"Then we head south."
"South where?"
"The Carolina shore. Outer Banks. I have a place there."
"Are you listed as the owner? They can check that."
"I bought it in the name of a corporation and signed the papers under my other name, as an officer. But what about you? You can't travel under your own name."
"Don't worry about me. I've been more people in my life than Shirley MacLaine, and I've got the papers to prove it."
"Then we're all set."
Lee looked down at Max, who had settled his big head in his lap. Lee gently stroked the dog's nose.
"How long?"
Faith shook her head. "I don't know. A week, maybe."
Lee sighed. "I guess I can have the lady downstairs take care of Max."
"Then you'll do it?"
"Just so long as you understand that while I don't mind helping somebody who needs it, I'm not playing the world's greatest sucker either."
"You don't strike me as someone who would ever play that role."
"If you really want a laugh, tell my ex-wife that."
CHAPTER 11
Old town Alexandria was located in northern Virginia next to the Potomac River, about a fifteen-minute drive south of Washington, D.C. The waters were the primary reason the city had been established, and it had flourished as a seaport for a very long time. It was still an affluent and desirable place to live, although the river no longer played a prominent role in the town's economic future.
It was a setting of both old wealth and freshly monied families nestled within the graceful brick, stone and wood-frame structures of late eighteenth and early nineteenth century architecture. A few of the streets were covered in the very same rolling cobblestone that had supported the treads of Washington and Jefferson. And of the young Robert E. Lee at his two boyhood homes, which were set across from each other on Oronoco Street, itself named after a particular brand of long-ago Virginia-grown tobacco. Many of the town's sidewalks were brick and had buckled up around the numerous trees that had shaded the homes, streets and inhabitants for so long. A number of the wrought-iron fences that encircled the courtyards and gardens of the homes were painted the color of gold on their European-inspired spikes and finials.
At this early hour the streets of Old Town were quiet except for the drizzle of rain and the rush of wind among the branches of the aged, knobby trees whose shallow roots clutched at the hard Virginia clay. The street names reflected the colonial origins of the place. Driving through town, one would pass King, Queen, Duke and Prince Streets. Off-road parking was scarce here, so the narrow avenues were lined with virtually every make and model of vehicle. Placed against the two-hundred-year-old homes, the chrome, rubber and metal hulls seemed oddly out of place, as though a time warp had whisked the automobile back to the era of horse and buggy.
The narrow four-story brick townhouse that was wedged among a line of others along Duke Street was by no means the grandest in the area. There was a lone, tilting maple in the small front yard, its split trunk covered with leafy suckers. The wrought-iron fencing was in good but not superb condition. The home had a garden and courtyard out back, yet the plantings, dripping fountain and brickwork there were unremarkable when compared with others located but a few steps away.
Inside the home, the furnishings were far more elegant than the outside of the place would have led the observer to expect. There was a simple reason for this: The outside of the home was something Danny Buchanan could not hide from curious eyes.
The first traces of the pink dawn were just starting to nudge at the edges of the horizon as Buchanan sat, fully dressed, in the small oval-shaped library off the dining room. A car was waiting to take him to Reagan National Airport.
The senator he was meeting with was on the Appropriations Committee, arguably the Senate's most important committee, since it (and its subcommittees) controlled the government's purse strings. More importantly for Buchanan's purposes, the man also chaired the Subcommittee on Foreign Operations, which determined where most foreign aid dollars went. The tall, distinguished senator with the smooth manners and confident tones was a longtime associate of Buchanan's. The man had always enjoyed the power that came with his position and he had consistently lived beyond his means. The retirement package he had waiting from Buchanan would be almost impossible for a human being to exhaust.
Buchanan's bribery scheme had started out cautiously at first. He had analyzed all the players in Washington who even remotely might further his goals, and whether they could be bribed. Many members of Congress were wealthy, but many others were not. It was often both a financial and familial nightmare for people to serve in Congress. Members had to maintain two residences, and the Washington metro area was not cheap. And their family often did not come with them. Buchanan approached the ones he figured he could corrupt and began a long process of feeling them out on possible involvement. The carrots he dangled were small at first but quickly grew in size if the targets showed any enthusiasm. Buchanan had selected well, because he had never had a target not agree to exchange votes and influence for rewards down the road. Perhaps they felt that the difference between what he proposed and what occurred in Washington every day was marginal at best. He didn't know if they cared that the goal was a worthy one. However, they hadn't gone out of their way to increase foreign aid to any of Buchanan's clients on their own.
And they had all seen colleagues leave office and grab the gold of lobbydom. But who wanted to work that hard then? Buchanan's experience was that ex-members made terrible lobbyists anyway. Going back hat in hand to lobby former colleagues over whom you no longer had any leverage was not appealing to these overly proud folk. Much smarter to use them when they were the most powerful they would ever be. Work them hard first. And then pay them grandly later. What could be better?
Buchanan wondered if he could really hold it together during the meeting with a man he had already betrayed. But then, betrayal was doled out in large doses in this town. Everyone was constantly scrambling for a chair before the music stopped. The senator would be understandably upset. Well, he would have to stand in line with the rest.
Buchanan suddenly felt tired. He didn't want to get in the car or climb on another plane, but he had no say in the matter. Still a member of the Philadelphia servant class?
The lobbyist focused his attention on the man who was standing before him.
"He sends his compliments," the burly man said. To the outside world he was Buchanan's driver. In reality he was one of Thornhill's men keeping close tabs on their most important charge.
"And please send Mr. Thornhill my sincerest wishes that God should decree he not grow one day older," said Buchanan.
"There have been important developments of which he would like you to be aware," the man said impassively.
"Such as?"
"Lockhart is working with the FBI to bring you down."
For a brief, dizzying moment Buchanan thought he would vomit all over himself. "What in the hell are you talking about?"
"This information was just discovered by our operative inside the Bureau."
"You mean they entrapped her? Made her work for them?" Just like you did to me.
"She voluntarily went to them."
Buchanan slowly regained his composure. "Tell me everything," he said.
The man responded with a series of truths, half-truths and outright lies. He told them all with equal, practiced sincerity.
"Where is Faith now?"
"She's gone underground. The FBI is looking for her."