“Why not?” Buchanan said.
Bailey looked very pleased with himself. “Be seein’ you.”
“No. You won’t.”
“Right,” Bailey said and carried the picnic cooler off the water taxi onto the dock. He strolled across the colorfully illuminated lawn toward the music, “Moon River,” and disappeared among the crowd.
17
Thirty minutes later, the water taxi brought Buchanan back to the Riverside Hotel. He wouldn’t have returned there except that he needed to retrieve his suitcase from the trunk of Cindy’s car. The car was parked on a quiet street next to the hotel, and after Buchanan placed the keys beneath the driver’s floor mat, he carried his suitcase into the hotel, where he phoned for a taxi. When it arrived, he instructed the driver to take him to an all-night car-rental agency. As it happened, the only one that was open was at the Fort Lauderdale airport, and after Buchanan rented a car, he drove to a pay phone to contact Doyle and tell him where to find Cindy’s car. Next, he bought a twelve-pack of beer at a convenience store, drove to a shadowy, deserted street, poured every can of beer over the front seat and floor of the car, then tossed the empty cans onto the floor and drove away, keeping all the windows open lest he get sick from the odor of the beer.
By then, it was quarter after one in the morning. He headed toward the ocean, found a deserted park next to the Intracoastal Waterway, and smashed the car through a protective barrier, making sure he left skid marks, as if the car had been out of control. He stopped the car, got out, put the automatic gearshift into drive, and pushed the car over the seawall into the water. Even as he heard it splash, he was hurrying away to disappear into the darkness. He’d left his suitcase in the car, along with his wallet in the nylon jacket he’d borrowed from Doyle. He’d kept his passport, though. He didn’t want anyone to do a background check on that. When the police investigated the “accident” and hoisted the car from the water, they’d find the beer cans. The logical conclusion would be that the driver—Victor Grant, according to the ID in the wallet and the car-rental agreement in the glove compartment—had been driving while under the influence, had crashed through the barricade, and helpless because of alcohol, had drowned. When the police didn’t find the body, divers and trollers would search, give up, and decide that the corpse would surface in a couple of days. When it didn’t, they’d conclude that the remains had been wedged beneath a dock or had been carried by the tide out to sea. More important, Buchanan hoped that Bailey would believe the same thing. Under stress from being blackmailed, fearful that Bailey would keep coming back for more and more money, Crawford-Potter-Grant had rented a car to flee the area, had gotten drunk in the process, had lost control of the vehicle, and . . .
Maybe, Buchanan thought. It just might work. Those had been the colonel’s instructions at any rate—to make Victor Grant disappear. Buchanan hadn’t told Doyle and Cindy what he intended to do because he wanted them to be genuinely surprised if the police questioned them. The disappearance would break the link between Buchanan and Bailey. It would also break the link between Buchanan and what had happened in Mexico. If the Mexican authorities decided to reinvestigate Victor Grant and asked for the cooperation of the American authorities, there’d be no one to investigate.
All problems solved, Buchanan thought as he hurried from the shadowy park, then slowed his pace as he walked along a dark side street. He’d find a place to hide until morning, buy a razor, clean up in a public rest room, take a bus twenty-five miles south to Miami, use cash to buy an Amtrak ticket, and become an anonymous passenger on the train north to Washington. Now you see me, now you don’t. Definitely time for a new beginning.
The only troubling detail, Buchanan thought, was how the colonel could be sure that he got his hands on all the photographs and the negatives. What if Bailey went into the first men’s room he could find, locked a stall, removed the money from the cooler, and left the cooler next to the waste bin? In that case, the surveillance team wouldn’t be able to trail Bailey to where he was staying and where presumably he kept the photos. Another troubling detail was the woman, the redhead who’d taken photographs of Buchanan outside the Mexican prison while he talked with the man from the American embassy, the same woman who’d also taken photographs of Buchanan with the colonel on the yacht and later with Bailey on the waterway. What if Bailey had already paid her off and never went near her again? The surveillance team couldn’t find her.
So what? Buchanan decided as he walked quickly through the secluded, exclusive neighborhood, prepared to duck behind any of the numerous flowering shrubs if he saw headlights approaching. So what if Bailey did pay the woman and never went near her again? He’d have made sure he got the pictures and the negatives first. He wouldn’t have confided in her. So it won’t matter if the surveillance team can’t locate her. It won’t even matter if Bailey ditches the cooler and the surveillance team can’t find the photographs and the negatives. After all, the pictures are useless to Bailey if the man he’s blackmailing is dead.
18
EXPLOSION KILLS THREE
FT. LAUDERDALE—A powerful explosion shortly before midnight last night destroyed a car in the parking lot of Paul’s-on-the-River restaurant, killing its occupant, identified by a remnant of his driver’s license as Robert Bailey, 48, a native of Oklahoma. The explosion also killed two customers leaving the restaurant. Numerous other cars were destroyed or damaged. Charred fragments of a substantial amount of money found at the scene have prompted authorities to theorize that the explosion may have been the consequence of a recent escalating war among drug smugglers.
19
MURDER-SUICIDE
FT. LAUDERDALE—Responding to a telephone call from a frightened neighbor, police early this morning investigated gunshots at 233 Glade Street in Plantation and discovered the bodies of Jack Doyle (34) and his wife, Cindy (30), both dead from bullet wounds. It is believed that Mr. Doyle, despondent about his wife’s cancer, shot her with a .38-caliber snub-nosed revolver while she slept in their bedroom, then used the same weapon on himself.
20
THE YUCATÁN PENINSULA
Struggling to concentrate amid the din of bulldozers, trucks, Jeeps, chain saws, generators, and shouting construction workers, Jenna Lane drew another line on the surveyor’s map she was preparing. The map was spread out, anchored by books, on a trestle table in a twenty-by-ten-foot tent that was her office. Sweat trickled down her face and hung on the tip of her chin as she intensified her concentration and made a note beside the line she’d drawn on the map.
A shadow appeared at the open entrance to her tent. Glancing up, she saw McIntyre, the foreman of the project, silhouetted by dust raised by a passing bulldozer. He removed his Stetson, swabbed a checkered handkerchief across his sunburned, dirty, sweaty brow, and raised his voice to be heard above the racket outside. “He’s coming.”
Jenna frowned and glanced at her watch, the metal band of which was embedded with grit. “Already? It’s only ten o’clock. He’s not supposed to be here until—”
“I told you, he’s coming.”
Jenna set down her pencil and walked to the front of her tent, where she squinted in the direction that McIntyre pointed, east, toward the sun-fierce cobalt sky and a growing speck above the jungle. Although she couldn’t hear it because of the rumble of construction equipment, she imagined the helicopter’s distant drone, its gradual increase to a roar, and then as the chopper’s features became distinct, she did hear it setting down on the landing pad near camp, the churning rotors adding their own distinctive, rapid whump-whump-whump.
Dust rose—shallow soil that had been exposed when that section of forest was cut down, stumps blasted away or uprooted by bulldozers. Drivers and construction workers momentarily stopped what they were doing and stared toward the landing pad. This wasn’t one of the massive, ugly industrial helicopters that the crew had been using to lift in the vehicles and construction equipment. Rather, this was a small, sleek passeng
er helicopter, the kind that movie stars and sports celebrities liked to be seen in, or in this case one that could be anchored on top of a yacht and was owned by one of the richest businessmen in the world. Even from a distance, the red logo on the side of the helicopter was evident: DRUMMOND INDUSTRIES. The force of the name was such that the sight of it compelled the workmen back to their tasks, as if they feared Drummond’s anger should he think that they weren’t working hard enough.
But not the guards, Jenna noticed. Constantly patrolling with their rifles, they hadn’t paid attention to the helicopter. Professionals, they kept their attention riveted on the surrounding forest.
“We’d better not keep him waiting,” McIntyre said.
“He doesn’t wait,” Jenna said. “Hell, look at him. He’s already out of the chopper. He’ll beat us to the main office. I hear he swims two miles every morning.”
“Yeah, the old bastard’s probably got more energy than both of us,” McIntyre grumbled as Jenna rolled up the surveyor’s map and tucked it under her arm.
They walked quickly toward the most substantial structure in camp. A one-story wooden building made from logs, it contained essential supplies—food, fuel, ammunition, dynamite—items that needed to be protected from the weather or scavenging animals, and especially from humans. The building also contained an administrative center, where McIntyre stored the project’s records, kept in radio contact with his employer, and conducted daily meetings with his various subforemen.
Jenna had been right. As she and McIntyre approached the building, she saw Alistair Drummond reach it before them. His exact age wasn’t known, but he was rumored to be in his early eighties, although except for his severely wrinkled hands he looked twenty years younger, his facial skin unnaturally tight from cosmetic surgery.
In fact, rumors were the essence of Drummond’s notoriety. How much wealth had he amassed? How great was his influence with the premier of the People’s Republic of China? What had been his part in the 1973 Arab oil embargo? What had been his part in the Iran-Contra arms scandal? In his middle years, had he really been sexually involved with Ingrid Bergman, Marlene Dietrich, and Marilyn Monroe? Much more recently, what was his relationship with his frequent companion, the great opera diva Maria Tomez? Divorced six times, spending more days each year on his jet than he did at the estates he owned in eleven nations, devoting the pharmaceutical portion of his financial empire to AIDS research, able to boast of a first-name friendship with every Russian, British, and American leader since the 1940s, Alistair Drummond exhibited a combination of outrageous success and shameless self-promotion that gave him a larger-than-life stature in an arena of world-renowned figures. The rumors and riddles about him made him a blend of contradictions, capable of being interpreted in various ways. His commitment to AIDS research, for example. Was that for humanitarian reasons or for the opportunity to earn boundless profits? Both? He was a powerful enigma, and for that reason, anyone who’d ever met him never forgot the experience, regardless if the meeting had demonstrated his calculated charm or ruthless manipulation.
Certainly I won’t forget him, Jenna thought, and I sure as hell won’t forget this job. When she’d been interviewed for the project, Drummond had assessed her honey-colored hair, her high, firm breasts, her trim, equally firm hips, and with his raspy voice that caused her nerves to quiver, he had made his employment offer sound like a sexual proposition. Perhaps it had been a sexual proposition; perhaps Drummond considered all the people who worked for him to be the same as prostitutes. But high-class prostitutes, Jenna thought. While Drummond was without a doubt the coldest, meanest bastard she’d ever known, he was also the most generous. Her salary for this project was the equivalent of her last ten projects combined. Deservedly. For this assignment was obscene, and if she was going to sell her professional soul, she didn’t intend to do it cheaply.
As she and McIntyre entered the dirt-floored office, Jenna’s gaze immediately gravitated toward Drummond, who was already surrounded by a group of crew leaders, blurting questions to them and snapping orders. He took charge so rapidly that even with his blended-wool, blue-striped English-made suit in contrast with the sweat-stained, dirt-encrusted, rumpled work clothes of the crew leaders, he seemed perfectly in place, in his element. By contrast, the fair-haired, well-dressed man standing next to Drummond appeared aloof, not at all comfortable in these primitive conditions. His name was Raymond, and the cold expression in his eyes warned Jenna not to believe that his pleasant features were an indication of his personality. She suspected that Raymond was truly in his element only when he was causing pain.
Dear God, what have I gotten myself into?
“No,” Drummond told a supervisor, his voice brittle but forceful. “No. You understood the rules before you agreed to be hired. You signed a document binding you to certain conditions. Under no circumstances are you or any member of your crew permitted to leave camp until all the work is completed. I’m paying everyone handsomely to work seven days a week, and I expect to receive maximum value for my money. Bring women in? Nonsense. No outsiders are allowed in camp. Permission to use the two-way radio for private communications? Absolutely not. What happens down here is my business, and I don’t want your men telling my business to outsiders. You know how I feel about privacy. In every way possible, this camp is sealed. Don’t raise this subject again.”
Drummond turned dismissively from the group and noticed Jenna and McIntyre just inside the open door. “Good, I want to see both of you.” He motioned for Raymond to take the supervisors outside, then gestured for Jenna and McIntyre to approach. “Have you found it?”
Jenna and McIntyre looked away.
“I don’t know why I bothered asking,” Drummond said. “If you had found it, those idiots would have been jabbering hysterically about it. They wouldn’t have been able to restrain themselves. Which means they still don’t suspect,” Drummond said. “Is that true?”
McIntyre cleared his throat. “Yes. That’s true.”
Having taken the supervisors outside, Raymond reentered the building, shut the door, and leaned against it, crossing his arms, coldly assessing Jenna. She felt his arrogant gaze upon her.
“I’m not pleased, not pleased at all,” Drummond said. “I gave you all the necessary information. The job shouldn’t be that difficult. You practically have step-by-step instructions. But you still haven’t found it.”
McIntyre mumbled something.
“What?” Drummond glared. “Damn it, man, speak up. Muttering won’t trick me into thinking my ears are failing me.”
“I didn’t mean to . . .”
“Don’t apologize. I hate a whimperer. Maybe that’s why you haven’t achieved your objective. Because you’re not man enough to direct the job.”
“The instructions weren’t as specific as you claim,” Jenna interrupted.
“Oh?” The old man swung toward her. “At least you don’t mutter. But I don’t recall asking you for a comment.”
“If I need to be asked, that would mean I’m not a very good employee, wouldn’t you agree?”
“An excellent answer.” Drummond studied her. “Continue.”
“A vague and possibly flawed translation isn’t what I’d call step-by-step instructions.”
Drummond bristled. “The translation wasn’t flawed. The best experts for the maximum price were hired to decipher the text.”
“But even the experts don’t understand all the Mayan symbols.”
“And you yourself are expert enough to know that?”
“Perhaps you’ve forgotten.”
“I forget nothing.”
“I’m not only a surveyor,” Jenna said. “I’m an archaeological surveyor. My expertise is mapping sites like this one, and I may not be able to translate Mayan symbols, but I know several people who can, and they’re the first to admit that there’s a great deal more to be accomplished in their specialty.”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps you’re trying to justify a po
or performance. Perhaps I should hire someone else and deduct that person’s fee from yours.”
Panic muted Jenna’s anger. Stop. Keep your opinions to yourself. Don’t antagonize him.
“Work harder,” Drummond said. “Quit making excuses. The translation is as perfect as it can be. And it’s explicit. What we’re looking for is here. But why can’t you find it?”
“Topography doesn’t have much variation in the Yucatán,” Jenna said. “The site described in the text could be anywhere. Plus, the geology in this area isn’t stable. In the thousand years since the landscape was described, earthquakes could have obliterated some of the features we’re searching for.”
Drummond scowled and returned his attention to McIntyre. “I don’t have time for delays. The jungle has to be cleared, but your men haven’t accomplished anywhere near as much as they were supposed to by now. You haven’t kept up with the schedule.”
“The schedule didn’t allow for sabotage,” McIntyre said.
Drummond jerked his head back. “Sabotage?”
“Someone’s been tampering with the bulldozers and the trucks. Dirt in the fuel tanks. Radiator hoses cut. Tires slashed.”
Drummond became livid. “Why wasn’t I told?”
“We thought we could handle the problem without troubling you. We fixed the vehicles and posted guards around them,” McIntyre said.
“And?”
“Posting guards around the vehicles meant we had to lessen the number of men watching the perimeter of the camp. The next night, a lot of our tools were stolen. Our water supply was contaminated. Our fuel-storage barrels were punctured. That’s why we’ve got barrels stored in here. As an emergency backup. The helicopters have been working double time bringing in spare parts and replacement supplies instead of new equipment.”
Assumed Identity Page 21
