'If you were on a sanctioned mission, you wouldn't be traveling under your own identity, not while you carried a passport under someone else's name. Your controllers won't like that. After what happened to you in Mexico and Florida, they'll think they've got a loose cannon. They'll wonder what in God's name you were doing with a gun and a passport that you weren't supposed to have. You've got other problems besides me. You and your controllers must have established a schedule for staying in touch. If you've missed any part of that schedule, they'll be very nervous. You'd better call them.'

'If I'm who you say I am, do you honestly think I'd call them in front of you? On an unsecured phone?'

'You'd better do something. They'll be getting impatient. And don't forget this - the longer you're out of touch with them, the more suspicious they'll be about your ability to do your work.'

Buchanan felt pressure behind his ears.

'I see your appetite improved,' the doctor said, coming back into the room.

'Yeah, I'm almost done with my salad.'

'Well, finish your Jell-O, Mr Lang.'

'Buchanan.'

'Then take your walk to the bathroom. After that, I might be encouraged enough to think about releasing you.'

5.

Wearing sneakers, jeans, and a short-sleeved, blue shirt that he'd asked Holly to buy for him to replace his blood-stained shoes and clothing, Buchanan felt trapped in the wheelchair that a nurse insisted he keep sitting in while she wheeled him from the elevator and through the hospital's crowded lobby to the main doors.

'I told you I can walk,' Buchanan said.

'Until you trip and fall and sue the hospital. Once you're out those doors, you're on your own. Meanwhile you're my responsibility.'

Through the doors, amid the din of street noises, Buchanan was forced to raise a hand to his eyes, the bright sun making him squint painfully.

The nurse helped him out of the wheelchair. 'You said somebody was going to meet you?'

'Right,' Buchanan lied. He hadn't seen Holly for quite a while and had no idea what had happened to her. Normally he would have felt reprieved from being pestered by her questions, but at the moment, he felt nervous. Worried. The gun and the passport. He had to get them back. 'I'll just sit over on that bench. My friend ought to be here any minute.'

'Enjoy your day, Mr Buchanan.'

'Lang.'

The nurse looked strangely at him as she took the chair away.

He wondered why.

Then he realized.

His skin prickled.

What's happening to me?

The moment the nurse disappeared into the hospital, he stood. The reason he hadn't wanted to be brought down in a wheelchair was that he didn't want to leave the hospital before he had a chance to get to a pay phone.

Managing not to waver, he re-entered the lobby and crossed toward a bank of telephones. His hand shook as he put coins in a slot. Thirty seconds later, he was talking to a contact officer.

'Where have you been?' the gruff voice demanded.

Keeping his own voice low, relieved that the phone on either side of him wasn't being used, taking care that he wouldn't be overheard, Buchanan answered, 'I've been in a hospital.'

'What?

'A guy tried to mug me,' he lied. 'I didn't see him coming. I got stabbed from behind.'

'Good God. When you didn't show up at the various rendezvous points this morning, we got worried. We've had a team waiting in case you're in trouble.'

'I got lucky. The wound isn't serious. Mostly they kept me in the hospital for observation. With so many nurses coming in and out, I didn't want to risk phoning this number, especially since the hospital would automatically have a record of the number. This is the first chance I've had to call in.'

'You had us sweating, buddy.'

'The emergency's over. If you had people at the rendezvous sites, that means you had something you wanted me to know about. What is it?'

'About the woman reporter you met on the train. Is your phone secure?'

'Yes.'

'Then this is the message. Continue your furlough. Don't worry about the reporter. We're taking steps to guarantee that she's discouraged.'

Buchanan's grip tightened on the phone.

'Check in at the rendezvous sites on schedule. We'll let you know if anything else develops.'

'Roger,' Buchanan said. Swallowing dryly, he set down the phone.

But he didn't turn away. He just kept staring at the phone.

Taking steps to guarantee that she's discouraged? What the hell did that mean?

It wasn't considered professional for him to ask to have a deliberately vague term clarified. His superiors never said more or less than they intended to. Their use of language, even when vague, was precise. 'Discouraged' could mean anything from seeing that Holly lost her job. to attempting to bribe her. to discrediting her research. to trying to scare her off, or.

Buchanan didn't want to consider the possibility that Holly might be the target of ultimate discouragement.

No, he thought. They wouldn't assassinate a reporter, especially one from The Washington Post. That would enflame the story rather than smother it.

But reporters have been assassinated from time to time, he thought.

And it wouldn't look like an assassination.

As he turned from the phone, he touched the bandage on his right side, the stitches under it.

Holly - wearing a brown, paisley dress that enhanced the red of her hair and the green of her eyes - was in a chair twenty feet away.

Buchanan didn't show his surprise.