attack will be absolute, and it won’t be something we could cover up. God only knows what the authorities would learn about Doyle’s background and his contract work for you as they prepared to go to trial.”
“Shit,” the muscular man said.
“That’s what I’ve been thinking,” Buchanan said. “I landed in a real mess. I think Victor Grant ought to move on.”
“But wouldn’t that be the same as an admission of guilt?” the woman asked. “Wouldn’t that make Bailey all the more determined to hound you?”
“He’d have to find me first. And after I disappeared, after I assumed a new identity, he’d never be able to.”
“That still leaves Jack Doyle,” the major said. “Bailey could come back and put pressure on Doyle.”
“Doyle’s story then becomes that he doesn’t know anything about me, except that I’m an old military friend who showed up three months ago and asked for work. Doyle complains to the police about Bailey’s harassment. Finally, Doyle and his wife take a trip-courtesy of some former friends-to a vacation spot that has an excellent cancer treatment facility.”
“Possibly,” the colonel said, pensively tapping his fingers on the sides of his chair. “That’s certainly one option that we’ll consider.” He glanced at his watch. “We’ll discuss it thoroughly. For now, you’d better leave. If someone’s watching the yacht, it’ll seem unusual that all of us are inside this long.” He glanced at the woman in the bathing suit and the man who might have been a bodyguard. “It’s important to maintain cover.”
“But what about Bailey?” Buchanan asked.
“We’ll give you our decision later.”
“Sir, there isn’t much time.”
“We know that, Captain.” The colonel looked irritated. “I said we’ll get back to you.”
“But in the meanwhile, what do I do?”
“Isn’t it obvious? Whatever you think Victor Grant would do.”
The answer was vague and slippery. Buchanan suddenly felt apprehensive.
12
Favoring his wounded right arm, Buchanan climbed down the rope ladder into the powerboat. The moment he’d emerged from the shadowy cabin into the glaring sunlight, his head had started pounding again. He put on his cap and sunglasses while the two men and the woman peered down at him, the latter again opening her blue terry-cloth robe to reveal the stunningly filled red bikini of the rich enchantress she was portraying.
“Just send us the bill,” the colonel said.
“Yes, sir. Thanks.” Buchanan caught the bow and stern lines that the major tossed to him. Then he started the powerboat’s engine and steered away from the yacht.
Tension cramped his muscles.
Jesus, he thought. They don’t know what to do. I need a decision, and they didn’t give me one. I can’t act without orders. But if I don’t hear from them by tonight, how am I going to stall Bailey?
Preoccupied, Buchanan drove past a dock on one side and a palm-tree-shaded mansion on the other, approaching the end of a canal, about to reenter the expanse of the waterway. Abruptly the problem of Bailey became more immediate. Buchanan’s veins swelled from sudden pressure, for ahead, on his left, near a channel marker, Bailey sat in a powerboat similar to Buchanan’s, its engine off, the boat motionless except for the bobbing caused by the wake of passing vessels. He wore an orange FORT LAUDERDALE IS THE GREATEST BEACH IN THE WORLD T-shirt and was leaning back in the seat behind the wheel, his canvas shoes up on the console, one beefy arm spread out as if he was relaxing on a sofa, while with his other hand he smoked a cigarette.
Buchanan eased back on the throttle.
Bailey drew his hand across his brush cut, smiled, and tossed his cigarette into the water.
Buchanan eased farther back on the throttle, noticing the camera with the telephoto lens that was slung around Bailey’s massive neck. Buchanan’s instructions had been to do exactly what Victor Grant would do, and right now, he decided. Victor Grant wasn’t going to ignore this son of a bitch.
He steered toward Bailey, pulled the throttle back all the way, felt the bow sink, floated next to Bailey, and grabbed the side of his boat.
“How ya doin’, Crawford?”
“How many times do I have to tell you?
Bailey pulled the pop tab on a can of Blue Ribbon. “Yeah, I’m beginnin’ to think you’re right about that. It’s probably somethin’ else besides Crawford. Sure as hell, though, it ain’t Victor Grant.”
“Look, I’ve done everything I can to prove it to you. That’s my limit. I’ve run out of patience. I want you to quit following me. I want you to quit-”
“Almost forgot. Pardon me for bein’ rude. I got another beer if you’d like-”
“Shove it up your ass.”
“Now is that any way to talk to an ol’ buddy? Not to mention a business associate?”
“Give it a rest! I never saw you before you showed up in that jail in Mexico.”
“Well, that’s where you’re wrong.” Bailey lowered his shoes from the powerboat’s console and straightened behind the wheel. “I’ve got a product to sell, and you’re gonna buy it. When you joined those folks on that yacht, I figured you meant to get the hundred thousand from them, but you didn’t carry anythin’ off. Time’s flyin’. You better find that money someplace. ’Cause after midnight tonight, I. . By the way, that gal on the yacht is some looker, ain’t she? Through this big lens on my camera, I could see her so close. . What’s that phone commercial? ‘Reach out and touch someone’? I got some real good pictures of her, those two guys, and you on the deck. Nice and clear. Photography’s a hobby of mine. Matter of fact, I got some pictures here in this envelope-”
“I’m not interested.”
“Oh, but I guarantee you’ll find these pictures
“What are you talking about?”
“
Hesitant, Buchanan accepted the manila envelope. Chest tight, he was preoccupied by the threat of the pictures that Bailey had taken of him with the colonel, the major, and the captain. The officers weren’t public figures. Bailey wouldn’t know who they were. But if Bailey gave the pictures to the police and someone got curious about who was on that yacht, if the colonel was identified, the consequences would be disastrous. Somehow, Buchanan had to get his hands on the film.
But as he withdrew the photographs-eight-by-ten black-and-white glossies-as he sorted through them, he suddenly realized that he had much more to worry about than the pictures Bailey had taken of him with the colonel on the yacht.
“A mighty good likeness of you, Crawford,” Bailey said. “I’ve got copies of the original tape, so nobody can say the pictures have been fooled with. If you piss me off by not payin’ up, I swear to God I’m gonna send ’em to the cops, along with the Mexican police sketch for Ed Potter and those bottom photographs of Victor Grant.”
Photos of Victor Grant? Buchanan asked himself with puzzled alarm. He shuffled to the bottom of the pile and felt his chest turn cold as he stared at three photographs of him outside the Mexican prison, where he talked to Garson Woodfield of the American embassy.
“Another good likeness,” Bailey said. “In case you miss the point, that guy from the embassy had to be in the picture so there’d be an absolutely straight-arrow witness to identify you as Victor Grant. I’ve got you as three different people, Crawford. Got you good.”
Stalling for time while he thought, Buchanan kept staring at the pictures. The ones in Mexico. How had-? At once, Buchanan remembered. While he’d been talking to Woodfield across from the Mexican prison, he’d noticed a
