'Is she all right?' Buchanan asked.
Doyle shook his head. 'After we left, she threw up her lunch. She felt so weak she had to lie down. She's been sleeping all afternoon.'
'Did any strangers phone her or come around and bother her?'
'No.'
'Then why was the house locked?'
Doyle looked confused by the question. 'Well, obviously so she'd feel safe while she was napping.'
'Sure,' Buchanan said. 'But when you got here, you were surprised to find the door locked. You assumed she'd gone somewhere, which means she's not in the habit of locking the door while she's home.' Buchanan walked toward him. 'And that means the reason she locked the door is I'm here. She senses I brought trouble. And she's right. I did bring trouble. I don't belong here. You can't worry about me while you're worried about-'
The ringing of the phone seemed extra-loud.
Doyle flinched.
Buchanan gestured for him to pick it up. 'This is your house. If I answer, it'll seem unusual. We have to pretend everything's normal. Hurry, before Cindy-'
Doyle grabbed the phone. 'Hello?. Who is this? What do you want him for?. Listen, you son of a bitch. My wife might have answered. If you bother her, if-'
It's going to pieces quickly, Buchanan thought. We're almost to the point where anybody listening to a recording of what we said would have to wonder if I'm really the man I claim to be. He motioned sharply for Doyle to be quiet and wrested the phone from him. 'I told you to stop.'
'Crawford, your buddy sounds as if he's losin' it,' Bailey said. 'I guess that's because his wife is sick, huh? Too bad. A nice-lookin' gal like that.'
Yeah, you did your homework, Buchanan thought. You've been watching. You must have flown to Miami right after I did. You drove to Fort Lauderdale and staked out where I'm supposed to be working. You found out where the man who pretends to employ me lives. You waited for me to get out of the hospital, and if I didn't show up for work, that would prove I wasn't who I claimed to be. Then you could really make trouble.
'A hundred-thousand dollars. Tomorrow, Crawford. If you don't think I'm serious, you're in for a surprise. Because, believe me, I will call the cops.'
At once, Buchanan heard the dial tone.
Pensive, he set down the phone.
Doyle's face was crimson. 'Don't ever yank a phone out of my hand.'
'Jack, honey?'
They spun.
Cindy wavered at the entrance to the kitchen. She gripped the doorjamb. Her skin was pale. The black-and-red handkerchief had slipped, exposing her hairless scalp. 'Who was that? Who were you yelling at?'
Doyle's throat made a sound as if he were being choked. He crossed the room and held her.
11
The Intracoastal Waterway stretches along the eastern United States from Boston to Brownsville, Texas. An inland shipping route composed of linked rivers, canals, lagoons, bays, and sounds, it runs parallel to the Atlantic Ocean and is protected from the severity of the ocean's waves and weather by buffering strips of land. In the north, it is used mostly by commercial vessels, but in the south, particularly in Florida, the waterway's major traffic is composed of pleasure craft, and one of its most attractive sections is at Fort Lauderdale.
At eight a.m., Buchanan parked Doyle's van at the side of Bon Voyage, Inc. and unlocked the building. The previous night, he had driven to a shopping mall, where he had used a pay phone in a bar to get in touch with his controllers. Now, as the sun's heat strengthened, he carried several boxes of electronic components to a powerboat that Doyle kept moored at the dock behind the office. Buchanan's wounded shoulder throbbed and his injured head felt caught in a vice due to exertion, forcing him to make several trips. But at last he had the boxes safely stowed, and after locking the building, he unmoored the boat and steered it from the canal into the long expanse of the waterway.
Restaurants, hotels, and condominium buildings flanked it on each side. So did many luxurious homes whose spacious grounds were landscaped with shrubs and palm trees. No matter what type of building stood along each shore, however, docks and boats were constant. Following Doyle's instructions, Buchanan headed south, admired a three-masted sailboat that passed him going the opposite way, and studied a mural of dolphins that someone had painted along the concrete buttress of a bridge. He pretended to enjoy the breeze and the bracing salt-smell of the water. At no time did he stare behind him to see if he was being followed. It was essential that he appear to be innocent, untutored in such matters, and that he not seem preoccupied by Bailey's threats. Bailey had phoned twice more, at midnight and at two a.m., in each case waking Cindy. Furious, Doyle had disconnected the phones, the fierce look in his eyes disturbing. The more Buchanan thought about it, the more he realized that Bailey wasn't his only problem.
Continuing south in accordance with Doyle's instructions, Buchanan passed beneath more bridges, pretending to admire other buildings and boats, and finally steered to the east toward an exclusive area of docks called Pier 66. It took him a while to find the right section, but at last he came abreast of a one-hundred-foot, dark-wood yacht called Clementine, where two men and a woman stood from deck chairs and peered down at him from the stern. One of the men was tall and trim with severe features and short, graying hair. In his fifties, he wore white slacks and a monogrammed, green, silk shirt. The second man was younger, in his forties, less tall, less expensively dressed, and more muscular. The woman, a blonde, was in her thirties and gorgeous. She wore a short, blue, terrycloth robe that was open and revealed a stunningly filled, red bikini, the glossy color of which matched her lipstick.
The tall man, obviously in charge, asked, 'Are you from.?'
'Bon Voyage, Inc.,' Buchanan answered. He removed his Ray-Ban sunglasses and his Miami Dolphins cap so they could have a better look at him. 'I've got the equipment you ordered. I was told this was a good time to install it.'
'Bring it aboard,' the tall man said. He gestured for the younger, muscular man -evidently a bodyguard - to help.
Buchanan threw up a bow and stern line so the powerboat could be held steady, a thick rubber rim along its gunwales preventing the boat from scratching the yacht. Then he handed the boxes to the bodyguard, all the while ignoring his lightheadedness and the pain in his wounded shoulder, taking care to maintain his balance as the powerboat tilted slightly. The bodyguard dropped a rope ladder. When Buchanan climbed on deck, he tried not to look at the woman.
'Where does the equipment go?'
'Through here,' the bodyguard said. He pointed toward a cabin in the stern, and this time he didn't bother to help Buchanan carry the boxes.
Inside the compartment, which had mahogany walls, antique furnishings, and a baby grand piano, Buchanan stacked the boxes, watched the muscular man close the entrance, noticed that the draperies were already closed, and waited. He didn't know how they wanted to do this.
'Captain,' the tall, severe man said.
So it would be formal.
'Colonel.' Buchanan saluted.
'This is Major Putnam.' The tall man gestured toward the muscular man pretending to be a bodyguard. 'And this is Captain Weller.' He gestured toward the woman, who had closed her robe the instant she was out of sight from anyone observing the yacht.
'Major. Captain.' Buchanan saluted them both.
'Now what the hell is going on?' the colonel demanded. 'These past few days have been an administrative nightmare, a political minefield. Langley is having a fit about the screwup in Cancun. Your exposure to the Mexican authorities and our embassy down there could have jeopardized, not to mention exposed, everything.'
'Sir, I assumed you'd been informed about what happened in Mexico. When I was in the hospital, I was debriefed.'
'By the Agency. I prefer to get my information not from civilians but from one of my own.'
It took ninety minutes. Periodically Buchanan was interrupted and asked to expand on a detail. As his report became more current, his debriefers became more somber.
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'A hundred-thousand dollars,' the colonel said.
'I assume it wouldn't satisfy him,' Buchanan said. 'Once he got me to pay and incriminate myself, he'd keep coming back for more and more.'
'Bailey's on a fishing expedition,' the muscular man, Major Putnam, said. 'Unless you pay, he's got nothing.'
The colonel studied Buchanan. 'Is that what you think, Captain?'
'Bailey's crude, but he isn't a fool, sir. He's caught me playing three different identities. He knows there's something not right about me, even though he can't prove it. So he's testing me to see if I'll panic and give him the proof he needs.'
'Well, obviously you're not going to panic,' Major Putnam said. 'He's wasting his time.'
The gorgeous woman, Captain Weller, finally spoke. 'But Bailey can still play hell with the operation if he decides to make good on his threat and talk to reporters and the police.'
Buchanan gestured. 'True. The police have got problems enough right here without bothering themselves about killings in Mexico. But multiple identities might be sexy enough to attract their attention, and if they decide I'm a drug dealer, if they call in the DEA and the FBI.'
'Your cover documents are perfect,' the colonel said. 'Hell, your passport came directly from the State Department. So did all the others. And each of your files is erased after you discard that identity. The DEA and the FBI wouldn't learn squat. As far as the records are concerned, there's no way to tie Jim Crawford and Ed Potter to Victor Grant.'
'Still,' the woman persisted, 'Captain Buchanan would be exposed to considerable official attention and in effect taken out of duty.'
The colonel tapped his fingers together. 'I agree. So the question is, what do we do with our inconvenient Mr Bailey? It's an admission of guilt to pay him. But if the captain ignores him and Bailey calls the authorities, the FBI might put the captain under surveillance.'
'The stakes are important enough,' the woman said, 'we have to consider the possibility.'
The colonel looked puzzled. 'Say what's on your mind.'
'Should Bailey be terminated?'
The cabin became silent.
The muscular man finally spoke. 'I'd be reluctant to advise sanctioning it. After all, termination can cause more problems than it solves. For one thing, we don't know if Bailey has someone working with him. If he does, the threat won't go away with Bailey's death. In fact, it'll get worse because the accomplice could use Bailey's death as an additional means with which to try to interest the police.'
'If. Damn it, if,' the colonel said impatiently. 'We don't have enough information. Major, I want our people to do a thorough background check on Bailey. I want to know who we're dealing with. Also, I want the local hotels and boarding houses checked. Find out where he's staying. Put him under surveillance. Maybe he doesn't have an accomplice. In that case, if he persists in causing trouble.'
They waited.
'. termination might not be out of the question,' the colonel said.
Again the cabin became silent.
'Sir, with respect, a background check on Bailey will take a lot of time,' Buchanan said. 'So will establishing surveillance on him. But there isn't time. Bailey said he wants his money today. He was emphatic about that. I assume he's rushing things to prevent me from having the opportunity to move against him. However we deal with him, it has to be done by tonight.'
They looked uncomfortable.
'And there's another problem,' Buchanan said.
The colonel looked even more uncomfortable. 'Oh?'
'Jack Doyle.'
'You have reservations about him?'
'I'm sure he was a damned fine soldier,' Buchanan said.
'He was,' the colonel said. 'And the contract work he's done for us has been equally impressive.'
'Well, he's not the same man,' Buchanan said. 'His wife has cancer. She isn't responding to treatment. She's probably going to die.'
'Die?' The colonel's face tightened. 'I read about her illness in the file, but there was nothing about an imminent fatality.'
'It probably isn't imminent,' Buchanan said. 'But Doyle's extremely protective of her. Understandably. He's under a great deal of stress. He thinks Bailey is a threat to her. He. Let's put it this way. I believe Doyle will lose control sufficiently to attack him if Bailey keeps phoning the house and putting on pressure and disturbing Doyle's wife, especially if Bailey comes near the house. I have to get out of Fort Lauderdale, far away from Jack Doyle and his wife. Because if Doyle does attack Bailey, it won't be planned, and it won't be tidy. The attack will be absolute, and it won't be something we could cover up. God only knows what the authorities would learn about Doyle's background and his contract work for you as they prepared to go to trial.'
'Shit,' the muscular man said.
'That's what I've been thinking,' Buchanan said. 'I landed in a real mess. I think Victor Grant ought to move on.'
'But wouldn't that be the same as an admission of guilt?' the woman asked. 'Wouldn't that make Bailey all the more determined to hound you?'
'He'd have to find me first. And after I disappeared, after I assumed a new identity, he'd never be able to.'
'That still leaves Jack Doyle,' the major said. 'Bailey could come back and put pressure on Doyle.'
'Doyle's story then becomes that he doesn't know anything about me, except that I'm an old military friend who showed up three months ago and asked for work. Doyle complains to the police about Bailey's harassment. Finally Doyle and his wife take a trip - courtesy of some former friends - to a vacation spot that has an excellent cancer-treatment facility.'
'Possibly,' the colonel said, pensively tapping his fingers on the sides of his chair. 'That's certainly one option that we'll consider.' He glanced at his watch. 'We'll discuss it thoroughly. For now, you'd better leave. If someone's watching the yacht, it'll seem unusual that all of us are inside this long.' He glanced at the woman in the bathing suit and the man who might have been a bodyguard. 'It's important to maintain cover.'
'But what about Bailey?' Buchanan asked.
'We'll give you our decision later.'
'Sir, there isn't much time.'
'We know that, Captain.' The colonel looked irritated. 'I said we'll get back to you.'
'But in the meanwhile, what do I do?'
'Isn't it obvious? Whatever you think Victor Grant would do.'
The answer was vague and slippery. Buchanan suddenly felt apprehensive.
12
Favoring his wounded right arm, Buchanan climbed down the rope ladder into the powerboat. The moment he'd emerged from the shadowy cabin into the glaring sunlight, his head had started pounding again. He put on his cap and sunglasses while the two men and the woman peered down at him, the latter again opening her blue, terrycloth robe to reveal the stunningly filled, red bikini of the rich enchantress she was portraying.
'Just send us the bill,' the colonel said.
'Yes, sir. Thanks.' Buchanan caught the bow and stern lines that the major tossed to him. Then he started the powerboat's engine and steered away from the yacht.
Tension cramped his muscles.
Jesus, he thought. They don't know what to do. I need a decision, and they didn't give me one. I can't act without orders. But if I don't hear from them by tonight, how am I going to stall Bailey?
Preoccupied, Buchanan drove past a dock on one side and a palm-tree-shaded mansion on the other, approaching the end of a canal, about to re-enter the expanse of the waterway. Abruptly the problem of Bailey became more immediate. Buchanan's veins swelled from sudden pressure, for ahead, on his left, near a channel marker, Bailey sat in a powerboat similar to Buchanan's, its engine off, the boat motionless except for the bobbing caused by the wake of passing vessels. He wore an orange, FORT LAUDERDALE IS THE GREATEST BEACH IN THE WORLD T-shirt and was leaning back in the seat behind the wheel, his canvas shoes up on the console, one beefy arm spread out as if he were relaxing on a sofa while with his other hand he smoked a cigarette.
Bailey drew his hand across his brushcut, smiled, and tossed his cigarette into the water.
Buchanan eased farther back on the throttle, noticing the camera with the telephoto lens that was slung around Bailey's massive neck.
Buchanan's instructions had been to do exactly what Victor Grant would do, and right now, he decided, Victor Grant wasn't going to ignore this son of a bitch.
He steered toward Bailey, pulled the throttle back all the way, felt the bow sink, floated next to Bailey, and grabbed the side of his boat.
'How ya doin', Crawford?'
'How many times do I have to tell you? My name isn't Crawford.'
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