In contrast, his mouth became dry. Disturbed, he swallowed more Coke. “Is it a coincidence that the man happened to show up and pick me as a victim while I was looking for my friend, who happened not to show up? I try to keep an open mind. I do my best to have healthy skepticism. But the coincidence is too hard to ignore. I have to believe that my friend and the man with the knife are connected.”
“And he was trying to stop you from helping your friend?”
“Unless you can think of a better explanation.”
“Well, one part of your logic troubles me. Since she didn’t show up, you wouldn’t have been able to know what she wanted, so it wouldn’t have been necessary for you to be stopped.”
“Or maybe—”
Buchanan’s heartbeat matched the thump-thump-thump of the paddlewheeler’s engine.
“Maybe someone was afraid that when she didn’t show up, I’d become so upset that I wouldn’t stop until I found out where she was and why she needed me.” Buchanan’s voice hardened. “If so, they were right to be afraid. Because that’s exactly what’s going to happen.”
10
The steamboat rounded a bend.
“At the hospital, you said you had something for me to look at.”
Holly straightened. “Yes. But you wouldn’t give me a chance.”
“Because I wanted my belongings back. Now I’ve got them.” Despite his headache, Buchanan mustered strength. He had to keep playing the game. “I’ll look at whatever it is you want me to see. Anything it takes to settle your suspicions. I need to help my friend. But I can’t do it if you keep interfering. Ask the rest of your questions. I want to be done with this.”
Holly opened her purse, studied him as if doubtful about something, then pulled three folded newspaper clippings from an envelope.
Puzzled, Buchanan took them and glanced at the date at the top of the first one. “Six days ago.” He frowned.
He frowned harder when he saw that the story was datelined Fort Lauderdale.
EXPLOSION KILLS THREE
FT. LAUDERDALE—A powerful explosion shortly before midnight last night destroyed a car in the parking lot of Paul’s-on-the-River restaurant, killing its occupant, identified by a remnant of his driver’s license as Robert Bailey, 48, a native of Oklahoma. The explosion also killed two customers leaving the restaurant. Numerous other cars were destroyed or damaged. Charred fragments of a substantial amount of money found at the scene have prompted authorities to theorize that the explosion may have been the consequence of a recent escalating war among drug smugglers.
His heart now pounding faster than the thump-thump-thump of the paddlewheeler’s engine, Buchanan lowered the clipping and turned to Holly. No matter what, he couldn’t let her detect his reaction. His head ached even more fiercely. “All those people killed. A terrible thing. But what does this have to do with me? Why did you show it to—?”
“Are you denying that you knew Robert Bailey?”
“I don’t know anything about this.”
And that was certainly the truth, Buchanan thought.
He strained to look calm as dismay flooded through him.
Holly squinted. “Mostly, he called himself ‘Big Bob’ Bailey. Maybe that refreshes your memory.”
“Never heard of him.”
“Jesus, Buchanan, you are making me impatient. You and I both know he bumped into you in Cancún. I was there.”
Buchanan felt as if he’d been jolted by electricity.
“I was watching from a corner of the restaurant,” Holly said. “Club Internacional. I saw it happen. That’s when all your trouble started. When Bailey stumbled into one of your lives.”
Buchanan came close to revealing his shock.
“Those two drug dealers became suspicious when Bailey called you Crawford instead of Potter. They took you down to the beach. Bailey went after you. He told me later that he interrupted a fight. You shot the two drug dealers and their bodyguard. Then you ran along the beach into the night, and the police arrested Bailey, thinking he was responsible.”
“You’re not a reporter. You’re a fiction writer. When was this supposed to have happened? I’ve never been to Cancún. I’ve never . . .”
“Not as Brendan Buchanan you haven’t, but you sure as hell were there as Ed Potter. I told you I was in the restaurant. I saw it happen!”
How? Buchanan thought. How did she get there? How did she know I’d be there? How did—?
“You saw me taking pictures of you outside the jail in Mérida,” Holly said. “Of course, that doesn’t prove you knew Bailey, even though I saw the police bring him in to see you at the jail. But later, near Pier Sixty-six in Fort Lauderdale, you saw me photographing you and Bailey talking to each other in the channel. I already showed you the pictures I took.”
“You showed me photographs, yes, and I admit one of the men did have some resemblance to me. He wasn’t me,” Buchanan said. “But he did resemble me. The thing is, I’ve never been to Fort Lauderdale, either.”
“I believe you.”
“Good.”
“As Brendan Buchanan. But as Victor Grant, you very definitely have been to Fort Lauderdale.”
Buchanan shook his head as if disappointed that she persisted in her delusion. “And one of the men in the photographs you showed me is Bailey?”
Holly looked exasperated.
“I don’t get it,” Buchanan said. “Did you know this Bailey? Were you following him? Why are you so interested in . . . ?”
“I wasn’t following him. I was following you. And why am I interested in Bailey? Because he worked for me.”
Buchanan felt his stomach cramp.
Two children ran by, clambering down stairs to a lower deck. Their mother hurried after them, shouting for them to be careful. Buchanan was grateful for the interruption.
“Oh, he wasn’t working for me when he bumped into you in Cancún,” Holly said. “But I made sure he was working for me after that. What’s the word you people use? I recruited him. A thousand dollars, plus expenses. Bailey was really down on his luck. He didn’t think twice before he accepted.”
“That’s still a lot of money for a reporter to be able . . .”
“Big story. Big expense account.”
“Your editor won’t be happy when your story doesn’t hang together.”
Holly looked furious. “Are you on another planet? Do they teach you people to deny everything no matter how obviously true it is? Or are you so out of touch with reality that you can honestly convince yourself that none of this happened, because it happened to someone else, even though that someone else is you?”
“I’m sorry about what happened to Bailey,” Buchanan said. “I meant what I told you. It’s a terrible thing. But you have to believe me—I had nothing to do with it.”
Who did, though? Buchanan thought. How did—?
The answer was suddenly obvious.
They had plastic explosive in the walls of the cooler I gave him. When he got in his car, he must have opened the cooler to look at the money and . . .
That’s all he had to do to detonate it—open the cooler.
But what if he’d opened the cooler while I was with him?
“What’s the matter?” Holly asked.
“. . . Excuse me?”
“You turned pale again.”
“It’s just this headache.”
“I thought perhaps it was because you’d glanced at the second clipping.”
“Second . . . ?” Buchanan lowered his gaze toward the second of the three clippings in his hand.
MURDER-SUICIDE
FT. LAUDERDALE—Responding to a telephone call from a frightened neighbor, police early this morning investigated gunshots at 233 Glade Street in Plantation and discovered the bodies of Jack Doyle (34) and his wife, Cindy (30), both dead from bullet wounds. It is believed that Mr. Doyle, despondent about his wife’s cancer, shot her with a .38-caliber snub-nosed revolver while she slept in their bedroom, then used
the same weapon on himself.
Buchanan reread the story. He read it again. And then again. He stopped being aware of the motion of the steamboat, of its thumping engines, of the splashing paddlewheel. He was oblivious to the crowd at the railings, the trees along the river, and the humid breeze on his face.
He just kept staring at the piece of newspaper.
“I’m sorry,” Holly said.
Buchanan took a while before he realized that she had said something. He didn’t respond. He just kept staring at the clipping.
“Are you going to deny you knew him? If you’re tempted to, don’t,” Holly said. “I took photographs of you and Jack Doyle together, just as I did of you and Bailey.”
“No,” Buchanan said. With tremendous effort, he lowered the clipping and turned, concentrating on Holly. His mind reeled from the implications of what he’d just read. For the first time in his long career as a deep-cover operative, he did the unthinkable.
He broke cover. “No.” His unsteadiness, combined with the motion of the steamboat, made him feel as if he was about to fall from his chair. “I won’t deny it. I knew Jack Doyle. And Cindy. His wife. I knew her, too. I liked her. I liked her a lot.”
Holly’s eyes became more intense. “Earlier, you were talking about coincidence, about how sometimes it has to be more than that, like your friend not showing up at Café du Monde but a man showing up to stab you. Well, that’s how I feel about what you just read. You knew Bailey. He’s dead. You also knew Jack Doyle and his wife. They’re dead, too. And it all happened on the same night. What’s . . . ? I just realized something.”
“What?”
“The look on your face. You’re a hell of a good actor. But nobody’s that good. You really didn’t know anything about Bailey and the Doyles being killed.”
“That’s right.” Buchanan’s throat was so dry that he could hardly speak. “I didn’t know.” His eyes ached as he reached for his Coke can and swallowed.
For an instant, he stubbornly suspected that he’d been tricked, that these newspaper clippings weren’t genuine. But he couldn’t maintain his suspicion. By hindsight, what had happened to Bailey and the Doyles felt so operationally right, so tactically logical that he didn’t doubt the truth of what had happened. He’d been tricked, yes. But not by Holly.
“Or maybe there is a coincidence,” she said. “Maybe Jack Doyle did just happen to kill his wife the same night Bailey died in an explosion.”
“No.”
“You think it was a double murder?”
“It can’t be anything else.”
“How can you be sure?”
Buchanan pointed at the newspaper article.“‘. . . shot her with a thirty-eight-caliber snub-nosed revolver.’ No way.”
“I’m missing something. What’s wrong with using a thirty-eight-caliber . . . ?”
“Snub-nosed revolver? This,” Buchanan said. “Jack Doyle was an ex-SEAL.”
“Yes. A Navy commando. I still don’t . . .”
“Weapons were his business. To him, a thirty-eight-caliber snub-nosed revolver was a toy. Oh, he did have one in his house. For his wife. In case Cindy had to protect herself while he was away. But Jack had a lot of other handguns there as well, and for him, the weapon of choice was a nine-millimeter semiautomatic pistol. He loved his wife so much that I envied him. Her cancer was serious. It wasn’t responding to treatment. She was probably going to die from it. But it hadn’t yet reached the point where her suffering was greater than her dignity could bear. When that day came, though, if Jack decided—with Cindy’s permission—to free her from her suffering, he sure as hell would not have used a weapon that he didn’t respect.”
“Your world’s a whole lot different than mine,” Holly said. “Ethics about which weapon to use for a murder-suicide.”
“Jack wasn’t any nut. Don’t think for a minute that . . .”
“No,” Holly said. “That isn’t what I meant. What I did mean was exactly what I said. Your world’s very different than mine. No value judgment intended. My father was an attorney. He didn’t approve of guns. The first time I saw one, aside from in movies, was when I was reporting on a gang war in Los Angeles.”
Buchanan waited.
“So,” Holly said. “If it was a double murder, who did it? The same people who killed Bob Bailey?”
Temples throbbing, Buchanan sipped his Coke, then stared at the label. “I had nothing to do with any of it.”
“You still haven’t read the third newspaper clipping.”
Buchanan lowered his gaze, apprehensive about what he would see.
ACCIDENT VICTIM STILL NOT FOUND
FT. LAUDERDALE—Divers continue to search for the body of Victor Grant, the presumed occupant of a rental car that last night crashed through a barrier and sank within a section of the Intracoastal Waterway south of Oakland Park Boulevard. Numerous empty beer cans in the vehicle lead authorities to suspect that Grant was intoxicated when he lost control of his car. A suitcase and a windbreaker containing a wallet with Victor Grant’s identification were recovered from the car. Police suspect that the victim’s body floated from an open window and became wedged between one of the numerous docks in the area.
Buchanan felt as if he had plummeted and would never hit bottom.
“The reason I didn’t kick and fight when you wanted your Victor Grant passport back,” Holly said, “is I’ve taken photographs of every page. I’ve got photographs of you in Fort Lauderdale. I can link you to Bailey. I can link you to Doyle. This newspaper article proves that somebody named Victor Grant was in Fort Lauderdale and disappeared the same night Bailey and Doyle were killed. You said my editor would be disappointed because my story didn’t hang together. Well, it seems to me that the story hangs together beautifully.”
Buchanan felt a jolt as if he had struck bottom.
“I’m waiting for a reaction,” Holly said. “What do you think about my story now?”
“The real question is, What do I feel?”
“I don’t understand.”
Buchanan rubbed his aching forehead. “Why does ambition make people so stupid? Holly, the answer to the question What do I feel? is I feel terrified. And so should you. I’m a fortuneteller, did you know that? I really have a gift for predicting the future. And given what you just told me, I can guarantee that if you go any further with this story, you’ll be dead by this time tomorrow.”
Holly blinked.
“And,” Buchanan said, his voice hoarse, “if I don’t give the best performance of my life, so will I. Because the same people who killed Jack Doyle and Bob Bailey will make sure of it. Is that plain enough for you? Is that what you wanted me to say? That would make a good quote. It’s too bad you can’t use it.”
“Of course, I can use it. I don’t care if you deny it or—”
“You’re not listening!”
Buchanan spoke so loudly that several people standing along the railing of the steamboat swung and stared at him.
He leaned close to Holly, his voice a raw whisper. “In your world, people are afraid of getting caught breaking the law. In my world, people make their own laws. If they feel threatened, they’ll shoot you or drop you from a building or hit you with a car and then have a good dinner, feeling justified because they’ve protected themselves. You will absolutely, positively be dead by this time tomorrow if we don’t find a way to convince my people that you are not a threat to them. If I feel terrified, you’re a fool if you don’t.”
Holly studied him. “This is another act. You’re just trying to trick me into backing off.”
“I give up,” Buchanan said. “Look out for yourself. Believe me, I intend to look after myself.”
11
Buchanan walked into the Crowne Plaza’s lobby. While he waited for the elevator, he glanced around and noticed that the man in the seersucker suit had been replaced by a man in a jogging suit. He, too, was pretending to read a newspaper. After all, there wasn’t much to do that seemed natural
while sitting in a lobby and watching for someone. This second man was a clone of the first: late twenties, well-built, short hair, intense eyes.
Military, Buchanan thought. The same as the first man. Civilian intelligence agencies had access to surveillance personnel of various appearances. In contrast, military surveillance operatives tended to resemble one another in terms of sex, age, body type, and hairstyle. More, they had a collected, disciplined, single-minded look about them.
Holly, he thought. They’re still looking for her.
He got into the elevator, went up to the twelfth floor, and took out his key. Holly’s revelations on the steamboat, combined with the pain in his side and the ache in his head, had exhausted him. Fear had exerted its effect. He needed to rest. He needed to think.
When he opened the door . . .
Three people were waiting for him. They sat in plain view, obviously not wanting to startle him and provoke a defensive reaction.
Buchanan knew each of them.
Alan, the portly man who a few days before had been Buchanan’s debriefer at the apartment complex in Alexandria, Virginia, sat on the bed. In Alexandria, he’d habitually worn a brown-checkered sport coat. Here, his sport coat was again checkered, but this time the color was blue.
On the sofa, a muscular man—Major Putnam—sat next to an attractive blond woman—Captain Weller. Buchanan had met them on the yacht in Fort Lauderdale. Each wore civilian clothes: in the major’s case, a beige suit; in the captain’s, a white silk blouse and blue skirt, both of which were tight and were no doubt intended to attract public attention away from the two men.
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