to ask you to have dinner with me.”
“I think that would depend on the degree of relevance you ascribed to my acceptance.” Alison’s voice was polite, but not cold. And there was that lovely humor in her eyes.
“In all honesty, I do make it a point to have dinner or a long lunch, even a fair amount of drinks, with those I’m thinking about hiring. But right now, I’m reluctant to admit it.”
“That’s a very disarming reply, Dr. McAuliff,” she said, her lips parted, laughing her half laugh. “I’d be delighted to have dinner with you.”
“I’ll do my damnedest not to be solicitous. I don’t think it’s necessary at all.”
“And I’m sure you’re never boring.”
“Not relevantly.”
5
M cAuliff stood on the corner of High Holborn and Chancery and looked at his watch. The numbers glowed in the mist-laden London darkness; it was 11:40. Preston’s Rolls-Royce was ten minutes late. Or perhaps it would not appear at all. His instructions were that if the car did not arrive by midnight, he was to return to the Savoy. Another meeting would be scheduled.
There were times when he had to remind himself whose furtive commands he was following, wondering whether he in turn was being followed. It was a degrading way to live, he reflected: the constant awareness that locked a man into a pocket of fear. All the fiction about the shadow world of conspiracy omitted the fundamental indignity intrinsic to that world. There was no essential independence; it was strangling.
This particular evening’s rendezvous with Warfield had necessitated a near-panic call to Hammond, for the British agent had scheduled a meeting himself, for one in the morning. That is, McAuliff had requested it, and Hammond had set the time and the place. And at 10:20 that night the call had come from Dunstone: Be at High Holborn and Chancery at 11:30, an hour and ten minutes from then.
Hammond could not, at first, be found. His highly secret, private telephone at M.I.5 simply did not answer. Alex had been given no other number, and Hammond had told him repeatedly never to call the office and leave his name. Nor was he ever to place a call to the agent from his rooms at the Savoy. Hammond did not trust the switchboards ateither establishment. Nor the open frequencies of cellular phones.
So Alex had to go out onto the Strand, into succeeding pubs and chemists’ shops to public telephones until Hammond’s line answered. He was sure he was being observed—by someone—and thus he had to pretend annoyance each time he hung up after an unanswered call. He found that he had built the fabric of a lie, should Warfield question him. His lie was that he was trying to reach Alison Booth and cancel a lunch date they had for the following day. They did have a lunch date, which he had no intention of canceling, but the story possessed sufficient truth to be valid.
Build on part of the truth
. Attitude and reaction. M.I.5.
Finally, Hammond’s telephone was answered, by a man who stated casually that he had gone out for a late supper.
A late supper! Good God!… Global cartels, international collusion in the highest places, financial conspiracies, and a late supper.
In reasoned tones, as opposed to McAuliff’s anxiety, the man told him that Hammond would be alerted. Alex was not satisfied; he insisted that Hammond be at his telephone—if he had to wait all night—until he, Alex, made contact after the Warfield appointment.
It was 11:45. Still no St. James Rolls-Royce. He looked around at the few pedestrians on High Holborn, walking through the heavy mist. He wondered which, if any, was concerned with him.
The pocket of fear.
He wondered, too, about Alison. They had had dinner for the third night in succession; she had claimed she had a lecture to prepare, and so the evening was cut short. Considering the complications that followed, it was a good thing.
Alison was a strange girl. The professional who covered her vulnerability well; who
“I think that would depend on the degree of relevance you ascribed to my acceptance.” Alison’s voice was polite, but not cold. And there was that lovely humor in her eyes.
“In all honesty, I do make it a point to have dinner or a long lunch, even a fair amount of drinks, with those I’m thinking about hiring. But right now, I’m reluctant to admit it.”
“That’s a very disarming reply, Dr. McAuliff,” she said, her lips parted, laughing her half laugh. “I’d be delighted to have dinner with you.”
“I’ll do my damnedest not to be solicitous. I don’t think it’s necessary at all.”
“And I’m sure you’re never boring.”
“Not relevantly.”
5
M cAuliff stood on the corner of High Holborn and Chancery and looked at his watch. The numbers glowed in the mist-laden London darkness; it was 11:40. Preston’s Rolls-Royce was ten minutes late. Or perhaps it would not appear at all. His instructions were that if the car did not arrive by midnight, he was to return to the Savoy. Another meeting would be scheduled.
There were times when he had to remind himself whose furtive commands he was following, wondering whether he in turn was being followed. It was a degrading way to live, he reflected: the constant awareness that locked a man into a pocket of fear. All the fiction about the shadow world of conspiracy omitted the fundamental indignity intrinsic to that world. There was no essential independence; it was strangling.
This particular evening’s rendezvous with Warfield had necessitated a near-panic call to Hammond, for the British agent had scheduled a meeting himself, for one in the morning. That is, McAuliff had requested it, and Hammond had set the time and the place. And at 10:20 that night the call had come from Dunstone: Be at High Holborn and Chancery at 11:30, an hour and ten minutes from then.
Hammond could not, at first, be found. His highly secret, private telephone at M.I.5 simply did not answer. Alex had been given no other number, and Hammond had told him repeatedly never to call the office and leave his name. Nor was he ever to place a call to the agent from his rooms at the Savoy. Hammond did not trust the switchboards ateither establishment. Nor the open frequencies of cellular phones.
So Alex had to go out onto the Strand, into succeeding pubs and chemists’ shops to public telephones until Hammond’s line answered. He was sure he was being observed—by someone—and thus he had to pretend annoyance each time he hung up after an unanswered call. He found that he had built the fabric of a lie, should Warfield question him. His lie was that he was trying to reach Alison Booth and cancel a lunch date they had for the following day. They did have a lunch date, which he had no intention of canceling, but the story possessed sufficient truth to be valid.
Build on part of the truth
. Attitude and reaction. M.I.5.
Finally, Hammond’s telephone was answered, by a man who stated casually that he had gone out for a late supper.
A late supper! Good God!… Global cartels, international collusion in the highest places, financial conspiracies, and a late supper.
In reasoned tones, as opposed to McAuliff’s anxiety, the man told him that Hammond would be alerted. Alex was not satisfied; he insisted that Hammond be at his telephone—if he had to wait all night—until he, Alex, made contact after the Warfield appointment.
It was 11:45. Still no St. James Rolls-Royce. He looked around at the few pedestrians on High Holborn, walking through the heavy mist. He wondered which, if any, was concerned with him.
The pocket of fear.
He wondered, too, about Alison. They had had dinner for the third night in succession; she had claimed she had a lecture to prepare, and so the evening was cut short. Considering the complications that followed, it was a good thing.
Alison was a strange girl. The professional who covered her vulnerability well; who
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