Assumed Identity

by David Morrell

  In fact, rumors were the essence of Drummond's notoriety. How much wealth had he amassed? How great was his influence with the premier of the People's Republic of China? What had been his part in the 1973 Arab oil embargo? What had been his part in the Iran-contra arms scandal? In his middle years, had he really been sexually involved with Ingrid Bergman, Marlene Dietrich, and Marilyn Monroe? Much more recently, what was his relationship with his frequent companion the great opera diva, Maria Tomez? Divorced six times, spending more days each year on his jet than he did at the estates he owned in eleven nations, devoting the pharmaceutical portion of his financial empire to AIDS research, able to boast of a first-name friendship with every Russian, British, and American leader since the 1940s, Alistair Drummond exhibited a combination of outrageous success and shameless self-promotion that gave him a larger-than-life stature in an arena of world-renowned figures. The rumors and riddles about him made him a blend of contradictions, capable of being interpreted in various ways. His commitment to AIDS research, for example. Was that for humanitarian reasons or for the opportunity to earn boundless profits? Or both? He was a powerful enigma, and for that reason, anyone who'd ever met him never forgot the experience, regardless if the meeting had demonstrated his calculated charm or ruthless manipulation.

  Certainly I won't forget him, Jenna thought, and I sure as hell won't forget this job. When she'd been interviewed for the project, Drummond had assessed her honey-colored hair, her high, firm breasts, her trim, equally firm hips, and with his raspy voice that caused her nerves to quiver, he had made his employment offer sound like a sexual proposition. Perhaps it had been a sexual proposition; perhaps Drummond considered all the people who worked for him to be the same as prostitutes. But high-class prostitutes, Jenna thought. While Drummond was without a doubt the coldest, meanest bastard she'd ever known, he was also the most generous. Her salary for this project was the equivalent of what she'd earned from her last ten projects combined. Deservedly. For this assignment was obscene, and if she were going to sell her professional soul, she didn't intend to do it cheaply.

  As she and McIntyre entered the dirt-floored office, Jenna's gaze immediately gravitated toward Drummond, who was already surrounded by a group of crew leaders, blurting questions to them and snapping orders. He took charge so rapidly that even with his English-made, blended-wool, blue-striped suit in contrast with the sweat-

  stained, dirt-encrusted, rumpled work clothes of the crew leaders, he seemed perfectly in place, in his element. By contrast, the fair-haired, well-dressed man standing next to Drummond appeared aloof, not at all comfortable in these primitive conditions. His name was Raymond, and the cold expression in his eyes warned Jenna not to believe that his pleasant features were an indication of his personality. She suspected that Raymond was truly in his element only when he was causing pain.

  Dear God, what have I gotten myself into?

  'No,' Drummond told a supervisor, his voice brittle but forceful. 'No. You understood the rules before you agreed to be hired. You signed a document binding you to certain conditions. Under no circumstances are you or any member of your crew permitted to leave camp until all the work is completed. I'm paying everyone handsomely to work seven days a week, and I expect to receive maximum value for my money. Bring women in? Nonsense. No outsiders are allowed in camp. Permission to use the two-way radio for private communications? Absolutely not. What happens down here is my business, and I don't want your men telling my business to outsiders. You know how I feel about privacy. In every way possible, this camp is sealed. Don't raise this subject again.'

  Drummond turned dismissively from the group and noticed Jenna and McIntyre just inside the open door. 'Good, I want to see both of you.' He motioned for Raymond to take the supervisors outside, then gestured for Jenna and McIntyre to approach. 'Have you found it?'

  Jenna and McIntyre looked away.

  'I don't know why I bothered asking,' Drummond said. 'If you had found it, those idiots would have been jabbering hysterically about it. They wouldn't have been able to restrain themselves. Which means they still don't suspect,' Drummond said. 'Is that true?'

  McIntyre cleared his throat. 'Yes. That's true.'

  Having taken the supervisors outside, Raymond re-entered the building, shut the door, and leaned against it, crossing his arms, coldly assessing Jenna. She felt his arrogant gaze upon her.

  'I'm not pleased, not pleased at all,' Drummond said. 'I gave you all the necessary information. The job shouldn't be that difficult. You practically have step-by-step instructions. But you still haven't found it.'

  McIntyre mumbled something.

  'What?' Drummond glared. 'Damn it, man, speak up. Muttering won't trick me into thinking my ears are failing me.'

  'I didn't mean to.'

  'Don't apologize. I hate a whimperer. Maybe that's why you haven't achieved your objective. Because you're not man enough to direct the job.'

  'The instructions weren't as specific as you claim,' Jenna interrupted.

  'Oh?' The old man swung toward her. 'At least you don't mutter. But I don't recall asking you for a comment.'

  'If I need to be asked, that would mean I'm not a very good employee, wouldn't you agree?'

  'An excellent answer.' Drummond studied her. 'Continue.'

  'A vague and possibly flawed translation isn't what I'd call step-by-step instructions.'

  Drummond bristled. 'The translation wasn't flawed. The best experts for the maximum price were hired to decipher the text.'

  'But even the experts don't understand all the Mayan symbols.'

  'And you yourself are expert enough to know that?'

  'Perhaps you've forgotten.'

  'I forget nothing.'

  'I'm not only a surveyor,' Jenna said. 'I'm an archaeological surveyor. My expertise is mapping sites like this one, and I may not be able to translate Mayan symbols, but I know several people who can, and they're the first to admit that there's a great deal more to be accomplished in their specialty.'

  'Perhaps. Or perhaps you're trying to justify a poor performance. Perhaps I should hire someone else and deduct that person's fee from yours.'

  Panic muted Jenna's anger. Stop. Keep your opinions to yourself. Don't antagonize him.

  'Work harder,' Drummond said. 'Quit making excuses. The translation is as perfect as it can be. And it's explicit. What we're looking for is here. But why can't you find it?'

  'Topography doesn't have much variation in the Yucatan,' Jenna said. 'The site described in the text could be anywhere. Plus, the geology in this area isn't stable. In the thousand years since the landscape was described, earthquakes could have obliterated some of the features we're searching for.'

  Drummond scowled and returned his attention to McIntyre. 'I don't have time for delays. The jungle has to be cleared, but your men haven't accomplished anywhere near as much as they were supposed to by now. You haven't kept up with the schedule.'

  'The schedule didn't allow for sabotage,' McIntyre said.

  Drummond jerked his head back. 'Sabotage?'

  'Someone's been tampering with the bulldozers and the trucks. Dirt in the fuel tanks. Radiator hoses cut. Tires slashed.'

  Drummond became livid. 'Why wasn't I told?'

  'We thought we could handle the problem without troubling you. We fixed the vehicles and posted guards around them,' McIntyre said.

  'And?

  'Posting guards around the vehicles meant we had to lessen the number of men watching the perimeter of the camp. The next night, a lot of our tools were stolen. Our water supply was contaminated. Our fuel-storage barrels were punctured. That's why we've got barrels stored in here. As an emergency backup. The helicopters have been working double time bringing in spare parts and replacement supplies instead of new equipment.'

  'Replacing supplies isn't the answer!' Drummond snapped. 'Find whoever's causing the damage. What about those supervisors who were in here complaining? Could it be someone who wants to shut down work s
o he can spend a weekend getting drunk in Merida?'

  'We thought of that,' McIntyre said. 'No. The men are tired and grumpy, but they're also eager to finish the job ahead of schedule so they can get their bonus. None of them would do anything to force them to spend more time here.'

  'Then who?'

  'Natives,' Jenna said. 'Maya.'

  Drummond looked astonished. 'You're telling me a handful of ignorant Indians are capable of out-thinking you and paralyzing the project?'

  There might be more of them than you think. And as for being ignorant, this is their backyard, not ours. They know this territory a lot better than we do.'

  'Excuses.'

  'I'm sure they're watching our every move from the jungle,' Jenna said, 'and I strongly suspect that this site has religious importance to them, that they're furious about what we're doing here.'

  'Superstition and nonsense. I'm amazed that you've let it interfere with the project.' Drummond scowled. 'But you've given me an idea. You're right. This is their backyard.' He turned to the fair-haired, pleasant-faced, well-dressed man who leaned against the closed door. 'Raymond, how would you like to go hunting?'

  'I'd like that very much, Mr Drummond.'

  'The captain of the guards will see that you're outfitted properly.' Drummond turned to Jenna. 'Where do these natives live? Have you got their village marked on the map you're preparing?'

  'Village?' Jenna said. 'I've had problems enough mapping the site. We're surrounded by rain forest. There aren't any trails. You don't just go wandering around out there. You'll get lost or worse. Village? We haven't seen even one native, let alone a village.''

  'And yet you're certain they're responsible?' Drummond turned to his assistant. 'Raymond, find them. Stop them.'

  'Yes, sir.' Raymond opened the door.

  'But Raymond.'

  'Yes, sir?'

  'Since this is their backyard, since they know it thoroughly, I want one native able to talk. Bring him to camp for questioning. Maybe he'll know where to find what we're looking for.'

  As Raymond left the building, a man in a blue pilot's uniform appeared. He had a red logo, DRUMMOND INDUSTRIES, on his jacket pocket.

  'Sir, there's a call for you on the helicopter radio.' He was slightly out of breath.

  'Have it transferred to here. McIntyre, what frequency have you been using?'

  McIntyre told the pilot, who hurried away.

  Drummond gestured toward the map that Jenna had braced beneath her left arm. 'Let me see what you've accomplished.'

  Jenna spread the map across a table.

  'No, no, no,' Drummond said.

  'What's wrong? I was thorough. I double-checked every-'

  'That's exactly the problem. You were thorough. I told you specifically. I wanted a map that would look convincing to the Mexican authorities.' Drummond led her out the door, gesturing toward the commotion of the site, workers clearing trees and stacking equipment.

  Assaulted by harsh sunlight after the shadows of the room, Jenna shielded her eyes and directed her attention toward where Drummond pointed. As more and more trees were cut down and dragged away to be burned, as more bushes were plowed free, as what seemed to be hills became ever more distinctly pyramids, temples, and palaces, the legacy of the once-great Mayan empire, her heart pounded.

  'Too much depends on this,' Drummond said. 'Your map can't-'

  He was suddenly interrupted by a crackly, static-ridden voice on the radio.

  'That's your call coming through,' McIntyre said.

  'Is the scrambler functioning?'

  McIntyre nodded. 'Just flick the switch.'

  'Stay here. I won't be long.'

  After Drummond entered the building and shut the door, leaving Jenna and McIntyre outside, Jenna shook her head, frustrated, puzzled, angry. 'That son of a bitch.'

  'Keep your voice down,' McIntyre said. 'He might hear you.'

  McIntyre was right, Jenna realized. Even with the noise from the vehicles and the workers, she was close enough to the door that her voice might carry.

  But by that same logic.

  The door fit the crude frame loosely. It had inched open after Drummond closed it. Jenna heard occasional raspy outbursts.

  '. Find the woman. If Delgado learns she isn't cooperating. ruined. Everything. Find her. Use every pressure. I don't care what you have to. Kill him if.'

  Then Jenna couldn't hear Drummond anymore, and at once she stepped farther from the door, joining McIntyre, feeling sick but trying to seem as if she were a good employee waiting patiently.

  Drummond jerked the door open and stalked outside. A black pall appeared to surround him despite the sunlight that gleamed off his thick, white hair and his glasses. He was about to continue verbally assaulting Jenna when he noticed something to the left and looked briefly heartened.

  Following his gaze, Jenna saw Raymond wearing outdoor clothes, carrying a rifle, entering the jungle. Even at a distance, his excitement was evident.

  Then Drummond's brittle, forceful voice jerked her attention back to him.

  'All of this,' he demanded, gesturing. 'You've been far too faithful on your map, far too diligent. The Mexican authorities can't be allowed to realize how massive and important a find this is. Your map has to make it seem minor, an insignificant site that doesn't merit undue attention, something that won't be an irreplaceable loss.' Drummond pointed toward the majestic temples, the hieroglyph-engraved palaces, and the great, terraced pyramid where gigantic snake heads guarded the bottom of the wide, high stairs that went up each side. 'Because ten days from now, I expect all of that to be leveled. Do you hear me, McIntyre?' He glared at the foreman. 'You knew the orders. You understood the schedule. Use bulldozers. Use sledge-hammers. Use dynamite. If you have to, use your fingernails. Ten days from now, I expect my equipment to be set up and all of this to be gone. Level it. Scatter the rubble. Truck it out. Dump it in sinkholes. Have the helicopters lift it out. I don't care how you do it. I want it gone!'

  SIX

  1

  Alexandria, Virginia.

  The safe site was on the third floor, yet another apartment in yet another sprawling complex into which Buchanan could easily blend. After he'd arrived in Washington from Florida, he'd used a pay phone to report to his controller, just as he'd reported at various stops along the Amtrak route. A man's voice told him to be waiting, seated, on the steps outside the Library of Congress at three p.m. Precisely at that time, a middle-aged man wearing a blue blazer and gray slacks stopped beside him and bent down to tie his right shoe. When the man departed, Buchanan concealed the small envelope that the man had slid toward him. After waiting five minutes longer, Buchanan then went into the Library of Congress, entered a men's room, and locked himself in a stall, where he opened the envelope, took out a key, and read a slip of paper that provided him with a name, some biographical information, an Alexandria address, and an apartment number. The paper and the envelope were far from ordinary. He dropped them into the water in the toilet and watched them dissolve. In the library's reference section, he used an area directory to tell him which major streets were near the Alexandria apartment, and shortly before six that evening, he got out of a taxi a few blocks from his destination, walking the rest of the way, out of habit using evasion procedures in case he was being followed.

  His name was now Don Colton, he'd been informed. He was supposed to be a writer for a travel magazine that he assumed was affiliated to his controllers. Posing as a travel writer was an excellent cover, Buchanan thought, inasmuch as a travel writer by definition was on the move a great deal and hence the neighbors wouldn't consider it unusual that they never saw him. However, because Buchanan's controllers would not have had sufficient time to tailor the cover specifically to him, he automatically assumed that this identity would be temporary, an all-purpose, one-size-fits-all persona that his controllers maintained for emergencies. As Don Colton, Buchanan was in a holding pattern and would soon be sent to God-knew-where as God-knew-
who.

  Avoiding the elevator, he used fire stairs to get to the third floor. After all, because most people preferred elevators, there was less chance of encountering anybody on the stairs. He reached a concrete corridor with fluorescent lights along the ceiling. As he had hoped, no one was in view, the tenants having already arrived home from work. Doors to apartments flanked each side. As he walked along green, heavy-duty carpeting, he heard music behind one door, voices behind another. Then he came to 327, used the key he'd been given, and entered the apartment.

  He turned on the lights, scanned the combination living room-kitchen, locked the door, checked the closets, the bathroom, and the bedroom, all the while avoiding the windows, then turned off the lights, closed the draperies, and finally turned the lights back on, only then slumping on the sofa. He was safe. For now.