“It’s more complicated than that,” Buchanan said.
“I don’t see how . . .”
“It’s not just that I was never in one place long enough to establish a relationship. I was never one person long enough. It isn’t me who wants to find Juana. It’s Peter Lang.”
“Peter Lang? Didn’t you say he was one of your pseudonyms?”
“Identities.”
“I think I’m going to scream.”
“Don’t. Later. Not now. Get us out of town.”
“In which direction?”
“North. Toward Manhattan.”
“And what’s in—?”
“Frederick Maltin. The ex-husband of Maria Tomez. There’s one other thing we have to do.”
“Get you a shrink.”
“Don’t make jokes.”
“That wasn’t a joke.”
“Stop at a pay phone.”
“I’m beginning to think I’m the one who needs a shrink.”
14
At 1:00 A.M., between Washington and Baltimore, Holly parked at a truck stop on I-95. Buchanan got out and used a pay phone.
A man answered, “Potomac Catering.”
“This is Proteus. I need to speak to the colonel.”
“He isn’t here right now, but I’ll take a message.”
“Tell him I got the message. Tell him there won’t be any trouble. Tell him I could have killed those four men tonight. Tell him to leave me alone. Tell him to leave Holly McCoy alone. Tell him I want to disappear. Tell him my business with Holly has nothing to do with him. Tell him Holly doesn’t know or care about him.”
“You sure have a lot to tell him.”
“Just make certain you do.”
Buchanan hung up, knowing that the number of the pay phone would automatically have shown itself on a screen on the “catering service’s” automatic-trace phone. If the colonel wouldn’t accept Buchanan’s attempt at a truce, a team of men would soon converge on this area.
Buchanan hurried back into the car, this time in the front. “I did my best. Let’s go.”
As she pulled out into traffic, he reached for his travel bag. The effort made him wince.
He took off his pants.
“Hey, what do you think you’re doing?” Holly asked.
His legs were bare.
“Changing my clothes. I’m soaked.” In the flash of passing headlights, he squinted at the waist of his pants. “And bleeding. I was right. Some stitches did open up.” He took a tube of antibiotic cream and a roll of bandages from his travel bag, then started to work on his side. “You know what I could use?”
“A normal life?”
“Some coffee and sandwiches.”
“Sure. A picnic.”
15
The colonel frowned and set down the phone. In the safe-site apartment five blocks north of the Washington Post, Alan—who’d been watching the colonel while listening on an extension—set down his phone as well.
The only sound was the faint drone of a car that went by outside.
“Do you want my advice?” Alan asked.
“No.” The colonel’s narrow face looked haggard from strain and fatigue.
“Well, I’ll give it to you anyhow.” Alan’s portly cheeks were emphasized by whisker shadow. “Buchanan’s waving you off. He’s asking for a truce. Agree to it. You’ve got nothing to win and everything to lose.”
“That’s your opinion, is it?” the colonel asked dryly. “I’m not used to taking advice from civilians, especially when they don’t understand the serious nature of Buchanan’s offense. A soldier can’t be allowed just to walk away from his unit, certainly not Buchanan. He knows too much. I told you before, his behavior makes him a security risk. We’re talking about chaos.”
“And gun battles in the street aren’t chaos? This has nothing to do with principle or security. It’s about pride. I was afraid of what would happen when the military became involved in civilian intelligence operations. You don’t like taking advice from civilians? Well, maybe you ought to read the Constitution. Because taking advice is exactly what you’re supposed to do. Without the Agency’s oversight on this, you’d be autonomous. You’d love that, wouldn’t you? Your own private army to do with as you want. Your own private wars.”
“Get out of here,” the colonel said. “You’re always grumbling about never seeing your wife and kids. Go home.”
“And give you control? No damned way. I’m staying with you until this issue is resolved,” Alan said.
“Then you’re in for a long, hard ride.”
“It doesn’t need to be. All you have to do is leave Buchanan alone.”
“I can’t! Not as long as he’s with that reporter.”
“But Buchanan says that his business with the reporter has nothing to do with you.”
“And you believe that?”
“He’s not a fool. I was talking about gains and losses. He has nothing to gain if he turns against you, and everything to lose. But if you hunt him, he’ll turn against you out of spite, and frankly, Colonel, he’s the last person I’d want to be my enemy.”
ELEVEN
1
Buchanan woke to a throbbing headache aggravated by banging metal and a roaring engine. He roused himself and blinked through the windshield at where a sanitation crew was emptying cans and throwing bags of refuse into the back of a garbage truck. He glanced at his watch: 8:00 A.M. Holly was driving north on Madison Avenue in New York City.
“You should have wakened me.” Buchanan shielded his eyes from the hazy sunshine.
“So you could keep me company? No. You obviously needed the rest. Besides, I didn’t mind the quiet. It gave me a chance to think.”
“About what?”
“I realized I can’t go back. Not until we find a way to convince them this has nothing to do with them. I have to keep moving forward.”
“But there’s only so far you can keep going until you drop. I’m not the only one who needed rest.”
“I took your advice,” Holly said.
“I don’t remember giving . . .”
“Last night, I asked you how you’d managed to drive all the way from New Orleans to San Antonio, as tired as you must have been after having been wounded. You said you’d napped at rest stops along the way. So whenever I had to stop to go to the bathroom, I locked the car doors and closed my eyes. You’re right. People make so much noise slamming their car doors, it’s hard to sleep more than a few minutes.”
“You certainly don’t look like you’ve been up most of the night.”
“The miracle of cosmetics. Thanks to sinks and mirrors at rest stops. If we’re going to pull this off, by the way, you need a shave.”
Buchanan rubbed his jaw, reached into his travel bag, pulled a safety razor from a pouch, and began to scrape it along his beard-stubbled cheeks.
“Ouch,” Holly said. “Doesn’t that hurt?”
“You get used to it. A lot of times on assignments, this was the only way to try to keep clean.”
He waited uneasily, hoping that she wouldn’t take advantage of the reference and ask him questions about those assignments.
Instead, she passed the test and merely concentrated on her driving.
“Have we got any coffee left?” he asked.
“We drank it all. But now that you mention it . . .”
She pulled over to a curb, parked with the motor running, ran into a coffee shop, and returned in a minute with two Styrofoam cups of coffee and four Danish.
“You’re a good provider.”
“And you’d better keep being a good teacher,” Holly said. “The Sherry-Netherland’s one block over on Fifth. It was mentioned in yesterday’s article in the Post. How do you want to do this?”
“First, we find a parking garage that has space.”
“Easier said than done.”
“Then we look for somebody watching Frederick Maltin’s apartment.”
“Why would someone be watching—?”
/> “To tie up an unfortunate loose end. I don’t think he was expected to be as big a problem as he’s become, going to reporters, drawing attention to Maria Tomez’s disappearance. My guess is, whoever’s responsible will want to take care of that.”
2
The Sherry-Netherland was diagonally across from the Plaza Hotel on Fifth Avenue. Immediately across from it were the Grand Army Plaza and an entrance to Central Park. Despite the upscale address, so many people came and went, lounged and loitered in the area that it wasn’t difficult for Buchanan and Holly to portray a convincing version of two tourists when they arrived an hour later. It was cool but pleasant for early November. They strolled around the block, admired buildings, checked out the entrance to the park, and effectively scouted the busy area.
“Somebody could be watching from neighboring buildings, of course,” Buchanan said as he took a photograph of a skyscraper, using Holly’s camera. “But it doesn’t look like anybody in the crowd is doing that.”
They sat on a bench near the gold-gilded statue of William Tecumseh Sherman.
“What now?” Holly asked.
“Time for you to do some role-playing. But I’m afraid it’s a tough one.”
“Oh?”
“You’re going to have to impersonate a reporter.”
She jammed her elbow into his ribs.
“Hey, Jesus, watch it,” Buchanan said. “That came close to where I was stabbed.”
“I might stab you myself if you keep acting that way.”
Buchanan laughed. “You brought your reporter’s ID, I hope.”
“Always. It’s in my camera bag.”
“Well, I just became your assistant. Call me . . . Who was that guy who tagged along with you in New Orleans?”
“Ted.”
“Right. Call me Ted. We’re about to pay a professional visit to Mr. Maltin. You’d better let your assistant carry the camera bag.”
“You know, you don’t do that often enough.”
“Carry your bag?”
“No. A moment ago, you were smiling.”
They waited for the light, crossed at Fifty-ninth Street, and headed north along crowded Fifth Avenue toward the canopied entrance to the Sherry-Netherland. Nodding to the uniformed doorman who was getting a taxi for a well-dressed elderly woman, Buchanan pushed the revolving door and entered ahead of Holly to check out the lobby.
Gentle lights gave it a golden hue. Colorful flowers stood in a vase on a side table. Ahead, on the right, a short corridor led to elevators. On the left, across from the corridor, the reception counter was next to a newspaper-and-magazine shop. A uniformed clerk stood in the lobby, another behind the counter. A middle-aged spectacled woman straightened things next to the cash register at the magazine shop.
No sign of a threat, Buchanan decided as he waited for Holly to come out of the revolving door and join him.
“Yes, sir?” The clerk in the lobby stepped forward.
Typically, the clerk singled out the male of a couple. But because Buchanan was supposed to be Holly’s assistant, he straightened the camera bag around his shoulder and turned to her, his eyebrows raised, waiting for her to answer.
Holly immediately assumed her role. “I’m a reporter.” She held out her press ID.
The clerk glanced at the card, his inspection cursory, probably paying attention to the newspaper’s name and little else, Buchanan hoped. Holly hadn’t volunteered her own name, and with luck, the clerk wouldn’t have noticed it on the card.
“I’m here to see Mr. Maltin.” Holly put the press card away.
“Did you have an appointment?”
“No. But if he’s free, I’d appreciate ten minutes of his time.”
“One moment.” The clerk walked over to the counter and picked up a phone, pressing numbers. “Mr. Maltin, there’s a reporter from the Washington Post to see you. A lady with a photographer. . . . Yes, sir, I’ll tell them.” The clerk set down the phone. “Mr. Maltin doesn’t wish to be disturbed.”
“But yesterday, he couldn’t get enough of reporters.”
“All I know is, he doesn’t wish to be disturbed.”
“Please call him back.”
“I’m afraid I—”
“Really, it’s important. I have information about his missing wife.”
The clerk hesitated.
“He’ll be very unhappy if he finds out you didn’t give him the message.”
The clerk’s gaze darkened. “One moment.” He walked back to the desk, picked up the phone, pressed numbers, and this time spoke with his back turned so that Holly and Buchanan couldn’t hear what he said. When the clerk pivoted in their direction and set down the phone, he looked irritated. “Mr. Maltin will see you. Come with me.”
They followed the clerk toward a row of elevators, and after they got in, the clerk stared straight ahead, pressing the button for the thirtieth floor. Sure, Buchanan thought. This way, he guarantees that we get off where we’re supposed to be going.
At the thirtieth floor, the clerk waited until Holly rang the bell for Frederick Maltin’s apartment. Only when Maltin opened the door, glowered at Holly and Buchanan, and gestured grudgingly for them to enter did the clerk step back into the elevator.
Buchanan and Holly walked past Maltin, who shut the apartment door impatiently and strode toward the middle of a spacious room.
Spacious was an understatement. The high rectangular room was large enough to hold at least four standard rooms. The wall to the left and the long one directly ahead were a panorama of windows that began at thigh level and went all the way to the ceiling, continuing around the room, giving a spectacular view of Fifth Avenue to the south and Central Park directly across. The furniture, tastefully arranged, was antique. Buchanan had the impression of polished wood and crystal, of expensive fabrics and Oriental rugs, of authentic-looking Cubist paintings. A gleaming grand piano stood in a corner, next to a display of what appeared to be museum-quality ceramics. It wasn’t any wonder that Frederick Maltin had complained about the financial terms of his divorce from Maria Tomez. He was obviously used to luxury.
“I don’t know what information you think you have about my ex-wife, but it isn’t pertinent any longer because I just heard from her.”
Buchanan needed all his discipline not to start asking questions. The scenario made this Holly’s show. She had to carry it.
She did. “Then you must be relieved.”
“Of course. Very much.” Frederick Maltin was a man of medium height and weight, in his middle forties, with a moderate amount of hair and a moderate amount of gray in it. As for the rest of his characteristics, there was nothing medium or moderate about him. His dainty, thin-soled, polished black shoes and meticulously pressed, blended-wool, double-breasted blue suit were obviously foreign, custom-designed, and hand-sewn. His brilliant white shirt and subtle striped tie had contrasting textures of premium silk. It was impossible for Buchanan not to pay attention to Maltin’s diamond cuff links as the man made a show of impatience by checking the time on his diamond-studded Cartier watch. He had a sapphire ring on the small finger of his left hand. All told, it probably cost him twenty thousand dollars to get dressed in the morning.
“The hotel clerk said you needed ten minutes with me, but I can’t spare even that much time,” Maltin continued. His voice was reedy, imperious.
“But surely you’re eager to tell the press the good news,” Holly said. “Yesterday, there was so much commotion about your insistence that something had happened to her. You’ll want everyone to know it was a false alarm.”
“Well, yes,” Maltin said, “of course. I hadn’t . . . You’re right. It’s important for you and other reporters to inform her fans that she hasn’t been harmed.”
Holly sounded puzzled. “The way you say that . . . It’s as if you haven’t called the media yet.”
“I . . . The news just reached me. I’m still adjusting. I’m so relieved, you see.” Maltin removed a burgundy silk handkerchi
ef from the breast pocket of his suit and wiped his brow.
Yeah, you look relieved all to hell, Buchanan thought.
“I haven’t had time to compose myself. To make plans.”
“What did your ex-wife tell you?” Holly asked. “Where has she been for the past two weeks?”
Maltin looked blank. “Away. She told me where, but she doesn’t want me to reveal the precise location. She wants to stay away a while longer. To rest. After this misunderstanding, reporters will swarm all over her if they get the opportunity.”
“Well, can’t you give us a general idea of where she is?”
“France. But that’s all I intend to reveal.”
“Did she explain why she dropped out of sight?”
“She wanted to take a trip. In my impatience about these unfortunate legal matters, I made the mistake of assuming that because I couldn’t contact her, something disastrous must have happened to her.”
As Buchanan surveyed the room again, he smelled the faint odor of cigarette smoke, but there weren’t any ashtrays in this fastidiously maintained room. Nor was there any odor of cigarette smoke on Maltin’s clothes. Buchanan was always amazed that smokers didn’t realize how pervasive the odor of their habit was. In this case, cigarette smoke from a distant area of the spacious apartment drifted in this direction. And Buchanan had the strong conviction that Frederick Maltin not only didn’t smoke but also didn’t approve of anyone smoking in his presence, certainly not in his apartment.
“I’ll make a confession,” Maltin said. “I overreacted because Maria wouldn’t respond to my telephone calls. When she sold her apartment a few weeks ago and seemed to vanish, I was outraged that she had ignored me, that she hadn’t consulted with me. She used to consult with me about everything. I couldn’t imagine she’d be that independent, even though we were divorced. So my pride insisted she must have been the victim of foul play. Ridiculous of me.”
“Yes,” Buchanan said, the first time he’d spoken. “Do you mind if I use your bathroom?”
“Indeed I do. Very much.”
“But this is an emergency. I have to go.”
Assumed Identity Page 46
