Her red hair blowing in the wind, Holly thought about what he had said, then nodded. “I never assumed there were any guarantees. I never planned this. I got swept along. Fine. We understand each other. First things first. So now that we’ve found the yacht, what do we do?”
“You noticed the way I spoke to the fishermen and vendors in the area? A little conversation combined with a few well-chosen questions. The technique is called elicitation. It’s the equivalent of what you’d call doing an interview. But the difference is that your subjects almost always know they’re being interviewed, whereas my subjects must never know. Sometimes, if they realize they’re being pumped for information, their reaction can be lethal.”
Holly listened attentively.
“I thought you might be offended because I’m telling you how to do an interview,” Buchanan said.
“This whole thing’s been a learning experience. Why should it stop now?”
“Good,” Buchanan said. “Okay, elicitation.” He told her about his training, how he’d been required to practice by going into bars and striking up conversations with strangers, getting them to reveal such intimate data as their Social Security numbers and their birth dates, not only month but year.
“How did you manage that?” Holly asked. “I’d have thought you were snooping.”
“I’d sit next to my target, have a few drinks, make small talk, comment on the television program that was showing above the bar, and at one point say that I’d learned something interesting today. The response, of course, would be, ‘What?’ I’d pull out my wallet and show him my forged Social Security card. ‘These numbers all mean something,’ I’d say. ‘I thought they were assigned sequentially, but if you break down each group, you see that the numbers tell all kinds of things like when and where I was born. See, this number means I came from Pittsburgh, and this group of numbers was assigned to whoever was born in 1960, and this number here tells which month, and . . . Here, I’ll show you. What’s your number? I’ll bet you a dollar I can tell you where and when you were born.’ ”
Holly shook her head in amazement. “Is that really true?”
“That I was trained that way?”
“No. About the Social Security number.”
“What’s yours? Let’s see if I can tell you when and where you were born.”
Holly laughed. “It works. You make up a place and date, and to show how wrong you are, the person you’re interviewing tells you the information you want. Slick.”
“Elicitation,” Buchanan repeated. “The art of extracting information without allowing your target to realize that you’re extracting it. It’s a standard method used by operatives trying to obtain military, political, and industrial secrets. It usually happens in bars, and the targets are usually assistants, secretaries, officers of lower rank, the kind of people who might feel frustrated in their positions and don’t mind talking about their problems at work, provided they’re stimulated with proper subtlety. A few drinks. A show of interest. One piece of information leads to another. It usually takes time, several meetings, but sometimes it can be done quickly, and in this case, it has to be because I have to find out what’s happened to Juana. If she’s still alive . . .” Buchanan’s voice tightened. “If she’s still alive, I have to get the pressure off her.”
Holly studied him. “What do we do?”
“What you have to do is be just what you are: sexy and desirable.”
Holly looked puzzled.
“While we’ve been talking, a launch from Drummond’s yacht has been coming toward shore. Three crew members are on board.”
Squinting from sunlight off the water, Holly followed Buchanan’s gaze.
“We’ll watch where they go,” Buchanan said. “Maybe they’re in town on an errand. But maybe this is their day off. If they go into a bar, I’ll . . .”
10
“Damn it, I didn’t want to drive all this way in the first place,” Buchanan said. “What’s in it for me? Every time I turn around, you’re winking at some young stud with a bulge in his shorts.”
“Keep your voice down,” Holly said.
“Harry warned me about you. He said to watch you every second. He said you’d screw any male old enough to get an erection, the younger the better.”
“Keep your voice down,” Holly said more strongly.
“I notice you don’t deny it. You just don’t want anybody to know the truth.”
“Stop it,” Holly warned. “You’re embarrassing me.”
They were in the Coral Reef Bar, sitting in a corner that had fishing nets on one wall and a stuffed marlin on the other. The small circular table had a cloth with wavy lines and numbers that made it look like a nautical chart. The ceiling lights were chandeliers that resembled the rudder wheel on a ship.
Buchanan slumped in a captain’s chair and swallowed half a glass of beer. “Keep my voice down. That’s all you say. I’ll make you a deal. I’ll keep my voice down if you keep your pants on. Waiter, two more beers.”
“I’m not thirsty,” Holly said.
“Did I say I was ordering for you? Waiter! I’ve changed my mind. Make it a bourbon on the rocks.”
“You already had two at the other place. Two beers here and . . . Dave, it’s only noon, for God’s sake.”
“Just shut up, okay?” Buchanan slammed the table. “I’ll drink when I want to. If you’d stop jumping into bed with every—”
“Sir,” a voice said, “you’re disturbing the other customers.”
“Tough shit.”
“Sir,” the man said, a big man, blond, with a brush cut and muscles straining at his T-shirt, “if you don’t keep your voice down, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
“Ask all you want, pal, but I’m staying right here.” Buchanan swallowed the rest of his beer and yelled to the waiter, “Where’s that bourbon?”
People were staring.
“Dave,” Holly said.
Buchanan slammed the table again. “I told you, shut the fuck up!”
“Okay,” the big man said. “Let’s go, buddy.”
“Hey!” Buchanan objected as the big man grabbed him. “What the—?” Jerked to his feet, pretending to stagger, Buchanan fell against the table, upsetting glasses. “Jesus, watch my arm. You’re breaking it.”
“I’d like to, buddy.”
As the big man twisted Buchanan’s arm behind his back and guided him toward the exit, Buchanan glared backward toward Holly. “What are you waiting for? Let’s go.”
Holly didn’t answer.
“I said, let’s go!”
Holly still didn’t answer. She flinched as Buchanan kept shouting from outside the bar. Slowly, she raised her beer glass to her lips, sipped, squinted at her trembling hand, lowered the glass, and wiped at her eyes.
“Are you all right?”
Holly looked up at a good-looking, tanned, slender man in his twenties who wore a white uniform.
She didn’t answer.
“Hey, I really don’t mean to bother you,” the man said. “You’ve had enough of that already. But you do look a little shook up. If there’s anything I can do . . . Can I buy you another drink?”
Holly wiped at her eyes again, straightening, trying to look dignified. She directed her gaze, frightened, toward the door. “Please.”
“Another beer for the lady.”
“And . . .”
“What?”
“I’m . . . I’d really appreciate it if you could make sure he doesn’t hurt me when I leave.”
11
Buchanan leaned against the railing on the dock. Surrounded by the activity of tourists and fishermen, he wouldn’t be noticed as he watched the launch cutting through the green-blue water, passing cabin cruisers and fishing boats, returning to the three-decked, two-hundred-foot-long gleaming white yacht that was anchored beyond the other vessels, a hundred yards offshore. The overhead sun was now behind him, so he didn’t have to squint from the reflection of sunlight of
f the Gulf of Mexico. He had no trouble seeing that among the three crew members returning to the yacht, a gorgeous redheaded woman was chatting agreeably with them, one of the crew members allowing her to put her hand on the wheel of the launch’s controls.
As they boarded the yacht, Buchanan nodded, glanced around to make sure he wasn’t being watched, and strolled away. Or seemed to. The fact is that as he wandered along the Key West dock, he persistently, subtly studied the yacht, pretending to take pictures of the town, using the telephoto lens on Holly’s camera as a telescope. After all, Holly might get in trouble over there, although she’d been adamant that she was able to take care of herself. Even so, if she came out onto one of the decks and looked agitated, he had told her he would get to her as fast as he could.
Near five o’clock, the launch left the yacht again, coming toward shore: the same three crew members and Holly. She got out on the dock, kissed one of the men on the cheek, ruffled another’s hair, hugged the third, and walked with apparent contentment into town.
Buchanan reached their small, shadowy motel room a minute before she did. Worry made the time seem longer.
“How did it go?” he asked with concern as she came in.
She took off her sandals and sat on the bed, looking exhausted. “They sure had trouble keeping their hands to themselves. I had to stay on the move. I feel like I’ve been running a marathon.”
“Do you want a drink of water? How about some of this fruit I bought?”
“Yeah, some fruit would be nice. An orange or . . . Great.” She sipped from the Perrier he brought her. “Is this what you call a debriefing?”
“Yes. If this was business.”
“Isn’t it? You make the agent you’ve recruited feel comfortable and wanted. Then you . . .”
“Hey, not everything I do is calculated.”
“Oh?” Holly studied him for a moment. “Good. In that case, the yacht. There are fifteen crew members. They take turns coming ashore. They think Drummond’s—to quote one of the crew members—a domineering asshole. He scares them. While he’s aboard. But when the cat’s away, the mice play, sometimes bringing women aboard. To show off the yacht and get even with Drummond for the way he abuses them.”
Buchanan set a pencil and a notepad on the dingy table. “Draw a diagram for the layout of each room on each deck. I need to know where everything is, where and when the crew eat and sleep, every detail you can think of. I know you’re tired, Holly. I’m sorry, but this is going to take a while.”
12
It wasn’t difficult getting a wet suit. There were plenty of dive shops in Key West. The water was warm enough that Buchanan normally wouldn’t have needed to rent the insulating suit, but the stitches in his side made this an abnormal situation. He needed to protect the healing knife wound. He wanted to minimize the amount of blood that would dissolve from the scabs around the stitches and disperse through the water. As in Cancún, when he’d escaped the police by swimming across the channel from the island to the mainland, he worried about sharks and barracuda. Back then, of course, it had been blood from a bullet wound that had worried him, but the difference was the same. At least this time he’d been able to prepare, although another element from the Cancún swim continued to trouble him—his headache.
His skull wouldn’t stop throbbing. He felt as if his nerves were leather cords being stretched to the snapping point. But he couldn’t let the pain distract him. He had to keep going, swimming through the 3:00 A.M. water, his black wet suit blending with the night. He kept his arms loose at his sides, moving his feet gently, stroking with his fins, trying anxiously not to make noise or create whitecaps in the water. He kept his face down as much as possible, even though he had blackened it before leaving shore so that it wouldn’t contrast with the dark water. The stars glistened. A quarter moon was beginning to rise. That would be enough light for him as he eased closer to the yacht.
Then he touched the anchor chain. Peering up, he heard no footsteps or voices. Although the wet suit made the water feel even warmer than it was, he shivered involuntarily, his testicles receding toward his groin. He squinted back toward the lights of Key West, thought of Holly waiting for him, mustered his resolve, took off his mask and flippers, tied them to the chain, and began to climb. The effort strained his shoulder and his side. But he had to keep moving. Slowly, soundlessly, he pulled himself up the chain until he reached where it went into the hull. The hole was too small for him to enter, but it and the bulky chain gave him places to wedge his mesh rubber slippers while he fought for balance, reached up, and grasped the edge of the bow. Drawing himself up, he peered over the edge, saw no one, looked for intrusion detectors, saw no evidence of them either, and squirmed over the railing onto the softly lit deck.
As he scurried for cover beneath an exterior stairway, he knew he’d left a trail of water, but that couldn’t be avoided. Fortunately, most of the water had drained from his wet suit while he’d climbed. Soon the remainder would stop trickling out. Until then, he had to take advantage of the time he had.
A few windows were lit on the decks that loomed above him. The stairways, corridors, and walkways had lights as well. But they glowed, separate enough and weakly enough that there were abundant shadows into which Buchanan could creep. The mesh rubber slippers that he’d worn beneath his fins had ridges along the soles that gave them traction. He left almost no water as he made his way softly along a walkway, into a corridor, and up a stairwell.
He followed Holly’s instructions. Her description of the yacht’s layout had been detailed. So had her assessment of the crew, who evidently were unmotivated when the master wasn’t there to intimidate them. Buchanan listened intently, heard no one, emerged from the stairwell, and crept along a corridor on the middle deck, passing doors on each side. Only one door attracted him—at the end on the right. Holly had said that was the one area the crew hadn’t shown her.
“Off limits,” they’d told her.
“Why?” she had asked.
“We don’t know. It’s always locked,” had been the answer.
The door was situated between the door to Drummond’s sleeping quarters on the right and the door to the yacht’s reception area, a large, luxuriously appointed room that occupied a third of this level and had windows that looked down on the sun deck at the stern.
“Well, you must have some idea what’s in there,” Holly had said to the crew members.
“None. We were told we’d lose our jobs if we ever tried to get in.”
The door had two double-bolt locks. Buchanan removed two short metal prongs from a pocket of the wet suit. He’d finished picking the first lock when he heard footsteps on the stairway at the opposite end of the corridor. Fighting to keep his hands steady, he worked the pins in the second lock.
The footsteps came lower, closer.
Buchanan didn’t dare look in that direction. He had to keep concentrating on the lock, manipulating the metal prongs.
The footsteps were almost to the bottom.
Buchanan turned the knob, slipped into the murky room, and closed the door. He held his breath, pressed an ear against the bulkhead, and listened. After thirty seconds, still not having heard any sound from the corridor, he found a light switch, flicked it, and blinked from the sudden illumination.
What he saw made him frown. In this narrow room, which was connected by a locked door to Alistair Drummond’s sleeping quarters, there were several rows of television monitors and videotape recorders.
Buchanan turned down the sound controls, then activated the monitors. In a moment, the glowing screens revealed numerous rooms and sections of decks. On one screen, he watched two crewmen in the control room. On another screen, he saw two other crew members watching television. On a third screen, he saw a half-dozen crew members sleeping on bunks. On a fourth, he saw a man—presumably the captain—sleeping in a room that he had to himself. On other screens, Buchanan saw numerous empty bedrooms. Those dark rooms and the others in which
people slept appeared in a green tint, an indication that a night-vision lens was being used on the hidden cameras that monitored those areas. The monitors that showed exterior sections of the yacht were also tinted green. Presumably, the cameras would automatically convert to a normal lens when the indoor lights were on or during daylight.
So Alistair Drummond likes to eavesdrop on his guests, Buchanan thought. The old man goes into his bedroom, locks his door, unlocks the door to this adjacent room, and comes in here to see what his crew is doing when he isn’t around— more important, to see what his guests are up to: undressing, relieving themselves, fucking, doing drugs, whatever. And all of it can be recorded for repeated viewing enjoyment.
Buchanan directed his attention to a locked metal cabinet. After picking its lock, he opened the cabinet and found row upon row of labeled videotapes. August 5, 1988. October 10, 1989. February 18, 1990. Buchanan glanced quickly over them, noting that they were arranged sequentially. At least a hundred. Alistair Drummond’s greatest hits.
The cruise Buchanan wanted to know about had occurred during February. He found a tape for that month, put it into a player, and pressed the ON button, making sure that the sound was off. The video quality was remarkably clear, even when the images had a greenish tint. The cruise had been well attended. Various shots of numerous locations showed guests in their most intimate, revealing, compromising positions. Oral sex and sodomy were especially popular. Buchanan eventually counted thirteen men and twelve women. The men—in middle age— had an overbearing manner, as if addicted to wielding power. The women were attractive, well dressed, and treated as if they were hookers. All the men and women were Hispanic.
Buchanan noticed an earplug and inserted it into the television monitor. After adjusting the sound, he was able to hear what was on the tape. As he concentrated to translate the Spanish voices, he realized from comments they made that the women were indeed hookers and that the men were high-ranking members of the Mexican government. At once he realized something else. These tapes weren’t intended merely for Drummond’s voyeuristic pleasure.
Assumed Identity Page 49