moved a hand along her curvy hip; let her hair down in back, her
shoulder muscles tensing with each movement. Those hours at the
country club certainly hadn’t all been wasted. He would just pop in
his study to check his messages and then head upstairs.
He clicked on the light in his study and went over to his desk. He was
about to check for any messages on his secure phone when he heard a
noise. He turned to the French doors that opened out onto the garden.
The doors were opening and a man was stepping through.
Lee put a finger to his lips and smiled, his gun pointed directly at
Thornhill. The CIA man stiffened, his eyes darting left and right,
looking for escape, but there was none to be had. If he ran or
screamed, he would be dead; he could see that in the man’s eyes. Lee
crossed the room and closed, then locked the door to the study.
Thornhill watched him silently.
Thornhill received a second shock when another man stepped through the
French doors, closing and locking them too.
Danny Buchanan looked so calm as to be almost asleep, yet a high level
of energy danced behind his eyes.
“Who are you? What are you doing in my house?” Thornhill demanded.
“I expected something a little more original, Bob,” said Buchanan. “How
often is it that you see a ghost from the very recent past?”
“Sit,” Lee ordered Thornhill.
Thornhill eyed the gun one more time, then went over and sat on the
leather couch facing the two men. He undid his bow tie and dropped it
on the couch, trying, with some difficulty, to assess the situation and
decide on a course of action.
“I thought we had a deal, Bob,” Buchanan said. “Why did you send your
team of killers down? A lot of people lost their lives unnecessarily.
Why?”
Thornhill looked at him suspiciously and then at Lee.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t even know who the
hell you are.”
It was clear what Thornhill was thinking: Lee and Buchanan were wired.
Perhaps they were working with the FBI. And they were in his house.
His wife was upstairs undressing, and these two men were in his house
asking him these sorts of questions. Well, they would get nothing for
their troubles.
“I”-Buchanan stopped and glanced at Lee-“we came here, as the sole
survivors, to see what sort of arrangement we can work out. I don’t
want to keep looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life.”
“Arrangement? How about I yell up to my wife to call the police? You
like that arrangement?” Thornhill eyed Buchanan closely and then
pretended recognition. “I know I’ve seen you somewhere before. In the
newspapers?”
Buchanan smiled. “That certain tape Agent Constantinople told you was
destroyed?” He slid his hand in his coat pocket and pulled out a
cassette. “Well, he didn’t get it exactly right.”
Thornhill stared at the cassette as if it were plutonium about to be
shoved down his throat. He reached into his own jacket.
Lee raised the pistol.
Thornhill gave him a disappointed look and slowly edged out his pipe
and lighter, taking a moment to light up. Several soothing puffs
later, he eyed Buchanan.
“Since I don’t even know what you’re talking about, why don’t you play
the tape? I’d be interested to know what’s on it. It might explain
why two complete strangers have broken into my house.” And f that tape
had me talking about killing an FBI agent, neither of you would be
here, and I’d already be under arrest. Bluff bluff bluff Danny.
Buchanan slowly tapped the cassette against his palm, while Lee looked
nervous.
“Come now, don’t tease me with something and then pull it away,” said
Thornhill.
Buchanan dropped the cassette on the desk. “Maybe later. Right now I
want to know what you’re going to do for us. Something that will make
us not go to the FBI and tell them what we know.”
“And what might that be? You talked about people getting killed. Are
you insinuating that I might have killed somebody? I’m assuming that