Buchanan felt a jolt as if he had struck bottom.
'I'm waiting for a reaction,' Holly said. 'What do you think about my story now?'
'The real question is, What do I feel?'
'I don't understand.'
Buchanan rubbed his aching forehead. 'Why does ambition make people so stupid? Holly, the answer to the question, What do I feel?, is I feel terrified. And so should you. I'm a fortune teller, did you know that? I really have a gift for predicting the future. And given what you've just told me, I can guarantee that if you go any farther with this story, you'll be dead by this time tomorrow.'
Holly blinked.
'And,' Buchanan said, his voice hoarse, 'if I don't give the best performance of my life, so will I. Because the same people who killed Jack Doyle and Bob Bailey will make sure of it. Is that plain enough for you? Is that what you wanted me to say? That would make a good quote. It's too bad you can't use it.'
'Of course I can use it. I don't care if you deny it or-'
'You're not listening!'
Buchanan spoke so loudly that several people standing along the railing of the steamboat swung and stared at him.
He leaned close to Holly, his voice a raw whisper. 'In your world, people are afraid of getting caught breaking the law. In my world, people make their own laws. If they feel threatened, they'll shoot you or drop you from a building or hit you with a car and then have a good dinner, feeling justified because they've protected themselves. You will absolutely, positively, be dead by this time tomorrow if we don't find a way to convince my people that you are not a threat to them. If I feel terrified, you're a fool if you don't.'
Holly studied him. 'This is another act. You're just trying to trick me into backing off.'
'I give up,' Buchanan said. 'Look out for yourself. Believe me, I intend to look after myself.'
11
Buchanan walked into the Crowne Plaza's lobby. While he waited for the elevator, he glanced around and noticed that the man in the seersucker suit had been replaced by a man in a jogging suit. He, too, was pretending to read a newspaper. After all, there wasn't much to do that seemed natural while sitting in a lobby and watching for someone. This second man was a clone of the first: late twenties, well-built, short hair, intense eyes.
Military, Buchanan thought. The same as the first man. Civilian intelligence agencies had access to surveillance personnel of various appearances. In contrast, military surveillance operatives tended to resemble each other in terms of sex, age, body type, and hairstyle. More, they had a collected, disciplined, single-minded look about them.
Holly, he thought. They're still looking for her.
He got into the elevator, went up to the twelfth floor, and took out his key. Holly's revelations on the steamboat, combined with the pain in his side and the ache in his head, had exhausted him. Fear had exerted its effect. He needed to rest. He needed to think.
When he opened the door.
Three people were waiting for him. They sat in plain view, obviously not wanting to startle him and provoke a defensive reaction.
Buchanan knew each of them.
Alan, the portly man who a few days before had been Buchanan's debriefer at the apartment complex in Alexandria, Virginia, sat on the bed. In Alexandria, he'd habitually worn a brown-checkered sport coat. Here, his sport coat was again checkered, but this time the color was blue.
On the sofa, a muscular man - Major Putnam - sat next to an attractive, blonde woman - Captain Weller. Buchanan had met them on the yacht in Fort Lauderdale. Each wore civilian clothes: in the major's case, a beige suit; in the captain's, a white, silk blouse and blue skirt, both of which were tight and were no doubt intended to attract public attention away from the two men.
Buchanan glanced toward the right, toward the bathroom, to make sure that no one else was waiting. The closet was open, unoccupied.
He took his key from the lock, closed the door, locked it, and walked toward them. Late-afternoon sunlight filled the room.
'Captain,' the major said.
Buchanan nodded and stopped five feet away.
'You don't seem surprised to see us,' the major said.
'At the Farm, I had an Agency trainer who used to say, "The only thing you ought to expect is the unexpected."'
'Good advice,' the woman said. 'I understand a mugger stabbed you.'
'That I certainly didn't expect.'
'How's the wound?'
'Healing. Where's the colonel?'
'I'm afraid he couldn't make it,' Alan said.
'Well, I hope you haven't been waiting long.'
'Aren't you curious how we got in?'
Buchanan shook his head.
'Captain' - the major looked displeased - 'you were seen in the hotel lobby at one-forty-five. Supposedly you were going to your room. Now you've come back, but no one saw you leave in the interim. Where have you been for the past three hours?'
'Taking a steamboat ride.'
'Is that before or after you checked the reporter out of her room?'
'So you know about that? After. In fact, the reporter went with me on the steamboat ride.'
'What?' Captain Weller leaned forward, her blouse tightening against her breasts. 'Weren't you informed that we were looking for her?'
'I was told you intended to discourage her. But she kept hounding me, so I decided to do some discouraging of my own. I scared her away from the story.'
'You.? How did.?'
'By using her arguments against her. She showed me these.' Buchanan pulled the newspaper clippings from a jacket pocket and set them on the coffee table. As the major grabbed and read them, Buchanan continued, 'About Bob Bailey dying in an explosion. About Jack Doyle killing his wife and then himself. Alan' - Buchanan turned to him - 'you left out a few things when you told me what happened in Fort Lauderdale after I disappeared from there. Did you know about Bailey and the Doyles?'
'It didn't seem necessary to tell you.'
'Why?'
'The less you knew about Bailey, the better. If you were interrogated, your confusion would be genuine. As far as the Doyles are concerned, well, we didn't want to burden you with the knowledge that a man you had worked with had killed his wife and then himself shortly after you left them.'
'I convinced the reporter that what happened to the Doyles was actually a double murder.'
'You what? Oh, Jesus,' the major said.
'I asked her to consider a hypothetical situation,' Buchanan said. 'If Bailey was killed because he was blackmailing me, and if the Doyles were killed because they knew too much and might be linked to me when the divers couldn't find my body, what did that say about the further lengths certain people would go in order to keep Scotch and Soda - she mentioned it first - a secret? I don't think there's anything paler than a redhead when the blood drains from her face. She suddenly realized how much danger she was in, that writing a front-page story wasn't worth losing her life for. She's in a taxi on her way to the airport, where she'll catch the first plane back to Washington. There won't be any story.'