The Cry of the Halidon by Robert Ludlum Read Free Book Online

reputation precedes you.”
    “From the Balkans to Australia,” added Ruth Wells Jensen, her expression showing minor irritation with her husband. “And if you have a separate arrangement, it’s none of Peter’s bloody business.”
    Alex laughed softly. “You’re kind, both of you. But there’s nothing special. I got caught, it’s as simple as that. I’ve worked for companies on the island; I hope to again. Often. All geophysical certificates are issued by Kingston, and Kingston asked for me. Let’s call it an investment.”
    Again McAuliff watched Peter Jensen closely; he had rehearsed the answer. The Britisher looked once more at his wife. Briefly. Then he chuckled, as he had done seconds before.
    “I’d do the same, chap. But God help the survey
I
was director on.”
    “It’s one I’d avoid like a May Day in Trafalgar,” said Ruth, matching her husband’s quiet laugh. “Who have you set, if it’s proper to ask? Anyone we might know?”
    “Nobody yet. I’ve really just started—”
    “Well,” interrupted Peter Jensen, his eyes alive with humor, “since you suffer from inadequate freight charges, I should tell you we’d rather not be separated. Somewhat used to each other by now. If you’re interested in one of us, the other would take half till to straggle along.”
    Whatever doubts remained for Alex were dispelled by Ruth Wells Jensen’s words. She mimicked her husband’sprofessorial tones with good-natured accuracy. “Half till, old chap, can be negotiated. Our flat’s damned cold this time of year.”
    The Jensens would be hired.
    The third nonuniversity name, James Ferguson, had been accurately described by Ralston as outspoken and opinionated. These traits, however, were the results of energy and impatience, it seemed to McAuliff. Ferguson was young—twenty-six—and was not the sort to survive, much less thrive, in an academic environment. Alex recognized in Ferguson much of his younger self: consummate interest in his subject, intolerance of the research world in which it was studied. A contradiction, if not a conflict of objectives. Ferguson freelanced for agro-industry companies, and his best recommendation was that he rarely was out of work in a market not famous for excessive employment. James Ferguson was one of the best vegetation specialists around.
    “I’d love to get back to Jamaica,” said the young man within seconds after the preliminary interview began. “I was in Port Maria for the Craft Foundation two years ago. It’s my judgment the whole bloody island is a gold mine if the fruit and synthetic industries would allow development.”
    “What’s the gold?” asked McAuliff.
    “The baracoa fibers. In the second growth stages. A banana strain could be developed that would send the nylon and the tricot boys into panic, to say nothing of the fruit shippers.”
    “Can you prove it?”
    “Damn near did,
I
think. That’s why I was thrown out by the Foundation.”
    “You were thrown out?”
    “Quite unceremoniously. No sense hiding the fact; don’t care to, really. They told me to stick to business. Can you imagine? You’ll probably run across a few negatives about me, if you’re interested.”
    “I’m interested, Mr. Ferguson.”
    The interview with Charles Whitehall disturbed McAuliff. That was to say, the man disturbed him, not the qualityof information received. Whitehall was a black cynic, a now-Londoner whose roots and expertise were in the West Indies but whose outlook was aggressively self-perpetuating. His appearance startled McAuliff. For a man who had written three volumes of Caribbean history, whose work was, in Ralston’s words, “the standard reference,” Charles Whitehall looked barely as old as James Ferguson.
    “Don’t let my appearance fool you, Mr. McAuliff,” said Whitehall, upon entering the cubicle and extending his hand to Alex. “My tropic hue covers the years better than paler skin. I’m forty-two years old.”
    “You read my