In terms of those criteria, McPherson Square was ideal. The park was hardly likely to have burned down. It was as public as a restaurant but far more open, and it was only a few blocks from Holly's office, hence a natural place for her to meet someone.
Buchanan managed to reach the rendezvous area before the forty-minute deadline. Watching the newspaper building from a crowded bus stop farther along L Street, he saw Holly come out of The Washington Post and head down 15th Street, but at the moment, he wasn't so much interested in her as he was in anyone who might be following her. He waited until she was out of his sight, waited another fifteen seconds, then strolled with other pedestrians toward the corner. There, while waiting for a traffic light, he glanced in Holly's direction down 15th Street toward her destination on K Street.
She wore a London Fog raincoat, tan, an excellent neutral color when you didn't want to stand out in a crowd. A matching cap had the extra merit of concealing Holly's red hair, which she'd tucked up beneath it. The only thing conspicuous about her was the camera bag that she carried in lieu of a purse.
It was enough for Buchanan to distinguish her from other tan raincoats in the crowd. He followed slowly, glancing unobtrusively at store windows and cars, subtly scanning the area to see if Holly had anyone observing her.
Yes. A man in a brown leather jacket on the opposite side of the street.
As the man walked, he never took his gaze away from Holly. On occasion, he adjusted something in his left ear and lowered his chin toward his right chest, moving his lips.
Buchanan studied the street more intently and saw a man on the corner ahead of Holly. The man wore a business suit, held an umbrella, and glanced at his watch a couple of times as if waiting for someone. But he too adjusted something in his ear and did so at the same time that the first man was lowering his chin and moving his lips. Hearing-aid-style audio receivers. Lapel-button miniature microphones.
But which group - the colonel's or Alan's - was tailing Holly? Were they military or civilian, from special operations or the Agency? As Holly reached K Street and crossed toward the park, Buchanan got a look at the backs of the men who went after her. They had narrow hips, their torsos veering upward toward broad shoulders, a distinctive build for special-operations personnel. Their training was designed to make them limber while giving them considerable upper-body strength. Too much muscle in their legs and hips would slow them down. But muscle in the upper body didn't interfere with anything, creating only advantages. Buchanan himself had once possessed that body build, but since it would identify his background to anyone who understood these matters, he'd cut back on building up his arms and shoulders, going instead for activities that gave him stamina and agility.
Now that he had a distinctive silhouette to look for, he noticed two other men dressed in civilian clothes and with a special-operations build. The colonel must certainly be apprehensive about her, or else he wouldn't have so many men on her, Buchanan thought. The two men he'd just noticed were ahead of Holly, staking out the park. The only way they could have known to get to the park ahead of her was if they had her phones tapped and knew where and when she had arranged to meet someone named Mike Hamilton. He'd been right to be cautious.
Instead of following Holly into the park, Buchanan hung back, turned right on K Street, and went around the next block. His approach returned him to 15th Street but this time farther south, where 15th intersected with I Street. From a busy entrance to the Veterans Administration Building, he looked across to the leafless trees in the park and glimpsed Holly sitting on a bench near the statue of General McPherson in the middle of the square. Pedestrians came and went, but the four broad-shouldered men had spread out through the park and were now immobile, on occasion touching an ear or lowering a chin, concentrating on Holly, then switching their attention to anyone who seemed to be approaching her.
How do I get a message to her? Buchanan thought.
Continuing along I Street, he came to a black man who held a small sign that said I'LL WORK FOR FOOD. The man needed a hair cut but had shaved. He wore plain, clean clothes. His leather shoes looked freshly shined but were worn down at the heels.
'Can you spare the price of a hamburger?' the man asked. His eyes showed subdued bitterness. Shame struggled with anger as he tried to maintain his dignity even though he was begging.
'I think I can do better than the price of a hamburger,' Buchanan said.
The man's eyebrows narrowed. His expression became puzzled, with a trace of wariness.
'You want to work?' Buchanan asked.
'Look, I don't know what's on your mind, but I hope it isn't trouble. The last guy stopped told me if I wanted to work, why the hell didn't I get a job? He called me a lazy bastard and walked away. Get a job? No shit. I wouldn't be out here beggin', lettin' people call me names if I could find a job.'
'How does this sound?' Buchanan asked. 'Five minutes work for a hundred dollars?'
'A hundred dollars? For that much money, I'd. Wait a minute. If this is about drugs or.'
3
At a safe-site apartment five blocks north of The Washington Post, the phone barely rang before the colonel stopped pacing and grabbed it off its hook. 'Home Video Service.'
'Looks like it's a no-show,' a man's voice said. 'Whoever this Mike Hamilton is, he was supposed to meet her at twenty after two. But now it's quarter to three, the drizzle's turning to rain, and she's making moves as if that park bench she's sitting on is awfully cold.'
'Keep watching until she goes back to work and our man in her department can take over watching her,' the colonel said.
'Maybe that's what she's doing now. Working,' the man's voice said. 'Just because the guy at the desk next to hers never heard her talk about anybody named Mike Hamilton, that doesn't mean Hamilton still can't be a source for a story she's working on. Hell, for that matter, he might be a friend she knew when she worked in California.'
'Might be, Major? I don't like my officers to make assumptions. The tapes of the conversations don't mention California or anything else. She and Hamilton talk as if they've got some kind of relationship. But what? It's all smoke.'
'Well, most people don't review their life history when they phone somebody for lunch.'
'Are you being sarcastic, Major?'
'No, sir. Definitely not. I'm just trying to think out loud and analyze the problem. I'm guessing that if this meeting with Hamilton has anything to do with us, she wouldn't be doing it in plain sight. Besides, we checked our computer records. No one named Hamilton was ever associated with our operations.'
'No one named Hamilton?' the colonel said. 'Doesn't it seem relevant to you that one of our specialties is pseudonyms? Damn it, what if Hamilton isn't his real name?'
The line became silent for a moment. 'Yes, sir, I get your point.'
'Since she came back from New Orleans, everything she's done has been routine. Now, for the first time, she's doing something that can't be fully explained. For her sake, I hope it doesn't involve us. I want to believe what she told Buchanan, that she's given up the story. But I also want to know who the hell Mike Hamilton is.'
'Colonel, you can depend on me to. Hold it. I'm getting a report from the surveillance team. Somebody's approaching the woman.'
The colonel stopped moving, stopped blinking, stopped breathing. He stared at the opposite wall.
'False alarm, sir,' the voice said. 'It's a black guy with a sign about needing a job. He's trying to beg from everybody in the park.'
The colonel exhaled and seemed to come out of a trance. 'Maintain surveillance. Keep me informed. I want to know what that woman's doing every second.' With force, he terminated the connection.
From a chair in the corner of the room, Alan studied him. 'Why don't you give it a rest? Whatever happens will happen regardless if you're staring at the phone.'
'You don't seem to take this seriously.'
'Oh, I take it very seriously,' Alan said. 'To me, this is a sign of how out of cont
rol this operation has become. Instead of taking care of business, you're wasting all your resources worrying about Buchanan and this reporter.'
'Wasting?'
'As far as I'm concerned, both problems are solved. Let Buchanan keep digging a hole to bury himself. He's gone, and I say fine. He'll act his way into oblivion. About the reporter - hey, without Buchanan she doesn't have a story. It's as simple as that. If she breaks her agreement, we'll deny everything she says, accuse her of putting her career ahead of the truth, and challenge her to produce this mysterious man she claims was God knows how many people.'
'Maybe she can.'
'What are you talking about?' Alan asked.
'She's the reason Buchanan walked away from us,' the colonel said. 'But maybe it's not just professional. He tried to protect her, after all. Maybe there's something personal between them.'
Alan frowned.
'One of Buchanan's talents is changing his voice, imitating other people,' the colonel said. 'Hasn't it occurred to you that no matter what this guy sounds like on tape, Mike Hamilton could be Buchanan?'
4
Before Holly had returned to Washington from New Orleans, there hadn't been time for Buchanan to explain all the basics of how to behave if she thought she were being watched. The most important thing, he'd emphasized, was not to become so self-conscious that she exaggerated her movements as if putting on a show for someone. 'Never do something that you wouldn't normally do. Never fail to do something that you would normally do.'
At the moment, what Holly would normally have done would have been to stop sitting on a goddamned park bench when the drizzle turned to rain. She'd been on the bench since twenty after two, the rendezvous time she'd established with Buchanan. Now he was twenty-five minutes late, and in New Orleans he had told her that thirty minutes was the maximum time she should ever wait for him to show up. Otherwise, if she were under surveillance, she would make her observers wonder why she was lingering. That she was lingering now became even more conspicuous given the recent turn in the weather.
Holly strongly suspected that she should do the natural thing and leave right now. Buchanan had told her that if he ever failed to show up, she should return to the rendezvous area twenty-four hours later, provided he didn't get a message to her in the meantime. Returning tomorrow would be conspicuous, yes, but it was a lot less conspicuous than seeming not to have the brains to get out of the rain. There weren't many people in the park any more; most had headed toward the shelter of buildings. She felt as if she were center stage and hoped that she seemed natural when she looked around. When she made up her mind and stood, she abruptly noticed movement to her left.
The movement had been there for about a minute. She just hadn't paid attention to it. It was so common that she took it dismally for granted. But now, turning, she saw a black man with a cardboard sign that said I'LL WORK FOR FOOD approach a woman who was hurrying through the park. The black man said something to her. The woman shook her head with force and kept hurrying. The black man continued through the park. The rain had begun to streak the inked letters on his sign so that now it said I ORK OR OOD.
Holly felt a pang of sympathy as the black man approached another hurrying pedestrian, a man this time, who strode quickly on as if the beggar were invisible. Now the black man's sign began to droop.
Oh, hell, at least one good thing will come out of this, Holly thought. She reached in her camera bag, took a dollar from her wallet, and handed it to the man as he reached her. She felt so dejected that she would have given him more, just to heighten her spirits, but she kept remembering Buchanan's instruction not to do anything unusual. A dollar at least was better than a quarter.
'Thank you, ma'am.' What he said next startled her. 'Mike Hamilton says you're being watched.'
Holly's pulse faltered. 'What?'
'You're to go over to the Fourteenth Street entrance to the Metro. Take the train to. Metro Center. Go out the east doors. Walk toward the. yes. the National Portrait Gallery. He'll be in touch.'
Pocketing the dollar Holly had given him, the black man moved on.
Holly's instinct was to rush after him, to ask for a more detailed explanation, to question him about how Buchanan had known she was being watched.
But her instinct was totally wrong, she knew, and she fiercely repressed it, ignoring the black man's retreat, acting as if he were an inconvenient interruption, glancing around as if still in hope that the person she waited for would arrive. She didn't dare act immediately after speaking to the man. If so, whoever was watching her might suspect that she'd been given a message.
She waited. Five seconds. Ten seconds. Fifteen. Drops of water fell from the brim of her hat. What was the most natural thing to do? To check all around her one more time, then shake her head with annoyance, and walk away.
She headed back toward work, then stopped as if she had a better thought, and changed direction, moving in the opposite direction toward the 14th Street entrance to the Metro. Certainly the conflict she acted out was true to what she was feeling. Two days ago, Buchanan had scared her during their talk on the paddlewheeler in New Orleans. He had made the potential threat to her seem disturbingly vivid. Because of the story she was researching. The story about him. Seeing the deadly conviction in his eyes had made Holly feel cold. This man had killed. The men he worked with had killed. They didn't operate by any rules that Holly understood. A Pulitzer Prize wouldn't be any consolation to her in the grave.
But what about journalistic responsibility? What about the courage of being a professional? Holly had dodged those issues by postponing her decisions, by telling herself that if she waited for further developments, the story might get even better. She hadn't walked away from the story; she was merely letting it cook. Sure. Then why was she so terrified because Buchanan had gotten in touch with her? What did he want? If she were the reporter she'd always believed she was, she ought to be eager. Instead she had the feeling a nightmare was starting.
Ten minutes later, amid the echoing rumble of trains behind her, she climbed the congested stairs from Metro Center, exited onto noisy, traffic-glutted G Street, and walked through the rain toward the huge Greek-Revival quadrangle that housed the National Portrait Gallery. Despite the weather, the sidewalk was crowded, people hurrying. And here too there were indigents, wearing tattered, rain-soaked clothes, asking for quarters, food, work, whatever, or sometimes holding signs that announced their need.
One of them had a sign identical to that of the black man in the park. I'LL WORK FOR FOOD. She started to pass.
'Wait, Holly. Give me a quarter,' the indigent said.
To hear him call her by name shocked her as if she'd touched an exposed electrical wire. Overwhelmed, she stopped, managed to make herself turn, and saw that the stooped man in the tattered clothes and droopy hat with grime on his face was Buchanan.
'Jesus,' she said.
'Don't talk, Holly. Just give me a quarter.'
She fumbled for her wallet in her camera case, obeying, liking the way he said her name.
Buchanan kept his voice low. 'Drummond. Tomez. That's all I have. No first names. The sort of people who'd need protection. Find out everything you can about possible candidates. Pretend to make a pay-phone call at the gallery. Meet me at eight tonight. The Ritz-Carlton. Ask the hotel operator to connect you with Mike Hamilton's room. Keep moving.'
All the while, Buchanan held out his hand, waiting for Holly to give him the quarter. He took it, saying louder, 'Thanks, ma'am. God bless you,' turning to an approaching man, saying, 'Can you spare a quarter, just a quarter?'
Holly kept moving as Buchanan had instructed, proceeding toward the National Portrait Gallery, hoping that she looked natural. But if she managed to keep her pace steady, her mind swirled from fear and confusion.
5
The large, blue helicopter cast a streaking shadow over the dense Yucatan jungle below. In the rear compartment, Alistair Drummond's scowl became so severe that its wrinkles
added years, making him look the eightysomething that he was. He'd been sitting rigidly straight, but now, with each piece of information that Raymond told him, Drummond sat even straighten His brittle voice managed to be forceful despite the whump-whump-whumping roar of the aircraft's engine. 'Brendan Buchanan?'
'An instructor for Army Special Forces, assigned to Fort Bragg. He rented a car in New Orleans and drove to San Antonio to visit the woman's parents. Our sentry there called to say that Buchanan used the name Jeff Walker when he claimed he was a friend of their daughter and asked if they knew where she was.'
'Is he a friend?' Drummond squinted through his thick glasses. 'Why would he use an alias? Obviously he's hiding something. But what? What does he want with the woman?'
'We don't know,' Raymond said. 'But the two men assigned to watch the Mendez house are missing now. So is one of the men assigned to the target's house outside San Antonio. His partner found recent blood beneath a carpet and a bullet hole in the ceiling. It would be foolish not to make the connection between Buchanan's appearance and their disappearance. If he shows up again, I've given orders to have him killed.'
David Morrell - Assumed Identity Page 44
