Buchanan shook his head. 'But why would he think he'd be treated as a crank?'
'Because he and Maria Tomez had a very public and very nasty divorce. He's been badmouthing her ever since. He recently filed a lawsuit against her, claiming she lied about her financial assets when they divided their property during the divorce. He insists he has a right to ten million dollars. Naturally the police might think she dropped out of sight to avoid him. But the ex-husband swears he honestly believes something has happened to her.'
Holly gave Buchanan a page from the previous day's Washington Post and a photocopy of a profile in the Post's Sunday magazine from five years earlier. Buchanan scanned the newspaper story and the profile. The ex-husband, Frederick Maltin, had been an agent who discovered Maria Tomez when she was twenty-two, starring in a production of Tosca in Mexico City. While a few male Hispanics, Placido Domingo, for example, had achieved significant careers in opera, no Hispanic female had ever had similar success. Until Maria Tomez. Indeed, despite her talent and fiery stage presence, the fact that she was Mexican had worked against her, relegating her to regional operas, mostly in South America. Traditionally, female opera stars got their training in Europe and America. For Tomez to have been trained in Mexico meant that she was combating a professional prejudice when she auditioned for major opera companies in the United States and Italy.
But Frederick Maltin, who had been on vacation in Mexico, had been enchanted from the moment he first heard Maria Tomez sing. He had sent flowers to her dressing room after the performance, along with his business card and his Mexico City telephone number. When he received a call the next morning, he considered it significant that the call had come so early and that it was Maria herself who had called, not her representative. Which tended to suggest that she either didn't have a representative or else didn't have confidence that the representative would contact him at her request. Professionally speaking, she was available.
Maltin invited her to lunch. They continued their conversation after an afternoon rehearsal and later, at dinner, after an evening performance of a different opera, Rigoletto. As Maltin repeatedly emphasized, in those days Maria's schedule had been brutal, and he had sworn to her that if she agreed to let him represent her, he would change all that. He would make her a worldwide opera phenomenon. He would arrange it so that she performed only where and when she wanted to. Two years later, he had achieved his promise.
They married in the interim, and working relentlessly on her behalf, advising her about her clothes, her hairstyle, and her makeup, insisting that she lose weight, hiring a physical trainer to give her body definition, calling in every favor owed to him by anyone of influence in the opera world, Maltin promoted Maria Tomez as a singer in the passionate tradition of Maria Callas and Teresa Stratas. The former was Italian, the latter Greek, and Maltin's genius was in making his client's weakness her strength, in making audiences associate Maria Tomez with those divas because of a common denominator they shared, their ethnic origins. For Maria Tomez at least, it suddenly became fashionable to be Hispanic. Out of curiosity, European audiences came to hear her sing. Impressed, they stayed. Enthusiastic, they kept attending her other performances. After Frederick Maltin finished creating her public image, Maria Tomez never had any performance that wasn't a sell-out.
Buchanan rubbed his throbbing forehead. 'This guy Maltin sounds like a cross between Svengali and Professor Henry Higgins.'
'That's why the marriage failed,' Holly said. 'He wouldn't stop controlling her. He supervised everything she did. He dominated so much that she felt smothered. She endured it for as long as she could. Then fifteen years after she met him, she abruptly left him. It's almost as if something inside her snapped. She retired from performing. She went into seclusion, making occasional public appearances, mostly keeping to herself.'
'This started.' Buchanan picked up the newspaper article to jog his memory. 'She divorced him six months ago, a few months after she took up with Alistair Drummond. But why would a comparatively young woman - what is she? thirty-seven now? - choose a man in his eighties?'
'Maybe Drummond makes no demands. I know that seems out of character for him. But maybe he just wants to shelter her in exchange for the pleasure of her company.'
'So she went into seclusion, and now her ex-husband claims she's disappeared altogether.' Buchanan frowned. 'He could be wrong, or he could be lying. He's an expert in publicity, after all. He could be trying to attract so much attention that to get any peace, she'll have to deal with his claims about the property settlement.'
'Or maybe something really happened to her.'
'But what?' Buchanan became impatient. 'And what does that have to do with Juana? Was Juana protecting her? Are they both hiding somewhere? Are they...?' He was about to say'dead,' but the word stuck in his throat, making him feel choked.
Someone knocked on the door. Buchanan spun.
'Room service,' a man's voice said from the hallway.
Buchanan breathed out. 'Okay.' He glanced toward Holly and lowered his voice. 'In case this is trouble, take your camera bag and the briefcase. Hide in the closet.'
Holly's brow knotted with worry.
'I think everything will be fine. It's only a precaution,' Buchanan said. 'Here, don't forget your coat and hat.'
'I asked you before. How do you stand living this way?'
After shutting the closet, Buchanan approached the room's entrance, peering through the small lens in the door, seeing the distorted image of a man in a hotel uniform next to a room-service cart in the hallway.
Buchanan no longer had his handgun. Having traveled with it from Fort Lauderdale to Washington to New Orleans to San Antonio, he'd finally been forced to throw it down a storm drain. His trainers had emphasized - never keep a weapon that links you to a crime. Plus, the urgency of his self-imposed deadline had required him to use a commercial airline to get back to Washington, and he wasn't about to risk getting caught with a handgun in an airport.
With no other weapon but his body, Buchanan concealed his tension and opened the door. 'Sorry I took so long.'
'No problem.' The man from room service wheeled in the cart. A minute later, he'd turned the cart into a table and set out the food.
Wary about having to compromise his hands, Buchanan signed the bill and added a fifteen percent tip.
'Thanks, Mr Duffy.'
'Don't mention it.'
Buchanan locked the door behind the waiter. Slowly he relaxed and exhaled.
Holly emerged from the closet, her features strained. 'I guess in your line of work you have to distrust everybody.'
'I was taught early - a person's either on the team or not.'
'And if not?'
'There aren't any innocent bystanders.'
'Cynical.'
'Practical.'
'And what about me?'
Buchanan took a long time answering. 'You're not a bystander.'
10
Buchanan had ordered pasta primavera for both of them. Now, instead of eating, he glanced at his watch, saw that it was ten o'clock, and went to the phone. Before leaving San Antonio, he and Pedro Mendez had chosen a pay phone near where Pedro worked. Buchanan had instructed Pedro to be waiting next to the phone at nine - ten o'clock in Washington. An enemy could not have anticipated that location and eavesdropped on the line when Buchanan called to make certain that there hadn't been any trouble after the prisoners were released.
Pedro had been told to use English if he was being pressured. To Buchanan's relief, he used Spanish.
'Any problems?'
'The men followed the agreement,' Pedro said. 'When I let them go, they did not harm us.'
Buchanan imagined the courage that Pedro and Anita had required in order to go through with their part of the bargain.
'But I do not think they are far away,' Pedro said. 'I have to believe that they are nearby, watching us.'
'I think so, too,' Buchanan said. 'I never believed them when they said they'
d leave town. Don't remove the microphones from your house. Do everything as usual. The two things protecting you are that they believe you don't know anything about your daughter's whereabouts, and that they need you alive and well in case Juana tries to get in touch with you. If they harm you, they're destroying a potential link with her. Pedro, I need to ask you a question. It might have something to do with Juana, but I want you to think carefully before you let me ask it. Because if it helps explain why Juana disappeared, you'll be putting yourself in danger. You'll have exactly the kind of information that whoever's trying to find Juana needs to know.'
The line was silent for a moment.
'I don't have a choice,' Pedro said. 'If this is about my daughter, if it might help her, I must do my best to answer your question.'
Buchanan's respect for Pedro kept increasing. 'Does the name "Maria Tomez" mean anything to you? Did Juana ever mention her? Does Maria Tomez have anything to do with-?'
'Of course,' Pedro said. 'The singer. I don't know anything about opera, but I saw her perform. A year ago, she came to San Antonio to sing at HemisFair.' Pedro referred to one of San Antonio's main attractions. The site of the 1968 world's fair, it had been converted into a cultural-athletic complex, linked to the city by a canal. 'I remember because that was one of the few times Juana told us anything about her work. She was hired to do the security for the performance. In fact, she gave us front-row seats. I didn't want to go, but Anita made me, and I was surprised that I liked it. I don't remember the name of the opera. It was about students living in slums. Maria Tomez played somebody who was dying from a disease. The words were in Italian, but Spanish is close enough to Italian that I understood. Maria Tomez sang like an angel. I was stunned. But what does this have to do with Juana and what happened to her? How would an opera singer who came here a year ago.?'
'I don't know yet. Listen carefully, Pedro. From time to time, I'll phone your office to make sure no one's bothering you. I'll use the name "Ben Clark". Can you remember that? Ben Clark. I'll ask about a Ford you're supposed to be repairing. If you tell me it'll cost a lot of money to fix, I'll know you're in trouble, and I'll get there as soon as I can to help you.'
'. Ben Clark.'
'Right. Take care, Pedro.'
'Jeff Walker, whoever you are, thank you.'
Exactly, Buchanan thought as he set down the phone. Whoever I am.
When he turned, he saw Holly watching him.
'What's the matter? Why are you looking at me like that?'
'Ben Clark? A Ford? In this room, you're Charles Duffy. Downstairs, you're Mike Hamilton. You mentioned something about Peter Lang. That doesn't include. How the hell do you keep it all straight?'
'Sometimes I wonder.' To avoid the topic, he sat down and started eating, not realizing how ravenous he was until the first bite of food hit his stomach. During his phone call, the pasta had gotten cold. It didn't matter. He couldn't get enough of it.
Holly set down her fork. 'You've been constantly on the go since you left the hospital,'
Buchanan kept eating, trying to ignore his headache.
'Don't you think it's time you slowed down?'
'Can't. As soon as we finish eating, I'll get you out of the hotel. Then I have to take a trip.'
'Where?'
'It's better if you don't know.'
'You don't trust me? After I proved I want to help? You said I was on the team.'
'It's not a matter of trust. What you don't know won't hurt you -and it won't hurt me if.'
'What you're trying not to say is if I'm questioned, I can't give away your next move.'
Buchanan swallowed a piece of bread and stared at her. 'The men watching you have nothing to do with what happened to Juana. But if they see us together, they'll assume you're back on the story about them, and they'll do everything they can to protect themselves.'
'Now you've done it.' Holly shuddered.
'What?'
'Scared me again. Just when I get to feeling normal, you remind me.'
'Nothing is ever normal.'
'Right. I keep forgetting.'
11
Buchanan went with her down the fire stairs to the third-floor landing. Her instructions were to take the elevator from that floor down to the lobby. That way, to anyone watching the numbers above the elevator in the lobby, it would seem that Holly had been in Mike Hamilton's third-floor room all evening. 'If anybody stops you, tell them to leave you alone or you'll call a cop. But if it gets serious, tell them a version of the truth. You're doing a story on the Maria Tomez disappearance and whether there's some connection between Tomez and Drummond. If they pressure you about Mike Hamilton, tell them he's a confidential source who works for Drummond. Tell them the man contacted you, using a false name. He's a disgruntled employee. He wants to make trouble for Drummond, but he doesn't want the trouble to be traced to him. So far he hasn't been much use.'
At the third-floor fire stairs, Buchanan motioned for Holly to wait while he checked that the corridor was safe. After peering cautiously out the door, he stepped back, his expression concerned enough to make Holly frown.
He motioned for her to follow. 'We have to hurry. Two men are outside Mike Hamilton's room.'
Before leaving 512, Buchanan had packed, made sure that the books and research files were in his travel bag, and filled out an early check-out form, putting it on the bed. A note explained that Mike Hamilton was checking out, too, but that as agreed all expenses were to be on Charles Duffy's credit card. 'I don't want any more people looking for me than necessary. Quickly. Let's go.'
He hurried with Holly down the fire stairs to the exit for the lobby. 'Wait until some people get off the elevator. Go out behind them. Where do you live?'
She told him.
'I'll leave a minute after you. I'll take a taxi, and if I'm not followed, I'll have the driver go past your place. By then, your own taxi should have brought you home. Leave a light on behind an open window in front. If I see that a window's open, I'll know you're okay.'
'Taxi? I brought my car.'
'Then you'll get home faster. The elevator's opening. Now.'
She touched his cheek. '. Be careful.'
Buchanan felt the impression of her fingers for quite a while after she was gone.
12
'Buchanan!'
It must have been the result of fatigue.
'Buchanan!'
Or else it resulted from his conversation with Holly. Although he'd come to Washington thinking of himself as Peter Lang impersonating Charles Duffy and Mike Hamilton, he'd been distracted into talking to Holly as the core identity he'd been trying to avoid.
'Buchanan!'
So when he heard a man call his name as he walked along the rain-misted street away from the hotel, Buchanan almost turned reflexively to see who wanted him.
It was a mistake, he instantly realized, and he caught himself before he fully turned, but he did twist his head partially, and that was all the indication his hunter needed.
'Yeah, you! Buchanan!'
Buchanan kept walking, not changing his pace, not appearing to feel pressured, although he did feel pressured. A lot. Nerves quickening, he heard rapid footsteps behind him on the wet sidewalk. One person, it sounded like, but Buchanan didn't dare look to see if he was right.
The time was nearly ten-thirty. Traffic was sparse, sporadic headlights gleaming through the beads of moisture in the gloomy air. Buchanan had glanced casually from side to side when he'd left the hotel, a natural thing to do, one that allowed him to check for any sign that Holly had been detained or that anyone was outside watching him. Seeing no problem, he had turned off Massachusetts Avenue, heading south on 21st Street.
Now, heart pounding, he realized that 21st was a one-way street and that the traffic was headed in a southern direction just as he was which meant that all the cars approached from behind him. Unless he looked over his shoulder, he had no way to tell if a vehicle would be veering toward him. But if he did lo
ok, he would reinforce his pursuer's suspicion. Plural. Other urgent footsteps had joined the first.
'God damn it, Buchanan!' a different voice yelled.
The voice was directly behind him, close enough to attack.
With no other viable option, Buchanan whirled, seeing a well-built, short-haired man in his mid-twenties lurch to a sudden, defensive stop.
But not quickly enough. Buchanan struck the man's chest with the palm of his right hand. The blow was hard but controlled, calculated to knock the man off balance but not to break his ribs.
The man was jolted backward. He exhaled forcefully, a practiced reaction that helped him absorb the impact. That reaction and the resistance the man's solid chest provided told Buchanan that this wasn't a civilian. The man was military: trim hips, broad shoulders for upper-body strength. While the man briefly lost his balance, Buchanan swung his right leg hard, twisting it so that his shin bone struck along the outside of the man's left thigh. A major, sensitive nerve ran down each leg in that area. If the nerve were traumatized, the victim suffered not only intense pain but temporary paralysis in the leg.
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