made the survivors stronger, their descendants stronger still. And
Danny Buchanan was perhaps the strongest of them all.
Young Danny Buchanan had watered the lawn and cleaned the pool, swept
and repainted the tennis court, picked the flowers and vegetables and
played, in a properly respectful manner, with the children. As he had
gotten older, Buchanan had huddled with the younger generation of the
spoiled rich, deep in the privacy of the complex flower gardens,
smoking, drinking and exploring each other sexually. Buchanan had even
acted as pallbearer, weeping sincerely as he bore two of the young and
the rich who had wasted their privileged lives, mixing too much whiskey
with a racing sports car, driving too fast for impaired motor skills.
When you lived life that fast, often you died fast as well. Right now
Buchanan could see his own end rushing headlong at him.
Buchanan had never felt comfortable in either group-the rich or the
poor-since then. The rich he would never be a part of, no matter how
much his bank account swelled. He had played with the wealthy heirs,
but when mealtime came, they went to the formal dining room while he
trudged to the kitchen to break his bread with the other servants. The
baby blues had attended Harvard, Yale and Princeton; he had worked his
way through night school at an institution his betters would openly
mock.
Buchanan’s own family was now equally foreign to him. He sent his
relatives money. They sent it back. When he went to visit, he had
found they had nothing to talk about. They neither understood nor
cared about what he did. However, they made him feel that there was
nothing honest about his life’s occupation; he could see that in their
tightly drawn faces, their mumbled words. Washington was as foreign as
hell itself to all that they believed in. He lied for money, large
sums of it. Better he had followed in their tread: honest if simple
work. By rising above them, he had fallen far below what they
represented: fairness, integrity, character.
The path he had chosen during the last ten years had only deepened this
solitary confinement. He had few friends. Nevertheless, he did have
millions of strangers across the world who deeply depended on him for
something as basic as survival. Even Buchanan had to admit, it was a
bizarre existence.
And now, with the coming of Thornhill, Buchanan’s foothold had dropped
another rung on the ladder leading to the abyss. Now he could no
longer even confide in his one indisputable soul mate, Faith Lockhart.
She knew nothing about Thornhill, and she never would know of the man
from the CIA; this was all that was keeping her safe. It had cost him
his last thread of real human contact.
Danny Buchanan was now truly alone.
He stepped to the window of his office and looked out at majestic
monuments known around the world. Some might argue that their
beautiful facades were just that: Like the magician’s hand, they were
designed to guide the eyes away from the truly important business of
this city, transacted usually for the benefit of a select few.
Buchanan had learned that effective, long-term power came essentially
from the gentle force of rule of the few over the many, for most people
were not political beasts. A delicate balance was called for, the few
over the many, gently, civilly; and Buchanan knew that the most perfect
example of it in the history of the world existed right here.
Closing his eyes, he let the darkness envelop him, let new energy spill
into his body for the fight tomorrow. It promised to be a very long
night, however, for in truth, his life had now become one long tunnel
to nowhere. If he could only ensure Thornhill’s destruction as well,
it would all be worth it. One small crack in the darkness, that would
be all Buchanan needed. If only it could be so.
CHAPTER 4
THE CAR MOVED DOWN THE HIGHWAY at precisely the speed limit. The man
was driving, the woman next to him. Both sat rigidly, as though one
feared a sudden attack from the other.