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Authors: Robert Ludlum
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living?”
“No. And I didn’t ask her.”
“Yes … well, I think you should know. David Booth is from a socially prominent family—viscount status, actually—that hasn’t had the cash flow of a pound sterling for ageneration. He is a partner in an export-import firm whose books indicate a barely passable subsistence. Yet Mr. Booth lives extremely well. Several homes—here and on the Continent—drives expensive cars, belongs to the better clubs. Contradictory, isn’t it?”
“I’d say so. How does he do it?”
“Narcotics,” said Julian Warfield, as if he had just given the time of day. “David Booth is a courier for Franco-American interests operating out of Corsica and Marseilles.”
For the next few moments both men were silent. McAuliff understood the implication, and finally spoke. “Mrs. Booth was on surveys in Corsica, Zaire, and Turkey. You’re suggesting that she’s involved.”
“Possibly; not likely. If so, unwittingly. After all, she did divorce the chap. What we are saying is that she undoubtedly learned of her husband’s involvement; she’s afraid to remain in England. We don’t think she plans to return.”
Again, there was silence, until McAuliff broke it.
“When you say ‘afraid,’ I presume you mean she’s been threatened.”
“Quite possibly. Whatever she knows could be damaging. Booth didn’t take the divorce action very well. Not from the point of view of affection—he’s quite a womanizer—but, we suspect, for reasons related to his travels.” Warfield refolded the pages and put them back into his overcoat pocket.
“Well,” said Alex, “that’s quite a … minor explosion. I’m not sure I’m ready for it.”
“I gave you this information on Mrs. Booth because we thought you’d find out for yourself. We wanted to prepare you, not to dissuade you.”
McAuliff turned sharply and looked at Warfield. “You want her along because she might … might possibly be valuable to you. And not for geological reasons.”
Easy, McAuliff. Easy!
“Anything is conceivable in these complicated times.”
“I don’t like it!”
“You haven’t thought about it. It is our opinion that she’s infinitely safer in Jamaica than in London. You are concerned,aren’t you? You’ve seen her frequently during the past week.”
“I don’t like being followed, either.” It was all Alex could think to say.
“Whatever was done was minimal and for your protection,” replied Warfield quickly.
“Against what? For Christ’s sake, protection from whom?” McAuliff stared at the little old man, realizing how much he disliked him. He wondered if Warfield would be any more explicit than Hammond on the subject of protection. Or would he admit the existence of a prior Jamaican survey? “I think I have a right to be told,” he added angrily.
“You shall be. First, however, I should like to show you these papers. I trust everything will be to your satisfaction.” Warfield lifted the flap of the unsealed envelope and withdrew several thin pages stapled together on top of a single page of stationery. They were onionskin carbons of his lengthy letter of agreement signed in Belgrave Square over a week ago. 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 Manhattan 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 $1,270,000.
He looked over at Warfield. “My first payment was to have been twenty-five percent 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
“No. And I didn’t ask her.”
“Yes … well, I think you should know. David Booth is from a socially prominent family—viscount status, actually—that hasn’t had the cash flow of a pound sterling for ageneration. He is a partner in an export-import firm whose books indicate a barely passable subsistence. Yet Mr. Booth lives extremely well. Several homes—here and on the Continent—drives expensive cars, belongs to the better clubs. Contradictory, isn’t it?”
“I’d say so. How does he do it?”
“Narcotics,” said Julian Warfield, as if he had just given the time of day. “David Booth is a courier for Franco-American interests operating out of Corsica and Marseilles.”
For the next few moments both men were silent. McAuliff understood the implication, and finally spoke. “Mrs. Booth was on surveys in Corsica, Zaire, and Turkey. You’re suggesting that she’s involved.”
“Possibly; not likely. If so, unwittingly. After all, she did divorce the chap. What we are saying is that she undoubtedly learned of her husband’s involvement; she’s afraid to remain in England. We don’t think she plans to return.”
Again, there was silence, until McAuliff broke it.
“When you say ‘afraid,’ I presume you mean she’s been threatened.”
“Quite possibly. Whatever she knows could be damaging. Booth didn’t take the divorce action very well. Not from the point of view of affection—he’s quite a womanizer—but, we suspect, for reasons related to his travels.” Warfield refolded the pages and put them back into his overcoat pocket.
“Well,” said Alex, “that’s quite a … minor explosion. I’m not sure I’m ready for it.”
“I gave you this information on Mrs. Booth because we thought you’d find out for yourself. We wanted to prepare you, not to dissuade you.”
McAuliff turned sharply and looked at Warfield. “You want her along because she might … might possibly be valuable to you. And not for geological reasons.”
Easy, McAuliff. Easy!
“Anything is conceivable in these complicated times.”
“I don’t like it!”
“You haven’t thought about it. It is our opinion that she’s infinitely safer in Jamaica than in London. You are concerned,aren’t you? You’ve seen her frequently during the past week.”
“I don’t like being followed, either.” It was all Alex could think to say.
“Whatever was done was minimal and for your protection,” replied Warfield quickly.
“Against what? For Christ’s sake, protection from whom?” McAuliff stared at the little old man, realizing how much he disliked him. He wondered if Warfield would be any more explicit than Hammond on the subject of protection. Or would he admit the existence of a prior Jamaican survey? “I think I have a right to be told,” he added angrily.
“You shall be. First, however, I should like to show you these papers. I trust everything will be to your satisfaction.” Warfield lifted the flap of the unsealed envelope and withdrew several thin pages stapled together on top of a single page of stationery. They were onionskin carbons of his lengthy letter of agreement signed in Belgrave Square over a week ago. 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 Manhattan 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 $1,270,000.
He looked over at Warfield. “My first payment was to have been twenty-five percent 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
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