“We’re trying,” the aide promised. “But after this much time, the trail is cold. We’re reviewing her background, trying to determine where she would go to hide and who she might ask for help. If Drummond’s men locate the woman, I’m certain that Drummond will send his assistant to bring her to him.”
“Yes. Without her, Drummond has less power over me. He’ll do everything possible to get her back.”
But what if she goes to the authorities? Delgado wondered, frantic. What if she talks in order to save herself?
No, Delgado thought. Until she’s absolutely forced to, she won’t trust the authorities. She’ll be too afraid that Drummond controls them, that they’ll release her to him, that he’ll punish her for talking. I’ve still got some time. But eventually, when she doesn’t see another way, she
Delgado’s aide had continued speaking.
“What?” Delgado demanded.
“I asked you, if we find her or if Drummond’s men lead us to her, what do you want us to do?”
“I’ll decide that when the moment comes.”
Delgado set down the phone. No matter how thoroughly his estate had been checked for hidden microphones and how well his telephone system had been examined for taps, he wasn’t about to say anything more on this topic in this fashion. The conversation had not been incriminating, but it would certainly raise questions if the wrong people heard a recording of it. Delgado didn’t want to raise even more questions and indeed supply the answers by providing the full instructions that his aide requested. For Delgado had forcefully decided what needed to be done. By all means. To soothe his ulcerated stomach. To dispel his nightmares and allow him to sleep.
If his men located the woman, he wanted them to kill her.
And then kill Drummond.
FIVE
1
MIAMI, FLORIDA
The man’s voice echoed metallically from the airport’s public-address system. “Mr. Victor Grant. Mr. Victor Grant. Please go to a courtesy telephone.”
Buchanan had just arrived at Miami International, and as he blended with the Aeromexico passengers leaving the immigration/customs area, he wondered if Woodfield had gotten the message through to Maxwell and how the rendezvous would be arranged. Amid the noise and congestion of the terminal, he barely heard the announcement and waited for it to be repeated, making sure before he walked across to a white phone marked AIRPORT mounted on a wall near a row of pay phones. There wasn’t any way to dial. When he picked it up, he heard a buzz, then another as a phone rang at another station. A woman answered, and when he explained that he was Victor Grant, she told him that his party would be waiting for him at the information counter.
Buchanan thanked her and replaced the phone, then analyzed the rendezvous tactic. A surveillance team is watching the courtesy telephones, he concluded. After Victor Grant’s name was called, they waited for a man to go to one of the phones. The team has either studied a photograph of me or been given a description. In any case, now they’ve identified me, and they’ll hang back to see if anyone is following me while I go to the information counter.
But as pleased as Buchanan was about the care of the rendezvous procedure and as delighted as he was to have escaped the authorities in Mexico, to be back in the United States, he was also troubled. His controllers obviously thought that the situation remained delicate. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have involved so many operatives in making contact with him.
At a modest pace, giving the surveillance team ample chance to watch the crowd (besides, he was in too much pain to walk any faster), Buchanan pulled his suitcase and proceeded toward the information counter. A pleasant, athletic-looking, casually dressed man in his thirties emerged from the commotion of passengers. He held out his hand, smiled, and said, “Hello, Vic. It’s good to see you. How are you feeling? How was the flight?”
Buchanan shook hands with him. “Fine.”
“Great. The van’s right this way. Here, I’ll take your bag.”
The man, who had brown hair, blue eyes, and sun-leathered skin, touched Buchanan’s elbow and guided him toward an exit. Buchanan went along, although he didn’t feel comfortable since he hadn’t received some kind of identification code. When the man said, “By the way, both Charles Maxwell and Wade want us to phone and let them know you’re okay,” Buchanan relaxed. Several people knew about his claimed relationship with Charles Maxwell, but only his controllers knew that Buchanan’s case officer in Cancun had used the pseudonym of Wade.
Across from the terminal, in the airport’s crowded parking ramp, the man unlocked a gray van, the side of which was stenciled with white: BON VOYAGE, INC., PLEASURE CRAFTS REFITTED, REMODELED. Until then, they’d been making small talk, but now Buchanan became silent, waiting for the man to give him directions, to let him know if it was safe to speak candidly and to tell him what scenario he was supposed to follow.
As the man drove from the parking ramp, he pressed a button on what looked like a portable radio mounted under the dash. “Okay. The jammer’s on. It’s safe to talk. I’ll give you the quick version and fill in the fine points later. I’m Jack Doyle. Used to be a SEAL. Took a hit in Panama, had to resign, and started a business, outfitting pleasure boats in Fort Lauderdale. All of that’s true. Now this is where you come in. From time to time, I do favors for people I used to work for. In this case, they’ve asked me to give you a cover. You’re supposed to be an employee of mine. Your controllers supplied all the necessary background documentation, Social Security, taxes, that sort of thing. As Victor Grant, you used to be in the SEALs as well, so it was natural that I’d treat you like more than just a hired hand. You live in an apartment above my office. You’re a loner. You travel around a lot, doing jobs for me. If my neighbors get asked about you, it won’t be surprising that they’re not familiar with you. Any questions?”
“How long have you employed me?”
“Three months.”
“How much do I earn?”
“Thirty thousand a year.”
“In that case, I’d like a raise.”
Doyle laughed. “Good. A sense of humor. We’ll get along.”
“Sure,” Buchanan said. “But we’ll get along even better if you stop at that gas station up ahead.”
“Oh?”
“Otherwise I’ll be pissing blood inside your van.”
“Jesus.”
Doyle quickly turned off the freeway toward a gas station. When Buchanan came out of the men’s room, Doyle was leaving a pay phone. “I called one of our team who’s acting as communications relay at the airport. He’s positive no one followed you.”
Buchanan slumped against the van, his face cold with sweat “You’d better get me to a. .”
2
The doctor stood beside Buchanan’s bed, read Buchanan’s chart, listened to his heart and respiration, checked his intravenous bottle, then took off his bifocals and scratched his salt-and-pepper beard. “You have an amazing constitution, Mr. Grant. Normally, I don’t see anybody as banged up as you unless they’ve been in a serious car accident.” He paused. “Or. .”
He never finished his statement, but Buchanan was certain that what the doctor meant to add was “combat,” just as Buchanan was certain that Doyle would never have brought him here unless the small hospital had
