Assumed Identity

by David Morrell

  'Just how the hell do you think you're going to stop me?'

  'Follow.'

  'Lots of luck. What is it with you? You still think I'm a front-page story?'

  No answer.

  'Then maybe you figure it's safer to stay with me and run from them than to try to do it by yourself.'

  Still no answer.

  'Look, I don't have time to guess what you're thinking. I've got to get out of Key West before your phone call brings a hit team down here.'

  'You.'

  'What?' Buchanan frowned.

  'You,' Holly said. 'That's why I want to go with you.'

  'Make sense.'

  'I can't make it any plainer. I want to be with you. It's not just because I feel safe with you, although I do. It's. I didn't expect you to be what you are. I didn't expect to feel attracted to you. I didn't expect that I'd get so used to being with you that my stomach cramps at the thought of your going away.'

  'Now who's playing a role?'

  'I'm telling the truth! I got used to you. And as long as we're spreading blame around, don't forget you're the one who came to me the second time. I wouldn't be in danger if you hadn't decided to use me. Hell, in Washington I saved your life. That ought to prove something.'

  'Yeah, and I'm so wonderful that you fell in love with me.'

  She started to say something.

  'Save your energy,' Buchanan said. 'You're going to get your wish.'

  Holly's eyes widened in surprise.

  'I can't leave you behind,' Buchanan said. 'I just realized I made a mistake. I told you where I was going.'

  'Yes. Mexico City,' Holly said.

  'Because of Juana, I can't change my plans. I swore I'd help her if she ever needed me, and I intend to keep that promise. Which means I can't let you wander around until you're caught and you tell them where I've gone and what I'm doing. Pack. I want to get off this island before they get here.'

  Holly breathed out. 'Thanks.'

  'Don't thank me. This isn't a favor. As soon as I think you're no longer a risk to me, I'm cutting you loose. But in the meantime, Holly, pay attention. Take this advice. Do not force me to treat you as an enemy.'

  15

  The Yucatan peninsula.

  A pall of smoke clung to the massive clearing. As construction proceeded, the crackle of gunshots punctuated the roar of bulldozers, cranes, and other heavy machinery. So did the crackle of flames, the source of the smoke that filled the area. Trees were being burned back, the clearing widened, anything to reduce the cover from which natives - descendants of the original Maya - persisted in their attacks on the construction crew and the equipment. The scattered stones of the leveled ruins of once-magnificent, towering pyramids and temples still lay among the towers that had replaced them, these made of steel. Occasionally the earth tremored, but the workers and guards no longer paid attention. As with the snakes, the smoke, and the gunshots, those who labored here had become used to anything. The job mattered. Completing it. Being paid. Escaping.

  Alistair Drummond did that to a person, Jenna thought as she obeyed his orders, completing the archaeological survey map that would show that the ruins were not as impressive as photographs from space had led scholars to expect. A few minor structures. Numerous scattered stones, the result of earthquakes. Pathetic remnants of a formerly great culture. With one exception. The Mayan ball court. For reasons unexplained - perhaps because one intact structure might lend credence to his story - Drummond had insisted that the ball court, a distance from the area of demolition and construction, be spared. There, on its grassy, rectangular surface flanked by stone terraces upon which royal spectators had nodded approval, teams of men wearing leather armor had played a game in which they attempted to throw a punishing globe the size and weight of a medicine ball through a vertical hoop on either side of the court. The stakes of the game had been ultimate. Life or death. Perhaps that was why Drummond had spared it - because the ball court represented his cruelty, his pursuit of a goal at any cost.

  He and Raymond had arrived yesterday afternoon, brazenly, in Drummond Enterprises' large, blue helicopter, as if he had nothing to hide as he took charge of the final stages of the operation. 'You've done well,' he'd told Jenna. 'You'll get an extra bonus.'

  Jenna had muttered acquiescence, mentally screaming, All I want is to get out of here with my sanity. Her co-worker, her friend, her potential lover, the project's foreman, McIntyre, had died yesterday, from snakebite, a half hour before Drummond's helicopter had arrived. Jenna had prayed for the helicopter to arrive sooner so that Mac could be flown to a hospital, but the moment she had seen Drummond's determined, wizened face as the old man strode toward her through the smoke, she had realized that Drummond would never have agreed to waste the resources of the helicopter to take a dying man from the camp. 'He'll be dead before he gets to the hospital. We don't have time. Make him as comfortable as possible,' Drummond would have said. As it was, what he did say was, 'Bury him where the natives can't get to him. No, I've changed my mind. Burn him. Burn them all.'

  'All' were the natives who'd been exterminated in their attempts to stop the desecration of their sacred land. Jenna had been certain she was going insane when she realized that a massacre had taken place. She'd known of tribes that were exterminated in South America, in the depths of the Amazon rain forest. But it had never occurred to her that portions of Mexico were equally remote and that communication with the outside could be so minimal that no one 'in the world' would have any idea of what was happening here. By the time word leaked out, there'd be no evidence of the atrocity. And who was going to talk? The workers? By acquiescing to the slaughter, by accepting obscenely huge bonuses, they were implicated. Only a fool would break the silence.

  Now, standing in the camp's log-walled office, remembering how Mac had writhed feverishly on a cot in the corner not twenty-four hours ago, she listened numbly to final commands from Drummond about the charts she had prepared.

  'Above all' - Drummond's aged voice was filled with phlegm -'the extent of the true discovery must be made to dwarf the archaeological ones. There'll be photographs, of course. But your charts will be given primary attention.'

  At that moment, the door opened, and Raymond came in, wearing jungle clothing, holding a rifle, his face sooted from smoke, his shirt crimson with blood. 'If there are more, I can't find them.'

  'But a different kind of enemy might be coming here. I think he's hunting us,' Drummond said, dismissing Jenna, who left the hut.

  Raymond straightened, challenged. 'Who?'

  'A dead man.'

  Raymond furrowed his brow.

  'Charles Duffy,' Drummond said. 'Do you recognize the-?'

  'Yes, he was hired to watch the target's home in San Antonio. To deal with her if she arrived. He disappeared from the house three nights ago.'

  'He's no longer missing,' Drummond said. 'His body washed up on a bank of the San Antonio River. He'd been shot. The authorities say he had no identification. One of the men you hired was able to get a look at the body in the morgue, however, and has no doubt that it's Duffy. But Mr Duffy is remarkable,' Drummond continued. 'While dead, he used his credit card to fly from San Antonio to Washington, D.C. He stayed at the Ritz-Carlton. For a portion of the next day, he stayed at the Dorset Hotel in Manhattan. After that, he and a companion flew to Miami where they rented a car.'

  Raymond brooded. 'I don't understand the Washington connection, but the Dorset isn't far from the target's apartment in Manhattan.'

  'And from the ex-husband. He was paid a visit by a man and a woman the day before yesterday. They interrupted the agreed-upon payment to him.'

  'Maltin knows nothing,' Raymond said. 'All you paid him for was to stop attracting attention to the target's disappearance.'

  'Nothing?' Drummond looked furious. 'Maltin knew it was I who paid him. That's what the man and woman learned from him. The woman so far hasn't been identified, although she has red hair and she claimed to work for The Wash
ington Post, but the man's description matches that of the same man who interfered with surveillance on the home of the target's parents.'

  'Buchanan?' Raymond scowled.

  'Yes. Buchanan. Now think. What's the Miami connection?' Drummond snapped.

  'The yacht. It's south of there. In Key West.'

  'Exactly,' Drummond said. 'The captain reports that three crew members brought a woman aboard yesterday afternoon. A woman with red hair.'

  'She must have been helping Buchanan. Checking ways to sneak aboard.'

  Drummond nodded. 'I have to assume he knows something about the tape. And I have to assume that he'll keep coming closer. Intercept him. Kill him.'

  'But where would I find him?'

  'Isn't it obvious? What's the next link in the chain?'

  'Delgado.'

  'Yes. Mexico City. I just received word from my contacts at Miami International Airport that a man calling himself Charles Duffy bought two airline tickets to Mexico City. The helicopter will have you there by this afternoon.'

  TWELVE

  1

  Mexico City.

  The unregulated exhaust from countless smoke-belching factories and ill-maintained automobiles burning leaded fuel was trapped by a thermal inversion above the mountain-surrounded metropolis and made the air in the largest and fastest-growing city in the world virtually unbreathable. Buchanan's throat felt scratchy. He began to cough as soon as he and Holly got tourist cards and left Juarez International Airport. His eyes burned from the haze, so dense that if not for its acrid smell and biting taste it might have been thought to be mist. The air conditioner in the taxi they hired wasn't working. Nonetheless he and Holly closed their windows. Better to swelter inside the cab than to breathe the noxious atmosphere outside.

  It was nine-fifteen. They'd managed to drive from Key West to Miami in time to catch an eight a.m. United flight to Mexico City. Because of a time-zone change backward, the duration of the flight had actually been two hours and fifteen minutes, and after eating a cheese-and-onion omelet supplied by the airline, Buchanan had been able to doze. For too long now, his schedule had been erratic. His exhaustion worsened. His headache continued to torture him.

  So did the bitterness he felt toward Holly. Against his instincts, he had actually begun to trust her. As she'd pointed out to him, she had saved his life, and in other ways, she'd been of considerable help. But he needed to keep reminding himself that she was a reporter. In the stress of his search for Juana, he'd already indirectly revealed too much about his past. More, it made him angry to think that this woman whom he had allowed to get close to him had been sent by Alan to destroy him.

  For her part, Holly remained silent, as if understanding that anything she said would be misinterpreted, as if knowing that her presence would be tolerated only if she didn't draw his attention to her.

  'The National Palace,' Buchanan told the cab driver in Spanish, and the words were similar enough to English that Holly understood, although she didn't ask why they were going to a palace instead of to a hotel. Or maybe the National Palace was a hotel. She didn't know. She'd never been to Mexico City before. As it turned out, their destination was neither a hotel nor a palace but Mexico's center of government.

  Even in the dense haze of pollution, the site was impressive. Amid congested traffic, an immense square was flanked by massive buildings, two of which were cathedrals. The National Palace itself was renowned for its arches, pillars, and patios.

  After leaving the taxi, Buchanan and Holly passed through a crowd and entered the Palace's vestibule, where large, colorful murals lined the main staircase and the first-floor corridors. The murals, by Diego Rivera, conveyed the sprawling history of Mexico from the era of the Aztecs and Maya, to the invasion by the Spaniards, to the mixture of races, the numerous revolutions, and ultimately an idealized future in which Mexican peasants worked happily and coexisted gloriously with nature. Given the pollution outside, that idealized future was obviously a long way off.

  Buchanan stopped only a moment to assess the murals. He'd become more intense, more driven, as if he were controlled by a terrible premonition and he didn't dare waste even a second. In a noisy, echoing corridor, he spoke to a guide and was directed toward a door down the hall. There, in a gift shop, Buchanan ignored books and artifacts on sale, scanning the walls, seeing photographs of what were obviously government officials, some in groups, others alone. He studied several of the photographs, as did Holly, although she risked a sideways glance toward him that revealed his alarmingly rigid cheek muscles and a strong, furious pulse in his neck and temple. His dark eyes seemed to blaze. He pointed at a photograph, the image catching Holly's attention as well: a tall, slender, thin-faced, hawk-nosed, Hispanic male in his early forties. The man had a mustache, wore an expensive suit, and exuded arrogance.

  'Yes,' Holly said.

  Buchanan turned to a young, female clerk and pointed toward the photograph. 'Este hombre. Como se llama, por favor?'

  'Quien? Ah, si. Esteban Delgado. El Ministro de Asuntos Interiores.'

  'Gracias,' Buchanan said. As he bought a book, he asked the clerk more questions, and five minutes later, when he and Holly left the gift shop, Buchanan had learned that the man who'd raped and murdered Maria Tomez was 'not just the Minister of the Interior. He's the second most powerful man in Mexico. Next in line to be president. According to the clerk, that's common knowledge,' Buchanan said. 'In Mexico, when the outgoing president chooses his replacement, the election is mostly a formality.'

  Surprised that he'd broken his silence toward her. Holly took advantage of the opportunity, hoping that his anger toward her had softened. 'Unless somebody's got a videotape of him that's so disgusting it would totally destroy his career, not to mention put him in prison.'

  'Or get him executed.' Buchanan rubbed his pained forehead. 'A man like Delgado would give anything not to have that tape made public. The question is what, though? What does Drummond want?'

  'And what happened to Juana Mendez?'

  Buchanan's gaze was intense. 'Yes. That's finally what this is about. Juana.'

  The word stung, as did its implication: not you.

  'Don't just tolerate me,' Holly said. 'Don't just keep me along because you're afraid I'll turn against you. I'm not your enemy. Please. Use me. Let me help.'

  2

  'My name is Ted Riley,' Buchanan said in Spanish. With Holly, he stood in a carpeted, paneled office, the door of which was labeled Ministro de Asuntos Interiores. Minister of the Interior. A bespectacled, gray-haired secretary nodded and waited.

  'I'm the interpreter for Se¤orita McCoy.' Buchanan gestured toward Holly. 'As you can see from her credentials, she is a reporter for The Washington Post. She is in Mexico City for a limited time doing interviews with important government officials - to learn their opinions about how America could improve its relations with your country. If at all possible, could Se¤or Delgado spare a few moments to speak with her? It would be greatly appreciated.'

  The secretary looked sympathetic, spreading her hands in a gesture of regret. 'Se¤or Delgado is not expected in the office for the rest of the week.'

  Buchanan sighed in frustration. 'Perhaps he would meet us if we travel to where he is. Se¤orita McCoy's newspaper considers his opinions to be of particular importance. It is widely known that he is likely to be the next president.'

  The secretary looked pleased by Buchanan's recognition that she was associated with future greatness.

  Buchanan continued, 'And I am certain that Se¤or Delgado would benefit from complimentary remarks about him in the newspaper that the president of the United States reads every morning. It would be a fine opportunity for the minister to make some constructive comments that would prepare the American government for his views when he becomes president.'

  The secretary debated, assessed Holly, and nodded. 'One moment, please.'

  She entered another office, shut the door, and left Buchanan and Holly to glance at each other.
Numerous footsteps clattered past in the hallway. In rows of offices, voices murmured.

  The secretary returned. 'Se¤or Delgado is at his home in Cuernavaca, an hour's drive south of here. I will give you directions. He invites you to be his guests for lunch.'

  3

  'Can I ask you something?'

  Holly waited for a reply, but Buchanan ignored her, staring straight ahead as he drove their rented car south along the Insurgentes freeway.

  'Sure, what did I expect?' Holly said. 'You haven't been communicative since. Never mind. We'll skip that topic. What I want to ask is, how do you do it?'

  Again, Buchanan didn't reply.

  'At Delgado's office,' Holly said. 'That secretary could just as easily have told us to get lost. Somehow you manipulated her into phoning Delgado. I've been trying to figure out how. It wasn't what you said exactly. It.'