Over and over again, he repeated the phrases, with minor variations in the words.
Alex understood. Holcroft was providing him with fundamentals: tools and confidence.
'Your contact in Kingston will be given you in a few days; we're still refining. Kingston's a mess; trust isn't easily come by there.'
'Whose trust?' asked McAuliff.
'Good point,' replied the agent. 'Don't dwell on it. That's our job. Memorize everyone else.'
Alex looked at the typewritten names on the paper that was not to be removed from the house in Kensington. 'You've got a lot of people on your payroll.'
'A few too many. Those that are crossed out were on double rosters. Ours and the CIA's. Your Central Intelligence Agency has become too political in recent years.'
'Are you concerned about leaks?'
'Yes. Dunstone, Limited, is alive in Washington. Elusive, but very much alive.'
The mornings found him entering the other sphere of reality, the University of London. He discovered that it was easier than he'd thought to shut out the previous night's concerns. Holcroft's theory of divided objectives was borne out; he did fall into a rhythm. His concentration was now limited to professional concerns - the building of his survey team.
It was agreed that the number should not exceed eight, preferably fewer. The areas of expertise would be the normal ones: shale, limestone, and bedrock stratification; water and gas-pocket analyses; vegetation - soil and botanical research; and finally, because the survey extended into the interior regions of the Cock Pit country, someone familiar with the various dialects and outback customs. Warfield had thought this last was superfluous; Alex knew better. Resentments ran high in Jamaica.
McAuliff had made up his mind about one member of the team, a soil analyst from California named Sam Tucker. Sam was an immense, burly man in his fifties, given to whatever excesses could be found in any immediate vicinity, but a top professional in his field. He was also the most reliable man Alex had ever known, a strong friend who had worked surveys with him from Alaska to last year's Kaiser job in Oracabessa. McAuliff implied that if Julian Warfield withheld approval from Sam, he might have to find himself another surveyor.
It was a hollow threat, all things considered, but it was worth the embarrassment of having to back down. Alex wanted Sam with him in Jamaica. The others would be new, unproven; Tucker had worn well over the years. He could be trusted.
Warfield ran a Dunstone check on Sam Tucker and agreed there was nothing prejudicial beyond certain minor idiosyncrasies. But Sam was to be no different from any other member; none was to be informed of Dunstone's interest. Obviously.
None would be. Alex meant it. More than Warfield realized. If there was any truth to R. C. Holcroft's astonishing pronouncements.
Everyone on the survey would be told the same story. Given a set of facts engineered by Dunstone, Limited. Even the organizations involved accepted the facts as truth; there was no reason not to. Financial grants were not questioned; they were academic holy writ. Coveted, revered, never debated.
The geological survey had been made possible through a grant from the Royal Historical Society, encouraged by the Commonwealth Activities Committee, House of Lords. The expedition was to be a joint endeavour of the University of London and the Jamaican Ministry of Education.
All salaries, expenses, disbursements of any kind were to be made through the bursar's office at the university. The Royal Society would establish lines of bank credit, and the university was to draw on these funds.
The reason for the survey was compatible with the endeavours of the Commonwealth Committee at Lords, whose members peopled and paid for most royal societies. It was a patrimonial gift to the new, independent nation -another not-to-be-forgotten link with Britannia. A study which would be acknowledged in textbooks for years to come. For, according to the Jamaican Ministry, there were no records of this particular territory having been subjected to a geophysical survey of any dimensions.
Obviously.
And if there were, certainly no one was going to bring them up.
Academic holy writ.
The university rip-off. One did not question.
The selection of Alexander McAuliff for the post of survey director was acknowledged to be an embarrassment to both the society and the university. But the American was the Jamaican Ministry's choice. One suffered such insults from the colonies.
One took the money; one did not debate.
Holy writ.
Everything was just complicated enough to be academically viable, thought McAuliff. Julian Warfield understood the environs through which he manoeuvred.
As did R. C. Holcroft of British Intelligence.
And Alex