in Prague, Tel Aviv, Montreal, Brisbane, Sao 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 three hundred and eighteen thousand four hundred-odd US dollars, as of several days ago when you flew from New York. Unfortunately, the figure is meaningless. Due to international tax 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 one 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 honour 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.'
Chapter Two
TWO
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 justify 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 favourable '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 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 to 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