Where he stood was surprisingly free of the congestion and noise of the rest of the French Quarter. He felt apart from things, more vulnerable. Several glances behind him gave him the assurance of being alone.
And yet he felt threatened. Again he studied his destination. At last, he stepped into view, felt as if he had reentered the world, crossed Decatur, and made his approach toward Cafe du Monde.
It was a large concrete building whose distinctive feature was that its walls were composed of tall, wide archways that made the restaurant open-air. During heavy rains, the interior could be protected by lowering green-and-white-striped canvas, but usually-and tonight was no exception-the only thing that separated people on the street from the restaurant’s patrons were waist-high iron railings. Tonight, the same as six years ago, the place was crowded more than usual. Because of the holiday. Because of Halloween. Expectant customers, many of them in costume, stood in a line on the sidewalk, waiting to be admitted.
Buchanan strained to catch a glimpse of Juana, hoping that the crowd would have made her decide to wait outside for him. He and Juana would be able to get away from the noise and confusion. He would lovingly put his arm around her and try to find a quiet place. He would get her to tell him what terrible urgency had made her send the postcard, allowing him a second chance.
There was an addition to the restaurant. Smaller than the main section, it had a green-and-white roof supported by widely separated slender white poles that made this part of the restaurant seem even more open-air. He stared past the low metal railing toward the customers close together around small circular tables. The place rippled with constant movement. Hundreds of conversations rushed over him.
Juana. He strained harder to see her. He shifted position to view the interior of the restaurant from a different angle. He scanned the line of waiting customers.
What if she’s wearing a costume? he thought. What if she’s afraid to the point that she put on a disguise? He wouldn’t be able to recognize her. And she might not hurry to meet him. She might be so terrified that she had to assess everyone around him before she revealed herself.
Juana. Even if she wasn’t wearing a costume, how could he be certain he would recognize her? Six years had passed. She might have grown her hair long. She might have. .
And what about him? How had his appearance, like his identities, changed in six years? Was his hair dyed the same color? Did he weigh the same? Should he have a mustache? He couldn’t remember if Peter Lang had worn a mustache. Did-?
Juana. He brushed past waiting customers and entered the restaurant, determined to find her. She had to be here. The postcard couldn’t have had any other meaning. She needed to see him. She wanted his help.
“Hey, buddy, wait your turn,” someone said.
“Sir, you’ll have to go to the end of the line,” a waiter told him.
“You don’t understand. I’m supposed to meet someone, and-”
“Please, sir. The end of the line.”
Juana. He backed away. His headache intensified as he scanned the crush of customers in the restaurant. Outside on the sidewalk, he rubbed his throbbing head. When a rush of people in costumes swept past him, he whirled to see if Juana might be one of them.
The knife slid into his side. Sharp. Cold. Tingly. Suddenly burning. It felt like a punch. It knocked him off balance. It made him groan. As he felt the wet heat of his gushing blood, someone screamed. People scrambled to get away from him. A man knocked against him. Fighting to stem the flow of his blood, he slipped. The iron railing appeared to rush toward him.
No! he mentally screamed. Not my head! Not again! I can’t hurt my-!
EIGHT
1
CUERNAVACA, MEXICO
The black limousine and its escort cars proceeded along Insurgentes Sur freeway, forced to maintain a frustratingly moderate speed as the caravan fought the congestion of holiday traffic heading south from the smog of Mexico City. After thirty-seven miles, the limousine and its escorts reached Cuernavaca, the capital’s most popular but at the same time most exclusive retreat. It was easy to understand why the rich and powerful came here each weekend. Sheltered in an attractive wooded valley, Cuernavaca had space, silence, pleasant weather, and most prized of all, clean air. Aztec rulers had built palaces here. So had Cortes. Emperor Maximilian had been especially fond of the area’s gardens. These days, what important visitors from the capital valued were the luxurious hotels and the castlelike mansions.
The limousine proceeded along the stately streets of a quiet neighborhood and stopped at the large iron gate of one of the mansions. Majestic shade trees projected above the high stone wall that enclosed the spacious grounds. The uniformed driver stepped out of the limousine and approached an armed guard who stood beyond the bars of the gate and scowled at the visitor. After a brief conversation during which the driver showed the guard a document, the guard entered a wooden booth beside the gate and picked up a telephone, speaking to someone in the house. Thirty seconds later, he returned to the gate, opened it, and motioned for the driver to bring the limousine into the estate. As the escort cars attempted to follow, the guard raised his left hand to stop them. At the same time, another armed guard stepped into view to close and lock the gate.
The limousine proceeded along a shady, curved driveway, past trees, gardens, and fountains, toward the mansion. As it stopped before the stone steps at the entrance, one of the large double doors opened, and a mustached, aristocratic-looking man came out. It was a measure of his need to seem respectful that he had not sent a servant to greet this particular visitor. His name was Esteban Delgado, and his surname-which meant “thin”-was even more appropriate than when he’d met with the director of the National Institute of Archaeology and History in Acapulco a week earlier, for Delgado’s body and features were now no longer merely rakishly slender but unhealthily gaunt. His aquiline face was pale, and he would almost have believed the rumors that he was seriously ill if he hadn’t been acutely aware of the unbearable tension that he suffered.
At the bottom of the stairs, he forced himself to smile as the limousine’s far-rear door opened and a well-dressed, fairhaired, pleasant-looking American in his middle thirties emerged from the car. The man gave the impression of exuding good nature, but Delgado wasn’t fooled, for the man’s smile-on the rare occasions when he did smile, and this was not one of them-had no warmth. The man’s name was Raymond, and the only time Delgado had seen him smile was during a cockfight.
Raymond ignored Delgado, assessed the estate’s security, then came around the limousine and opened the other door. An elderly man with thick glasses and dense white hair stepped out. He was in his eighties although, except for extremely wrinkled hands, he appeared to be in his sixties.
“Professor Drummond,” Delgado said with forced brightness. “I had no idea that you planned to visit. If I had known, I would have arranged a reception in your honor.”
Drummond shook Delgado’s hand with authority, fixed his gaze upon him, and waited a moment before he replied in Spanish, one of his seven languages. “I happened to be in Mexico City on business and wanted to discuss something with you. Your office informed me that you were here. If you have an hour to spare. .”
“Certainly.” Delgado led Drummond and his assistant up the stairs. “It will be an honor to have you in my home.” Despite the shade trees, Delgado found that he was sweating. “I’ll have the servants bring some refreshments. Would you like a rum and Coke? Or perhaps. .”