Assumed Identity

12

“This is Yellow Rose,” Buchanan said into the phone. “That guy who came to the Mendez house tonight still worries me. Have you got anything more on him?”

The male voice lost its smoothness. “Just what I told you. His name isn’t Jeff Walker. It’s Brendan Buchanan. He rented the Taurus in New Orleans, and. . Wait a minute. Something’s coming in on another line.” The connection was interrupted.

Buchanan waited, disturbed that these people had been able to learn his real name so fast.

The connection abruptly resumed, the voice strained. “It’s a good thing you called. Be careful. Our computer man found out that Brendan Buchanan is a captain in Army Special Forces, an instructor at Fort Bragg.”

Damn it, Buchanan thought.

“So I was right to be worried,” Buchanan said. “Thanks for the warning. We’ll be careful.”

Troubled, Buchanan pressed the END button. Throughout the call, the number he’d contacted had been shown on a display at the top of the phone. Now he took a pad and pencil from the floor of the van, printed the number, tore off the sheet of paper, and put it in a shirt pocket.

He studied the second man, deciding what further questions to ask, when suddenly he heard approaching footsteps. Whirling, he saw Anita Mendez crossing the lawn toward the van. She wore a housecoat. Her face was contorted with worry, puzzlement, and fear.

“Anita,” Pedro said, “go back in the house.”

“I will not. This is about Juana. I’m sure of it. I want to know what it is.”

As she rounded the back of the van, she stopped abruptly, startled to see the naked, bound men. “Madre de Dios.”

“These men can help us find Juana,” Pedro said. “This is necessary. Go back to the house.”

Anita glared. “I’m staying.”

Fatigue made Buchanan’s headache worsen. “Does Juana have an office here in town?”

The interruption made Anita and Pedro look at him.

“Yes,” Anita said. “At her home. Although she is seldom there.”

“I don’t have time to wait until morning,” Buchanan said. “Can you take me there now?”

Pedro frowned. “You think she is at her home? You think she is hurt and. .”

“No,” Buchanan said. “But maybe her office records can tell me why someone in Philadelphia wants to find her.”

Anita started toward the house. “I’ll get dressed and take you.”

“We both will,” Pedro said, hurrying after her.

At once Buchanan turned to the second man where he lay bound on the floor of the van. “If Juana’s home is in town, you must have other sentries watching the place.”

The man didn’t answer.

“The easy way or the hard way.” Buchanan showed him the pliers.

“Yes, another team,” the man said.

“How many men?”

“Two. The same as here.”

“They alternate shifts?”

“Yes.”

The tactic was flawed, Buchanan knew. Thorough surveillance wasn’t possible if only one man at a time watched a target site. Suppose Juana showed up. The spotter would phone for help. But how could the spotter be sure that a team would arrive in time to trap her?

As Buchanan brooded, the shadow of a long object secured horizontally to the van’s left wall attracted his attention. He shifted the flashlight’s beam to see what it was.

His stomach felt cold. Seeing the object made him realize that the surveillance tactic did make sense-in an efficient, deadly way.

The object on the wall was a sniper’s rifle equipped with a state-of-the-art night-vision telescopic sight. The intent of the surveillance wasn’t to capture Juana. It was to kill her the minute she was spotted.