He reached above, snapped on his own reading lamp, took the papers from Warfield and flipped over the carbons to the thicker page of stationery. Only it wasn't stationery; it was a Xerox copy of a Letter Deposit Transfer from the Chase Bank in New York. The figures were clear: On the left was the amount paid into his account by a Swiss concern; on the right, the maximum taxes on that amount, designated as income, to the Swiss authorities and the United States Internal Revenue Service.
The net figure was $333,000.
He looked over at Warfield. 'My first payment was to have been twenty-five per cent of the total contract upon principal work of the survey. We agreed that would be the team's arrival in Kingston. Prior to that date, you're responsible only for my expenses and, if we terminate, two hundred a day for my time. Why the change?'
'We're very pleased with your preliminary labours. We wanted to indicate our good faith.'
'I don't believe you - '
'Besides,' continued Warfield, raising his voice over Alex's objection, 'there's been no contractual change.'
'I know what I signed.'
'Not too well, apparently... Go on, read the agreement. It states clearly that you will be paid a minimum of twenty-' five per cent, no later than the end of the business day we determined to be the start of the survey. It says nothing about an excess of twenty-five per cent; no prohibitions as to an earlier date... We thought you'd be pleased.' The old man folded his small hands like some kind of Ghandi of peace in Savile Row clothes.
McAuliff reread the transfer letter from Chase. 'This bank transfer describes the money as payment for services rendered as of today's date. That's past tense, free and clear. You'd have a hard time recouping if I didn't go to Jamaica. And considering your paranoia over secrecy, I doubt you'd try too hard... No, Mr Warfield, this is out of character.'
'Faith, Mr McAuliff. Your generation overlooks it.' The financier smiled benignly.
'I don't wish to be rude, but I don't think you ever had it. Not that way. You're a manipulator, not an ideologue... I repeat: out of character.'
'Very well.' Warfield unfolded his delicate hands, still retaining the Ghandi pose under the yellow light. 'It leads to the protection of which I spoke and which, rightly, you question... You are one of us, Alexander Tarquin McAuliff. A very important and essential part of Dunstone's plans. In recognition of your contributions, we have recommended to our Directors that you be elevated - in confidence - to their status. Ergo, the payments made to you - in gross terms, amounting to close to a million - are the initial monies due one of our own. As you say, it would be out of character for such excessive payments to be made otherwise.'
'What the hell are you driving at?'
'In rather abrupt words, don't ever try to deny us. You are a consenting participant in our work. Should you at any time, for whatever motive, decide you do not approve of Dunstone, don't try to separate yourself. You'd never be believed.'
McAuliff stared at the now smiling old man. 'Why would I do that?' he asked softly.
'Because we have reason to believe there are... elements most anxious to stop our progress. They may try to reach you; perhaps they have already. Your future is with us. No one else. Financially, perhaps ideologically... certainly, legally.'
Alex looked away from Warfield. The Rolls had proceeded west into New Oxford, south on Charing Cross, and west again on Shaftesbury. They were approaching the outer lights of Piccadilly Circus, the gaudy colours diffused by the heavy mist.
'Who were you trying to call so frantically this evening?' The old man was not smiling now.
McAuliff turned from the window. 'Not that it's any of your damned business but I was calling - not frantically - Mrs Booth. We're having lunch tomorrow. Any irritation was due to your hastily scheduled meeting and the fact that I didn't want to disturb her after midnight. Who do you think?'
'You shouldn't be hostile - '
'I forgot,' interrupted Alex. 'You're only trying to protect me. From... elements.'
'I can be somewhat more precise.' Julian Warfield's eyes bore into Alex's, with an intensity he had not seen before. 'There would be no point in your lying to me, so I expect the truth. What does the word "Halidon" mean to you, Mr McAuliff?'
Chapter Six
SIX
The screaming, hysterical cacophony of the acid-rock music caused a sensation of actual