Assumed Identity

12

Favoring his wounded right arm, Buchanan climbed down the rope ladder into the powerboat. The moment he’d emerged from the shadowy cabin into the glaring sunlight, his head had started pounding again. He put on his cap and sunglasses while the two men and the woman peered down at him, the latter again opening her blue terry-cloth robe to reveal the stunningly filled red bikini of the rich enchantress she was portraying.

“Just send us the bill,” the colonel said.

“Yes, sir. Thanks.” Buchanan caught the bow and stern lines that the major tossed to him. Then he started the powerboat’s engine and steered away from the yacht.

Tension cramped his muscles.

Jesus, he thought. They don’t know what to do. I need a decision, and they didn’t give me one. I can’t act without orders. But if I don’t hear from them by tonight, how am I going to stall Bailey?

Preoccupied, Buchanan drove past a dock on one side and a palm-tree-shaded mansion on the other, approaching the end of a canal, about to reenter the expanse of the waterway. Abruptly the problem of Bailey became more immediate. Buchanan’s veins swelled from sudden pressure, for ahead, on his left, near a channel marker, Bailey sat in a powerboat similar to Buchanan’s, its engine off, the boat motionless except for the bobbing caused by the wake of passing vessels. He wore an orange FORT LAUDERDALE IS THE GREATEST BEACH IN THE WORLD T-shirt and was leaning back in the seat behind the wheel, his canvas shoes up on the console, one beefy arm spread out as if he was relaxing on a sofa, while with his other hand he smoked a cigarette.

Buchanan eased back on the throttle.

Bailey drew his hand across his brush cut, smiled, and tossed his cigarette into the water.

Buchanan eased farther back on the throttle, noticing the camera with the telephoto lens that was slung around Bailey’s massive neck. Buchanan’s instructions had been to do exactly what Victor Grant would do, and right now, he decided. Victor Grant wasn’t going to ignore this son of a bitch.

He steered toward Bailey, pulled the throttle back all the way, felt the bow sink, floated next to Bailey, and grabbed the side of his boat.

“How ya doin’, Crawford?”

“How many times do I have to tell you? My name isn’t Crawford.”

Bailey pulled the pop tab on a can of Blue Ribbon. “Yeah, I’m beginnin’ to think you’re right about that. It’s probably somethin’ else besides Crawford. Sure as hell, though, it ain’t Victor Grant.”

“Look, I’ve done everything I can to prove it to you. That’s my limit. I’ve run out of patience. I want you to quit following me. I want you to quit-”

“Almost forgot. Pardon me for bein’ rude. I got another beer if you’d like-”

“Shove it up your ass.”

“Now is that any way to talk to an ol’ buddy? Not to mention a business associate?”

“Give it a rest! I never saw you before you showed up in that jail in Mexico.”

“Well, that’s where you’re wrong.” Bailey lowered his shoes from the powerboat’s console and straightened behind the wheel. “I’ve got a product to sell, and you’re gonna buy it. When you joined those folks on that yacht, I figured you meant to get the hundred thousand from them, but you didn’t carry anythin’ off. Time’s flyin’. You better find that money someplace. ’Cause after midnight tonight, I. . By the way, that gal on the yacht is some looker, ain’t she? Through this big lens on my camera, I could see her so close. . What’s that phone commercial? ‘Reach out and touch someone’? I got some real good pictures of her, those two guys, and you on the deck. Nice and clear. Photography’s a hobby of mine. Matter of fact, I got some pictures here in this envelope-”

“I’m not interested.”

“Oh, but I guarantee you’ll find these pictures real interestin’. I have to confess I didn’t take ’em, though. Had ’em lifted off a tape and then cleaned up. But if you didn’t know the difference, you’d swear-”

“What are you talking about?”

“Just look at the damned pictures, Crawford.”

Hesitant, Buchanan accepted the manila envelope. Chest tight, he was preoccupied by the threat of the pictures that Bailey had taken of him with the colonel, the major, and the captain. The officers weren’t public figures. Bailey wouldn’t know who they were. But if Bailey gave the pictures to the police and someone got curious about who was on that yacht, if the colonel was identified, the consequences would be disastrous. Somehow, Buchanan had to get his hands on the film.

But as he withdrew the photographs-eight-by-ten black-and-white glossies-as he sorted through them, he suddenly realized that he had much more to worry about than the pictures Bailey had taken of him with the colonel on the yacht. Much more. Because the photographs he now examined depicted a scene from December of 1990 in Frankfurt, Germany. They’d been lifted from a television news tape. They showed American hostages, newly released from Iraq, arriving at the Frankfurt airport. And there, in long shots and close-ups, was Big Bob Bailey getting off the plane with. .

“A mighty good likeness of you, Crawford,” Bailey said. “I’ve got copies of the original tape, so nobody can say the pictures have been fooled with. If you piss me off by not payin’ up, I swear to God I’m gonna send ’em to the cops, along with the Mexican police sketch for Ed Potter and those bottom photographs of Victor Grant.”

Photos of Victor Grant? Buchanan asked himself with puzzled alarm. He shuffled to the bottom of the pile and felt his chest turn cold as he stared at three photographs of him outside the Mexican prison, where he talked to Garson Woodfield of the American embassy.

“Another good likeness,” Bailey said. “In case you miss the point, that guy from the embassy had to be in the picture so there’d be an absolutely straight-arrow witness to identify you as Victor Grant. I’ve got you as three different people, Crawford. Got you good.”

Stalling for time while he thought, Buchanan kept staring at the pictures. The ones in Mexico. How had-? At once, Buchanan remembered. While he’d been talking to Woodfield across from the Mexican prison, he’d noticed a woman in the background, among the crowd on the sidewalk beyond Woodfield. She’d been American. Late twenties. A redhead. Attractive. Tall. Nice figure. Wearing beige slacks and a yellow blouse. But the reason he’d noticed her hadn’t been her appearance.

She’d been aiming a camera at him.

Buchanan peered up from the photographs, and there wasn’t any question now that Bailey had an accomplice. Possibly more than one. Dealing with him would be extremely complicated. I have to warn the colonel.

“Keep those pictures. I’ve got plenty like them in a real safe place, along with the negatives,” Bailey said. “Plus, I’ve also got copies of the TV news tape from Germany. Hey, it isn’t often I’m on television. A buddy taped me and made me a present of it. I never thought it would be worth anythin’.” Bailey leaned forward. “Admit it, Crawford, you’re screwed. Stop actin’ innocent. Accept the penalty for gettin’ caught. Pay the hundred thousand dollars. I won’t even ask you why all the names. That’s your business. My business is gettin’ paid.”

Buchanan suddenly noticed: Throughout their conversation, Bailey had kept his face angled to the left, as if he had a stiff neck, forcing Buchanan to shift his boat and angle his own face a similar way in order to confront Bailey eye-to-eye.

Stiff neck?

Buchanan spun toward the concrete dock across from him, and there-between two moored sailboats-was the redhead, a camera in front of her face, taking pictures of Bailey and him. Her clothes weren’t the same. This time, they were sneakers, jeans, and a denim shirt, but even though her face was obscured by the camera, there was no mistaking that athletic figure and that long, dramatic flame-red hair.

“So you noticed my friend.” Bailey exhaled from his cigarette. “I guess it’s obvious that gettin’ rid of me won’t solve your problem. She’s got plenty of pictures of you and me, and if anythin’ happens to me-which you better hope doesn’t happen, not even an accident, like me gettin’ drunk and fallin’ down a flight of stairs and breakin’ my neck-those pictures’ll be sent to the cops. Plus, she helped me make copies of the pictures you’re holdin’, and she also took pictures of you with them folks on that yacht. It might be interestin’ to find out who they are.”

The red-haired woman lowered the camera and stared across the water toward them. Definitely the same person, Buchanan thought. Strong forehead. Excellent cheekbones. Sensuous lips and chin. She reminded him of a cover model for a fashion magazine. But from the stern way she watched him, Buchanan guessed that a fashion photographer would have a hell of a hard time to get her to smile.

“Crawford, you had plenty to say until now. What’s the matter?” Bailey asked. “Cat got your tongue? Or maybe you can’t think of any more bullshit. Pay attention. I want my money.”

Buchanan hesitated, then made a choice. “When and where?”

“Stay close to your buddy’s phone. I’ll call his place at eight-thirty tonight and give you directions.”