'Sir, there's a call for you on the helicopter radio.' He was slightly out of breath.
'Have it transferred to here. McIntyre, what frequency have you been using?'
McIntyre told the pilot, who hurried away.
Drummond gestured toward the map that Jenna had braced beneath her left arm. 'Let me see what you've accomplished.'
Jenna spread the map across a table.
'No, no, no,' Drummond said.
'What's wrong? I was thorough. I double-checked every-'
'That's exactly the problem. You were thorough. I told you specifically. I wanted a map that would look convincing to the Mexican authorities.' Drummond led her out the door, gesturing toward the commotion of the site, workers clearing trees and stacking equipment.
Assaulted by harsh sunlight after the shadows of the room, Jenna shielded her eyes and directed her attention toward where Drummond pointed. As more and more trees were cut down and dragged away to be burned, as more bushes were plowed free, as what seemed to be hills became ever more distinctly pyramids, temples, and palaces, the legacy of the once-great Mayan empire, her heart pounded.
'Too much depends on this,' Drummond said. 'Your map can't-'
He was suddenly interrupted by a crackly, static-ridden voice on the radio.
'That's your call coming through,' McIntyre said.
'Is the scrambler functioning?'
McIntyre nodded. 'Just flick the switch.'
'Stay here. I won't be long.'
After Drummond entered the building and shut the door, leaving Jenna and McIntyre outside, Jenna shook her head, frustrated, puzzled, angry. 'That son of a bitch.'
'Keep your voice down,' McIntyre said. 'He might hear you.'
McIntyre was right, Jenna realized. Even with the noise from the vehicles and the workers, she was close enough to the door that her voice might carry.
But by that same logic.
The door fit the crude frame loosely. It had inched open after Drummond closed it. Jenna heard occasional raspy outbursts.
'. Find the woman. If Delgado learns she isn't cooperating. ruined. Everything. Find her. Use every pressure. I don't care what you have to. Kill him if.'
Then Jenna couldn't hear Drummond anymore, and at once she stepped farther from the door, joining McIntyre, feeling sick but trying to seem as if she were a good employee waiting patiently.
Drummond jerked the door open and stalked outside. A black pall appeared to surround him despite the sunlight that gleamed off his thick, white hair and his glasses. He was about to continue verbally assaulting Jenna when he noticed something to the left and looked briefly heartened.
Following his gaze, Jenna saw Raymond wearing outdoor clothes, carrying a rifle, entering the jungle. Even at a distance, his excitement was evident.
Then Drummond's brittle, forceful voice jerked her attention back to him.
'All of this,' he demanded, gesturing. 'You've been far too faithful on your map, far too diligent. The Mexican authorities can't be allowed to realize how massive and important a find this is. Your map has to make it seem minor, an insignificant site that doesn't merit undue attention, something that won't be an irreplaceable loss.' Drummond pointed toward the majestic temples, the hieroglyph-engraved palaces, and the great, terraced pyramid where gigantic snake heads guarded the bottom of the wide, high stairs that went up each side. 'Because ten days from now, I expect all of that to be leveled. Do you hear me, McIntyre?' He glared at the foreman. 'You knew the orders. You understood the schedule. Use bulldozers. Use sledge-hammers. Use dynamite. If you have to, use your fingernails. Ten days from now, I expect my equipment to be set up and all of this to be gone. Level it. Scatter the rubble. Truck it out. Dump it in sinkholes. Have the helicopters lift it out. I don't care how you do it. I want it gone!'
SIX
1
Alexandria, Virginia.
The safe site was on the third floor, yet another apartment in yet another sprawling complex into which Buchanan could easily blend. After he'd arrived in Washington from Florida, he'd used a pay phone to report to his controller, just as he'd reported at various stops along the Amtrak route. A man's voice told him to be waiting, seated, on the steps outside the Library of Congress at three p.m. Precisely at that time, a middle-aged man wearing a blue blazer and gray slacks stopped beside him and bent down to tie his right shoe. When the man departed, Buchanan concealed the small envelope that the man had slid toward him. After waiting five minutes longer, Buchanan then went into the Library of Congress, entered a men's room, and locked himself in a stall, where he opened the envelope, took out a key, and read a slip of paper that provided him with a name, some biographical information, an Alexandria address, and an apartment number. The paper and the envelope were far from ordinary. He dropped them into the water in the toilet and watched them dissolve. In the library's reference section, he used an area directory to tell him which major streets were near the Alexandria apartment, and shortly before six that evening, he got out of a taxi a few blocks from his destination, walking the rest of the way, out of habit using evasion procedures in case he was being followed.
His name was now Don Colton, he'd been informed. He was supposed to be a writer for a travel magazine that he assumed was affiliated to his controllers. Posing as a travel writer was an excellent cover, Buchanan thought, inasmuch as a travel writer by definition was on the move a great deal and hence the neighbors wouldn't consider it unusual that they never saw him. However, because Buchanan's controllers would not have had sufficient time to tailor the cover specifically to him, he automatically assumed that this identity would be temporary, an all-purpose, one-size-fits-all persona that his controllers maintained for emergencies. As Don Colton, Buchanan was in a holding pattern and would soon be sent to God-knew-where as God-knew-who.
Avoiding the elevator, he used fire stairs to get to the third floor. After all, because most people preferred elevators, there was less chance of encountering anybody on the stairs. He reached a concrete corridor with fluorescent lights along the ceiling. As he had hoped, no one was in view, the tenants having already arrived home from work. Doors to apartments flanked each side. As he walked along green, heavy-duty carpeting, he heard music behind one door, voices behind another. Then he came to 327, used the key he'd been given, and entered the apartment.
He turned on the lights, scanned the combination living room-kitchen, locked the door, checked the closets, the bathroom, and the bedroom, all the while avoiding the windows, then turned off the lights, closed the draperies, and finally turned the lights back on, only then slumping on the sofa. He was safe. For now.
2
The apartment had a hotel-room feel to it, everything clean but utilitarian and impersonal. A corner of the living room had been converted into a mini-office with a desk, a word processor, a printer, and a modem. Several copies of the magazine he was supposed to work for were stacked on the coffee table, and when Buchanan examined their contents, he found articles under his pseudonym, another indication that Don Colton was an all-purpose identity. Obviously the magazines had been prepared well in advance, not just for him but for any operative who happened to need this type of cover. Don Colton -at least this Don Colton - wouldn't be in the neighborhood very long.