Assumed Identity

Balam-Acab knew that he resembled his ancestors because he had seen engravings of them. He knew how his ancestors had lived because his father had told him what his father had told him what his father had told him, as far back as the tribe had been in existence. He knew how to perform the ritual he intended because as the ruler and shaman of the village he had been taught by his predecessor, who revealed to him the sacred mysteries that had been passed on to him just as they'd been passed on to his predecessor and that dated back to 13.0.0.0.0. 4 Ahau 8 Cumku, the beginning of time.

The direction of the stones changed, curving toward the left. With perfect balance, Balam-Acab squeezed between more trees, stooped beneath more vines, and felt the pressure of the stones beneath his thin sandals, following the curve. He had nearly reached his destination. Although his progress had been almost silent, he now had to be even more silent. He had to creep with the soundless grace of a stalking jaguar, for he would soon reach the edge of the jungle, and beyond, in the newly created clearing, there would be guards.

Abruptly Balam-Acab smelled them, their tobacco smoke, their gun oil. Nostrils widening, he paused to study the darkness and judge distance as well as direction. In a moment, he proceeded, forced to leave the ancient, hidden pathway and veer farther left. Since the new conquerors had arrived to chop down the trees and dynamite the rocky surface, to smooth the land and build an airstrip, Balam-Acab had known that the disaster predicted by the ancients was about to occur. Just as the first conquerors had been predicted, these had as well, for time was circular, Balam-Acab knew. It turned and went around, and each period of time had a god in charge of it.

In this case, the thunder of the dynamite reminded him of the thunder of the fanged rain god, Chac. But it also reminded him of the rumble of the area's numerous earthquakes that always signified when the god of the Underworld, who was also the god of Darkness, was angry. And when that god was angry, he caused pain. What Balam-Acab had not yet been able to decide was whether the new conquerors would make the god of the Underworld and of Darkness furious, or whether the new conquerors were the result of that god's already excessive fury, a punishment for Balam-Acab and his people.

All he could be certain of was that placating rituals were demanded, prayers and sacrifices, lest the prediction in the ancient Chronicles of Chilam Balam again come true. One of the signs, the sickness that was killing the palm trees, had already come true.

On that day, dust claims the earth.

On that day, a blight covers the earth.

On that day, a cloud hangs low.

On that day, a mountain soars.

On that day, a strong man clutches the land.

On that day, things collapse into ruin.

Balam-Acab was fearful of the sentries, but he was also hopeful of succeeding in his mission. After all, if the gods did not want to be placated, if they were truly furious, they would have punished him before now. They would never have allowed him to get this far. Only someone favored by the gods could have walked through the darkness and not been bitten by any of the area's numerous, swarming serpents. In the daylight, he could see and avoid the snakes or else make noises and scare them away. But walking silently and blindly at night? No. Impossible. Without the protection of the gods, he should have stepped not on stones but on death.

At once the density of the darkness changed. The mist seemed less thick. Balam-Acab had reached the edge of the jungle. Hunkering, inhaling the fecund odors of the forest in contrast with the rancid, sweat smell of the sentries, he focused on the night, and suddenly, as if an unfelt breeze had swept across the clearing, the fog dissipated. Unexpectedly able now to see the illumination from the moon and stars, he felt as if night had turned into day. At the same time, he had the eerie certainty that when he crept from the jungle into the clearing, the sentries would not be able to see him. From their point of view, the fog would still exist. It would envelop him. It would make him invisible.

But he wasn't a fool. When he stepped from the jungle, he stayed low, close to the ground, trying not to reveal his silhouette as he hurried forward. In the now-evident light from the moon and stars, he could see and was disturbed by the extent of the work that the invaders had accomplished in the mere two days since he had last been here. A vast new section of forest had been leveled, exposing more brush-covered mounds and hillocks. Without the trees to obscure the skyline, the murky contours of considerably higher breaks in the terrain were also evident. Balam-Acab thought of them as mountains, but none of them was the mountain predicted as one of the signs of the end of the world in the ancient Chronicles of Chilam Balam.

No, these mountains were part of the spirit of the universe. Granted, they weren't natural. After all, this part of the Yucatan was called the flatlands. Mounds, hillocks, and certainly mountains did not exist. They had all been built here by human beings, by Balam-Acab's Mayan ancestors, more than a thousand years ago. Although the brush that covered them camouflaged their steps, portals, statuary and engravings, Balam-Acab knew that the elevations were palaces, pyramids, and temples. The reason they were part of the spirit of the universe was that the ancients who had built them knew how the Underworld, the Middleworld, and the glorious arch of the heavens were linked. The ancients had used their knowledge of the secrets of the passing sun to determine the exact places where monuments in honor of the gods needed to be situated, and in so doing, they focused the energy of both the Underworld and heavenly gods toward the Middleworld and this sacred precinct.

Wary of the armed intruders, Balam-Acab came to the tallest mountain. The excavators had been quick to clear the vegetation from the level ground, but whenever they had come to an elevated area, they had left it undisturbed, presumably intending to return and violate it later. He studied the shadowy bushes and saplings that had somehow found places to root between the huge, square, stone blocks that formed this consecrated edifice. If the bushes and saplings weren't present, Balam-Acab knew that what looked like a mountain would actually reveal itself to be an enormous, terraced pyramid, and that at the top there would be a temple dedicated to the god, Kukulcan, the meaning of whose name was 'plumed serpent.'

Indeed the weathered, stone image of a serpent's gigantic head -mouth open, teeth about to strike - projected from the bushes at the bottom of the pyramid. Even in the dark, the serpent's head was manifest. It was one of several that flanked the stairs that ascended through the terraces on each side of the pyramid. Heart swelling, reassured that he had managed to get this far unmolested, becoming more convinced that the gods favored his mission, Balam-Acab held the blanket-covered bowl protectively to his chest and began the slow, painstaking ascent to the top.

Each step was as high as his knee, and the stairway was angled steeply. During daylight, the arduous climb could be dizzying, not to mention precarious because the bushes, saplings, and centuries of rain had broken the steps and shifted the stones. He needed all his strength and concentration not to lose his balance in the dark, step on a loose rock, and fall. He didn't care about his own safety. Otherwise he wouldn't have risked being bitten by snakes or shot by sentries in order to come here. What he did care about were the precious objects in his knapsack and in particular the sacred, blanket-wrapped bowl he clutched to his chest. He didn't dare fall and break the bowl. That would be inexcusable. That for certain would prompt the fury of the gods.

As he climbed, his knees aching, his body drenched with sweat, Balam-Acab mentally counted. It was the only way he could measure his progress, for the bushes and saplings above him prevented him from distinguishing the outline of the square temple at the otherwise pointed top of the pyramid. Ten, eleven, twelve. One hundred and four, one hundred and. He strained to breathe. Two hundred and eighty-nine. Two hundred and. Soon, he thought. By now he could see the top against the stars. Three hundred and. At last, his heart pounding, he reached the flat surface in front of the temple.

Three hundred and sixty-five. That sacred number represented the number of days in the solar year and had been calculated by Balam-Acab's ancestors long before the Spanish conquerors first came to the Yucatan in the fifteen-hundreds. Other sacred numbers had been incorporated into the pyramid - the twenty terraces, for example, which signified the units of twenty days into which the ancients had divided their shorter, two-hundred-and-sixty-day ceremonial year. Similarly there originally had been fifty-two stone images of serpents along the top of the temple, for time revolved in a fifty-two-year circle.

Circles were very much in Balam-Acab's thoughts as he gently set down the blanket, unwrapped it, and exposed the precious bowl. It didn't look remarkable. As wide as the distance from his thumb to his elbow, as thick as his thumb, it was old, yes, obviously very old, but it had no brilliant colors, just a dull, dark interior coating, and an outsider might have called it ugly.

Circles, Balam-Acab kept thinking. No longer impeded by his need to protect the bowl, he moved swiftly, taking off his knapsack, removing an obsidian knife, a long cord stitched with thorns, and strips of paper made from the bark of a fig tree. Quickly he removed his sweat-soaked shirt, exposing his gaunt chest to the god of the night.

Circles, cycles, revolutions. Balam-Acab positioned himself so that he stood at the entrance to the temple, facing east, toward where the sun each day began its cycle, toward the direction of the symbol of rebirth. From this high vantage point, he could see far around the pyramid. Even in the dark, he detected the obvious large area that the invaders had denuded of trees. More, he could distinguish the gray area that marked the airstrip a quarter-mile to his right. He could see the numerous large tents that the invaders had erected and the log buildings that they were constructing from the fallen trees. He saw several campfires that he hadn't been able to notice from the jungle, armed guards casting shadows. Soon more airplanes would arrive with more conquerors and more machinery. More gigantic helicopters would bring more heavy vehicles. The area would become more desecrated. Already a road was being bulldozed through the jungle. Something had to be done to stop them.

Cycles. Revolutions. Balam-Acab's father had told him that his name had a special history in the village. Centuries before, when the conquerors had first arrived, Balam-Acab's namesake had led a band of warriors that attempted to repulse the Spanish from the Yucatan. The struggle had persisted for several years until Balam-Acab's namesake was captured and hacked into pieces, then burned. But the glory of the rebel persisted beyond his death, indeed until the present generation, and Balam-Acab was proud to bear the name.

But burdened as well. It wasn't a coincidence that he'd been given this name instead of another. History moved in circles, just as periodically the Maya had again revolted against their oppressors. Stripped of their culture, yoked into slavery, the Maya had rebelled during the sixteen hundreds, again in the eighteen hundreds, and most recently in the early part of this century. Each time, they had been fiercely defeated. Many were forced to retreat to the remotest parts of the jungle in order to avoid retribution and the terrible sicknesses brought by the outsiders.

And now the outsiders had come again. Balam-Acab knew that if they weren't stopped, his village would be destroyed. Circles, cycles, revolutions. He was here to make a sacrifice to the gods, to ask for their wisdom, to pray for their counsel. He needed to be guided. His namesake had no doubt conducted this same ritual during the fifteen hundreds. Uncontaminated, it would be repeated.

He raised his obsidian knife. Its black, volcanic glass -'the fingernail of the lightning bolt' - was sharpened to a stiletto-like point. He raised it to the underside of his outstretched tongue, struggling to ignore the pain as he thrust upward, piercing. The only way he could manage the task was by clamping his teeth against his tongue to hold it in place so that the exposed, slippery flesh could not resist the blade. Blood gushed from his tongue, drenching his hand. He trembled from shock.

Nonetheless, he continued thrusting upward. Only when the obsidian point came completely through his tongue and scraped along his upper teeth did he remove it. Tears welled from his eyes. He stifled the urge to moan. Continuing to clamp his tongue with his teeth, he lowered the knife and raised the cord stitched with thorns. As his ancestors had done, he shoved the cord through the hole in his tongue and began to pull upward. Sweat burst from his face, no longer from humidity and exertion but from agony. The first thorn in the cord reached the hole in his tongue. Although it snagged, he pulled it through. Blood ran down the cord. He persisted in pulling, forcing another thorn through his tongue. And another. Blood cascaded down the cord and soaked the strips of paper where the bottom of the cord rested in the precious bowl.

Inside the temple behind him, there were images of Balam-Acab's ancestors performing this ritual. In some cases, the king had impaled his penis, then thrust the cord of thorns through that organ instead of his tongue. But whatever part of the body was used, the objective was the same - through pain and blood, to achieve a vision state, to communicate with the Otherworld, to understand what the gods advised and indeed demanded.

Weakened, Balam-Acab sank to his knees as if he worshipped the blood-soaked strips of paper in the bowl. As soon as the cord of thorns had been pulled completely through his tongue, he would place it in the bowl with the strips of paper. He would add more paper and a ball of copal incense. Then he would use matches - the only adulteration of the rite that he permitted - and set fire to his offering, adding more paper as necessary, the flames boiling and eventually burning his blood.

His mind swirled. He wavered, struggling to maintain a delirious balance between consciousness and collapse, for his ancestors would not have performed this rite without assistance whereas he would have to rouse himself and proceed alone through the jungle back to the village.

He thought that the gods began to speak to him. He heard them, at the edge of hearing. He felt them, felt their presence, felt-

The tremor spread through him. But it wasn't a tremor caused by shock or pain. The tremor came from outside him, through the stones upon which he knelt, through the pyramid upon which he conducted his ritual, through the earth beneath which lay the god of Darkness to whom he appealed.

The tremor was caused by the Shockwave from dynamite as a crew continued their devastation despite the night. The rumble sounded like a moan from a restive god.

He raised a book of matches, struck one, and dropped it onto the strips of paper that lay above his blood in the sacred bowl.

Circles.

Again time had turned.

This holy place was being defiled.

The conquerors had to be conquered.

FOUR

1

When Buchanan wakened, he was soaked with sweat, his lips so parched that he knew he had a fever. He swallowed several aspirins from the first-aid kit, almost gagging, forcing them down his dry throat. By then, it was after dawn. He and Wade were in Merida, 322 kilometers west of Cancun, near the Gulf of Mexico side of the Yucatan peninsula. Unlike Cancun, Merida evoked an Old World feeling, its great mansions dating from the turn of the century. Indeed the city had once been called the 'Paris of the Western World,' for in former, richer times, millionaire merchants had deliberately tried to make Merida like Paris, where they often went on vacation. The city still retained much of its European charm, but Buchanan was too delirious to care about the tree-lined avenues and the horse-drawn carriages. 'What time is it?' he asked, too listless to peer at his watch.

'Eight o'clock.' Wade parked near a not-yet-open market. 'Will you be okay if I leave you alone for a while?'

'Where are you going?'

Wade answered, but Buchanan didn't hear what he said, his mind drifting, sinking.

When he wakened again, Wade was unlocking the Ford, getting in. 'I'm sorry I took so long.'

So long? Buchanan thought. 'What do you mean?' His vision was bleary. His tongue felt swollen. 'What time is it now?'

'Almost nine. Most stores still aren't open. But I managed to get you some bottled water.' Wade untwisted a cap from a bottle of Evian and tilted it toward Buchanan's parched lips.

Buchanan's mouth seemed like a dry sponge, absorbing most of the water. Some trickled down his chin. Frustrated, he tried again and this time managed to swallow. 'Give me more of those aspirins.' His throat sounded as if it were wedged with stones.

'Still feverish?'

Buchanan nodded, grimacing. 'And this bitch of a headache won't stop.'

'Hold out your hand. I'll give you the aspirins.'

Buchanan's left hand felt weak, and his right hand suddenly became spastic again. 'Better put them in my mouth.'

Wade frowned.

Buchanan swallowed the aspirins with more water.

'You have to keep your strength up. You can't survive on just water,' Wade said. 'I brought donuts, milk, and coffee.'

'I don't think my stomach would tolerate the donuts.'

'You're scaring me,' Wade said. 'We should have gone to the doctor I know in Cancun.'

'We've been over this,' Buchanan murmured. 'I have to get out of the country before the police sketch is circulated.'

'Well, what about orange juice? At least try the orange juice I brought.'

'Yes,' Buchanan murmured. 'The orange juice.'

He managed three swallows.

'I found a woman unpacking boxes, getting ready for when the market opens,' Wade said. 'She sold me this straw hat. It'll hide the gash on your head. Also I bought this scrape. You can drape it over the bandage on your arm when you pass through emigration.'

'Good,' Buchanan said weakly.

'Before that, I phoned several airlines. For a change, you're in luck. Aeromexico has a seat available on a flight to Miami.'

Buchanan inwardly brightened. Soon, he thought. Soon I'll be out of the country. I can sleep when I'm on the plane. Wade can phone ahead and have a team waiting to take me to a clinic.

'There is a problem, though,' Wade said.

'Problem?' Buchanan frowned.

'The flight doesn't leave until twelve-fifty.'

'Until? But that's. what?. four hours from now.'

'It was the first flight I could get. Another one left earlier for Houston. It had a seat, but it also made a stop en route.'

'What do I care about a stop? Why didn't you book me on it?'

'Because the stop was back in Cozumel, and the man I spoke to said you had to get off the plane and then reboard.'

Shit, Buchanan thought. Cozumel, near Cancun, was one of the airports he needed to avoid. If he had to leave the plane and pass through a checkpoint, a guard might.

'All right, the twelve-fifty flight to Miami,' Buchanan said.

'At the airport, I can't buy your ticket for you. It draws attention. Besides, the clerk will want to see Victor Grant's passport. Very few people give somebody else their passport, especially when they're about to leave the country. If the police have told the attendants to be on the lookout for anybody who acts suspiciously, that might be enough for them to wait for you to arrive and question you.'

'Question both of us.' Buchanan fought to focus his vision. 'You made your point. I'll buy the ticket.' He peered out the window, seeing traffic increase, frowning at the pedestrians crowding past the Ford. 'Right now, I think we'd better drive around town. I get nervous staying parked like this.'

'Right.'

As Wade steered into a break in traffic, Buchanan used his trembling right hand to reach behind him and pull a waterproof, plastic pouch from his back pocket. 'Here's Ed Potter's ID and passport. Whatever pseudonym I'm using, I always carry his documents. There's no way of predicting when they might come in handy.'

Wade took the plastic pouch. 'I can't give you an official receipt. I don't have any with me.'

'Screw the receipt. Just give me Victor Grant's documents.'

Wade handed him a brown, leather, passport folder.

As Buchanan took it, he felt Ed Potter drain from him and Victor Grant seep into his consciousness. Weak and far from alert, he nonetheless responded to habit and began to imagine traits (Italian food, Dixieland jazz) for his new character. At the same time, he opened the folder and examined its contents.

'Don't worry. Everything's there,' Wade said. 'Including the tourist card.'

'But I do worry.' Buchanan searched through the documents. 'That's how I've stayed alive this long. I never take anyone's word for. Yes. Okay, the tourist card and everything else is here. Where's that aspirin bottle?'

'Don't tell me you've still got a headache.' Wade looked troubled.

'And it's getting worse.' Buchanan didn't trust his trembling right hand. Raising his left hand, which felt wooden, he put more aspirins in his mouth and swallowed more orange juice.

'You're sure you want to do this?'

'Want to? No. Have to? Definitely. Okay,' Buchanan said, 'let's go through the drill. I left plenty of loose ends in Cancun.' Breathing was an effort. He fought for energy. 'Here are my keys. When you get back to Cancun, close up my time-share condominium office. You know who I rented it from. Call him. Tell him I've gone out of business. Tell him he can keep the remainder of the rent, that you'll send him the keys as soon as you pick up my belongings.'

'Right.'

'Do the same thing about my apartment. Erase me. You know the places I used in Acapulco, Puerto Vallarta, and the other resorts. Erase me from all of them.' Buchanan's head throbbed. 'What else? Can you think of-?'

'Yes.' As Wade drove along the Paseo de Mayo, M‚rida's main thoroughfare, Buchanan ignored the grass-covered island that separated the several lanes of traffic on each side, anxious for Wade to continue.

'The contacts you recruited in each area,' Wade said. 'They'll wonder what happened to you. They'll start asking questions. You have to be erased from their lives, too.'

Of course, Buchanan thought. Why didn't I think of that? I'm more light-headed than I guessed. I have to concentrate harder. 'Do you remember the dead-drop locations I was using to pass each of them messages?'

Wade nodded. 'I'll leave each contact a note, some excuse about problems with the police, along with a final payoff that's generous enough to encourage them to keep their mouths shut.'

Buchanan brooded. 'Is that it, then? Is that everything? There's always something else, a final detail.'

'If there is, I don't know what-'

'Luggage. When I buy my ticket, if I don't have a bag, I'll attract attention.'

Wade steered off the Paseo de Mayo, stopping on a side street. The stores were now open.

'I don't have the strength to carry anything heavy. Make sure the suitcase has rollers.' Buchanan told Wade his sizes. 'I'll need underwear, socks, T-shirts.'

'Yes, the usual.' Wade got out of the Ford. 'I can handle it, Buchanan. I've done this before.'

'You son of a bitch.'

'What?'

'I told you don't call me "Buchanan". I'm Victor Grant.'

'Right, Victor,' Wade said dryly. 'I wouldn't want you to forget who you were.' He started to close the door, then paused. 'Hey, while you're practicing your lines. that is, when you're not calling me names. why don't you try eating some of those donuts, so you're not so weak that you fall on your face when you get to the airport?'

Buchanan watched the slightly bald, slightly overweight man in the lemon colored polo shirt disappear into the crowd. Then he locked the doors, tilted his head back, and felt his right hand tremble. At once his whole body shivered. The fever, he thought. It's really getting to me. I'm losing control. Wade's my life line. What am I doing? Don't make him mad.

Buchanan's shoes nudged the bag of donuts on the floor. The thought of eating made him nauseous. As did the pain in his shoulder. And in his skull. He shuddered. Just a few more hours, he told himself. Hang on. All you have to do is get through the airport. He forced himself to drink more orange juice. The acidic sweetness made his stomach queasy. Victor Grant, he told himself, concentrating, struggling to chew on a donut. Victor Grant. Divorced. Fort Lauderdale. Customizes pleasure boats. Installs electronics. Victor.

He jerked as Wade unlocked the driver's door and put a suitcase in the back.

'You look terrible,' Wade said. 'I brought a toilet kit: a razor and shaving soap, toothpaste.'

2

They drove to a wooded park that had a public washroom. Wade bolted the door and stood behind Buchanan, holding him steady while Buchanan hunched over the sink, trembling, doing his best to shave. He tried to comb his blood-matted hair but didn't have much success, deciding that he'd definitely have to use the straw hat that Wade had bought for him. He used bottled water to brush his teeth, feeling marginally better now that he was partially cleaned up. His shirt and pants, which the sea had cleaned sufficiently of blood to stop people from staring at him last night, were unacceptably soiled and wrinkled in the daylight. He changed into a fresh shirt and pair of pants that Wade had bought, and after they left the washroom, Buchanan crammed the dirty clothes into the suitcase in the Ford's back seat. Associating his Seiko watch with the now-defunct character of Ed Potter, he traded it for Wade's Timex, anything to get the feel of a new identity.

By then, it was eleven o'clock.

'Traveling time,' Wade said.

In contrast with the large, picturesque city, the airport was surprisingly small and drab. Wade managed to find a parking space in the lot in front of the low terminal. 'I'll carry your suitcase to the entrance. After that...'

'I understand.'

As they walked toward the entrance, Buchanan glanced casually around, studying the area. No one seemed to be paying attention to him. He concentrated on walking in a straight line, not wavering, not betraying his weakness. At the sidewalk in front of the doors, he shook hands with Wade. 'Thanks. I know I was a little grumpy a couple of times. I.'

'Forget it. This isn't a popularity contest.' Wade continued to grip Buchanan's right hand. 'Something's wrong with your fingers. They're jerking.'

'It's not a problem.'

Wade frowned. 'Sure. I'll be seeing you, Victor.' He emphasized the pseudonym. 'Have a good flight.'

'I'm counting on it.'

Buchanan made sure that the scrape was hitched firmly to his right shoulder, hiding his wound. He gripped the pull-strap on the suitcase and entered the terminal.

3

Several impressions struck him simultaneously. The terminal was stark, hot, tiny, and crowded. Everyone, except for the few Anglos, seemed in slow motion. As one of those few Anglos, Buchanan attracted attention, Mexican travelers studying him as he inched through the claustrophobia-producing crowd. He sweated as much as they did, feeling faint, wishing the terminal were air-conditioned. At least I'll have a reason for looking sick, he thought, trying to muster confidence. He stood in a frustrating line at the Aeromexico ticket counter. It took him thirty minutes before he faced an attractive female attendant. Using Spanish, he told her what he needed. For a moment his heart lurched when she appeared not to know anything about a reservation for Victor Grant, but then she found the name on her computer screen and with painstaking care made an impression of his credit card, asked him to sign the voucher, and peeled off his receipt.

'Gracias.' Hurry, Buchanan thought. His legs were losing their strength.

With even greater care, she tapped keys on the computer and waited for the printer, which also seemed in slow motion, to dislodge the ticket.

But at last Buchanan had it, saying 'Gracias' again, turning away, pulling the suitcase, inching again through the crowd, this time toward the X-ray machine and the metal detector at the security checkpoint. He felt as if he struggled through a nightmare in which he stood in mud and tried to walk. His vision dimmed for a moment. Then a sudden surge of adrenaline gave him energy. With effort, he used his left hand to lift the suitcase onto the X-ray machine's conveyor belt and proceeded through the metal detector, so off balance that he almost bumped against one of its posts. The detector made no sound. Relieved that the security officers showed no interest in him, Buchanan took his suitcase from the opposite end of the conveyor belt, set it with effort on the floor, and patiently worked his way forward through the crowd. The heat intensified his headache. Whenever someone bumped against his right shoulder, he needed all his discipline not to show how much pain the impact caused him.

Almost there, he thought. Two more checkpoints and I'm through. He stood in a line to pass through a customs inspection. Mexico was lax about many things but not about trying to stop ancient artifacts from being smuggled out of the country.

The haggard customs agent pointed at Buchanan's suitcase. 'Abralo. Open it.' He didn't look happy.

Buchanan complied, his muscles in agony.

The agent pawed through Buchanan's clothes, glowered when he didn't find anything suspicious, then gestured dismissively.

Buchanan moved onward. Only one more checkpoint, he thought. Emigration. All I have to do is hand in my tourist card, then pay the fifteen-dollar exit fee.

And hope that the emigration officer doesn't have a police sketch of me.

As Buchanan moved tensely through the crowd, he heard a slight commotion behind him. Turning, he saw a tall American shove his way past an Hispanic woman and three children. The American had a salt-and-pepper beard. He wore a gaudy, red-and-yellow-splotched shirt. He held a gym bag and muttered to himself, continuing to push ahead, causing a ripple in the crowd.

The ripple spread toward Buchanan. Trapped by people on every side, he couldn't avoid it. All he could do was brace himself as a man was nudged against another man, who in turn was nudged against Buchanan. Buchanan's legs were so weak that he depended on the people around him to keep him steady, but when the ripple struck him, he suddenly found that the person ahead of him had moved forward. Shoved against his back, Buchanan felt his knees bend and reached ahead to grab for someone to steady him. But at that moment, another ripple in the crowd nudged against his left shoulder. He fell, his mind so dazed that everything seemed a slow blur. When his right shoulder struck the concrete floor, the pain that soared from his wound changed his impression, however, and made everything fast and sharply focused. Sweat from his forehead spattered the concrete. He almost screamed from the impact against his wound.

He struggled to stand, not daring to attract attention. As he came to his feet and adjusted the scrape over his wound, he peered ahead through the crowd and noticed that officers at the emigration checkpoint seemed not to have cared about what had happened, concentrating only on collecting tourist cards and exit fees.

He came closer to the checkpoint, breathing easier when he didn't see a police sketch on the counter. But the terminal was so stifling that sweat oozed from his body, slicking his chest and his arms, beading on his palms.

He wiped his left hand on his slacks, then reached in his shirt pocket, and gave the officer a yellow card and the fifteen-dollar exit fee. The officer barely looked at him as he took the card and the money. At once, though, the officer paid more attention, squinted, frowned, and raised his hand. 'Pasaporte, por favor.'

Why? Buchanan thought in dismay. He didn't compare my face to a sketch. Hell, I don't even see a sketch that he can refer to. If there is a sketch, it's back in the emigration office, but after looking at so many faces, surely the officer can't have a clear memory of the sketch. Why on earth is he stopping me?

Buchanan used his left hand to surrender the passport. The officer opened it, compared the photograph to Buchanan's face, read the personal information, and frowned again at Buchanan. 'Se¤or Grant, venga conmigo. Come with me.'

Buchanan tried to look respectfully puzzled. 'For que? he asked. 'Why? Is something wrong?'

The officer squinted harder and pointed toward Buchanan's right shoulder. Buchanan looked and showed no reaction, despite his shock.

Crimson soaked his scrape. What he'd thought was sweat was actually blood trickling down his arm, dripping from his fingers. Jesus, he thought, when I fell on my shoulder, I must have opened the stitches.

The officer gestured toward a door. ' Venga conmigo. Uisted necesita un medico. You need a doctor.'

'Es nada. No es importante,' Buchanan said. 'It's nothing. A small injury. The bandage needs to be changed. I'll fix it in the bathroom and still have time to catch my plane.'

The officer placed his right hand on his bolstered pistol and repeated, this time sternly, 'Come with me now.'

Buchanan obeyed, walking with the officer toward a door, trying to look relaxed, as if it were perfectly natural to have blood streaming from his shoulder. He had no hope of fleeing, certain that he'd be stopped before he could push his way through the crowd and reach an exit from the terminal. All he could do was try to bluff his way out, but he doubted that the explanation he was concocting would satisfy the officer after the officer got a look at the wound on his shoulder. There'd be questions. Plenty of questions. And perhaps the police sketch would have arrived by then, if it hadn't already. For sure, he would not be on the 12:50 flight to Miami. So close, he thought.

4

Unlike the United States, where a suspect is presumed to be innocent until proven guilty, Mexico bases its laws on the Napoleonic Code in which a suspect is guilty until proven innocent. Prisoners are not warned that they have a right to remain silent or told that if they cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided. There is no habeas corpus, no right to a speedy trial. In Mexico, such notions are ludicrous. A prisoner has no rights.

Buchanan shared a mildewed, flea-infested, leaky-roofed, pocked-concrete cell that was twenty feet long and fifteen feet wide with twenty other, foully clothed prisoners in what amounted to the tank for thieves and drunkards. To avoid bumping into anyone and causing an argument, Buchanan made sure he stayed in one place with his back to the wall. While the others took up every space on the floor, sleeping on soiled straw, he sank down the wall until he dozed with his head on his knees. He waited as long as he could before using the open hole in a corner that was the toilet. Mostly, despite his lightheadedness, he struggled to remain on guard against an attack. As the only yanqui, he was an obvious target, and although his watch and wallet had been taken from him, his clothes and in particular his shoes were better than those of any other prisoner - hard to resist.

As it happened, a great deal of time Buchanan wasn't in the cell, and the attacks didn't come from his fellow prisoners but from his guards. Escorted from the cell to an interrogation room, he was pushed, tripped, and shoved down stairs. While being questioned, he was prodded by batons and beaten with rubber hoses, always in places where clothes would hide the bruises, never around the face or skull. Why his interrogators retained this degree of fastidiousness, Buchanan didn't know. Perhaps because he was a U.S. citizen, and fears about political consequences made them feel slightly constrained. They nonetheless still managed to injure his skull when it struck concrete after they knocked over the wooden chair to which they had tied him. The pain - added to the pain from the gash he'd received when he'd struck the dinghy while swimming across the channel at Cancun -made him nauseous and created a worrisome double vision. If a doctor hadn't redressed and restitched his wounded shoulder at Merida's jail, he probably would have died from infection and loss of blood, although of course the doctor had been supplied not out of compassion but simply for the practical reason that a dead man couldn't answer questions. Buchanan had encountered this logic before and knew that if the interrogators received the answers they wanted, they would feel no further necessity to provide him with medical courtesies.

That was one reason - the least important - for his refusal to tell his interrogators what they wanted. The reason, of course, was that to confess would have been a violation of professional conduct. In refusing to talk, Buchanan had three advantages. First, his interrogators were employing clumsy, brutal methods, which were easier to resist than the precise application of electrical shock combined with such inhibition-reducing drugs as sodium amytal. Second, because he was already weakened by the injury to his head and the wound in his shoulder, he had a tendency to pass out quickly while being tortured, his body supplying a kind of natural anesthesia.

And third, he had a script to follow, a role to play, a scenario that gave him a way to behave. The primary rule was that if captured, he could never admit the truth. Oh, he could use portions of the truth to concoct a believable lie. But the whole truth was out of the question. For Buchanan to say that, yes, he'd killed the three Mexicans, but they were drug dealers after all, and besides he was working under cover for a covert branch of the U.S. military would have temporarily saved his life. However, that life would not have been worth much. As an object lesson to the United States for interfering in Mexican affairs, he might have been forced to serve a lengthy sentence in a Mexican prison, and given the severity of Mexican prisons, especially for yanquis, that sentence in all probability would have been the same as a death sentence. Or if Mexico released him to the United States as a gesture of good will (in exchange for favors), his superiors would make his life a nightmare because he had violated his pact with them.

5

'Victor Grant,' an overweight, bearded interrogator with slicked-back dark hair said to Buchanan in a small, plain room that had only a bench upon which the interrogator sat and a chair upon which Buchanan was tied. The round-faced, perspiring interrogator made 'Victor Grant' sound as if the name were a synonym for diarrhea.

'That's right.' Buchanan's throat was so dry that his voice cracked, his body so dehydrated that he'd long ago stopped sweating. One of the tight loops of the rope cut into his stitched, wounded shoulder.

'Speak Spanish, damn you!'

'But I don't know Spanish.' Buchanan breathed. 'At least, not very well.' He tried to swallow. 'Just a few words.' Ignorance about Spanish was one of the characteristics he'd chosen for this persona. That way he could always pretend that he didn't know what he was being asked.

'Cabro'n, you spoke Spanish to the emigration officer at the airport in Merida!'

'Yes. That's true.' Buchanan's head drooped. 'A couple of simple phrases. What I call "survival Spanish".'

'Survival?' a deep-voiced guard asked behind him, then grabbed Buchanan's hair and jerked his head up. 'If you do not want your hair pulled out, you will survive by speaking Spanish.'

'Un poco.' Buchanan exhaled. 'A little. That's all I know.'

'Why did you kill those three men in Cancun?'

'What are you talking about? I didn't kill anyone.'

The overweight interrogator, his uniform stained with sweat, pushed himself up from the bench, his stomach wobbling, and plodded close to Buchanan, then shoved a police sketch in front of his face. The sketch was the same as the one the emigration officer at Merida's airport had noticed beside a fax machine on a desk in the room to which he had taken Buchanan to find out why he was bleeding.

'Does this drawing look familiar to you?' the interrogator growled. 'Ciertamente, it does to me. Dios, si. It reminds me of you. We have a witness, a fellow yanqui in fact, who saw you kill three men in Cancun.'

'I told you I don't know what you're talking about.' Buchanan glared. 'That drawing looks like me and a couple of hundred thousand other Americans.' Buchanan rested his hoarse voice. 'It could be anybody.' He breathed. 'I admit I was in Cancun a couple of days ago.' He licked his dry lips. 'But I don't know anything about any murders.'

'You lie!' The interrogator raised a section of rubber hose and whacked Buchanan across the stomach.

Buchanan groaned but couldn't double over because of the ropes that bound him to the back of the chair. If he hadn't seen the overweight man clumsily start to swing the hose, he wouldn't have been able to harden his stomach enough to minimize the pain. Pretending that the blow had been worse than it was, he snapped his eyes shut and jerked his head back.

'Don't insult me!' the interrogator shouted. 'Admit it! You lie.'

'No,' Buchanan murmured. 'Your witness is lying.' He trembled. 'If there is a witness. How could there be? I didn't kill anybody. I don't know anything about...'

Each time the interrogator struck him, it gave Buchanan a chance to steal opportunities, to wince, to breathe deeply and rest. Because the police had already taken his watch and wallet, he didn't have anything with which to try to bribe them. Not that he thought a bribe would have worked in this case. Indeed, if he did try to bribe them, under the circumstances his gesture would be the same as an admission of guilt. His only course of action was to play his role, to insist indignantly that he was innocent.

The interrogator held up Buchanan's passport, repeating with the same contemptuous tone, 'Victor Grant.'

'Yes.'

'Even your passport photograph resembles this sketch.'

'That sketch is worthless,' Buchanan said. 'It looks like a ten-year-old did it.'

The interrogator tapped the rubber hose against the bandage that covered the wound on Buchanan's shoulder. 'What is your occupation?'

Wincing, Buchanan told him the cover story.

The interrogator tapped harder against the wound. 'And what were you doing in Mexico?'

Wincing more severely, Buchanan gave the name of the client he supposedly had come here to see. He felt his wound swell under the bandage. Every time the interrogator tapped it, the injury's painful pressure increased, as if it might explode.

'Then you claim you were here on business, not pleasure?'

'Hey, it's always a pleasure to be in Mexico, isn't it?' Buchanan squinted toward the rubber hose that the interrogator tapped even harder against his wound. From pain, his consciousness swirled. He would soon pass out again.

'Then why didn't you have a business visa?'

Buchanan tasted stomach acid. 'Because I only found out a couple of days ahead of time that my client wanted me to come down here. Getting a business visa takes time. I got a tourist card instead. It's a whole lot easier.'

The interrogator jammed the tip of the hose beneath Buchanan's chin. 'You entered Mexico illegally.' He stared deeply into Buchanan's eyes, then released the hose so Buchanan could speak.

Buchanan's voice thickened, affected by the swelling in his throat that the hose had caused. 'First you accuse me of killing three men.' Breathing became more difficult. 'Now you blame me for failing to have a business visa. What's next? Are you going to charge me with pissing on your floor? Because that's what I'm going to have to do if I'm not allowed to use a bathroom soon.'

The man behind Buchanan yanked his hair again, forcing tears from Buchanan's eyes. 'You do not seem to believe that this is serious.'

'Not true. Take my word, I think this is very serious.'

'But you do not act afraid.'

'Oh, I'm afraid. In fact, I'm terrified.'

The interrogator glowered with satisfaction.

'But because I haven't done what you claim I did, I'm also furious.' Buchanan forced himself to continue. 'I've had enough of this.' Each word was an effort. 'I want to see a lawyer.'

The interrogator stared in disbelief, then bellowed with laughter, his huge stomach heaving. 'Lawyer?'

The guard behind Buchanan laughed as well.

'Un jurisconsulto?' the interrogator asked with derision. 'Que tu necesitas esta un sacerdote.' He whacked the rubber hose across Buchanan's shins. 'What do you think about that?'

'I told you I hardly know any Spanish.'

'What I said is, you don't need a lawyer, you need a priest. Because all that will help you now, Victor Grant, is prayers.'

'I'm a U.S. citizen. I have a right to.' Buchanan couldn't help it.

His bladder was swollen beyond tolerance. He had to let go.

Urinating in his pants, he felt the hot liquid stream over the seat of the chair and dribble onto the floor.

'Cochino! Pig!' The interrogator whacked Buchanan's wounded shoulder.

Any second now, Buchanan thought. Dear God, let me faint.

The interrogator grabbed Buchanan's shirt and yanked him forward, overturning the chair, toppling him to the floor.

Buchanan's face struck the concrete. He heard the interrogator shout in Spanish to someone about bringing rags, about forcing the gringo to clean up his filth. But Buchanan doubted he'd be conscious by the time the rags arrived. Still, although his vision dimmed, it didn't do so quickly enough to prevent him from seeing with shock that his urine was tinted red. They broke something inside me. I'm pissing blood.

'You know what I think, gringo?' the interrogator asked.

Buchanan wasn't capable of responding.

'I think you are involved with drugs. I think that you and the men you killed had an argument about drug money. I think.'

The interrogator's voice dimmed, echoing. Buchanan fainted.

6

He found himself sitting upright once more, still tied to the chair. It took several moments for his vision to focus, for his mind to become alert. Pain definitely helped him sharpen his consciousness. He had no way of knowing how long he'd been out. The room had no windows. The fat interrogator seemed to be wearing the same sweaty uniform. But Buchanan noticed that the blood-tinted urine had disappeared from the floor. Not even a damp spot. Considerable time must have passed, he concluded. Then he noticed something else - that his pants remained wet. Hell, all they did was move me to a different room. They're trying to screw with my mind.

'We have brought a friend to see you.'

'Good.' Buchanan's voice broke. He fought not to lose his strength. 'My client can vouch for me. We can clear up this mistake.'

'Client? Did I say anything about a client?' The interrogator opened the door.

A man, an American, stood flanked by guards in a dim hallway. The man was tall, with broad shoulders and a bulky chest, his sandy hair in a brushcut. He wore sneakers, jeans, and a too-small, green T-shirt, the same clothes he'd been wearing when he'd come into the restaurant at Club Internacional in Cancun. The clothes were rumpled, and the man looked exhausted, his face still red but less from sun and alcohol than from strain. He hadn't shaved. Big Bob Bailey.

Yeah, I bet you're sorry now that you didn't stay away from me at the restaurant, Buchanan thought.

The interrogator gestured sharply, and the guards nudged Bailey into the room, guiding him with a firm hand on each of his elbows. He walked unsteadily.

Sure, they've been questioning you since they caught you on the beach, Buchanan thought. They've been pumping you for every speck of information they can get, and the pressure they put on you encourages you to stick to your story. If they get what they want, they'll apologize and treat you royally to make certain you don't change your mind.

The guards stopped Bailey directly in front of Buchanan.

The interrogator used the tip of the rubber hose to raise Buchanan's face. 'Is this the man you saw in Cancun?'

Bailey hesitated.

'Answer,' the interrogator said.

'I.' Bailey drew a shaky hand across his brushcut. 'It could be the man.' He stank of cigarettes. His voice was gravelly.

''Could be?' The interrogator scowled and showed him the police sketch. 'When you helped the artist prepare this sketch, I am told that you were definite in your description.'

'Well, yeah, but.'

'But?

Bailey cleared his throat. 'I'd been drinkin'. My judgment might have been clouded.'

'And are you sober now?'

'I wish I wasn't, but yeah, I'm sober,'

'Then your judgment should be improved. Is this the man you saw shoot the three other men on the beach behind the hotel?'

'Wait a minute,' Bailey said. 'I didn't see anybody shoot nobody. What I told the police in Cancun was I saw a friend of mine with three Mexicans. I followed 'em from the restaurant to the beach. It was dark. There were shots. I dove for cover. I don't know who shot who, but my friend survived and ran away.'

'It is logical to assume that the man who survived the shooting is responsible for the deaths of the others.'

'I don't know.' Bailey pawed at the back of his neck. 'An American court might not buy that logic.'

'This is Mexico,' the interrogator said. 'Is this the man you saw run away?'

Bailey squinted toward Buchanan. 'He's wearin' different clothes. His hair's got blood in it. His face is dirty. His lips are scabbed. He hasn't shaved, and he generally looks like shit. But yeah, he looks like my friend.'

'Looks like?' The interrogator scowled. 'Surely you can be more positive, Se¤or Bailey. After all, the sooner we get this settled, the sooner you can go back to your hotel room.'

'Okay.' Bailey squinted harder. 'Yeah, I think he's my friend.'

'He's wrong,' Buchanan said. 'I never saw this man in my life.'

'He claims he knew you in Kuwait and Iraq,' the interrogator said. 'During the Gulf War.'

'Oh, sure. Yeah, right.' The pain in Buchanan's abdomen worsened. He bit his lip, then struggled to continue. 'And then he just happened to bump into me in Cancun. Hey, I was never in Kuwait or Iraq, and I can prove it. All you have to do is look at the stamps on my passport. I bet this guy doesn't even know my name.'

'Jim Crawford,' Bailey said with sudden anger. 'Except you lied to me. You told me your name was Ed Potter.'

'Jim Crawford?' Buchanan grimaced at the interrogator. 'Ed Potter? Get real. Does this guy know my name's Victor Grant? Show him my passport. From the sound of things - he admitted as much - he was so drunk I'm surprised he doesn't claim he saw Elvis Presley. I'm not whoever he thinks I am, and I don't know anything about three men who were murdered.'

'In Cancun,' the interrogator said, 'my brothers on the police force are investigating Ed Potter. Assuming that you did not lie when you gave Se¤or Bailey that name, you will have left some evidence in the area. You had to stay somewhere. You had to store your clothes. You had to sleep. We will find that place. There will be people who saw you at that place. We will bring those people here, and they will identify you as Ed Potter, proving that Se¤or Bailey is right.' The interrogator shook the piece of rubber hose in front of Buchanan's face. 'And then you will explain not only why you shot those three men but why you carry a passport with a different name, why you use so many names.'

'Yeah. Like Jim Crawford,' Bailey said. 'In Kuwait.'

The interrogator looked extremely satisfied now that Bailey was cooperating again.

Throughout, Buchanan showed no reaction except pain-aggravated anger. But his thoughts, despite his excruciating headache, were urgent. He worked to calculate how protected he was. He'd used the mail to negotiate for and to pay the rent on his office. The only times he'd spoken to the landlord had been on the telephone. The same methods had been employed with regard to his apartment in downtown Cancun. Recommended tradecraft. So far so good. It was also to Buchanan's advantage that the police would take quite a while to contact every hotel manager and landlord in Cancun. Still, eventually they would, and although Buchanan's landlords couldn't describe him, they would tell the police that they recognized the name

'Ed Potter,' and the police would question people who frequented the area where Ed Potter worked and lived. Eventually someone would be brought here who would agree with Big Bob Bailey's claim that the man who called himself Victor Grant looked very much like Ed Potter, and things would get very sticky after that.

'Let them,' Buchanan said. 'They can waste all the time they want investigating Ed Potter, whoever he is. I'm not worried. Because I'm not that man.' Pain gnawed at his abdomen. He had to relieve his bladder once more, and he feared that his urine would be an even darker red. 'The trouble is, while they're wasting their time, I'm getting the hell beat out of me.' He shuddered. 'And it's not going to stop - because I swear to God I won't confess to something I didn't do.' He glared at the beefy, nervous Texan. 'What did this cop say your name is? Bailey? Is that what-?'

Bailey looked exasperated. 'Crawford, you known damned well my name's-'

'Stop calling me "Crawford". Stop calling me "Potter". You've made a terrible mistake, and if you don't get your memory straight.'

Buchanan couldn't restrain his bladder any longer. Indeed he didn't want to. He'd suddenly decided on a new tactic. He released his abdominal muscles, urine dribbling onto the floor, and he didn't need to look down to know that the liquid was bloody.

Because Bailey turned pale, raised a hand to his mouth, and mumbled, 'Holy. Look at. He's. It's...'

'Yeah, Bailey, take a good look. They worked me over until they broke something inside me.' Buchanan was almost breathless. He had to fight to muster the strength for every word. 'What happens if they kill me before they find out you made a mistake?'

Bailey turned paler.

'Kill you? That is ridiculous,' the interrogator interrupted. 'Obviously you have suffered other injuries besides those to your shoulder and your head. I did not know this. I realize now that you need further medical attention. As soon as Se¤or Bailey signs this document, identifying you as the man he saw run from the three victims, he can leave, and I can send for a doctor.'

The interrogator thrust a pen and a typed statement toward Bailey.

'Yeah, go ahead and sign it,' Buchanan murmured hoarsely. 'And then pray to God that the police realize there's been a mistake. before they beat me worse. before I hemorrhage so bad I.' Buchanan breathed. 'Because if they kill me, you're next.'

'What?' Bailey frowned. 'What are you talkin' about?'

'Don't be dense, Bailey. Think about it. You're the one who'll be blamed. We're talking about the death of an American citizen in a Mexican jail. Do you think this cop will admit to what happened? My corpse will disappear. There'll be no record of my arrest. And the only person who can say different is you.'

Bailey suddenly looked with suspicion toward the interrogator.

The interrogator grasped Bailey's arm. 'The prisoner is obviously delirious. We must allow him to rest. While you sign this document in the outer office, I will see that he gets medical attention.'

Hesitant, Bailey allowed the interrogator to turn him toward the door.

'Sure,' Buchanan said. 'Medical attention. What he means is another whack with that rubber hose because I made you realize how much trouble you're in. Think, Bailey. You admitted you were drunk. Why won't you admit that there's every chance I'm not the man you saw in Cancun?'

'I have had enough of this.' The interrogator jabbed Buchanan's injured shoulder. 'Any fool can see that you are guilty. How do you explain this bullet wound?'

Writhing in pain against the pressure of the ropes that bound him to the chair, Buchanan spoke through gritted teeth. 'It's not a bullet wound.'

'But the doctor said-'

'How would he know what caused it? He didn't do tests to look for gunpowder in the wound. All he did was restitch it.' Buchanan grimaced. 'I got this injury and the one on my skull in a boating accident.' Lightheadedness again overcame him. He feared he'd pass out before he could finish. 'I fell off my client's yacht as we left port. My skull hit the hull. One of the propellers cut my shoulder. Lucky I didn't get killed.'

'This is a fantasy,' the interrogator said.

'Right.' Buchanan swallowed. 'Prove it. Prove I'm lying. For God's sake, do what I've been begging you to do. Bring my client here. Ask him if he knows me. Ask if he can explain how I hurt myself.'

'Yeah, maybe that ain't a bad idea,' Bailey said.

'What?' The interrogator jerked toward the beefy Texan. 'Are you telling me that the description you gave in Cancun, that the drawing on this police sketch - which you helped prepare - does not match the prisoner? Are you telling me that the identification you made five minutes ago.?'

'All I said was he looks like the man I saw.' Pensive, Bailey rubbed a callused, large fist against his beard-stubbled chin. 'Now I ain't so sure. My memory's fadin'. I need time to think. This is pretty serious business.'

'Anybody can make a mistake,' Buchanan said. 'Your word against mine. That's all this is until we get my client to vouch for me.'

Bailey narrowed his eyes toward the bloody urine on the floor. 'I ain't signin' nothin' till this man's client proves I'm right or wrong.'

Jubilant despite his pain, Buchanan managed to squeeze out a few more words. 'Charles Maxwell. His yacht's moored near the Columbus dock in Cancun.'

With that, Buchanan gave in to the dizziness that insisted. He'd done everything possible. Drifting, he heard the interrogator and Big Bob Bailey exchanging angry words.

7

He was taken back to his cell. Staggering across it, trying not to bump into the other prisoners and cause an incident, he noticed that many of the faces scowling at him were different from those who had scowled at him when he'd first arrived, however long ago that was. His weary guess was that new drunks had replaced those who'd sobered but that the thieves and other predators had been left here until somebody got motivated enough to take the trouble to put them on trial. He knew that in his weakened condition, it wouldn't be long before the predators moved against him, so he found a space against a wall and sat, straining to remain awake, staring in response to their stares, hiding his pain, calculating how best to defend himself. He didn't realize right away that two guards had unlocked the cell and were gesturing for him to come out.

They didn't take him toward the interrogation room, however. Instead they took him in the opposite direction toward a section of the jail that he hadn't seen.

What now? Is this when I disappear?

The guards opened a door, and Buchanan blinked in confusion. He'd expected the interrogator, but what he faced was a sink, a toilet, and a shower stall. He was told to strip, bathe, shave, and put on the white cotton shirt and pants that were stacked on a chair along with a pair of cheap, rubber sandals. Confused, he obeyed, the lukewarm water not only making him feel welcomely clean but bolstering his meager energy. The guards stood watch. Later, as Buchanan finished dressing, another guard came in and set a tray upon the sink. Buchanan was astonished. The tray held a plate of refried beans and tortillas, the first food that he had received since he'd been brought here. Weakness and pain had stifled his appetite, but he didn't need any encouragement to grab something else that was on the tray. A bottle of purified water. In a rush, he broke the seal, unscrewed the cap, and swallowed several large mouthfuls. Not too much. You'll get sick.

He studied the food, the aroma of which both attracted and repelled him. The food might be contaminated, he thought, the shower and the fresh clothes a trick to make him ignore his suspicion and eat. But I have to take the risk. Even if my stomach doesn't want it, I've got to force myself to eat.

Again he reminded himself, Not too much at once. It took him a long time to chew and swallow the first mouthful of beans. When his stomach didn't revolt, he was encouraged to drink more water and bite off a piece of tortilla.

He never was able to finish the meal. Holding his spoon in his right hand, he almost dropped it because his fingers began to twitch again, alarmingly. When he switched the spoon to his left hand but before he could raise more food, another guard arrived, and the four of them, looking somber, took him past his crowded cell, toward the interrogation rooms. Why? Buchanan thought. Why would they let me clean up and give me something to eat if they're planning to give me another session with the rubber hose? That doesn't make sense. Unless.

The guards escorted him into a room that Buchanan had never seen, a dingy, cluttered office in which the interrogator sat stiffly behind his desk and faced a stern, pinch-lipped American who sat with equal stiffness across from him. When Buchanan appeared, each man directed a narrow gaze at him, and Buchanan's hidden elation at the hope that he might be released turned into abrupt suspicion.

The American was in his middle forties, of middle height and weight, with a pointed chin, a slender nose, and thick, dark eyebrows that contrasted with his sunbleached, thinning hair. He was deeply tanned and wore an expensive, tropical-blend, blue suit with a red-striped, silk tie and a gleaming, white shirt that not only accentuated his tan but seemed to reflect it. He wore a Harvard ring, a Piaget watch, and Cole Haan shoes. Distinguished. Impressive. A man to have on your side.

The trouble was that Buchanan had no idea who the man was. He didn't dare assume that the interrogator had responded to his demand and contacted his alibi, Charles Maxwell. The emergency alibi had been established hastily. Normally, every detail of a plan was checked many times, but in this case, Buchanan didn't know what on earth Maxwell looked like. It was reasonable to assume that Maxwell, having been contacted, would come here to support Buchanan's claims. But what if the interrogator had found an American to impersonate Maxwell? What if the interrogator wanted to trick Buchanan into pretending to know the American and thus prove that Buchanan was lying about his alibi?

The American stood expectantly.

Buchanan had to react. He couldn't just keep peering blankly. If this really was Maxwell, the interrogator would expect Buchanan to show grateful recognition. But what if this wasn't Maxwell?

The interrogator withdrew his chin into the numerous folds of his neck.

Buchanan sighed, approached the American, placed an unsteady hand on his shoulder, and said, 'I was getting worried. It's so good to see.'

To see who? Buchanan let the sentence dangle. He might have been referring to his relief at seeing his friend and client, Charles 'Chuck' Maxwell, or he might have been saying that he was delighted to see another American.

'Thank God, you're here,' Buchanan added, another statement that could apply either to Maxwell or to a fellow American whom Buchanan didn't know. He slumped on a chair beside the battered desk. Tension increased his pain.

'I came as soon as I heard,' the American said.

Although the statement implied a strong relationship between the American and Buchanan, it still wasn't forthright enough for Buchanan to treat him as Charles Maxwell. Come on, give me a clue. Let me know who you are.

The American continued, 'And what I heard alarmed me. But I must say, Mr Grant, you appear in better condition than I expected.'

Mr Grant? Buchanan thought.

This man definitely wasn't Charles Maxwell. So who was he?

'Yeah, this is a regular country club.' The severity of Buchanan's headache made his temples throb.

'I'm sure it's been frightful,' the American said. His voice was deep and mellifluous, slightly affected. 'But all of that is finished now.' He shook hands. 'I'm Garson Woodfield. From the American embassy. Your friend, Robert Bailey, telephoned us.'

The interrogator glowered.

'Bailey isn't a friend,' Buchanan emphasized. 'The first time I met him was here. But he's got some delusion that he saw me in Cancun and knew me before in Kuwait. He's the reason I'm in this mess.'

Woodfield shrugged. 'Well, apparently he's trying to make amends. He also telephoned Charles Maxwell.'

'A client of mine,' Buchanan said. 'I was hoping he'd show up.'

'Indeed, Mr Maxwell has a great deal of influence, as you're aware, but under the circumstances, he thought it would be more influential if he contacted the ambassador and requested that we solve this problem through official channels.' Woodfield peered closely at Buchanan's face. 'Those abrasions on your lips. The bruise on your chin.' He turned pensively toward the interrogator. 'This man has been beaten.'

The interrogator looked insulted. 'Beaten? Nonsense. When he came here, he was so unsteady from his injuries that he fell down some stairs.'

Woodfield turned to Buchanan, obviously expecting a heated denial.

'I got dizzy,' Buchanan said. 'I lost my grip on the stairwell railing.'

Woodfield looked surprised by Buchanan's response. For his part, the interrogator looked astonished.

'Have they threatened you into lying about what happened to you here?' Woodfield asked.

'They certainly haven't been gentle,' Buchanan said, 'but they haven't threatened me into lying.'

The interrogator looked even more astonished.

'But Robert Bailey claims he saw you tied to a chair,' Woodfield said.

Buchanan nodded.

'And struck by a rubber hose,' Woodfield said.

Buchanan nodded again.

'And passing bloody urine.'

'True.' Buchanan clutched his abdomen and winced, a reaction that he normally would not have permitted.

'You realize that if you've been brutalized, there are a number of diplomatic measures I can use to try to obtain your release.'

Buchanan didn't like Woodfield's 'try to' qualification. He decided to continue following his instincts. 'The blood in my urine is from my accident when I fell off Chuck Maxwell's boat. As for the rest of it' -Buchanan breathed - 'hey, this officer thinks I killed three men. From his point of view, what he did to me, trying to get me to confess, that was understandable. What I'm angry about is that he wouldn't let me prove I was innocent. He wouldn't call my client.'

'All of that's been taken care of,' Woodfield said. 'I have a statement' - he pulled it from his briefcase - 'indicating that Mr Grant here was with Mr Maxwell on his yacht when the murders occurred. Obviously,' he told the interrogator, 'you have the wrong man.'

'It is not obvious to me.' The interrogator's numerous chins shook with indignation. 'I have a witness who puts this man at the scene of the murders.'

'But surely you don't take Mr Bailey's word over a statement by someone as distinguished as Mr Maxwell,' Woodfield said.

The interrogator's eyes gleamed fiercely. 'This is Mexico. Everyone is equal.'

'Yes,' Woodfield said. 'The same as in the United States.' He turned to Buchanan. 'Mr Maxwell asked me to deliver this note.' He pulled it from his briefcase and handed it to Buchanan. 'Meanwhile,' he told the interrogator, 'I need to use your facilities.'

The interrogator looked confused.

'A bathroom,' Woodfield said. 'A restroom.'

'Ah,' the interrogator said. 'A toilet. Si." He hefted his enormous body from the chair, opened the office door, and directed a guard to escort Mr Woodfleld to el sanitaria. As Woodfield left, Buchanan read the note.

Vic,

Sorry I couldn't be there in person. I'll show up if I have to, but let's exhaust other options first. Check the contents of the camera bag Woodfield brought with him. If you think what's inside will be effective, give it a try. I hope to see you stateside soon.

Chuck

Buchanan glanced down toward the briefcase beside Woodfield's chair, noticing the gray, nylon camera bag.

Meanwhile the interrogator shut the office door and frowned at Buchanan, his voice rumbling, his ample stomach quivering. He was obviously interested in the contents of the note. 'You lied about being beaten. Por que?' He came closer. 'Why?'

Buchanan shrugged. 'Simple. I want you and me to be friends.'

'Why?' The interrogator stepped even closer.

'Because I won't get out of here without your cooperation. Oh, Woodfield can cause you a lot of trouble from your superiors and from politicians. But I still might not be released until a judge makes a ruling, and in the meantime, I'm at your mercy.' Buchanan paused, trying to look defeated. 'Sometimes terrible accidents happen in a jail. Sometimes a prisoner can die before a judge has time to see him.'

The interrogator studied Buchanan intensely.

Buchanan pointed toward the camera bag. 'May I?'

The interrogator nodded.

Buchanan set the bag on his lap. 'I'm innocent,' he said. 'Obviously Bailey is confused about what he saw. My passport proves I'm not the man he thinks I am. My client says I wasn't at the scene of the crime. But you've invested a great deal of time and effort in this investigation. In your place, I'd hate to think that I'd wasted my energy. The government doesn't pay you enough for all the trouble you have to go through.' Buchanan opened the camera bag and set it on the desk.

He and the interrogator stared at the contents. The bag was filled with neat piles of used, hundred-dollar American bills. As Buchanan removed one of the stacks and leafed through it, the interrogator's mouth hung open.

'I'm only guessing,' Buchanan said, 'but this seems to be fifty thousand dollars.' He replaced the stack next to the others in the bag. 'Don't misunderstand. I'm not rich. I work hard, the same as you, and I certainly don't have this kind of money. It belongs to my client. He's loaning it to me to help me pay my legal expenses.' Buchanan grimaced. 'But I don't see why a lawyer should get it when I'm innocent and he won't have to earn his fee to get me released. He definitely won't have to work as long and hard as I will to pay the money back or as long as you would to receive this much.' Buchanan sighed from pain and frowned toward the door. 'Woodfield will be coming back any second. Why don't you do both of us a favor, take the money, and let me out of here?'

The interrogator tapped his fingers on the battered table.

'I swear to you. I didn't kill anybody,' Buchanan said.

The door swung slowly open. The interrogator shielded the camera bag with his massive body, shut the bag, and with a remarkably fluid motion for so huge a man, set the bag out of sight behind the desk as he scrunched his wide hips into his creaking chair.

Woodfield entered.

'To pursue this matter any farther would be a mockery of justice,' the interrogator said. 'Se¤or Grant, your passport and belongings will be returned. You are free.'

8

'You look like you need a doctor,' Woodfield said.

They walked from the jail across a dusty street toward a black sedan parked beneath a palm tree.

'I know an excellent physician in Merida,' Woodfield said. 'I'll drive you there as quickly as possible.'

'No,' Buchanan said.

'But.'

'No,' Buchanan repeated. He waited for a fenderless pickup truck to go by, then continued toward the car. After having been in the jail for so long, his eyes hurt from the glare of the sun, adding to his headache. 'What I want is to get out of Mexico.'

'The longer you wait to see a doctor.'

Buchanan reached the car and pivoted toward Woodfield. He didn't know how much the diplomat had been told. Probably nothing. One of Buchanan's rules was never to volunteer information. Another rule was don't break character. 'I'll see a doctor when I feel safe. I still can't believe I'm out of jail. I won't believe it until I'm on a plane to Miami. That jerk might change his mind and re-arrest me.'

Woodfield put Buchanan's suitcase into the back of the car. 'I doubt there's any danger of that.'

'No danger to you,' Buchanan said. 'The best thing you can do is drive me to the airport, get me on a plane, then phone Charles Maxwell. Tell him I asked him to arrange for someone to meet me and to take me to a hospital.'

'You're certain you'll be all right until then?'

'I'll have to be,' Buchanan said. He was worried that the police in Cancun would still be investigating his previous identity. Eventually they'd find Ed Potter's office and apartment. They'd find people who'd seen Ed Potter and who'd agree that the police sketch looked like Ed Potter. A policeman might decide to corroborate Big Bob Bailey's story by having those people take a look at Victor Grant.

He had to get out of Mexico.

'I'll telephone the airport and see if I can get you a seat on the next night,' Woodfield said.

'Good.' Buchanan automatically scanned the street, the pedestrians, the noisy traffic. He tensed, noticing a woman in the background, among the crowd on the sidewalk beyond Woodfield. She was American. Late twenties. A redhead. Attractive. Tall. Nice figure. She wore beige slacks and a yellow blouse. But Buchanan didn't notice her because of her nationality or her hair color or her features. Indeed he couldn't get a look at her face. Because she had a camera raised to it. She stood at the curb, motionless among the passing Mexicans, taking photographs of him.

'Just a minute,' Buchanan told Woodfield. He started toward her, but the moment she saw him approaching, she lowered the camera, turned, and walked away, disappearing around a corner. The oppressive sun intensified his headache. Festering pressure in his wound made him weaker. Dizziness halted him.

'What's the matter?' Woodfield asked.

Buchanan didn't answer.

'You looked as if you were about to go somewhere,' Woodfield said.

Buchanan frowned toward the corner, then turned toward the car. 'Yeah, with you.' He opened the passenger door. 'Hurry. Find a phone. Get me on a flight to Miami.'

All the way to the airport, Buchanan brooded about the red-haired woman. Why had she been taking photographs of him? Was she just a tourist and he merely happened to be in the foreground of a shot of a scenic building? Maybe. But if so, why had she walked away when he started toward her? Coincidence? Buchanan couldn't afford to accept that explanation. Too much had gone wrong. And nothing was ever simple. There was always a deeper level. Then if she wasn't just a tourist, what was she? Again he asked himself, Why was she taking pictures of me? The lack of an answer disturbed him as much as the threatening implications. He had only one consolation. At least, when she'd lowered the camera, turning to walk away, he'd gotten a good look at her face.

And he would remember it.

9

Acapulco, Mexico.

Among the many yachts in the resort's famous bay, one in particular attracted Esteban Delgado's attention. It was brilliant white against the gleaming green-blue of the Pacific. It was approximately two hundred feet long, he judged, comparing its length to familiar landmarks. It had three decks with a helicopter secured to the top. It was sculpted so that the decks curved like a hunting knife down to the point of the bow. Behind the decks, at the stern, a large sunning area - designed to allow voyeurs to peer down unobserved from the upper windows of the looming decks - was terribly familiar. If Delgado hadn't known for certain, if his assistant hadn't given him verified information less than an hour ago, Delgado would have sworn that the distinctive yacht didn't just resemble the source of his sleepless nights and his ulcerated stomach but was in fact the very yacht, owned by his enemy, that figured so prominently in his nightmares. It didn't matter that this yacht was called Full House whereas the yacht he dreaded was called Poseidon, for Delgado felt sufficiently persecuted to have reached the stage of paranoia where he suspected that the yacht's name had been altered in order to surprise him. But Delgado's assistant had been emphatic in his assurance that as of noon today, the Poseidon with Delgado's enemy aboard had been en route from the Virgin Islands to Miami.

Nonetheless Delgado kept staring from the floor-to-ceiling window of his mansion. He ignored the music, laughter, and motion of the party around the pool on the terrace below him. He ignored the women, so many beautiful women. He ignored the flowering shrubs and trees that flanked the expensive, pink vacation homes similar to his, carved into the slope below him. Instead he focused his gaze beyond the Costera Miguel Aleman boulevard that rimmed the bay, past the deluxe hotels and the spectacular beach. The yacht alone occupied him. The yacht and the yacht it resembled and the secret that Delgado's enemy used to control him.

Abruptly something distracted him. It wasn't unexpected, although it was certainly long anticipated, a dark limousine reflecting sunlight, coming into view on the slope's curving road, veering through the gates past the guards. He brooded, squinting, hot despite the room's powerful air conditioning. His surname had always been coincidentally appropriate for him inasmuch as Delgado meant'thin,' and even as a boy, he'd been tall and slender, but lately he had heard whispered, concerned remarks about his appearance, about how much weight he had recently lost and how his carefully tailored suits now looked loose on him. His associates suspected that his weight loss was due to disease (AIDS, it was rumored), but they were wrong.

It was due to torment.

A knock at the door interrupted his distraction and jerked him back to full awareness. 'What is it?' he asked, betraying no hint of tension in his voice.

A bodyguard replied huskily beyond the door, 'Your guest has arrived, Se¤or Delgado.'

Wiping his clammy hands on a towel at the bar, assuming the confident demeanor of the second-most-powerful man in Mexico's government, he announced, 'Show him in.'

The door was opened, a stern bodyguard admitting a slightly short, balding, uncomfortable-looking man who was in his late forties and wore a modest, rumpled business suit. He carried a well-used briefcase, adjusted his spectacles, and looked even more uncomfortable as the bodyguard shut the door behind him.

'Professor Guerrero, I'm so pleased that you could join me.' Delgado crossed the room and shook hands with him. 'Welcome. How was the flight from the capital?'

'Uneventful, thank heavens.' The professor wiped his sweaty forehead with a handkerchief. 'I've never been comfortable flying. At least I managed to distract myself by catching up on some paper work.'

'You work too hard. Let me offer you a drink.'

'Thank you, Minister, but no. I'm not used to drinking this early in the afternoon. I'm afraid I.'

'Nonsense. What would you like? Tequila? Beer? Rum? I have some excellent rum.'

Professor Guerrero studied Delgado and relented, swayed by the power of the man who had summoned him. Delgado's official title was Minister of the Interior, but that influential position in the President's cabinet didn't indicate his even greater influence as the President's closest friend and advisor. Delgado and the President had grown up together in Mexico City. They'd both been classmates in law school at Mexico's National University. Delgado had directed the President's election campaign, and it was widely understood that the President had chosen Delgado to be his successor.

But all of that - and especially the chance to acquire the fortune in bribes and kickbacks that was the President's due - would be snatched from him, Delgado knew, if he didn't do what he was ordered, for in that case his blackmailer would reveal Delgado's secret and destroy him. At all costs, that had to be prevented.

'Very well,' Professor Guerrero said. 'If you insist. Rum with Coke.'

'I believe I'll join you.' As Delgado mixed the drinks, making a show of what a man of the people he was by not sending for a servant, he nodded toward the music and laughter drifting up from the pool-side party on the terrace below. 'Later, we can join the festivities. I'm sure you wouldn't mind getting out of your business clothes and into a bathing suit. And I'm very sure that you wouldn't object to meeting some beautiful women.'

Professor Guerrero glanced self-consciously toward his wedding ring. 'Actually, I've never been much for parties.'

'You need to relax.' Delgado set the moisture-beaded drinks on a glass-and-chrome table, then gestured for Guerrero to sit in a plush chair across from him. 'You work too much.'

The professor sat stiffly. 'Unfortunately our funding isn't large enough to allow me to hire more staff and reduce my responsibilities.' He didn't need to explain that he was the director of Mexico's National Institute of Archaeology and History.

'Then perhaps additional funding can be arranged. I notice you haven't touched your drink.'

Reluctant, Guerrero took a sip.

'Good. Salud.' Delgado sipped from his own. At once, his expression became somber. 'I was troubled by your letter. Why didn't you simply pick up the telephone and call me about the matter? It's more efficient, more personal.' He silently added, And less official. Bureaucratic letters, not to mention the inevitable file copies made from them, were part of the public record, and Delgado preferred that as little as possible of his concerns be part of the public record.

'I tried several times to talk to you about it,' Guerrero insisted. 'You weren't in your office. I left messages. You didn't return them.'

Delgado looked disapproving. 'I had several urgent problems that demanded immediate attention. At the first opportunity, I intended to return your calls. You need to be patient.'

'I've tried to be patient.' The professor wiped his forehead, agitated. 'But what's happening at the new find in the Yucatan is inexcusable. It has to be stopped.'

'Professor Drummond assures me-'

'He is not a professor. His doctoral degree is honorary, and he has never taught at a university,' Guerrero objected. 'Even if he did have proper credentials, I don't understand why you have permitted an archaeological find of this importance to be investigated exclusively by Americans. This is our heritage, not theirs! And I don't understand the secrecy. Two of my researchers tried to visit but weren't allowed to enter the area. It's been sealed.'

Delgado leaned forward, his expression harsh. 'Professor Drummond has spared no expense to hire the best archaeologists available.'

'The best experts in Mayan culture are citizens of this country and work in my institute.'

'But you yourself admitted that your funds aren't as ample as you would like,' Delgado said, an edge in his voice. 'Think of Professor Drummond's generous financial contribution as a way of making your own funds go farther. Your researchers were denied permission to enter the site because the staff there is working so hard that they don't have time to be distracted by social obligations to visitors. And the area has been sealed off to guarantee that the site isn't plundered by the usual thieves who steal irreplaceable artifacts from newly discovered ruins. It's all easily explainable. There's no secrecy.'

Guerrero became more agitated. 'My institute-'

Delgado held up a hand. ' "Your" institute?'

Guerrero quickly corrected himself. 'The National Institute for Archaeology and History,' he said breathlessly,'should have the sole right to determine how the site should be excavated and who should be permitted to do it. I do not understand why regulations and procedure have been violated.'

'Professor, your innocence troubles me.'

'What?'

'Alistair Drummond has been a generous patron of our country's arts. He has contributed millions of dollars to constructing museums and providing scholarships for aspiring artists. Need I remind you that Drummond Enterprises sponsored the recent worldwide tour of the most extensive collection of Mexican art ever assembled? Need I also remind you, the international respect that collection received has been an incalculable boost to our public relations? Tourists are now arriving in ever greater numbers, not just to visit our resorts but to appreciate our heritage. When Professor Drummond offered his financial and technical assistance to excavate the ruins, he added that he would consider it a favor if his offer were accepted. It was politically expedient to give him that favor because the favor was in our favor. Financially, we come out ahead. I strongly suspect that his team will finish the job long before your own understaffed group would have. As a consequence, tourists can begin going there sooner. Tourists,' Delgado repeated. 'Revenue. Jobs for the natives. The development of an otherwise useless section of the Yucatan.'

'Revenue?' Professor Guerrero bristled. 'Is that all our heritage means to you? Tourists? Money?'

Delgado sighed. 'Please. It's too pleasant an afternoon to argue. I came here to relax and thought that you might appreciate the chance to relax as well. I have a few telephone calls to make. Why don't you go out by the pool, enjoy the view, perhaps introduce yourself to some young ladies - or not, whatever you prefer - and then later we can renew this conversation over dinner when we've had the chance to calm ourselves.'

'I don't see how admiring the view is going to make me change my mind about-'

Delgado interrupted, 'We can continue this conversation later.' He motioned for Guerrero to stand, guided him toward the door, opened it, and told one of his bodyguards, 'Escort Professor Guerrero around the property. Show him the gardens. Take him to the reception at the pool. Make sure all his needs are satisfied. Professor' - Delgado shook hands with him - 'I'll join you in an hour.'

Before Guerrero had a chance to reply, Delgado eased him out of the room and shut the door.

At once, his smile dissolved. His features hardened as he reached for the telephone on the bar. He'd done his best. He'd tried to do this in an agreeable, diplomatic fashion. Without being insultingly blatant, he'd offered every bribe he could imagine. Uselessly. Very well, other methods were now required. If Professor Guerrero didn't cooperate he would discover that he was no longer the director of the National Institute of Archaeology and History. The new director, whom Delgado had selected and who was already obligated to Delgado for various favors, would see no problem about allowing Alistair Drummond's archaeological team to continue excavating the recently discovered Mayan ruins. Delgado was certain about the new director's compliance because that compliance would be a condition of the new director's appointment. And if Professor Guerrero persisted in being disagreeable, if he attempted to create a political scandal, he would have to be killed in a tragic, hit-and-run, car accident.

How could anyone so educated be so stupid? Delgado wondered with fury as he picked up the telephone. He didn't dial, however, for. a light began to flash on the phone's multi-line console, indicating that a call was coming through on another number. Normally Delgado would have let a servant answer the call by using one of the many extensions throughout the estate, but this particular line was so private that it didn't have extensions. Only this phone was attached to it, and very few people knew that Delgado could be reached on this line. Its number was entrusted only to special associates, who had instructions to use it only for matters of utmost importance.

Under the circumstances, Delgado could think of only one such matter and immediately jabbed the button where the light was flashing. 'Arrow,' he said, using the code word that identified him. 'What is it?'

Amid long-distance static, a gruff voice - which Delgado recognized as belonging to a trusted aide - responded with the code word, 'Quiver. It's about the woman.'

Delgado felt pressure in his chest. 'Is your line secure?'

'I wouldn't have called unless it were.'

Delgado's phone system was inspected daily for taps, just as his estate was inspected for electronic eavesdropping devices. In addition, a small monitor next to the phone measured the voltage on the line. Any variance from the norm would indicate that someone had patched into the line after the telephone system had been inspected.

'What about the woman?' Delgado asked tensely.

'I don't think Drummond controls her any longer. Her security has been removed.'

'For God sake, speak clearly. I don't understand.'

'You told us to watch her. But we can't get close because Drummond has his own people watching her. One of his operatives pretending to be homeless sits in a cardboard box and watches the rear of her building. Various vendors, one selling hot dogs, another T-shirts and umbrellas, watch the entrance from the park across the street. At night, they're replaced by other operatives pretending to be indigents. The building's doorman is on Drummond's payroll. The doorman has an assistant who keeps watch in case the doorman is distracted. The woman's servants work for Drummond as well.'

'I already know that!' Delgado said. 'Why are you-?'

'They're not on duty any longer.'

Delgado exhaled sharply.

'At first, we thought that Drummond had arranged for other surveillance,' the aide continued. 'But we were wrong. The doorman no longer has an assistant. The woman's servants left the building this morning and didn't return. The operatives outside the building have not been replaced.'

Next to the air-conditioning duct, Delgado sweated. A crush of conflicting implications made him feel paralyzed. 'She must have taken a trip.'

'No,' the aide said. 'My team would have seen her leave. Besides, on previous occasions when she did take a trip, her servants went with her. Today they left alone. Yesterday morning, there was an unusual flurry of activity, Drummond's men going in and out, especially his assistant.'

'If she hasn't taken a trip, if she's still in the building, why has the security team been removed?'

'I don't believe she's still in the building.'

'Make sense!' Delgado said.

'I think she broke her agreement with Drummond. I think she felt threatened. I think she managed to escape, probably the night before last. That explains the flurry of activity the next morning. The security team isn't needed at the building, so they've been reassigned to join the search for her. The servants aren't needed either, so they've been dismissed.'

'God have mercy.' Delgado sweated more profusely. 'If she's broken her bargain, if she talks, I. Find her.'

'We're trying,' the aide promised. 'But after this much time, the trail is cold. We're reviewing her background, trying to determine where she would go to hide and who she might ask for help. If Drummond's men locate the woman, I'm certain that Drummond will send his assistant to bring her to him.'

'Yes. Without her, Drummond has less power over me. He'll do everything possible to get her back.'

But what if she goes to the authorities? Delgado wondered, frantic. What if she talks in order to save herself?

No, Delgado thought. Until she's absolutely forced to, she won't trust the authorities. She'll be too afraid that Drummond controls them, that they'll release her to him, that he'll punish her for talking. I've still got some time. But eventually, when she doesn't see another way, she will talk. She knows the price is so great that Drummond won't stop hunting her. She can't run forever.

Delgado's aide had continued speaking.

'What?' Delgado demanded.

'I asked you, if we find her or if Drummond's men lead us to her, what do you want us to do?'

'I'll decide that when the moment comes.'

Delgado set down the phone. No matter how thoroughly his estate had been checked for hidden microphones and how well his telephone system had been examined for taps, he wasn't about to say anything more on this topic in this fashion. The conversation had not been incriminating, but it would certainly raise questions if the wrong people heard a recording of it. Delgado didn't want to raise even more questions and indeed supply the answers by providing the full instructions that his aide requested. For Delgado had forcefully decided what needed to be done. By all means. To soothe his ulcerated stomach. To dispel his nightmares and allow him to sleep.

If his men located the woman, he wanted them to kill her.

And then kill Drummond.

FIVE

1

Miami, Florida.

The man's voice echoed metallically from the airport's public-address system. 'Mr Victor Grant. Mr Victor Grant. Please go to a courtesy telephone.'

Buchanan had just arrived at Miami International, and as he blended with the Aeromexico passengers leaving the immigration-customs area, he wondered if Woodfield had gotten the message through to Maxwell and how the rendezvous would be arranged. Amid the noise and congestion of the terminal, he barely heard the announcement and waited for it to be repeated, making sure before he walked across to a white phone marked AIRPORT mounted on a wall near a row of pay phones. There wasn't any way to dial. When he picked it up, he heard a buzz, then another as a phone rang at another station. A woman answered, and when he explained that he was Victor Grant, she told him that his party would be waiting for him at the information counter.

Buchanan thanked her and replaced the phone, then analyzed the rendezvous tactic. A surveillance team is watching the courtesy telephones, he concluded. After Victor Grant's name was called, they waited for a man to go to one of the phones. The team has either studied a photograph of me or been given a description. In any case, now they've identified me, and they'll hang back to see if anyone is following me while I go to the information counter.

But as pleased as Buchanan was about the care of the rendezvous procedure and as delighted as he was to have escaped the authorities in Mexico, to be back in the United States, he was also troubled. His controllers obviously thought that the situation remained delicate. Otherwise, they wouldn't have involved so many operatives in making contact with him.

At a modest pace, giving the surveillance team ample chance to watch the crowd (besides, he was in too much pain to walk any faster), Buchanan pulled his suitcase and proceeded toward the information counter.

A pleasant, athletic-looking, casually dressed man in his thirties emerged from the commotion of passengers. He held out his hand, smiled, and said, 'Hello, Vic. It's good to see you. How are you feeling? How was the flight?'

Buchanan shook hands with him. 'Fine.'

'Great. The van's right this way. Here, I'll take your bag.'

The man, who had brown hair, blue eyes, and sun-leathered skin, touched Buchanan's elbow and guided him toward an exit. Buchanan went along, although he didn't feel comfortable since he hadn't received some kind of identification code. When the man said, 'By the way, both Charles Maxwell and Wade want us to phone and let them know you're okay,' Buchanan relaxed. Several people knew about his claimed relationship with Charles Maxwell, but only his controllers knew that Buchanan's case officer in Cancun had used the pseudonym of Wade.

Across from the terminal, in the airport's crowded parking ramp, the man unlocked a gray van, the side of which was stenciled with white: BON VOYAGE INC., PLEASURE CRAFTS REFITTED, REMODELED. Until then, they'd been making small talk, but now Buchanan became silent, waiting for the man to give him directions, to let him know if it was safe to speak candidly and to tell him what scenario he was supposed to follow.

As the man drove from the parking ramp, he pressed a button on what looked like a portable radio mounted under the dash. 'Okay. The jammer's on. It's safe to talk. I'll give you the quick version and fill in the fine points later. I'm Jack Doyle. Used to be a SEAL. Took a hit in Panama, had to resign, and started a business, outfitting pleasure boats in Fort Lauderdale. All of that's true. Now this is where you come in. From time to time, I do favors for people I used to work for. In this case, they've asked me to give you a cover. You're supposed to be an employee of mine. Your controllers supplied all the necessary background documentation, social security, taxes, that sort of thing. As Victor Grant, you used to be in the SEALS as well, so it was natural that I'd treat you like more than just a hired hand. You live in an apartment above my office. You're a loner. You travel around a lot, doing jobs for me. If my neighbors get asked about you, it won't be surprising that they're not familiar with you. Any questions?'

'How long have you employed me?'

'Three months.'

'How much do I earn?'

'Thirty thousand a year.'

'In that case, I'd like a raise.'

Doyle laughed. 'Good. A sense of humor. We'll get along.'

'Sure,' Buchanan said. 'But we'll get along even better if you stop at that gas station up ahead.'

'Oh?'

'Otherwise I'll be pissing blood inside your van.'

'Jesus.'

Doyle quickly turned off the freeway toward a gas station. When Buchanan came out of the men's room, Doyle was leaving a pay phone. 'I called one of our team who's acting as communications relay at the airport. He's positive no one followed you.'

Buchanan slumped against the van, his face cold with sweat. 'You'd better get me to a.'

2

The doctor stood beside Buchanan's bed, read Buchanan's chart, listened to his heart and respiration, checked his intravenous bottle, then took off his bifocals and scratched his salt-and-pepper beard. 'You have an amazing constitution, Mr Grant. Normally I don't see anybody as banged up as you unless they've been in a serious car accident.' He paused. 'Or.'

He never finished his statement, but Buchanan was certain that what the doctor meant to add was 'combat' just as Buchanan was certain that Doyle would never have brought him here unless the small hospital had affiliations with his controllers. In all likelihood, the doctor had once been a military physician.

'I have the results of your X-rays and other tests,' the doctor continued. 'Your wound is infected, as you guessed. But now that I've redressed and resutured it and started you on antibiotics, it ought to heal with reasonable speed and without complication. Your temperature is already coming down.'

'Which means - given how serious you look - the bad news is my internal bleeding,' Buchanan said.

The doctor hesitated. 'Actually that bleeding seems more serious than it is. No doubt, it must have been quite a shock when you discovered blood in your urine. I'm sure you've been worried about a ruptured organ. The reassuring truth is that the bleeding is caused by a small, broken blood vessel in your bladder. Surgery isn't necessary. If you rest, if you don't indulge in strenuous activity, the bleeding will stop and the vessel will heal fairly soon. It sometimes occurs among obsessive joggers, for example. If they take a few weeks off, they're able to jog again.'

'Then what is it?' The doctor's somber expression made Buchanan more uneasy. 'What's wrong?'

'The injury to your skull, Mr Grant. And the periodic tremors in your right hand.'

Buchanan's chest felt icy. 'I thought the tremors were caused by shock to the nerves because of the wound in my shoulder. When the wound heals, I assumed.'

The doctor squinted, concerned. 'Shock. Nerves. You're partially correct. The problem does involve the nerves. But not in the way you imagine. Mr Grant, to repeat, you have an amazing constitution. Your skull has been fractured. You've suffered a concussion. That accounts for your dizziness and blurred vision. Frankly, given the bruise I saw on the CAT-scan of your brain, I'm amazed that you were able to stay on your feet, let alone think on your feet. You must have remarkable endurance, not to mention determination.'

'It's called adrenaline, Doctor.' Buchanan's voice dropped. 'You're telling me I have neurologic damage?'

'That's my opinion.'

'Then what happens now? An operation?'

'Not without a second opinion,' the doctor said. 'I'd have to consult with a specialist.'

Restraining an inward tremor, appalled by the notion of willingly being rendered unconscious, Buchanan said, 'I'm asking for your opinion, Doctor.'

'Have you been sleeping for an unusual amount of time?'

'Sleeping?' Buchanan almost laughed but resisted the impulse because he knew that the laugh would sound hysterical. 'I've been too busy to sleep.'

'Have you vomited?'

'No.'

'Have you experienced any unusual physical aberrations, apart from the dizziness, blurred vision, and tremors in your right hand?'

'No.'

'Your answers are encouraging. I'd like to consult with a specialist in neurology. It may be that surgery isn't required.'

'And if it isn't?' Buchanan asked rigidly. 'What's my risk?'

'I try not to deal with an hypothesis. First we'll watch you carefully, wait until tomorrow morning, do another CAT-scan, and see if the bruise on your brain has reduced in size.'

'Best case,' Buchanan said. 'Suppose the bruise shrinks. Suppose I don't need an operation.'

'The best case is the worst case,' the doctor said. "Damaged brain cells do not regenerate. I'd make very certain that I was never struck on my skull again.'

3

The one-story house was in a suburb of Fort Lauderdale called Plantation, its plain design disguised by abundant shrubs and flowers.

Someone obviously took loving care of the property. Buchanan wondered if Doyle made a hobby of landscaping. Their conversation during the drive from the hospital to Doyle's home indicated that the recession had affected Doyle's business and he was hardly in a position to afford a gardener. But after Doyle parked in a carport and led Buchanan through the side screen door into the house, it quickly became obvious who was taking care of the grounds.

Doyle had a wife. Buchanan hadn't been sure inasmuch as Doyle didn't wear a wedding ring, and Buchanan seldom asked personal questions. But now he faced an energetic, pixyish woman a little younger than Doyle, maybe thirty. She had happy eyes, cheerleader freckles, and an engaging, spontaneous smile. Buchanan couldn't tell what color her hair was because she had it wrapped in a black-and-red-checkered handkerchief. She wore a white, cotton apron, and her hands were covered with flour from a ball of dough that she was kneading on a butcher-board counter.

'Oh, my,' she said with a pleasant Southern accent (Louisiana, Buchanan thought), 'I didn't think you'd be here this soon.' Appealingly flustered, she touched her face and left a flour print on her freckles. 'The house is a mess. I haven't had time to-'

'The house looks fine, Cindy. Really,' Doyle said. 'Traffic wasn't as bad as I figured. That's why we're early. Sorry.'

Cindy chuckled. 'Might as well look on the bright side. Now I don't have to wear myself out, rushing to clean the house.'

Her smile was infectious. Buchanan returned it.

Doyle gestured toward him. 'Cindy, this is my friend I told you about. Vic Grant. I used to know him in the service. He's been working for me the past three months.'

'Pleased to meet you.' Cindy held out her hand. Then she remembered the flour on it, blushed, and started to retract the hand.

'No, that's okay,' Buchanan said. 'I like the feel of flour.' He shook hands with her.

'Classy guy,' she told her husband.

'Hey, all my friends are classy.'

'Tell me another one.' She studied Buchanan, pointing at the thick bandage around his skull. 'I've got another black-and-red handkerchief that'll sure look better than that.'

Buchanan grinned. 'I'm not supposed to take this off for a while. It doesn't do much good. It's not like a cast or anything. But it reminds me to be careful of my head.'

'Fractured skull, Jack told me.'

Buchanan nodded, his head still aching.

He expected her to ask him how he'd injured it. That would be a natural, logical next statement, and he was preparing to repeat his lie about falling off a boat, but she surprised him, suddenly switching topics, gesturing toward the dough on the counter. 'I'm making you a pie. I hope you like Key lime.'

He hid his puzzlement and told her, 'I seldom taste homemade pie. I'm sure anything you cook would be wonderful.'

'Jack, I like this guy better and better.'

'I'll show you to the guest room,' Doyle said.

'Anything you need, just ask,' Cindy added.

'Hey, I bet everything is fine,' Buchanan said. 'I really appreciate your taking me in like this. I don't have a family or anything, and the doctor thought it would be better if.'

'Shush,' Cindy said. 'For the next few days, we're your family.'

As Doyle led Buchanan from the kitchen toward a sunlit hallway, Buchanan glanced back toward Cindy, still puzzled about why she hadn't asked him the obvious question about what had happened to his skull.

By now, she had turned from him and resumed kneading the ball of dough on the butcher-board counter. Buchanan noticed that she had flour handprints on the trim hips of her jeans. Then he noticed something else. A snub-nosed.38 revolver was mounted to a bracket beneath the wall-phone next to the screen door, and Buchanan knew that Jack Doyle would never have chosen that type of weapon for himself. Doyle would have considered it a toy, preferring a semi-automatic 9-millimeter or a.45. No, the snub-nosed revolver was for Cindy, and Buchanan was willing to bet that she knew how to use it.

Was the gun there as a precaution against burglars? Buchanan wondered. Had Doyle's experience with the SEALS made him extra security conscious in civilian life? As Buchanan followed Doyle down the hallway, he remembered Doyle's comment about sometimes doing favors for people he used to work for, and immediately he decided that the revolver wasn't the only weapon he'd find around the house and that Doyle intended the weapons to be a protection for Cindy against the possible consequences of some of those favors.

'Well, here it is.' Doyle led Buchanan into a pleasant, homey bedroom with lace curtains, an antique rocking chair, and an oriental carpet on a hardwood floor. 'The bathroom's through there. You don't have to share it. We've got our own. No tub, though. Just a shower.'

'No problem,' Buchanan said. 'I prefer a shower.'

Doyle set Buchanan's bag on a polished bench at the foot of the bed. 'That's about it for now, I guess. Unpack. Have a nap. There's plenty of books on that shelf. Or watch TV.' He pointed toward a small set on a bureau in the corner. 'Make like the place is yours. I'll come back and let you know when lunch is ready.'

'Thanks.'

Doyle didn't leave, though. He looked preoccupied.

'What's the matter?' Buchanan asked.

'I don't know your real background, and it isn't right for me to know it, but I figure, considering the people who asked me to give you cover, we must be brothers of a sort. I appreciate your thanks. It isn't necessary, though.'

'I understand.'

Doyle hesitated. 'I've been following the rules. I haven't asked you any questions. All I need to know I assume I've been told. But there is one thing. What happened and why you're here. If you're able to. Is there any danger to Cindy?'

Buchanan suddenly liked this man very much. 'No. To the best of my knowledge, there isn't any danger to Cindy.'

The muscles in Doyle's cheeks relaxed. 'Good. She doesn't know anything about the favors I do. When I was in the SEALS, she never knew where I was being sent or how long I'd be gone. Never asked a single question. Took everything on faith. Never even asked why I wanted her to learn how to shoot or why I've got guns mounted around the house.'

'Like the revolver beneath the phone on the wall in the kitchen?' Buchanan asked.

'Yeah, I saw you noticed it. And like this one.' Doyle raised the cover from the side of the bed and showed Buchanan a Colt 9-millimeter in a holster attached to the bedframe. 'Just in case. You ought to know about it. I don't care what happens to me, but Cindy. Well, she's a damned fine woman. I don't deserve her. And she doesn't deserve any trouble I bring home.'

'She's safe, Jack.'

'Good,' Doyle repeated.

4

The muffled ringing of a phone wakened him. Buchanan became alert immediately, and that encouraged him. His survival instincts were still functioning. He glanced from the bed toward the end table, didn't see a phone, then gazed toward the closed door of the guest room beyond which he again heard the phone, its ring muted by distance, presumably down the hall in the kitchen. He heard a murky voice, female, Cindy's. Then he heard Jack. The conversation was brief. The house became silent again.

Buchanan glanced at his watch, surprised that it showed half-past noon, that what had felt like a fifteen-minute nap had lasted almost two hours. The doctor had warned him about sleeping more than usual. Past noon? He frowned. Lunch should be ready by now, and he wondered why Cindy or Jack hadn't roused him. He stretched his arms, testing the stiffness in his shoulder where his wound had been restitched, then put on his shoes and got up from the bed.

He heard a soft rap on the door.

'Vic?' Cindy whispered.

'It's all right. I'm up.' Buchanan opened the door.

'Lunch is ready.' She smiled engagingly.

Buchanan noticed that she'd removed her flour-dusted apron but still wore the red-and-black-checkered handkerchief on her head. Her hair must need fixing, and she didn't have time, he thought as he followed her along the sunny hallway into the kitchen.

'The pie's for supper. We don't eat big meals at lunch,' she explained. 'Jack's a fanatic about his cholesterol. I hope you like simple food.'

A steaming bowl of vegetable soup had been set at each place along with a tuna sandwich flanked by a plate of sliced celery, carrots, cauliflower, and tomatoes.

'The bread's wholewheat,' she added, 'but I can give you white if you.'

'No, wholewheat's fine,' Buchanan said and noticed that Doyle, who was already sitting at the table, seemed preoccupied by the tip of his fork.

'Did you have a good nap?' Cindy asked.

'Fine,' Buchanan said and took a chair only after she did, waiting until she dipped her spoon into the soup before he started to eat. 'Delicious.'

'Try the raw cauliflower.' Cindy pointed. 'It's supposed to help purify your system.'

'Well, mine could definitely stand some purifying,' Buchanan joked and wondered why Doyle hadn't spoken or eaten yet. Obviously something was bothering him. Buchanan decided to prompt him. 'I bet I'd still be asleep if I hadn't heard the phone.'

'Oh, I was afraid that might have happened,' Cindy said.

'Yeah.' Doyle finally spoke. 'You know how I've got the office phone rigged so if someone calls there and we're out, the call is relayed to here?'

Buchanan nodded as if that information were obvious to him, trying to maintain the fiction in front of Cindy that he'd worked for her husband these past three months.

'Well, that was someone calling the office to talk to you,' Doyle said. 'A man. I told him you wouldn't be available for a while. He said he'd call back.'

Buchanan tried hard not to show his concern. 'It was probably someone I did a job for. Maybe he's got questions about a piece of equipment I installed. Did he leave his name?'

Doyle somberly shook his head.

'Then it mustn't have been very important.' Buchanan tried to sound casual.

'That's what I thought,' Doyle said. 'By the way, after lunch I ought to go down to the office. I need to check on a couple of things. If you're feeling all right, you want to keep me company?'

'Jack, he's supposed to be resting, not working,' Cindy said.

Buchanan chewed and swallowed. 'Not to worry. Sure. My nap did a world of good. I'll drive along with you.'

'Great.' Doyle finally started to eat, then paused, frowning toward Cindy. 'You'll be all right while we're gone?'

'Why wouldn't I be?' Cindy's smile was forced.

'The soup's excellent,' Doyle said.

'So glad you like it.' Cindy's smile became even more forced.

5

'Something's wrong,' Buchanan said.

Doyle didn't respond, just stared straight ahead and pretended to concentrate on traffic.

Buchanan decided to push it. 'Your wife's so good-natured I get the sense she's working at it. Working hard. She doesn't ask questions, but she picks up overtones - about that phone call, for example. If her smile got any harder, her face would have cracked. She doesn't believe for a minute that you and I are friends. Oh, she tries to pretend, but the truth is I make her nervous, and at lunch, she finally wasn't able to hide it anymore. If she gets any more nervous, I might have to leave.'

Doyle kept staring ahead, driving over bridges that spanned canals along which pleasure boats were moored next to palm trees and expensive homes. The sunlight was fierce. Doyle seemed to squint less from the sun and more from the topic, however, as he put on dark glasses.

Buchanan let him alone then, eased the pressure, allowing Doyle to respond at his own pace. Even so, Doyle took so long to reply that Buchanan began to think that he never would unless Buchanan prompted him again.

That wasn't necessary.

'You're not the problem,' Doyle said, his voice tight. 'How I wish life could be that simple. Cindy's glad to have you at the house. Really. She wants you to stay as long as necessary. When it comes to the favors I do, her nerves are incredible. I remember once. I was stationed at Coronado, California. Cindy and I lived off base. I said goodbye to her in the morning, drove to work, and suddenly my team was put on alert. No communications to anyone off base. So naturally I couldn't tell her I was being airlifted out. I could imagine what she'd be feeling when I didn't come home that night. The confusion. The worry. No emotional preparation for what might be the last time we saw each other.' Doyle's voice hardened. He glanced toward Buchanan. 'I was away for six months.' Buchanan noted that Doyle didn't say where he'd been sent, and Buchanan would never have asked. He let Doyle continue.

'I found out later that a reporter had managed to discover that I was a SEAL and Cindy was my wife,' Doyle said. 'The reporter showed up at our apartment and wanted her to tell him where I'd been sent. Well, at that point, Cindy still didn't know I was gone, let alone to where, which of course - the where part - she never would have known anyhow. But someone not as strong as Cindy couldn't have helped being surprised to find a reporter blurting questions at her and telling her I'd been sent on a mission. The natural response would have been for her to show her surprise, admit I was a SEAL, and ask him how much danger I was in. Not Cindy, though. She stonewalled him and claimed she didn't know what he was talking about. Other reporters showed up, and she stonewalled them as well. Her answer was always the same. "I don't know what you're talking about." Amazing. She never phoned the base, wanting to know what was happening to me. She just acted as if everything was normal, and Monday through Friday, she went to her job as a receptionist for an insurance company, and when I finally got back, she gave me a long, deep kiss and said she'd missed me. Not "Where were you?", just that she'd missed me. I left on plenty of missions, and I never for a second doubted that she was faithful to me, either.'

Buchanan nodded, but he couldn't help wondering. If Cindy wasn't nervous because of his presence, what was the source of the tension he sensed?

'Cindy has cancer,' Doyle said.

Buchanan stared.

'Leukemia.' Doyle's voice became more strained. 'That's why she wears that kerchief on her head. To hide her scalp. The chemotherapy has made her bald.'

Buchanan's chest felt numb. He understood now why Cindy's cheeks seemed to glow, why her skin seemed translucent. The chemicals she was taking - combined with the attrition caused by the disease - gave her skin a non-corporeal, ethereal quality.

'She just got out of the hospital yesterday after one of her three-day treatments,' Doyle said. 'All that fuss about the food at lunch today. Hell, it was all she could do to eat it. And the pie she was making. The chemotherapy does something to her sense of taste. She can't bear sweets. While you were napping, she threw up.'

'Christ,' Buchanan said.

'She's determined to make you feel at home,' Doyle said.

'You've got trouble enough without. Why didn't you turn this assignment down? Surely my controllers could have found someone else to give me cover.'

'Apparently they couldn't,' Doyle said. 'Otherwise, they wouldn't have asked me.'

'Did you tell them about.?'

'Yes,' Doyle said bitterly. 'That didn't stop them from asking me. No matter how much she suspects, Cindy can't ever be told that this is an assignment. All the same, she knows it is. I'm positive of that, just as I'm positive that she's determined to do this properly. It gives her something to think about besides.'

'What do her doctors say?' Buchanan asked.

Doyle steered onto a highway along a beach. He didn't answer.

'Is her treatment doing what it's supposed to?' Buchanan persisted.

Doyle spoke thickly, 'You mean, is she going to make it?'

'. Yeah, I guess that's what I mean.'

'I don't know.' Doyle exhaled. 'Her doctors are encouraging but non-committal. One week she's better. The next week she's worse. The next week. It's a roller coaster. But if I had to give a yes-or-no answer. Yes, I think she's dying. That's why I asked if what we're doing puts her in danger. I'm afraid she's got so little time left. I couldn't stand it if something else killed her even sooner. I'd go out of my mind.'

6

'Who do you think phoned your house? Who asked for Victor Grant?' Doyle - who'd been silent for the past five minutes, brooding, preoccupied about his wife - now turned toward Buchanan. 'I'll tell you who it wasn't. Your controllers. They told me they'd contact you by phoning either at eight in the morning, three in the afternoon, or ten at night. A man would ask to speak to me. He'd say that his name was Roger Winslow, and he'd suggest a time to meet at my office to talk about customizing a boat. That would mean you were supposed to go to a rendezvous an hour before the time they mentioned. A wholesale marine-parts supplier I use. It's always busy. No one would notice if you were given a message via brush contact from someone passing you.'

Buchanan debated. 'So if it wasn't my controllers who phoned. The only other people who know I claim to be Victor Grant and work in Fort Lauderdale customizing pleasure boats are the Mexican police.'

Doyle shook his head. 'The man I spoke to didn't have a Spanish accent.'

'What about the man from the American embassy?' Buchanan asked.

'Could be. He might be phoning to make sure you arrived safely. He'd have access to the same information - place of employment, et cetera - that you gave the Mexican police.'

'Yeah, maybe it was him,' Buchanan said, hoping. But he couldn't avoid the suspicion that he wasn't safe, that things were about to get worse.

'Since you're supposed to be working for me and living above my office,' Doyle said, 'you'd better see what the place looks like.'

Doyle turned off the highway, taking a side street across from the beach. Past tourist shops, he parked beside a drab, two-story, cinder-block building in a row of similar buildings, all of which were built along a canal, the dock of which was lined with boats under repair.

'I've got a machine shop in back,' Doyle said. 'Sometimes my clients bring their boats here. Mostly, though, I go to them.'

'What about your secretary?' Buchanan asked, uneasy. 'She'll know I haven't been working for you.'

'I don't have one. Until three months ago, Cindy did the office work. But then she got too sick to. That's why she can make herself believe you came to work for me after she stayed home.'

As Buchanan walked toward the building, he squinted from the sun and smelled a salt-laden breeze from the ocean. A young woman wearing a bikini drove by on a motorcycle and stared at his head.

Buchanan gingerly touched the bandage around his skull, realizing how conspicuous it made him. He felt vulnerable, his head aching from the glare of the sun, while Doyle unlocked the building's entrance, a door stenciled BON VOYAGE, INC. Inside, after Doyle shut off the time-delay switch on the intrusion detector, Buchanan surveyed the office. It was a long, narrow room with photographs of yachts and cabin cruisers on the walls, displays of nautical instruments on shelves, and miniaturized interiors of various pleasure craft on tables. The models showed the ways in which electronic instruments could be installed without taking up undue room on a crowded vessel.

'You got a letter,' Doyle said as he sorted through the mail.

Buchanan took it from him, careful not to break character by expressing surprise that anyone would have written to him under his new pseudonym. This office was a logical place for someone investigating him to conceal a bug, and unless Doyle assured him that it was safe to talk here, Buchanan didn't intend to say anything that Victor Grant wouldn't, just as he assumed that Doyle wouldn't say anything inconsistent with their cover story.

The letter was addressed to him in scrawled handwriting. Its return address was in Providence, Rhode Island. Buchanan tore open the flap and read two pages of the same scrawled handwriting.

'Who's it from?' Doyle asked.

'My mother.' Buchanan shook his head with admiration. His efficient controllers had taken great care to give him supporting details for his new identity.

'How is she?' Doyle asked.

'Good. Except her arthritis is acting up again.'

The phone rang.

7

Buchanan frowned.

'Relax,' Doyle said. 'This is a business, remember. And to tell the truth, I could use some business.'

The phone rang again. Doyle picked it up, said, 'Bon Voyage, Inc.,' then frowned as Buchanan had.

He placed his hand across the mouthpiece and told Buchanan, 'I was wrong. It's that guy again asking to speak to you. What do you want me to say?'

'Better let me say it. I'm curious who he is.' Uneasy, Buchanan took the phone. 'Victor Grant here.'

The deep, crusty voice was instantly recognizable. 'Your name ain't Victor Grant.'

Heart pounding, Buchanan repressed his alarm and tried to sound puzzled. 'What? Who is this? My boss said somebody wanted to speak to. Wait a minute. Is this.? Are you the guy in Mexico who.?'

'Bailey. Big Bob Bailey. Damn it, Crawford, don't get on my nerves. You'd still be in jail if I hadn't called the American embassy. The least you can do is be grateful.'

'Grateful? I wouldn't have been in jail if you hadn't misidentified me. How many times do I have to say it? My name isn't Crawford. It's Victor Grant.'

'Sure, just like it was Ed Potter. I don't know what kind of scam you're runnin', but it looks to me like you got more names than the phone book, and if you want to keep usin' them, you're gonna have to pay a subscriber fee.'

'Subscriber fee? What are you talking about?'

'After what happened in Kuwait, I'm not crazy about workin' in the Mideast oil fields anymore,' Bailey said. 'Stateside, the big companies are shuttin' down wells instead of drillin'. I'm too old to be a wildcatter. So I guess I'll have to rely on my buddies. Like you, Crawford. For the sake of when we were prisoners together, can you spare a hundred thousand dollars?'

'A hundred.? Have you been drinking?'

'You betcha.'

'You're out of your mind. One last time, and listen carefully. My name isn't Crawford. My name isn't Potter. My name's Victor Grant, and I don't know what you're talking about. Get lost.'

Buchanan broke the connection.

8

Doyle stared at him. 'How bad?'

Buchanan's cheek muscles hardened. 'I'm not sure. I'll know in a minute.' He kept his hand on the phone.

But it took only ten seconds before the phone rang again.

Buchanan scowled and let it ring three more times before he picked it up. 'Bon Voyage, Inc.'

'Crawford, don't kid yourself that you can get rid of me that easy,' Bailey said. 'I'm stubborn. You can fool the Mexican police, and you can fool the American embassy, but take my word, you can't fool me. I know your real name ain't Grant. I know your real name ain't Potter. And all of a sudden, I'm beginnin' to wonder if your real name is even Crawford. Who are you, buddy? It ought to be worth a lousy hundred-thousand to keep me from finding out.'

'I've run out of patience,' Buchanan said. 'Stop bothering me.'

'Hey, you don't know what being bothered is.'

'I mean it. Leave me alone, or I'll call the police.'

'Yeah, the police might be a good idea,' Bailey said. 'Maybe they can figure out what's goin' on and who you are. Go ahead. Prove you're an innocent, upstandin' citizen. Call the cops. I'd love to talk to them about those three Spic drug dealers you shot in Mexico and why you're usin' so many different names.'

'What do I have to do to convince-?'

'Buddy, you don't have to convince me of anything. All you have to do is pay me the hundred-thousand bucks. After that, you can call yourself Napoleon for all I care.'

'You haven't listened to a word I've-'

'The only words I want to hear are, "Here's your money". Crawford or whoever the hell you are, if you don't get with the program soon, I swear to God I'll phone the cops myself.'

'Where are you?'

'You don't really expect me to answer that. When you've got the hundred-thousand. and I want it by tomorrow. then I'll let you know where I am.'

'We have to meet. I can prove you're wrong.'

'And just how are you gonna do that, buddy? Cross your heart and hope to die?' Bailey laughed, and this time, it was he who slammed down the phone.

9

Buchanan's head throbbed. He turned to Doyle. 'Yeah, it's bad.'

He had to keep reminding himself that Bailey or somebody else might have planted a microphone in the office. So far he hadn't said anything incriminating. Whatever explanation he gave Doyle, it had to be consistent with Victor Grant's innocent viewpoint. 'That jerk who caused me so much trouble in Mexico. He thinks I shot three drug dealers down there. Now he's trying to blackmail me. Otherwise he says he'll call the cops.'

Doyle played his part. 'Let him try. I don't think the local cops care what happens in Mexico, and since you didn't do anything wrong, he'll look like a fool. Then you can have him charged with extortion.'

'It's not that easy.'

'Why?'

Buchanan's wound cramped as he suddenly thought of something. The phone had rung just after Buchanan and Doyle entered the office. Was that merely a coincidence? Jesus.

Buchanan hurried to the front door, yanked it open, and glanced tensely both ways along the street. A woman was carrying groceries toward a cabin cruiser. A car passed. A jogger went by. Two boat mechanics unloaded a crate from the back of a truck. A kid on a bicycle squinted at the bandage around Buchanan's head.

Buchanan pulled it off and continued staring along the street. His pounded from the fierce sunlight. There! On the left. At the far end. Near the beach. A big man with strong shoulders and a brushcut - Bailey - was standing outside a phone booth, peering in Buchanan's direction.

Bailey raised his muscular right arm in greeting when he saw Buchanan notice him. Then, as Buchanan started up the street toward him, Bailey grinned - even at a distance, his smile was obvious - got in a dusty car, and drove away.

10

'Cindy?' Doyle hurried into the house. The kitchen was deserted. 'Cindy?'

No answer.

Doyle turned to Buchanan. 'The door was locked. Her car's still here. Where would she go on foot? Why would-? Cindy?' Doyle hurried deeper into the house.

Buchanan stayed in the kitchen, frowning out a side window toward the driveway and the street.

'Cindy?' he heard from a room down the hall.

At once Doyle's voice softened. 'Are you.? I'm sorry I woke you, honey. I didn't know you were sleeping. When I found the door locked, I worried that something might have.'

Doyle's voice softened even more, and Buchanan couldn't hear it. Uneasy, he waited, continuing to stare outside.

When Doyle came back to the kitchen, he leaned against the refrigerator and rubbed his haggard cheeks.

'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.

'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.

Buchanan eased back on the throttle.

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.'

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 some place. '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 wer e identified, the consequence 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 from 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 th e 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.'

13

It was dark outside. Buchanan kept the guest room's light off as he packed, relying on the slight illumination from the hallway. After he finished and made sure that he hadn't left anything behind, he considered taking the 9-millimeter pistol from the holster attached to the side of the bed but decided against it. If there were trouble, the police might trace the gun to Doyle, and Buchanan didn't want to involve him any worse than he already was.

Leaving the guest room, Buchanan almost turned left toward the lights in the kitchen but changed his mind and instead turned right toward a door farther along the dimly lit hallway. He knocked, received no answer, noticed that the door was slightly ajar, and decided to take a chance. Pushing the door farther open, he knocked again. 'Cindy?'

'. What is it?' her weary voice asked from the darkness.

Buchanan entered, crossed the murky room, and knelt beside the bed, able to see her shadowy contour under the sheets but not her face. 'I missed you at supper.'

'Tired,' she whispered. 'The casserole.?'

'Was excellent. You didn't need to use up your energy making it. Jack and I could have eaten take-out.'

'Not in my home.' Cindy managed to emphasize the word despite her fatigue.

'Well,' Buchanan said, 'I just wanted to let you know I appreciate it and to thank you for everything.'

She moved slowly, evidently turning toward him. 'You sound as if. Are you leaving?'

'I have to.'

She tried to sit up but couldn't. 'I hope not because of me.'

'What would make you think that?'

'Because people feel self-conscious about me being sick. It's hard to be around.'

'I don't feel that way,' Buchanan said. 'It's just that I have things to do. It's time for me to move on and do them.'

She didn't reply.

'Cindy?'

'I sort of hoped you'd stay so you could be company for Jack.' She inhaled in a way that made Buchanan suspect she was crying. 'Seems like most of the time I'm either in the hospital or here in bed. I'm not afraid for me, but I feel so sorry for Jack.'

'He loves you very much.'

'Sure.'

'He told me that several times. He told me how proud he was of you, the way you put up with being married to him when he was in the service and how you stonewalled those reporters.'

She chuckled slightly, then sniffled. 'Yeah, I was tough. The good times. Except Jack was gone so much then, and now that we're together.'

'Right. You just said it. You're together. And you don't need me around to make a crowd. In a few minutes, I'll be on my way.'

'Take my car.'

Buchanan cocked his head in surprise.

'I get the feeling you'll be needing it.' She touched his hand, 'I sure won't. I haven't driven it since before I was in the hospital this last time. Take it. Please.'

'I'll get it back to you when I'm settled.'

'There isn't any rush, believe me.'

'Cindy?'

'Yes?'

'I'm sorry.'

'Yeah. Me, too.'

Buchanan leaned down and kissed her gently on the cheek, his lips salty from her tears. 'Take care.'

'I always tried to. Didn't do me any good, though. You take care.'

'I'll have to.' He stood from beside the bed. 'Maybe some time I'll be back this way.'

She didn't respond.

'I'd better let you get some sleep.' Buchanan touched her cheek, then backed from the room and closed the door.

14

Doyle sat, playing solitaire at the kitchen table. He didn't look up when Buchanan entered the room. 'I overheard.'

'And?'

'Thanks. Friends mean a lot. These days, she doesn't have too many. Most of them ran when they found out how sick she was. They didn't know enough to say what you just did to Cindy.'

'What was that?'

'"I'm sorry."' Doyle looked up from the cards. 'Cindy's right. I think it's a good idea to take her car instead of my van. Less conspicuous. When you're done with it, just let me know where to pick it up. And this is another good idea.' Doyle reached under the table, where there must have been a bracket - because when his hand reappeared, it held a Beretta 9-millimeter pistol.

Buchanan glanced toward the windows. The blinds were pulled so no one outside could see the weapon. But he was still wary of possible hidden microphones. Instead of talking, he shook his head in refusal.

Doyle mouthed, Why not?

Buchanan picked up a notepad on the counter and wrote, What if I had to dump it?

Doyle took the pen and wrote on the notepad, I took it from a dead soldier in Panama. It can't be linked to me.

Buchanan studied Doyle, then nodded. He removed the magazine to make sure it was loaded, reinserted the magazine, worked the slide back and forth to chamber a round, lowered the hammer, then stuck the weapon beneath his belt at his spine, and covered it by putting on a dark, brown, nylon windbreaker that he'd borrowed from Doyle.

Doyle assessed the effect. 'Fits you perfect.'

Buchanan glanced toward the clock on the stove. Eight twenty-five. Bailey was due to call in five minutes. Doyle shrugged as if to say, Be patient. Self-conscious because the kitchen might be bugged, neither man spoke. Doyle ripped up the sheet of paper, burned the pieces in a saucer, and washed the ashes down the sink, more for something to do, it seemed, than for the sake of destroying an incriminating object. Then he returned to his game of solitaire, appearing to understand that Buchanan needed to focus his mind and not clutter it with small talk.

Eight-thirty. Buchanan kept staring toward the phone. Five minutes passed. Then ten. His head began to throb. At last, at a quarter to nine, the phone rang.

Buchanan grabbed it before the noise could wake Cindy.

'There's a mini-mall near you on Pine Island Road. The intersection of Sunrise Boulevard,' Bailey's crusty voice said.

'I know the place. I've driven past it.'

'Go over to the pizza joint. Stand to the right of the entrance. Be there at nine. Come alone.'

Before Buchanan could acknowledge the message, Bailey hung up.

Buchanan frowned and turned to Doyle. 'Got to run an errand.'

'The keys to the car are in that drawer.'

'Thanks.' Buchanan shook his hand.

That was all the sentiment Buchanan could allow. He took the keys, lifted his suitcase, grabbed a small, red, picnic cooler off the counter, and nodded as Doyle opened the door for him.

Ninety seconds later, he was driving away.

15

The small, red, picnic cooler contained an apple and two bologna sandwiches on a white, plastic tray. A lower tray contained ice cubes. Beneath that tray were a hundred-thousand dollars in hundred-dollar bills. In the dark, driving, Buchanan glanced toward the cooler on the seat beside him. Then he checked for headlights in his rearview mirror to see if he was being followed.

He'd received the cooler and the money that afternoon while he was parked at a stop light on his way back to Doyle's. The money was in response to a call that he'd made from a pay phone immediately after returning from his conversation with Bailey. The colonel had told Buchanan to wait at the Bon Voyage office until three o'clock and, when he drove away, to leave his passenger window open. At the stop light, a motorcyclist had paused, pushed the cooler through the open window, and driven on.

Now, his pulse quickening, Buchanan parked at the crowded mini-mall on Pine Island Road. Beneath hissing sodium lights, he carried the picnic cooler to the pizza shop and stood to the right of the entrance. Customers went in and out. A delivery boy drove hurriedly away. Scanning the night, Buchanan waited. This time, Bailey made contact exactly when he'd said he would.

'Is your name Grant?' a voice asked.

Buchanan turned toward the open door to the pizza shop, seeing a gangly, pimply-faced young man wearing a white apron streaked with sauce.

'That's right.'

'A guy just called inside. Said he was a friend of yours. Said you'd give me five bucks if I relayed a message.'

'My friend was right.' Buchanan gave the kid the five dollars. 'What's the message?'

'He said you're supposed to meet him in twenty minutes in the lobby of the Tower Hotel.'

Buchanan squinted. 'The Tower Hotel? Where's that?'

'The east end of Broward Boulevard. Near Victoria Park Road.'

Buchanan nodded and walked quickly toward his car, realizing what was ahead of him. Bailey - afraid that he'd be in danger when he showed himself to get the money - intended to shunt Buchanan to various places throughout the city, carefully watching each potential meeting site for any indication that Buchanan had not come alone.

Bailey's instincts were good, Buchanan thought, as he checked a map in his car and steered from the mini-mall, heading toward his next destination. The truth was, Buchanan did have a team keeping track of him. Their mission was to follow Bailey after the money was handed over and to try to find where he was keeping the video tape, the photographs, and the negatives, especially the ones depicting Buchanan on the yacht with the colonel, the major, and the captain. The colonel had been very emphatic about that point when he'd hastily returned Buchanan's phone call. The images of Buchanan with the colonel had to be destroyed.

As Buchanan headed east on Broward Boulevard, he again glanced in his rearview mirror to see if he was being followed. He looked for Bailey, not the team that was keeping track of him, for there was no way he could spot the team, he knew. They had a way to follow him and later Bailey that permitted them to stay far back, out of visual contact, and that method was the reason Bailey's protective tactic, no matter how shrewd, wouldn't work. Bailey would never see the team at any of the potential rendezvous sites. He could never possibly detect the team as they followed him after he received the money. No matter what evasion procedures he attempted, he would not be able to elude them.

Because they didn't need to keep him in sight. All they had to do was study an audio-visual monitor and follow the homing signals they received from a battery-powered location transmitter concealed within the plastic bottom of the small picnic cooler that contained the money.

Friday night traffic was dense. Amid gleaming headlights, Buchanan reached the glass-and-steel Tower Hotel two minutes ahead of schedule. Telling the parking attendant that he would probably need the car right away, he darted inside the plush lobby and found his jeans, nylon jacket, and picnic cooler being sternly assessed by a group of men and women wearing tuxedos and glittering evening gowns. Sure, Buchanan thought. There's a reception going on. Bailey found out and took advantage of it. He wants me and especially anyone following me to be conspicuous.

Used to being inconspicuous, Buchanan felt self-conscious as he waited in the lobby. He looked for Bailey among the guests, not expecting to find him, wondering how Bailey would contact him this time. The clock behind the check-in counter showed twenty after nine, exactly when Buchanan was supposed to.

'Mr Grant?' a uniformed bellhop asked.

Buchanan had noticed the short, middle-aged man moving from guest to guest in the lobby, speaking softly to each. 'That's right.'

'A friend of yours left this envelope for you.'

Finding a deserted corner, Buchanan ripped it open.

At quarter to ten, be at the entrance to Shirttail Charlie's restaurant on.

16

Three stops later, at eleven o'clock, Buchanan arrived at the Riverside Hotel on Las Olas, a street that seemed the local equivalent of Beverly Hills' Rodeo Drive. From information in the terracotta-floored lobby, he learned that the hotel had been built in 1936, a date which was very old by Fort Lauderdale standards. A few decades before, this area had been wilderness. The wicker furniture and coral fireplaces exuded a sense of history, no matter how recent.

Buchanan had a chance to learn these facts and notice these details because Bailey didn't contact him on schedule. By twenty after eleven, Bailey still hadn't been in touch. The lobby was deserted.

'Mr Grant?'

Buchanan looked up from where he sat on a rattan chair near glass patio doors, a location that he'd chosen because it allowed him to be observed from outside. A woman behind the small reception counter was speaking to him, her eyebrows raised.

'Yes.'

'I have a phone call for you.'

Buchanan carried the picnic cooler to the counter and took the phone from the receptionist.

'Go out the rear door, cross the street, and walk through the gate, then past the swimming pool.' Bailey's curt instructions were followed by the sudden hum of the dial tone.

Buchanan handed the telephone back to the receptionist, thanked her, and used the rear exit. Outside, he saw the gate across the street and a walkway through a small, murky park beside the swimming pool, although the swimming pool itself was deserted, its lights off.

Moving closer, enveloped by the shadows of palm trees, he expected Bailey's voice to drift from the darkness, to give him instructions to leave the money on a barely visible poolside table and continue to stroll as if he hadn't been contacted.

The only lights were ahead, from occasional arclamps along the canal as well as from a cabin cruiser and a houseboat moored there. He heard an engine rumbling. Then he heard a man call, 'Mr Grant? Is that you over there, Mr Grant?'

Buchanan continued forward, away from the swimming pool, toward the canal. He immediately realized that the rumbling engine belonged to a water taxi that was temporarily docked, bow first, between the cabin cruiser and the houseboat. The water taxi was yellow, twenty feet long with poles along the gunwales supporting a yellow and green, striped canvas roof. In daylight, the roof would shade passengers from the glare and heat of the sun. But at night, it shut out the little illumination that the arclamps along the canal provided and prevented Buchanan from seeing who was in there.

Certainly there were passengers. At least fifteen. Their shadowy outlines were evident. But Buchanan had no way to identify them. The canvas roof muffled what they said to each other, although their slurred rhythms made him suspect they were on a Friday-night round of parties and bars.

'That's right. My name is Grant,' Buchanan said to the driver, who sat at controls in front of the passengers.

'Well, your friend's already aboard. I wondered if you were going to show up. I was just about to leave.'

Buchanan strained to see through the darkness beneath the water taxi's roof, then stepped onto the gangplank that extended from the canal to the bow. With his right hand, he gripped a rope railing for balance while he held the picnic cooler in his left and climbed down a few steps into the taxi. Passengers in their early twenties, dressed casually but expensively for an evening out, sat on benches along each side.

The stern remained shrouded by darkness.

'How much do I owe you?' Buchanan asked the driver.

'Your friend already paid for you.'

'How generous.'

'Back here, Vic,' a crusty voice called from the gloomy stern.

As the driver retracted the gangplank, Buchanan made his way past a group of young men on his left and stopped at the stern, his eyes now sufficiently adjusted to the darkness to see Bailey slouched on a bench.

Bailey waved a beefy hand. 'How ya doin', buddy?'

Buchanan sat and placed the picnic cooler between them.

'You didn't need to bring your lunch,' Bailey said.

Buchanan just stared at him as the driver backed the water taxi from between the cabin cruiser and the houseboat, then increased speed along the canal. Slick, Buchanan thought. I'm separated from my backup team. They couldn't have gotten to the water taxi in time, and certainly they couldn't have hurried on board without making Bailey suspicious.

Now that Buchanan's eyes had become even more accustomed to the darkness, the glow from condominiums, restaurants, and boats along the canal seemed to increase in brightness. But Buchanan was interested in the spectacle only because the illumination allowed him to see the cellular telephone that Bailey folded and placed in a pouch attached to his belt.

'Handy things,' Bailey said. 'You can call anybody from anywhere.'

'Like from a car to a pizza parlor. Or from a water taxi to a hotel lobby.'

'You got it,' Bailey said. 'Makes it easy to keep in touch while I'm on the go or hangin' around to see if extra company's comin'.' Bailey lowered his voice and gestured toward the cooler. 'No joke. That better not be your lunch, and it better all be here.'

The other passengers on the boat were talking loudly, obscuring what Bailey and Buchanan said.

'There's no more where that came from,' Buchanan murmured.

Bailey raised his bulky shoulders. 'Hey, I'm not greedy. All I need is a little help with my expenses, a little reward for my trouble.'

'I went through a lot of effort to get what's in this cooler,' Buchanan said. 'I won't go through it again.'

'I don't expect you to.'

'That definitely eases my mind.'

The water taxi arrived at a restaurant-tavern, where a sign on the dock said PAUL'S-ON-THE-RIVER. The stylish building was long and low, its rear section almost completely glass, separated by segments of white stucco. Inside, a band played. Beyond the large windows, customers danced. Others strolled outside, carrying drinks, or sat at tables amid flowering bushes near palm trees.

The taxi's driver set down the gangplank. Four passengers got up unsteadily to go ashore.

At once Bailey stood and clutched the picnic cooler. 'This is where we part company, Crawford. Almost forgot, I mean Grant. Why don't you stay aboard, see the sights, enjoy the ride?'

'Why not?' Buchanan said.

Bailey looked very pleased with himself. 'Be seein' you.'

'No. You won't.'

'Right,' Bailey said and carried the picnic cooler off the water taxi onto the dock. He strolled across the colorfully illuminated lawn toward the music, 'Moon River', and disappeared among the crowd.

17

Thirty minutes later, the water taxi brought Buchanan back to the Riverside Hotel. He wouldn't have returned there, except that he needed to retrieve his suitcase from the trunk of Cindy's car. The car was parked on a quiet street next to the hotel, and after Buchanan placed the keys beneath the driver's floor mat, he carried his suitcase into the hotel, where he phoned for a taxi. When it arrived, he instructed the driver to take him to an all-night car-rental agency. As it happened, the only one that was open was at the Fort Lauderdale airport, and after Buchanan rented a car, he drove to a pay phone to contact Doyle and tell him where to find Cindy's car. Next, he bought -a twelve-pack of beer at a convenience store, drove to a shadowy, deserted street, poured every can of beer over the front seat and floor of the car, then tossed the empty cans onto the floor, and drove away, keeping all the windows open lest he get sick from the odor of the beer. By then, it was quarter after one in the morning. He headed toward the ocean, found a deserted park next to the Intracoastal Waterway, and smashed the car through a protective barrier, making sure he left skid marks, as if the car had been out of control. He stopped the car, got out, put the automatic gearshift into drive, and pushed the car over the seawall into the water. Even as he heard it splash, he was hurrying away to disappear into the darkness. He'd left his suitcase in the car along with his wallet in the nylon jacket he'd borrowed from Doyle. He'd kept his passport, though. He didn't want anyone to do a background check on that. When the police investigated the 'accident' and hoisted the car from the water, they'd find the beer cans. The logical conclusion would be that the driver - Victor Grant, according to the ID in the wallet and the car-rental agreement in the glove compartment - had been driving while under the influence, had crashed through the barricade, and helpless because of alcohol, had drowned. When the police didn't find the body, divers would search, give up, and decide that the corpse would surface in a couple of days. When it didn't, they'd conclude that the remains had been wedged beneath a dock or had been carried by the tide out to sea. More important, Buchanan hoped that Bailey would believe the same thing. Under stress from being blackmailed, fearful that Bailey would keep coming back for more and more money, Crawford-Potter-Grant had rented a car to flee the area, had gotten drunk in the process, had lost control of the vehicle, and.

Maybe, Buchanan thought. It just might work. Those had been the colonel's instructions at any rate - to make Victor Grant disappear. Buchanan hadn't told Doyle and Cindy what he intended to do because he wanted them to be genuinely surprised if the police questioned them. The disappearance would break the link between Buchanan and Bailey. It would also break the link between Buchanan and what had happened in Mexico. If the Mexican authorities decided to reinvestigate Victor Grant and asked for the cooperation of the American authorities, there'd be no one to investigate.

All problems solved, Buchanan thought as he hurried from the shadowy park, then slowed his pace as he walked along a dark side street. He'd find a place to hide until morning, buy a razor, clean up in a public restroom, take a bus twenty-five miles south to Miami, use cash to buy an Amtrak ticket, and become an anonymous passenger on the train north to Washington. Now you see me, now you don't. Definitely time for a new beginning.

The only troubling detail, Buchanan thought, was how the colonel could be sure that he got his hands on all the photographs and the negatives. What if Bailey went into the first men's room he could find, locked a stall, removed the money from the cooler, and left the cooler next to the waste bin? In that case, the surveillance team wouldn't be able to trail Bailey to where he was staying and where presumably he kept the photos. Another troubling detail was the woman, the redhead who'd taken photographs of Buchanan outside the Mexican prison while he talked with the man from the American embassy, the same woman who'd also taken photographs of Buchanan with the colonel on the yacht and later with Bailey on the waterway. What if Bailey had already paid her off and never went near her again? The surveillance team wouldn't be able to find her.

So what? Buchanan decided as he walked quickly through the secluded, exclusive neighborhood, prepared to duck behind any of the numerous flowering shrubs if he saw headlights approaching. So what if Bailey did pay the woman and never went near her again? He'd have made sure he got the pictures and the negatives first. He wouldn't have confided in her. So it won't matter if the surveillance team can't locate her. It won't even matter if Bailey ditches the cooler and the surveillance team can't find the photographs and the negatives. After all, the pictures are useless to Bailey if the man he's blackmailing is dead.

18

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.

19

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.

20

The Yucatan peninsula.

Struggling to concentrate amid the din of bulldozers, trucks, jeeps, chainsaws, generators, and shouting construction workers, Jenna Lane drew another line on the surveyor's map she was preparing. The map was spread out, anchored by books, on a trestle table in a twenty-by-ten-foot tent that was her office. Sweat trickled down her face and hung on the tip of her chin as she intensified her concentration and made a note beside the line she'd drawn on the map.

A shadow appeared at the open entrance to her tent. Glancing up, she saw McIntyre, the foreman of the project, silhouetted by dust raised by a passing bulldozer. He removed his stetson, swabbed a checkered handkerchief across his sunburned, dirty, sweaty brow, and raised his voice to be heard above the racket outside. 'He's coming.'

Jenna frowned and glanced at her watch, the metal band of which was embedded with grit. 'Already? It's only ten o'clock. He's not supposed to be here until-'

'I told you he's coming.'

Jenna set down her pencil and walked to the front of her tent, where she squinted in the direction that McIntyre pointed, east, toward the sun-fierce cobalt sky and a growing speck above the jungle. Although she couldn't hear it because of the rumble of construction equipment, she imagined the helicopter's distant drone, its gradual increase to a roar, and then as the chopper's features became distinct, she did hear it setting down on the landing pad near camp, the churning rotors adding their own, distinctive, rapid whump-whump-whump.

Dust rose - shallow soil that had been exposed when that section of forest was cut down, stumps blasted away or uprooted by bulldozers. Drivers and construction workers momentarily stopped what they were doing and stared toward the landing pad. This wasn't one of the massive, ugly, industrial helicopters that the crew had been using to lift in the vehicles and construction equipment. Rather, this was a small, sleek, passenger helicopter, the kind that movie stars and sports celebrities liked to be seen in, or in this case one that could be anchored on top of a yacht and was owned by one of the richest businessmen in the world. Even from a distance, the red logo on the side of the helicopter was evident: DRUMMOND INDUSTRIES. The force of the name was such that the sight of it compelled the workmen back to their tasks, as if they feared Drummond's anger should he think that they weren't working hard enough.

But not the guards, Jenna noticed. Constantly patrolling with their rifles, they hadn't paid attention to the helicopter. Professionals, they kept their attention riveted on the surrounding forest.

'We'd better not keep him waiting,' McIntyre said.

'He doesn't wait,' Jenna said. 'Hell, look at him. He's already out of the chopper. He'll beat us to the main office. I hear he swims two miles every morning.'

'Yeah, the old bastard's probably got more energy than both of us,' McIntyre grumbled as Jenna rolled up the surveyor's map and tucked it under her arm.

They walked quickly toward the most substantial structure in the camp. A one-story, wooden building made from logs, it contained essential supplies - food, fuel, ammunition, dynamite - items that needed to be protected from the weather or scavenging animals, and especially from humans. The building also contained an administrative center where McIntyre stored the project's records, kept in radio contact with his employer, and conducted daily meetings with his various subforemen.

Jenna had been right. As she and McIntyre approached the building, she saw Alistair Drummond reach it before them. His exact age wasn't known, but he was rumored to be in his early eighties, although except for his severely wrinkled hands he looked twenty years younger, his facial skin unnaturally tight from cosmetic surgery.

In fact, rumors were the essence of Drummond's notoriety. How much wealth had he amassed? How great was his influence with the premier of the People's Republic of China? What had been his part in the 1973 Arab oil embargo? What had been his part in the Iran-contra arms scandal? In his middle years, had he really been sexually involved with Ingrid Bergman, Marlene Dietrich, and Marilyn Monroe? Much more recently, what was his relationship with his frequent companion the great opera diva, Maria Tomez? Divorced six times, spending more days each year on his jet than he did at the estates he owned in eleven nations, devoting the pharmaceutical portion of his financial empire to AIDS research, able to boast of a first-name friendship with every Russian, British, and American leader since the 1940s, Alistair Drummond exhibited a combination of outrageous success and shameless self-promotion that gave him a larger-than-life stature in an arena of world-renowned figures. The rumors and riddles about him made him a blend of contradictions, capable of being interpreted in various ways. His commitment to AIDS research, for example. Was that for humanitarian reasons or for the opportunity to earn boundless profits? Or both? He was a powerful enigma, and for that reason, anyone who'd ever met him never forgot the experience, regardless if the meeting had demonstrated his calculated charm or ruthless manipulation.

Certainly I won't forget him, Jenna thought, and I sure as hell won't forget this job. When she'd been interviewed for the project, Drummond had assessed her honey-colored hair, her high, firm breasts, her trim, equally firm hips, and with his raspy voice that caused her nerves to quiver, he had made his employment offer sound like a sexual proposition. Perhaps it had been a sexual proposition; perhaps Drummond considered all the people who worked for him to be the same as prostitutes. But high-class prostitutes, Jenna thought. While Drummond was without a doubt the coldest, meanest bastard she'd ever known, he was also the most generous. Her salary for this project was the equivalent of what she'd earned from her last ten projects combined. Deservedly. For this assignment was obscene, and if she were going to sell her professional soul, she didn't intend to do it cheaply.

As she and McIntyre entered the dirt-floored office, Jenna's gaze immediately gravitated toward Drummond, who was already surrounded by a group of crew leaders, blurting questions to them and snapping orders. He took charge so rapidly that even with his English-made, blended-wool, blue-striped suit in contrast with the sweat-

stained, dirt-encrusted, rumpled work clothes of the crew leaders, he seemed perfectly in place, in his element. By contrast, the fair-haired, well-dressed man standing next to Drummond appeared aloof, not at all comfortable in these primitive conditions. His name was Raymond, and the cold expression in his eyes warned Jenna not to believe that his pleasant features were an indication of his personality. She suspected that Raymond was truly in his element only when he was causing pain.