“Bring it aboard,” the tall man said. He gestured for the younger, muscular man—evidently a bodyguard—to help.
Buchanan threw up bow and stern lines 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 light-headedness 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 mine field. Langley is having a fit about the screwup in Cancún. 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.
“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 boardinghouses 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 terry-cloth 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 reenter 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 was relaxing on a sofa, while with his other hand he smoked a cigarette.
Buchanan eased back on the throttle.
Bailey drew his hand across his brush cut, 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.”
Bailey pulled the pop tab on a can of Blue Ribbon. “Yeah, I’m beginnin’ to think you’re right about that. It’s probably somethin’ else besides Crawford. Sure as hell, though, it ain’t Victor Grant.”
“Look, I’ve done everything I can to prove it to you. That’s my limit. I’ve run out of patience. I want you to quit following me. I want you to quit—”
“Almost forgot. Pardon me for bein’ rude. I got another beer if you’d like—”
“Shove it up your ass.”
“Now is that any way to talk to an ol’ buddy? Not to mention a business associate?”
“Give it a rest! I never saw you before you showed up in that jail in Mexico.”
“Well, that’s where you’re wrong.” Bailey lowered his shoes from the powerboat’s console and straightened behind the wheel. “I’ve got a product to sell, and you’re gonna buy it. When you joined those folks on that yacht, I figured you meant to get the hundred thousand from them, but you didn’t carry anythin’ off. Time’s flyin’. You better find that money someplace. ’Cause after midnight tonight, I . . . By the way, that gal on the yacht is some looker, ain’t she? Through this big lens on my camera, I could see her so close . . . What’s that phone commercial? ‘Reach out and touch someone’? I got some real good pictures of her, those two guys, and you on the deck. Nice and clear. Photography’s a hobby of mine. Matter of fact, I got some pictures here in this envelope—”
“I’m not interested.”
“Oh, but I guarantee you’ll find these pictures real interestin’. I have to confess I didn’t take ’em, though. Had ’em lifted off a tape and then cleaned up. But if you didn’t know the difference, you’d swear—”
“What are you talking about?”
“Just look at the damned pictures, Crawford.”
Hesitant, Buchanan accepted the manila envelope. Chest tight, he was preoccupied by the threat of the pictures that Bailey had taken of him with the colonel, the major, and the captain. The officers weren’t public figures. Bailey wouldn’t know who they were. But if Bailey gave the pictures to the police and someone got curious about who was on that yacht, if the colonel was identified, the consequences would be disastrous. Somehow, Buchanan had to get his hands on the film.
But as he withdrew the photographs—eight-by-ten black-and-white glossies—as he sorted through them, he suddenly realized that he had much more to worry about than the pictures Bailey had taken of him with the colonel on the yacht. Much more. Because the photographs he now examined depicted a scene from December of 1990 in Frankfurt, Germany. They’d been lifted from a television news tape. They showed American hostages, newly released from Iraq, arriving at the Frankfurt airport. And there, in long shots and close-ups, was Big Bob Bailey getting off the plane with . . .
“A mighty good likeness of you, Crawford,” Bailey said. “I’ve got copies of the original tape, so nobody can say the pictures have been fooled with. If you piss me off by not payin’ up, I swear to God I’m gonna send ’em to the cops, along with the Mexican police sketch for Ed Potter and those bottom photographs of Victor Grant.”
Photos of Victor Grant? Buchanan asked himself with puzzled alarm. He shuffled to the bottom of the pile and felt his chest turn cold as he stared at three photographs of him outside the Mexican prison, where he talked to Garson Woodfield of the American embassy.
“Another good likeness,” Bailey said. “In case you miss the point, that guy from the embassy had to be in the picture so there’d be an absolutely straight-arrow witness to identify you as Victor Grant. I’ve got you as three different people, Crawford. Got you good.”
Stalling for time while he thought, Buchanan kept staring at the pictures. The ones in Mexico. How had—? At once, Buchanan remembered. While he’d been talking to Woodfield across from the Mexican prison, he’d noticed a woman in the background, among the crowd on the sidewalk beyond Woodfield. She’d been American. Late twenties. A redhead. Attractive. Tall. Nice figure. Wearing beige slacks and a yellow blouse. But the reason he’d noticed her hadn’t been her appearance.
She’d been aiming a camera at him.
Buchanan peered up from the photographs, and there wasn’t any question now that Bailey had an accomplice. Possibly more than one. Dealing with him would be extremely complicated. I have to warn the colonel.
“Keep those pictures. I’ve got plenty like them in a real safe place, along with the negatives,” Bailey said. “Plus, I’ve also got copies of the TV news tape from Germany. Hey, it isn’t often I’m on television. A buddy taped me and made me a present of it. I never thought it would be worth anythin’.” Bailey leaned forward. “Admit it, Crawford, you’re screwed. Stop actin’ innocent. Accept the penalty for gettin’ caught. Pay the hundred thousand dollars. I won�
�t even ask you why all the names. That’s your business. My business is gettin’ paid.”
Buchanan suddenly noticed: Throughout their conversation, Bailey had kept his face angled to the left, as if he had a stiff neck, forcing Buchanan to shift his boat and angle his own face a similar way in order to confront Bailey eye-to-eye.
Stiff neck?
Buchanan spun toward the concrete dock across from him, and there—between two moored sailboats—was the redhead, a camera in front of her face, taking pictures of Bailey and him. Her clothes weren’t the same. This time, they were sneakers, jeans, and a denim shirt, but even though her face was obscured by the camera, there was no mistaking that athletic figure and that long, dramatic flame-red hair.
“So you noticed my friend.” Bailey exhaled from his cigarette. “I guess it’s obvious that gettin’ rid of me won’t solve your problem. She’s got plenty of pictures of you and me, and if anythin’ happens to me—which you better hope doesn’t happen, not even an accident, like me gettin’ drunk and fallin’ down a flight of stairs and breakin’ my neck—those pictures’ll be sent to the cops. Plus, she helped me make copies of the pictures you’re holdin’, and she also took pictures of you with them folks on that yacht. It might be interestin’ to find out who they are.”
The red-haired woman lowered the camera and stared across the water toward them. Definitely the same person, Buchanan thought. Strong forehead. Excellent cheekbones. Sensuous lips and chin. She reminded him of a cover model for a fashion magazine. But from the stern way she watched him, Buchanan guessed that a fashion photographer would have a hell of a hard time to get her to smile.
“Crawford, you had plenty to say until now. What’s the matter?” Bailey asked. “Cat got your tongue? Or maybe you can’t think of any more bullshit. Pay attention. I want my money.”
Buchanan hesitated, then made a choice. “When and where?”
“Stay close to your buddy’s phone. I’ll call his place at eight-thirty tonight and give you directions.”
Assumed Identity Page 19