“Meaning someone got interested when he flagged up Buchanan’s name?”
“Aaron is trying to follow the trace back to its source. In the meantime the rest of the cyber team is doing what it can to find something about Doug Buchanan from other data banks.”
Bolan filed the information away. Interest in Doug Buchanan seemed to be the flavor of the day.
“Anything on the incoming call from Buchanan?”
“Not yet, but we won’t give up on it.”
“Okay.”
“You find anything at your end?” Brognola asked.
“Picked up something on the people who attacked Jack and took Jess Buchanan. I need a little more time down here before I come home.”
“Striker, are you seeing more than a simple abduction here?”
“Let’s say I’m starting to become curious. I’ll be in touch.”
Bolan cut the connection. He moved to stare out the window at the passing traffic, raising his gaze to the sunlight sparkling on the water of Nassau Harbour.
He took the sheet of paper from his pocket and checked the address of the car-rental agency Earl had written down for him. Using the room phone, Bolan spoke to the desk and asked for directions to the rental company. The desk clerk told him it was no more than a few minutes’ walk from the hotel.
Bolan slipped on his jacket and picked up his keycard. He left the room, took the elevator to the lobby and left the hotel. It was early evening. The sun was warm. A breeze drifting in off the harbor made the day comfortable. Bolan eased into the crowds thronging Bay Street, which ran parallel with the harbor. The crowds were from the great cruise ships that called in at Nassau, disgorging their souvenir-hungry passengers. The vacationers surged up and down the thoroughfare, eager to spend their money and stare at the pink-and-white buildings that were part of Nassau’s appeal.
If Bolan had been so inclined, he might have been envious of the simple needs of the crowds. He simply wished them well and moved on, his agenda somewhat deeper than which gaudy trinket was the best bargain.
The crowds began to thin around the time Bolan found his side street. It took him away from the harbor front, up a slight incline, then a spot where the street widened and he found himself confronted by the rental agency. The logo above the entrance also bore the telephone number Earl had written on the paper. To the left of the building was a lot where the rental vehicles were parked. Farther back was a medium-sized workshop. Bolan crossed over and took a cursory glance at the half-dozen parked cars, spotting the one he had seen on the security video.
Bolan stepped into the office. The woman behind the counter glanced up as he entered. She was dark skinned, her black hair worn in a short style that accented her striking features. Pinned to the front of her pale blue blouse was a name badge. Karen.
“May I help, sir?”
“Well, that depends,” Bolan said, keeping his tone friendly. “I need some information about a recent rental.”
The woman frowned. “I’m not sure I understand.”
“I’m an agent with the U.S. Customs Service,” Bolan said. “Agent Mike Belasko. Right now I’m working undercover, tracking a group of people we believe are committing crimes around the islands. They were in Florida before they moved here. A few days ago they rented a car from you.”
The woman continued to stare at Bolan, her eyes wide with surprise.
“Sorry to drop it on you like this,” Bolan said. “The problem with working undercover is I don’t get much time to warn people I’m coming. Right now I’m under pressure to keep up with this group. They could move on at any time.”
“We only rent out cars,” the woman said. “I don’t know anything about these people.”
Bolan smiled, reassuring her. “I understand that. I’m just trying to pick up some information.”
“Shouldn’t I ask to see some identification? I mean, how do I know you’re who you say you are?”
“I don’t carry anything because I’m working undercover. But I can give you a number you can call. My base in the U.S. They’ll confirm anything you want to ask. If there’s a problem, I can come back with some paperwork. The trouble is, it takes time and by then these people will have moved on. Look, I don’t want to make a fuss. I need your help, Karen. I really do.”
The woman bit at her lip. She studied Bolan. He maintained his casual attitude, his eyes fixed on her.
“What is it you want to know?”
“Any details they might have put on their rental form. I’m just trying to get hold of something we can use to track them. They rented that car.” Bolan pointed to the vehicle.
Karen made a decision. She turned and went to a metal cabinet. Opening a drawer, she riffled through the files and pulled out a sheet of paper that she placed on the counter in front of Bolan. He slid the sheet toward him, checking the details.
Bolan scanned the information. He took a pen from his pocket, then used the sheet of paper Earl had given him to copy down some of the details. Once he had what he needed, he slid the rental form back to the woman. As she reached for it, Bolan laid his big hand over her slim one, putting on a little pressure.
“I appreciate this, Karen. You’ve been a great help.”
“I hope you catch them.”
“If I do, it’ll be because of you.”
Bolan left the office and turned toward the harbor front. He needed to get back in touch with Stony Man. From the rental form he had picked up two items that might provide some information on the people who had taken Jess Buchanan and attacked Jack Grimaldi: driver’s license and credit card details.
If they had anything to offer, Kurtzman and his team would drag it to light. It was time to leave Nassau and get back to Stony Man. Bolan needed input before he moved any further on this.
Back in his hotel room he packed his few belongings, then called the desk to ask if someone could book him a seat on the next available flight back to the U.S. He made it clear he didn’t mind the type of flight. The desk called him back less than ten minutes later to say he could take a charter flight leaving in two hours. It was a tourist economy flight, which meant no frills. Bolan told the clerk to book it and have his room bill ready.
CHAPTER TWO
Bolan’s plane touched down in Washington, D.C., in the early hours. A quick call to Stony Man had Barbara Price on the line.
“You back on home ground?” she asked without preamble.
“Just got in. I need a ride to base.”
“On its way to the usual pickup spot,” she said. “I thought of coming out myself.”
“That would have been nice.”
Price laughed. “Then I figured you probably wouldn’t have time to buy me a meal, so I decided to wait here for you.”
“So it comes down to me being just a meal ticket?”
“Girl has to look after the priorities.”
“You’re a hard woman.”
“Really? I always thought of myself as pretty accommodating.”
“Some day we’ll have to define your interpretation of ‘accommodating.’”
“I’ll talk to you later,” Price told him, a smile in her voice.
Bolan ended the call and left the terminal. As he slid the cell phone into his pocket and turned toward the rendezvous area,