Read Online The Cry of the Halidon by Robert Ludlum - Free Book Online
Authors: Robert Ludlum
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to. What are the minor questions?”
“ ‘Incidental information you might wish to consider’ is a better description.” The old man reached up and snapped on a reading lamp. He then removed several pages from his overcoat, unfolded them, and placed them in front of the envelope. He adjusted his glasses and scanned the top paper. “The husband and wife, this Jensen and Wells. They’re quite active in leftish political circles. Peace marches, ban-the-bombing, that sort of thing.”
“That doesn’t have any bearing on their work. I doubt they’ll be organizing the natives.” McAuliff spoke wearily, on purpose. If Warfield intended to raise such “questions,” he wanted the financier to know he thought them irrelevant.
“There is a great deal of political instability in Jamaica; unrest, to be precise. It would not be in our interests for any of your people to be outspoken on such matters.”
McAuliff shifted in his seat and looked at the little old man—tiny lips pursed, the papers held in his thin, bony fingers under the pin spot of yellow light, giving his ancient flesh a sallow color. “Should the occasion arise—and I can’t conceive of it—when the Jensens make political noises, I’ll quiet them. On the other hand, the inclusion of such people might be an asset to you. They’d hardly, knowingly, work for Dunstone.”
“Yes,” said Warfield quietly. “That, too, occurred to us. This chap Ferguson. He ran into trouble with the Craft Foundation.”
“He ran into a potentially vital discovery concerning baracoa fibers, that’s what he ran into. It scared the hell out of Craft and Craft’s funding resources.”
“
We
have no fight with Craft. We don’t want one. The fact that he’s with you could raise eyebrows. Craft’s well thought of in Jamaica.”
“There’s no one as good as Ferguson, certainly not the alternate, and he was the best of those remaining. I’ll keep Ferguson away from Craft.”
“That is essential. We cannot permit him otherwise.”
Charles Whitehall, the black scholar-dandy, was a psychological mess, according to Dunstone’s data banks. Politically he was a conservative, a black conservative who mighthave led the Kingston reactionaries had he remained on the island. But his future was not in Jamaica, and he had recognized it early. He was bitter over the fact. Warfield hastened to add, however, that his negative information was balanced—and more—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 stirring 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
“ ‘Incidental information you might wish to consider’ is a better description.” The old man reached up and snapped on a reading lamp. He then removed several pages from his overcoat, unfolded them, and placed them in front of the envelope. He adjusted his glasses and scanned the top paper. “The husband and wife, this Jensen and Wells. They’re quite active in leftish political circles. Peace marches, ban-the-bombing, that sort of thing.”
“That doesn’t have any bearing on their work. I doubt they’ll be organizing the natives.” McAuliff spoke wearily, on purpose. If Warfield intended to raise such “questions,” he wanted the financier to know he thought them irrelevant.
“There is a great deal of political instability in Jamaica; unrest, to be precise. It would not be in our interests for any of your people to be outspoken on such matters.”
McAuliff shifted in his seat and looked at the little old man—tiny lips pursed, the papers held in his thin, bony fingers under the pin spot of yellow light, giving his ancient flesh a sallow color. “Should the occasion arise—and I can’t conceive of it—when the Jensens make political noises, I’ll quiet them. On the other hand, the inclusion of such people might be an asset to you. They’d hardly, knowingly, work for Dunstone.”
“Yes,” said Warfield quietly. “That, too, occurred to us. This chap Ferguson. He ran into trouble with the Craft Foundation.”
“He ran into a potentially vital discovery concerning baracoa fibers, that’s what he ran into. It scared the hell out of Craft and Craft’s funding resources.”
“
We
have no fight with Craft. We don’t want one. The fact that he’s with you could raise eyebrows. Craft’s well thought of in Jamaica.”
“There’s no one as good as Ferguson, certainly not the alternate, and he was the best of those remaining. I’ll keep Ferguson away from Craft.”
“That is essential. We cannot permit him otherwise.”
Charles Whitehall, the black scholar-dandy, was a psychological mess, according to Dunstone’s data banks. Politically he was a conservative, a black conservative who mighthave led the Kingston reactionaries had he remained on the island. But his future was not in Jamaica, and he had recognized it early. He was bitter over the fact. Warfield hastened to add, however, that his negative information was balanced—and more—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 stirring 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
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