hastened to add, however, that this negative information was balanced - and more so - by Whitehall's academic standing. His interest in the survey was ultimately a positive factor; his inclusion tended to remove any commercial stain from the project. To compound the complications of this very complex man, Whitehall was a Class Triple A Black Belt practitioner of Jukato, a more intricate and deadly development of Judo.
'Our contacts in Kingston are quite impressed with his being with you. I suspect they'll offer him a chair at the West Indies University. I think he'll probably accept, if they pay him enough... Now, we come to the last submission.' Warfield removed his glasses, placed them on his lap with the papers, and rubbed the bridge of his thin, bony nose. 'Mrs Booth... Mrs Alison Gerrard Booth.'
Alex felt the stirrings of resentment. Warfield had already told him that Alison was acceptable; he did not want to hear intimate, private information dredged up by Dunstone's faceless men or whirring machines.
'What about her?' asked McAuliff, his voice careful. 'Her record speaks for itself.'
'Unquestionably. She's extremely qualified... And extremely anxious to leave England.'
'She's explained that. I buy it. She's just been divorced, and the circumstances, I gather, are not too pleasant... socially.'
'Is that what she told you?'
'Yes. I believe her.'
Warfield replaced his glasses and flipped the page in front of him. 'I'm afraid there's a bit more to it than that, Mr McAuliff. Did she tell you who her husband was? What he did for a living?'
'No. And I didn't ask her.'
'Yes... Well, I think you should know. David Booth is from a socially prominent family - viscount status, actually - that hasn't had the cash flow of a pound sterling for a generation. He is a partner in an export-import firm whose books indicate a barely passable subsistence... Yet Mr Booth lives extremely well. Several homes - here and on the Continent - drives expensive cars, belongs to the better clubs. Contradictory, isn't it?'
'I'd say so. How does he do it?'
'Narcotics,' said Julian Warfield, as if he had just given the time of day. 'David Booth is a courier for Franco-American interests operating out of Corsica, Beirut, and Marseilles.'
For the next few moments both men were silent. McAuliff understood the implication, and finally spoke. 'Mrs Booth was on surveys in Corsica, Iran... and southern Spain. You're suggesting that she's involved.'
'Possibly; not likely. If so, unwittingly. After all, she did divorce the chap. What we are saying is that she undoubtedly learned of her husband's involvement; she's afraid to remain in England. We don't think she plans to return.'
Again, there was silence, until McAuliff broke it.
'When you said "afraid," I presume you mean she's been threatened.'
'Quite possibly. Whatever she knows could be damaging. Booth didn't take the divorce action very well. Not from the point of view of affection - he's quite a womanizer - but, we suspect, for reasons related to his travels.' Warfield refolded the pages and put them back into his overcoat pocket.
'Well,' said Alex, 'that's quite a... minor explosion. I'm not sure I'm ready for it.'
'I gave you this information on Mrs Booth because we thought you'd find out for yourself. We wanted to prepare you... not to dissuade you.'
McAuliff turned sharply and looked at Warfield. 'You want her along because she might... might possibly be valuable to you. And not 'for geological reasons.' Easy, McAuliff. Easy!
'Anything is conceivable in these complicated times.'
'I don't like it!'
'You haven't thought about it. It is our opinion that she's infinitely safer in Jamaica than in London... You are concerned, aren't you? You've seen her frequently during the past week.'
'I don't like being followed, either.' It was all Alex could think to say.
'Whatever was done was minimal and for your protection,' replied Warfield quickly.
'Against what? For Christ's sake, protection from whom?' McAuliff stared at the little old man, realizing how much he disliked him. He wondered if Warfield would be any more explicit than Holcroft on the subject of protection. Or would he admit the existence of a prior Jamaican survey? 'I think I have a right to be told,' he added angrily.
'You shall be. First, however, I should like to show you these papers. I trust everything will be to your satisfaction.' Warfield lifted the flap of the unsealed envelope and withdrew several thin pages stapled together on top of a single page of stationery. They were onionskin carbons of his lengthy Letter of Agreement signed in Belgravia Square over a week ago.