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

thoughts.”
    “Not necessarily. I’m used to the reaction,” replied Whitehall, sitting down, smoothing his expensive blazer, and crossing his legs, which were encased in pinstriped trousers.
    “Since you don’t waste words, Dr. Whitehall, neither will I. Why are you interested in this survey? As I gather, you can make a great deal more money on the lecture circuit. A geophysical survey isn’t the most lucrative employment.”
    “Let’s say the financial aspects are secondary; one of the few times in my life that they will be, perhaps.” Whitehall spoke while removing a silver cigarette case from his pocket. “To tell you the truth, Mr. McAuliff, there’s a certain ego fulfillment in returning to one’s country as an expert under the aegis of the Royal Historical Society. It’s really as simple as that.”
    Alex believed the man. For, as he read him, Whitehall was a scholar far more honored abroad than at home. It seemed that Charles Whitehall wanted to achieve an acceptance commensurate with his scholarship that had been denied him in the intellectual—or was it social?—houses of Kingston.
    “Are you familiar with the Cock Pit country?”
    “As much as anyone who isn’t a runner. Historically and culturally, much more so, of course.”
    “What’s a runner?”
    “Runners are hill people. From the mountain communities. They hire out as guides, when you can find one.They’re primitives, really. Who have you hired for the survey?”
    “What?” Alex’s thoughts were on runners.
    “I asked who was going with you. On the survey team. I’d be interested.”
    “Well … not all the posts have been filled. There’s a couple named Jensen—ores and paleo; a young botanist, Ferguson. An American friend of mine, a soil analyst, name of Sam Tucker.”
    “I’ve heard of Jensen, I believe. I’m not sure, but I think so. I don’t know the others.”
    “Did you expect to?”
    “Frankly, yes. Royal Society projects generally attract very high-caliber people.” Whitehall delicately tapped his cigarette on the rim of an ashtray.
    “Such as yourself?” asked McAuliff, smiling.
    “I’m not modest,” replied the black scholar, returning Alex’s smile with an open grin. “And I’m very much interested. I think I could be of service to you.”
    So did McAuliff.
    The second shale-bedrock analyst was listed as A. Gerrard Booth. Booth was a university applicant personally recommended by Ralston in the following manner:
    “I promised Booth I’d bring these papers and articles to your attention. I do believe Booth would be a fine asset to the survey.”
    Professor Ralston had given McAuliff a folder filled with A. Gerrard Booth’s studies of sheet strata in such diverse locations as Turkey, Corsica, Zaire, and Australia. Alex recalling having read several of the articles in
National Geologist
, and remembered them as lucid and professional. Booth was good; Booth was better than good.
    Booth was also a woman. A. Gerrard Booth was known to her colleagues as Alison; no one bothered with the middle name.
    She had one of the most genuine smiles McAuliff had ever seen. It was more a half laugh—one might even say masculine, but the word was contradicted by her complete femininity. Her eyes were blue and alive and level, the eyesof a professional. Her handshake was firm, again professional. Her light brown hair was long and soft and slightly waved—brushed repeatedly, thought Alex, for the interview. Her age was anywhere from late twenties to middle thirties; there was no way to tell by observation, except that there were laugh lines at the corners of her eyes.
    Alison Booth was not only good and a woman; she was also, at least on first meeting, a very attractive, outgoing person. The term “professional” kept recurring to McAuliff as they spoke.
    “I made Roily—Dr. Ralston—promise to omit the fact that I was a woman. Don’t hold him responsible.”
    “Were you so convinced I was antifeminist?”
    She