The scholar tapped the paper in his hands. 'There'll be periods when it will be necessary for me to be absent. Never more than a day or two at a time. Naturally, I'll give you advance notice, and if there are problems - where possible - I shall rearrange my schedule.'
'You'll what?' McAuliff sat forward in the chair. 'Where... possible... you'll fit your time to mine! That's goddamn nice of you. I hope the survey won't be a burden.'
Whitehall laughed, impersonally. 'Not at all. It was just what I was looking for. And you'll see, you'll be quite pleased... although I'm not sure why I should be terribly concerned. You see, I cannot accept the stated reasons for this survey. And I suspect there are one or two others, if they spoke their thoughts, who share my doubts.'
'Are you suggesting that I hired you under false pretences?'
'Oh, come now,' replied the black scholar, his eyes narrowing in irritation. 'Alexander McAuliff, a highly confidential, one-man survey company whose work takes him throughout the world... for very large fees, abruptly decides to become academically charitable? To take from four to six months away from a lucrative practice to head up a university survey! Whitehall laughed like a nervous jackal, walked rapidly to the curtains of the room's balcony doors, and flipped one side partially open. He twisted the latch and pulled the glass panel several inches inward; the curtain billowed in the night breeze.
'You don't know the specifics of my contract,' said Alex noncommittally.
'I know what universities and royal societies and ministries of education pay. It's not your league, McAuliff.' The Jamaican returned to the bed and sat down on the edge. He brought the folded paper to his chin and stared at Alex.
McAuliff hesitated, then spoke slowly. 'In a way, aren't you describing your own situation? There were several people in London who didn't think you'd take the job. It was quite a drop in income for you.'
'Precisely. Our positions are similar; I'm sure for very different reasons... Part of my reasoning takes me to Savanna-la-Mar in the morning.'
'Your friend on the plane?'
'A bore. Merely a messenger.' Whitehall held up the folded piece of paper. 'He brought me an invitation. Would you care to read it?'
'You wouldn't offer unless it was pertinent.'
'I have no idea whether it is or not. Perhaps you can tell me.'
Alex took the paper extended to him and unfolded it. It was hotel stationery. The George V, Paris. The handwriting was slanted, the strokes rapid, words joined in speed.
My dear Whitehall -
Forgive this hastily written note but I have just learned that we are both en route to Jamaica. I for a welcome rest and you, I understand, for more worthwhile pursuits.
I should deem it an honour and a pleasure to meet with you. Our mutual friend will give you the details. I shall be staying in Savanna-la-Mar, albeit incognito. He will explain.
I do believe our coming together at the earliest would be mutually beneficial. I have long admired your past (?) island activities. I ask only that our meeting and my presence in Jamaica remain confidential. Since I so admire your endeavours, I know you will understand.
Chatellerault
Chatellerault... ?
The Marquis de Chatellerault.
David Booth's 'employer.' The man behind a narcotics network that spread throughout most of Europe and the Mediterranean. The man Alison feared so terribly that she carried a lethal-looking cylinder of gas with her at all times!
McAuliff knew that Whitehall was observing him. He forced himself to remain immobile, betraying only numbness on his face and in his eyes.
'Who is he?' asked McAuliff blandly. 'Who's this Chatel... Chatellerault?'
'You don't know?'
'Oh, for Christ's sake, Whitehall,' said Alex in weary exasperation. 'Stop playing games. I've never heard of him.'
'I thought you might have.' The scholar was once again staring at McAuliff. 'I thought the connection was rather evident.'
'What connection?'
'To whatever your reasons are for being in Jamaica. Chatellerault is... among other things... a financier with considerable resources. The coincidence is startling, wouldn't you agree?'
'I don't know what you're talking about.' McAuliff glanced down at Chatellerault's note. 'What does he mean by your past question mark island activities?'
Whitehall paused before replying. When he did, he spoke quietly, thus lending emphasis to his words. 'Ten years ago I left my homeland because the political faction for which I worked... devotedly, and in secret... was forced underground. Further underground, I should say. For a decade we have remained dormant - on