Assumed Identity

by David Morrell

  It was due to torment.

  A knock at the door interrupted his distraction and jerked him back to full awareness. 'What is it?' he asked, betraying no hint of tension in his voice.

  A bodyguard replied huskily beyond the door, 'Your guest has arrived, Se¤or Delgado.'

  Wiping his clammy hands on a towel at the bar, assuming the confident demeanor of the second-most-powerful man in Mexico's government, he announced, 'Show him in.'

  The door was opened, a stern bodyguard admitting a slightly short, balding, uncomfortable-looking man who was in his late forties and wore a modest, rumpled business suit. He carried a well-used briefcase, adjusted his spectacles, and looked even more uncomfortable as the bodyguard shut the door behind him.

  'Professor Guerrero, I'm so pleased that you could join me.' Delgado crossed the room and shook hands with him. 'Welcome. How was the flight from the capital?'

  'Uneventful, thank heavens.' The professor wiped his sweaty forehead with a handkerchief. 'I've never been comfortable flying. At least I managed to distract myself by catching up on some paper work.'

  'You work too hard. Let me offer you a drink.'

  'Thank you, Minister, but no. I'm not used to drinking this early in the afternoon. I'm afraid I.'

  'Nonsense. What would you like? Tequila? Beer? Rum? I have some excellent rum.'

  Professor Guerrero studied Delgado and relented, swayed by the power of the man who had summoned him. Delgado's official title was Minister of the Interior, but that influential position in the President's cabinet didn't indicate his even greater influence as the President's closest friend and advisor. Delgado and the President had grown up together in Mexico City. They'd both been classmates in law school at Mexico's National University. Delgado had directed the President's election campaign, and it was widely understood that the President had chosen Delgado to be his successor.

  But all of that - and especially the chance to acquire the fortune in bribes and kickbacks that was the President's due - would be snatched from him, Delgado knew, if he didn't do what he was ordered, for in that case his blackmailer would reveal Delgado's secret and destroy him. At all costs, that had to be prevented.

  'Very well,' Professor Guerrero said. 'If you insist. Rum with Coke.'

  'I believe I'll join you.' As Delgado mixed the drinks, making a show of what a man of the people he was by not sending for a servant, he nodded toward the music and laughter drifting up from the pool-side party on the terrace below. 'Later, we can join the festivities. I'm sure you wouldn't mind getting out of your business clothes and into a bathing suit. And I'm very sure that you wouldn't object to meeting some beautiful women.'

  Professor Guerrero glanced self-consciously toward his wedding ring. 'Actually, I've never been much for parties.'

  'You need to relax.' Delgado set the moisture-beaded drinks on a glass-and-chrome table, then gestured for Guerrero to sit in a plush chair across from him. 'You work too much.'

  The professor sat stiffly. 'Unfortunately our funding isn't large enough to allow me to hire more staff and reduce my responsibilities.' He didn't need to explain that he was the director of Mexico's National Institute of Archaeology and History.

  'Then perhaps additional funding can be arranged. I notice you haven't touched your drink.'

  Reluctant, Guerrero took a sip.

  'Good. Salud.' Delgado sipped from his own. At once, his expression became somber. 'I was troubled by your letter. Why didn't you simply pick up the telephone and call me about the matter? It's more efficient, more personal.' He silently added, And less official. Bureaucratic letters, not to mention the inevitable file copies made from them, were part of the public record, and Delgado preferred that as little as possible of his concerns be part of the public record.

  'I tried several times to talk to you about it,' Guerrero insisted. 'You weren't in your office. I left messages. You didn't return them.'

  Delgado looked disapproving. 'I had several urgent problems that demanded immediate attention. At the first opportunity, I intended to return your calls. You need to be patient.'

  'I've tried to be patient.' The professor wiped his forehead, agitated. 'But what's happening at the new find in the Yucatan is inexcusable. It has to be stopped.'

  'Professor Drummond assures me-'

  'He is not a professor. His doctoral degree is honorary, and he has never taught at a university,' Guerrero objected. 'Even if he did have proper credentials, I don't understand why you have permitted an archaeological find of this importance to be investigated exclusively by Americans. This is our heritage, not theirs! And I don't understand the secrecy. Two of my researchers tried to visit but weren't allowed to enter the area. It's been sealed.'

  Delgado leaned forward, his expression harsh. 'Professor Drummond has spared no expense to hire the best archaeologists available.'

  'The best experts in Mayan culture are citizens of this country and work in my institute.'

  'But you yourself admitted that your funds aren't as ample as you would like,' Delgado said, an edge in his voice. 'Think of Professor Drummond's generous financial contribution as a way of making your own funds go farther. Your researchers were denied permission to enter the site because the staff there is working so hard that they don't have time to be distracted by social obligations to visitors. And the area has been sealed off to guarantee that the site isn't plundered by the usual thieves who steal irreplaceable artifacts from newly discovered ruins. It's all easily explainable. There's no secrecy.'

  Guerrero became more agitated. 'My institute-'

  Delgado held up a hand. ' "Your" institute?'

  Guerrero quickly corrected himself. 'The National Institute for Archaeology and History,' he said breathlessly,'should have the sole right to determine how the site should be excavated and who should be permitted to do it. I do not understand why regulations and procedure have been violated.'

  'Professor, your innocence troubles me.'

  'What?'

  'Alistair Drummond has been a generous patron of our country's arts. He has contributed millions of dollars to constructing museums and providing scholarships for aspiring artists. Need I remind you that Drummond Enterprises sponsored the recent worldwide tour of the most extensive collection of Mexican art ever assembled? Need I also remind you, the international respect that collection received has been an incalculable boost to our public relations? Tourists are now arriving in ever greater numbers, not just to visit our resorts but to appreciate our heritage. When Professor Drummond offered his financial and technical assistance to excavate the ruins, he added that he would consider it a favor if his offer were accepted. It was politically expedient to give him that favor because the favor was in our favor. Financially, we come out ahead. I strongly suspect that his team will finish the job long before your own understaffed group would have. As a consequence, tourists can begin going there sooner. Tourists,' Delgado repeated. 'Revenue. Jobs for the natives. The development of an otherwise useless section of the Yucatan.'

  'Revenue?' Professor Guerrero bristled. 'Is that all our heritage means to you? Tourists? Money?'

  Delgado sighed. 'Please. It's too pleasant an afternoon to argue. I came here to relax and thought that you might appreciate the chance to relax as well. I have a few telephone calls to make. Why don't you go out by the pool, enjoy the view, perhaps introduce yourself to some young ladies - or not, whatever you prefer - and then later we can renew this conversation over dinner when we've had the chance to calm ourselves.'

  'I don't see how admiring the view is going to make me change my mind about-'

  Delgado interrupted, 'We can continue this conversation later.' He motioned for Guerrero to stand, guided him toward the door, opened it, and told one of his bodyguards, 'Escort Professor Guerrero around the property. Show him the gardens. Take him to the reception at the pool. Make sure all his needs are satisfied. Professor' - Delgado shook hands with him - 'I'll join you in an hour.'

  Before Guer
rero had a chance to reply, Delgado eased him out of the room and shut the door.

  At once, his smile dissolved. His features hardened as he reached for the telephone on the bar. He'd done his best. He'd tried to do this in an agreeable, diplomatic fashion. Without being insultingly blatant, he'd offered every bribe he could imagine. Uselessly. Very well, other methods were now required. If Professor Guerrero didn't cooperate he would discover that he was no longer the director of the National Institute of Archaeology and History. The new director, whom Delgado had selected and who was already obligated to Delgado for various favors, would see no problem about allowing Alistair Drummond's archaeological team to continue excavating the recently discovered Mayan ruins. Delgado was certain about the new director's compliance because that compliance would be a condition of the new director's appointment. And if Professor Guerrero persisted in being disagreeable, if he attempted to create a political scandal, he would have to be killed in a tragic, hit-and-run, car accident.

  How could anyone so educated be so stupid? Delgado wondered with fury as he picked up the telephone. He didn't dial, however, for. a light began to flash on the phone's multi-line console, indicating that a call was coming through on another number. Normally Delgado would have let a servant answer the call by using one of the many extensions throughout the estate, but this particular line was so private that it didn't have extensions. Only this phone was attached to it, and very few people knew that Delgado could be reached on this line. Its number was entrusted only to special associates, who had instructions to use it only for matters of utmost importance.

  Under the circumstances, Delgado could think of only one such matter and immediately jabbed the button where the light was flashing. 'Arrow,' he said, using the code word that identified him. 'What is it?'

  Amid long-distance static, a gruff voice - which Delgado recognized as belonging to a trusted aide - responded with the code word, 'Quiver. It's about the woman.'

  Delgado felt pressure in his chest. 'Is your line secure?'

  'I wouldn't have called unless it were.'

  Delgado's phone system was inspected daily for taps, just as his estate was inspected for electronic eavesdropping devices. In addition, a small monitor next to the phone measured the voltage on the line. Any variance from the norm would indicate that someone had patched into the line after the telephone system had been inspected.

  'What about the woman?' Delgado asked tensely.

  'I don't think Drummond controls her any longer. Her security has been removed.'

  'For God sake, speak clearly. I don't understand.'

  'You told us to watch her. But we can't get close because Drummond has his own people watching her. One of his operatives pretending to be homeless sits in a cardboard box and watches the rear of her building. Various vendors, one selling hot dogs, another T-shirts and umbrellas, watch the entrance from the park across the street. At night, they're replaced by other operatives pretending to be indigents. The building's doorman is on Drummond's payroll. The doorman has an assistant who keeps watch in case the doorman is distracted. The woman's servants work for Drummond as well.'

  'I already know that!' Delgado said. 'Why are you-?'

  'They're not on duty any longer.'

  Delgado exhaled sharply.

  'At first, we thought that Drummond had arranged for other surveillance,' the aide continued. 'But we were wrong. The doorman no longer has an assistant. The woman's servants left the building this morning and didn't return. The operatives outside the building have not been replaced.'

  Next to the air-conditioning duct, Delgado sweated. A crush of conflicting implications made him feel paralyzed. 'She must have taken a trip.'

  'No,' the aide said. 'My team would have seen her leave. Besides, on previous occasions when she did take a trip, her servants went with her. Today they left alone. Yesterday morning, there was an unusual flurry of activity, Drummond's men going in and out, especially his assistant.'

  'If she hasn't taken a trip, if she's still in the building, why has the security team been removed?'

  'I don't believe she's still in the building.'

  'Make sense!' Delgado said.

  'I think she broke her agreement with Drummond. I think she felt threatened. I think she managed to escape, probably the night before last. That explains the flurry of activity the next morning. The security team isn't needed at the building, so they've been reassigned to join the search for her. The servants aren't needed either, so they've been dismissed.'

  'God have mercy.' Delgado sweated more profusely. 'If she's broken her bargain, if she talks, I. Find her.'

  'We're trying,' the aide promised. 'But after this much time, the trail is cold. We're reviewing her background, trying to determine where she would go to hide and who she might ask for help. If Drummond's men locate the woman, I'm certain that Drummond will send his assistant to bring her to him.'

  'Yes. Without her, Drummond has less power over me. He'll do everything possible to get her back.'

  But what if she goes to the authorities? Delgado wondered, frantic. What if she talks in order to save herself?

  No, Delgado thought. Until she's absolutely forced to, she won't trust the authorities. She'll be too afraid that Drummond controls them, that they'll release her to him, that he'll punish her for talking. I've still got some time. But eventually, when she doesn't see another way, she will talk. She knows the price is so great that Drummond won't stop hunting her. She can't run forever.

  Delgado's aide had continued speaking.

  'What?' Delgado demanded.

  'I asked you, if we find her or if Drummond's men lead us to her, what do you want us to do?'

  'I'll decide that when the moment comes.'

  Delgado set down the phone. No matter how thoroughly his estate had been checked for hidden microphones and how well his telephone system had been examined for taps, he wasn't about to say anything more on this topic in this fashion. The conversation had not been incriminating, but it would certainly raise questions if the wrong people heard a recording of it. Delgado didn't want to raise even more questions and indeed supply the answers by providing the full instructions that his aide requested. For Delgado had forcefully decided what needed to be done. By all means. To soothe his ulcerated stomach. To dispel his nightmares and allow him to sleep.

  If his men located the woman, he wanted them to kill her.

  And then kill Drummond.

  FIVE

  1

  Miami, Florida.

  The man's voice echoed metallically from the airport's public-address system. 'Mr Victor Grant. Mr Victor Grant. Please go to a courtesy telephone.'

  Buchanan had just arrived at Miami International, and as he blended with the Aeromexico passengers leaving the immigration-customs area, he wondered if Woodfield had gotten the message through to Maxwell and how the rendezvous would be arranged. Amid the noise and congestion of the terminal, he barely heard the announcement and waited for it to be repeated, making sure before he walked across to a white phone marked AIRPORT mounted on a wall near a row of pay phones. There wasn't any way to dial. When he picked it up, he heard a buzz, then another as a phone rang at another station. A woman answered, and when he explained that he was Victor Grant, she told him that his party would be waiting for him at the information counter.

  Buchanan thanked her and replaced the phone, then analyzed the rendezvous tactic. A surveillance team is watching the courtesy telephones, he concluded. After Victor Grant's name was called, they waited for a man to go to one of the phones. The team has either studied a photograph of me or been given a description. In any case, now they've identified me, and they'll hang back to see if anyone is following me while I go to the information counter.

  But as pleased as Buchanan was about the care of the rendezvous procedure and as delighted as he was to have escaped the authorities in Mexico, to be back in the United States, he was also troubled. His controllers obviously thought that the situat
ion remained delicate. Otherwise, they wouldn't have involved so many operatives in making contact with him.

  At a modest pace, giving the surveillance team ample chance to watch the crowd (besides, he was in too much pain to walk any faster), Buchanan pulled his suitcase and proceeded toward the information counter.

  A pleasant, athletic-looking, casually dressed man in his thirties emerged from the commotion of passengers. He held out his hand, smiled, and said, 'Hello, Vic. It's good to see you. How are you feeling? How was the flight?'

  Buchanan shook hands with him. 'Fine.'

  'Great. The van's right this way. Here, I'll take your bag.'

  The man, who had brown hair, blue eyes, and sun-leathered skin, touched Buchanan's elbow and guided him toward an exit. Buchanan went along, although he didn't feel comfortable since he hadn't received some kind of identification code. When the man said, 'By the way, both Charles Maxwell and Wade want us to phone and let them know you're okay,' Buchanan relaxed. Several people knew about his claimed relationship with Charles Maxwell, but only his controllers knew that Buchanan's case officer in Cancun had used the pseudonym of Wade.