Old habits die hard.”
“Not to worry. You’ll get yours back soon enough. But you have to
make me a promise. When you go to get your gun and creds, take me with
you. I want to see their faces.”
She opened the door for him. “Deal.”
CHAPTER 41
BUCHANAN MADE A NUMBER OF OTHER PHONE CALLS from the parking garage as
he worked out his arrangements. He then went up to the law firm and
spent time on an important matter he suddenly cared nothing about. He
was driven home, his mind working the whole time as he devised his plan
against Robert Thornhill. That was one area of his being that the CIA
man could never penetrate or control: Buchanan’s mind. That fact was
enormously comforting. Buchanan was slowly regaining his confidence.
Maybe he could give the man a run for his money.
Buchanan unlocked the front door to his home and went inside. He lay
his briefcase down on a chair and passed the darkened library. He
turned on the light to gaze at his beloved painting, to give him
strength for what lay ahead. As the light came on, Buchanan stared in
disbelief at the empty frame. He staggered over to it, put his hands
through the frame and touched the wall. He had been robbed. Yet he
had a very good security system, and it had not been tripped.
He raced across to the phone to call the police. As his hand touched
the receiver, it rang. He picked it up.
“Your car will be around in a couple of minutes, sir. Going to the
office?”
At first Buchanan’s mind didn’t register.
“To the office, sir?”
“Yes,” Buchanan was finally able to say.
He put the phone down and stared over at where his painting had hung.
First Faith, and now his painting. All Thornhill’s doing. All right,
Bob, first point to you. Now it’s my turn.
He went upstairs, washed his face and changed his clothes, carefully
selecting what he needed to wear. He had a custom-built entertainment
system in his bedroom housing a TV, stereo, VCR and DVD player. It was
relatively safe from burglars since one couldn’t take the components
out without unscrewing numerous wooden pieces, a very time-consuming
process. Buchanan did not watch TV or movies. And when he wanted
music, he put a 33 platter on his old phonograph.
Sticking his hand in the slot of the VCR, Buchanan pulled out his
passport, credit card and ID, all under an alias, and a slim bundle of
hundred-dollar bills and put it all in a zippered inner pocket of his
coat. Coming back downstairs, he looked outside and saw his car
waiting. He would let him wait a few more minutes, just for the hell
of it.
When that time had passed, Buchanan picked up his briefcase and walked
out to the car. He climbed in and the car drove off.
“Hello, Bob,” Buchanan said as calmly as he could.
Thornhill glanced down at the briefcase.
Buchanan nodded his head toward the tinted window.
“I’m going to the office. The FBI will expect me to take my briefcase.
Unless you assume they haven’t tapped my phone line by now.”
Thornhill nodded. “You have the makings of a good field operative in
you, Danny.”
“Where is the painting?”
“In a very safe place, which is far more than you deserve under the
circumstances.”
“What exactly does that mean?”
“That exactly means Lee Adams, private investigator. Hired by you to
follow Faith Lockhart.”
Buchanan feigned being taken aback for a minute. As a young man he’d
had notions of being an actor. Not in the movies, but on the stage.
For him, lobbying was the next best thing. “I didn’t know she had gone
to the FBI when I did that. I was only concerned for her safety.”
“And why was that?”
“I think you know the answer.”
Thornhill looked offended. “Why in the world would I want to harm
Faith Lockhart? I don’t even know the woman.”
“Do you have to know someone before you destroy her?”
Thornhill’s tone was mocking. “You were wrong to have done it, Danny.
The painting will probably be returned to you. But for now, learn to