Buchanan gingerly touched the bandage around his skull, realizing how conspicuous it made him. He felt vulnerable, his head aching from the glare of the sun, while Doyle unlocked the building’s entrance, a door stenciled BON VOYAGE, INC. Inside, after Doyle shut off the time-delay switch on the intrusion detector, Buchanan surveyed the office. It was a long, narrow room with photographs of yachts and cabin cruisers on the walls, displays of nautical instruments on shelves, and miniaturized interiors of various pleasure craft on tables. The models showed the ways in which electronic instruments could be installed without taking up undue room on a crowded vessel.
“You got a letter,” Doyle said as he sorted through the mail.
Buchanan took it from him, careful not to break character by expressing surprise that anyone would have written to him under his new pseudonym. This office was a logical place for someone investigating him to conceal a bug, and unless Doyle assured him that it was safe to talk here, Buchanan didn’t intend to say anything that Victor Grant wouldn’t, just as he assumed that Doyle wouldn’t say anything inconsistent with their cover story.
The letter was addressed to him in scrawled handwriting. Its return address was in Providence, Rhode Island. Buchanan tore open the flap and read two pages of the same scrawled handwriting.
“Who’s it from?” Doyle asked.
“My mother.” Buchanan shook his head with admiration. His efficient controllers had taken great care to give him supporting details for his new identity.
“How is she?” Doyle asked.
“Good. Except her arthritis is acting up again.”
The phone rang.
7
Buchanan frowned.
“Relax,” Doyle said. “This is a business, remember. And to tell the truth, I could
The phone rang again. Doyle picked it up, said, “Bon Voyage, Inc.,” then frowned as Buchanan had.
He placed his hand across the mouthpiece and told Buchanan, “I was wrong. It’s that guy again asking to speak to you. What do you want me to say?”
“Better let
The deep, crusty voice was instantly recognizable. “Your name ain’t Victor Grant.”
Heart pounding, Buchanan repressed his alarm and tried to sound puzzled. “What? Who
“Bailey. Big Bob Bailey. Damn it, Crawford, don’t get on my nerves. You’d still be in jail if I hadn’t called the American embassy. The least you can do is be grateful.”
“Grateful? I wouldn’t have been
“Sure, just like it was Ed Potter. I don’t know what kind of scam you’re runnin’, but it looks to me like you got more names than the phone book, and if you want to keep usin’ them, you’re gonna have to pay a subscriber fee.”
“Subscriber fee? What are you talking about?”
“After what happened in Kuwait, I’m not crazy about workin’ in the Mideast oil fields anymore,” Bailey said. “Stateside, the big companies are shuttin’ down wells instead of drillin’. I’m too old to be a wildcatter. So I guess I’ll have to rely on my buddies. Like you, Crawford. For the sake of when we were prisoners together, can you spare a hundred thousand dollars?”
“A hundred. .? Have you been drinking?”
“You betcha.”
“You’re out of your mind. One last time, and listen carefully. My name isn’t Crawford. My name isn’t Potter. My name’s Victor Grant, and I don’t know what you’re talking about. Get lost.”
Buchanan broke the connection.
8
Doyle stared at him. “How bad?”
Buchanan’s cheek muscles hardened. “I’m not sure. I’ll know in a minute.” He kept his hand on the phone.
But it took only ten seconds before the phone rang again.
Buchanan scowled and let it ring three more times before he picked it up. “Bon Voyage, Inc.”
“Crawford, don’t kid yourself that you can get rid of me that easy,” Bailey said. “I’m stubborn. You can fool the Mexican police, and you can fool the American embassy, but take my word, you can’t fool me. I know your real name ain’t Grant. I know your real name ain’t Potter. And all of a sudden, I’m beginnin’ to wonder if your real name is even Crawford. Who
“I’ve run out of patience,” Buchanan said. “Stop bothering me.”
“Hey, you don’t know what being bothered is.”
“I mean it. Leave me alone, or I’ll call the police.”
“Yeah, the police might be a good idea,” Bailey said. “Maybe
“What do I have to do to convince-?”
“Buddy, you don’t have to convince me of anything. All you have to do is pay me the hundred thousand bucks. After that, you can call yourself Napoleon for all I care.”
“You haven’t listened to a word I’ve-”
“The only words I want to hear are ‘Here’s your money.’ Crawford or whoever the hell you are, if you don’t get with the program soon, I swear to God I’ll phone the cops myself.”
“Where are you?”
“You don’t really expect me to answer that. When you’ve got the hundred thousand-and I want it by tomorrow-
“We have to meet. I can prove you’re wrong.”
“And just how are you gonna do that, buddy? Cross your heart and hope to die?” Bailey laughed, and this time, it was
9
Buchanan’s head throbbed. He turned to Doyle. “Yeah, it’s bad.”
He had to keep reminding himself that Bailey or somebody else might have planted a microphone in the office. So far, he hadn’t said anything incriminating. Whatever explanation he gave Doyle, it had to be consistent with Victor Grant’s innocent viewpoint. “That jerk who caused me so much trouble in Mexico. He thinks I shot three drug dealers down there. Now he’s trying to blackmail me. Otherwise, he says he’ll call the cops.”
Doyle played his part. “Let him try. I don’t think the local cops care what happens in Mexico, and since you
