Assumed Identity

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 was 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 in it that afternoon while he was parked at a stoplight 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 stoplight, a motorcyclist had paused, pushed the cooler through the open window, and driven on.

Now, his pulse quickening, Buchanan parked at the crowded minimall 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 minimall, 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 videotape, 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 audiovisual 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. .