The pain from his injured skull aggravated the pain in his wounded shoulder. The combination was excruciating. Again he felt dizzy.
While he still had strength, he had to hurry.
He veered to the left toward a tunnel. Concrete stairs led up to the right toward the rooms on the upper floors. But his interest was directed inside the tunnel toward stairs on the left that went down. He couldn’t imagine that a hotel with as impressive a design as this would be crude enough to lodge tourists below ground. So the only reason the hotel would have rooms down there would be for storage and maintenance.
He squinted at his digital Seiko watch, the sort of timepiece he’d decided an ex-DEA officer would wear. It was still functioning after his swim, and when he pressed a button on the side, the LED display showed 11:09. This late, he doubted that the maintenance staff would still be working. He listened carefully for any voices or footsteps that might echo up the stairwell. Hearing none, he started down.
His rubber-soled deck shoes made almost no sound on the stairs. At a platform, the stairs reversed direction and took him to a dimly illuminated corridor. It smelled moldy and damp. The odor would be a further reason for workers not to remain down here. Peering cautiously from the bottom of the stairwell, seeing no one at either end of the corridor, he stepped from cover, proceeded arbitrarily to the right, came to a metal door, listened, heard no sound behind it, and turned the knob. It was locked.
He continued to another door, and this time after he listened and tried the knob, he exhaled as the knob moved. Slowly pushing the door open, he groped along the inside wall, found a light switch, and flicked it on, relaxing when he saw that the room was unoccupied. The light bulb that dangled from the ceiling was as sickly a yellow as those in the corridor. The room was lined with metal shelves upon which tools and boxes had been stored. A small rusted metal desk was wedged in one corner, and on the desk—
—despite his pain, Buchanan felt a surge of excitement—
—sat a black rotary telephone.
He shut the door, locked it, and picked up the phone. His heart pounded as he heard a tone. He quickly dialed a number.
A man answered. Buchanan’s case officer. To be near Buchanan at this phase of the mission, he’d rented an apartment in the mainland part of Cancún. Normally, he and Buchanan communicated by means of coded messages left at prearranged dead-drop locations on a predetermined schedule. Rarely, because of the risk of electronic eavesdropping, did they speak on the telephone, and only then between preselected pay phones. Never, while Buchanan was under deep cover, had they met. Buchanan had access to a protective backup team if he suspected he was in danger, but given the paranoia of the men he’d arranged to meet tonight, it had been decided that the benefit of the backup team’s presence in and around Club Internacional would be offset by the danger that the drug distributors and their backup team would sense they were being watched. After all, the mission had been progressing according to plan. There’d been no reason to suspect that the meeting would not go smoothly. Until Big Bob Bailey showed up. Now Buchanan didn’t have to worry about jeopardizing his cover if he phoned his case officer. What worse could happen? Buchanan’s contacts were dead. The mission was blown.
What worse could happen? Oh, something worse could happen, all right. The Mexican police could capture him, and his superiors could be implicated in three murders. He had to disappear.
“Yes,” Buchanan’s case officer said.
“Is that you, Paul?”
“I’m sorry. No one by that name lives here.”
“You mean this isn’t . . .?” Buchanan gave a telephone number.
“You’re not even close.”
“Sorry.”
Buchanan hung up and rubbed his throbbing forehead. The number he’d given his controller was a coded message for which an expanded translation would be that the mission had to be aborted, that an absolute disaster had occurred, that he’d been injured, was on the run, and had to be extracted from the area as soon as possible. By prior agreement, his case officer would try to rendezvous with Buchanan ninety minutes after Buchanan’s call. The rendezvous location was on the mainland in downtown Cancún, outside a cantina near the intersection of Tulum and Coba avenues. But every plan had to allow for contingencies, had to have numerous alternate agendas. So if Buchanan didn’t make the rendezvous, his case officer would try again at eight tomorrow morning outside a coffee shop on Uxmal Avenue, and if Buchanan still did not arrive, the case officer would try once more at noon outside a pharmacy on Yaxchilan Avenue. If that third contact failed to happen, Buchanan’s case officer would return to his apartment and wait for Buchanan to get in touch with him. Forty-eight hours later, if the case officer still hadn’t heard from Buchanan, he would assume a worst-possibility scenario and get out of the country, lest he too become a liability. A delicate investigation would be set into motion to learn what had happened to Buchanan.
Ninety minutes from now, Buchanan thought. I have to get to that cantina. But spasms in his right hand distracted him. He stared down and saw the fingers of his right hand—and only those fingers, not those on his left hand—twitching again. They seemed not to belong to him. They seemed controlled by a force that wasn’t his. He didn’t understand. Had the bullet that slashed his shoulder injured the nerves that led down to his fingers?
He suddenly had trouble concentrating. The pain in his skull increased. His bullet wound throbbed. He felt something warm and wet seep from the towel that formed a pressure bandage over his wound. He didn’t need to look to know that the towel, held in place by his belt, was becoming saturated and starting to leak.
His vision became alarmingly hazy. At once, it cleared as he tensed, hearing footsteps beyond the door.
The footsteps echoed slowly, hesitantly, along the concrete corridor, increasing in volume. They stopped outside the door. Buchanan sweated, frowning when he saw and heard the doorknob being turned. As a matter of course, he had locked the door after he’d entered the room. Even so, whoever was out there presumably worked for the hotel and might have a key. Someone out there pushed at the door. When it wouldn’t open, the person shoved harder, then rammed what probably was a shoulder against it. No effect.
“Who is in this room?” a gruff male voice demanded in Spanish. Knuckles rapped on the door. “Answer me.” A fist pounded. “What are you doing in there?”
If he’s got a key, now is when he’ll use it, Buchanan thought. But what made him come down here and check this particular room? The hesitant footsteps I heard along the corridor . . . the man seemed almost to be looking for something.
Or following something?
As Buchanan shifted quietly toward the side of the door where he could shut off the light and grab the man if he used a key to enter, he glanced down and realized that the man had indeed been following something. Buchanan’s drenched clothes had dripped on the concrete, making a trail.
Buchanan listened nervously for the metallic scrape of a key that the man would shove into the lock. Instead, what Buchanan heard was more pounding, another indignant “What are you doing in there?” and sudden silence.
Maybe he doesn’t have a key. Or else he’s afraid to use it.
Abruptly the footsteps retreated, clattering along the corridor, diminishing up the stairway.
I’ve got to get out of here before he has time to come back with help, Buchanan thought. He freed the lock, opened the door, checked the dim corridor, and was just about to leave when he noticed what seemed like rags on one of the shelves. The rags were actually a rumpled, soiled cotton work jacket and a battered, stained baseball cap from which the patch had been torn. He grabbed them. After using the jacket to wipe his fingerprints from everything he’d touched, he hurried along the corridor and up the staircase, seeing the wet trail he’d made.
The trail didn’t matter now. All that did was getting away from the hotel before the worker came back with help. They’ll probably call the police about a prowler. The
police will be so frantic to arrest a suspect for the three killings that they might decide this incident is related. They’ll focus their search in this area.
Buchanan swung toward where the shadowy beach would eventually take him near downtown Cancún. Heading north, he ran midway between the white-capped waves and the gleaming hotels. A fragrant sea breeze cooled the sweat on his brow and cleared the utility room’s foul smell from his nostrils. The breeze had sufficient strength that it might even dry his wet clothes.
But abruptly he stumbled, losing his balance enough that he almost fell. It wouldn’t have worried him so much if he had tripped over an unseen object. However, he had stumbled for the worst reason he could imagine. Because he was weaker. His wound pulsed, soaking the towel with blood. His skull throbbed from the sharpest headache of his life.
Wedged between his right arm and his side, he had the rumpled cotton work jacket and the stained baseball cap. Gingerly, he set the cap on his head. The cap was battered enough that it might attract attention, but without it, the blood that it hid would certainly attract a lot more attention. Breathing with effort, he draped the soiled work jacket over his right shoulder, hiding the bloodstained towel strapped over his wound. Now he could take the chance of showing himself in public. But as he pushed a button on his watch and looked at the digital time display, he discovered to his shock that almost an hour had passed since he’d phoned his case officer. That’s impossible! I left the utility room just a little while ago.
You think.
Pal, you must be having blackouts.
Buchanan’s thoughts became more urgent. He would have to veer between hotels and get a taxi on the thruway. Otherwise, he’d never be able to reach the rendezvous site in time to meet his case officer. Unsteady, he left the beach.
He’d been right about one thing at least—the breeze from the sea had dried his clothes sufficiently that they didn’t stick to him.
But the breeze no longer had any effect on the sweat that dripped from his brow.
4
“Jesus,” Buchanan’s case officer said, “that wound needs stitches. Take off your cap. Let me look at . . . Yeah, oh, man, that gash on your skull needs stitches, too.”
They were stopped at an abandoned gas station on Highway 180, thirty kilometers west of Cancún. After taking a taxi into the downtown part of the city, Buchanan had waited no more than half a minute at the rendezvous site before his case officer stopped a rented Ford Taurus in front of the busy cantina and Buchanan got in.
The case officer was in his fifties, slightly balding, slightly overweight. His clothes—sandals, a lemon-colored Polo shirt, and lime-colored shorts—matched his cover as a tourist. He and Buchanan hadn’t worked together before. Buchanan knew him only as Wade, which Buchanan assumed was neither his real name nor his usual cover name.
After Buchanan explained, Wade exhaled. “Shit. It’s completely unsalvageable. Damn it to hell. God. . . . Okay, let’s think a minute.” He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. “Let’s make sure we . . . The police’ll be watching the airport in town and probably the one on Cozumel. That leaves us the next closest option.”
“Mérida,” Buchanan said.
Wade increased speed as he drove from Cancún. “That’s assuming our best move is to get you out of the country. Maybe you ought to hole up somewhere. Go to ground. Hey, all the police have is a description that fits a lot of Americans. It’s not like they have a photograph. Or fingerprints. You said you took care of that.”
Buchanan nodded, feeling nauseous. “Except for the glasses I drank from in the restaurant. I couldn’t do anything about them. The odds are they were taken to the kitchen and washed before the police thought to check them.” Buchanan raised his uninjured left arm and wiped increasing sweat from his brow. “The real problem is, everybody in the restaurant heard Bailey call me Crawford, and me insist that I was Ed Potter. So the police have a name that Mexican emigration officers can watch for at airports.”
“That doesn’t bother me,” Wade said. “I brought an alternate passport and tourist card for you. Another pseudonym.”
“Good. But the police also have Bailey himself. They’ll insist he help one of their artists prepare a sketch, and once copies of that sketch are faxed to every airport and every emigration officer, anybody who resembles the sketch will be stopped when he turns in his tourist card and pays his exit fee. I have to get out of the country before that sketch is distributed. Plus . . .” Buchanan stared at the fingers of his right hand. They were twitching again, an unwilled motion, as if they weren’t a part of him. His wounded arm seemed on fire. Blood soaked the towel strapped to his arm. “I need a doctor.”
Wade glanced in his rearview mirror. “I don’t see any headlights behind us.” He peered ahead along the narrow forest-lined highway. “This deserted gas station is as good a place as any.” He pulled off the road, got out, took something from the backseat, and came around to Buchanan’s side of the car.
But after he opened Buchanan’s door, exposed Buchanan’s injuries, and aimed a narrow-beamed flashlight at them, he muttered, “No shit you need a doctor. You need stitches.”
“I can’t depend on somebody local not to notify the police about a gunshot wound,” Buchanan said.
“No problem,” Wade replied. “I have contact with an American doctor in the area. He’s worked for us before. We can trust him.”
“But I can’t waste time going to him.” Buchanan’s voice was raspy, his mouth dry. “The police will soon have that sketch ready. I have to reach Mérida. I have to get on a plane out of Mexico. Hell, Florida’s just a couple of hours away by jet. When I said I need a doctor, I meant stateside. The quicker I’m out of here, the quicker I can . . .”
“You’ll bleed to death before then,” Wade said. “Didn’t you hear me? I said you need stitches. At the least. I don’t know about the gash in your head, but the wound in your arm—it’s hard to tell with so much blood—it looks infected.”
“The way it feels, it probably is.” Buchanan struggled to rouse himself. “What’s that you set on the ground?”
“A first aid kit.”
“Why didn’t you say so?”
“Hey, what you’ve got wrong with you is more than any first aid kit’s going to help.”
“I keep forgetting. You’re a civilian. One of those guys from the Agency.”
Wade straightened, defensive. “You don’t expect me to reply to that, do you? Besides, what difference does it make?”
“Just open the kit,” Buchanan said. “Let’s see what you’ve got. Good. My people prepared it. Pay attention. Do what I tell you. We’ve got to get the bleeding stopped. We have to clean the wounds.”
“We? Come on, I don’t know anything about this. I haven’t been trained to—”
“I have.” Buchanan tried to stop his mind from swirling. “Take that rubber tube and tie it above the wound in my shoulder. For five minutes, a tourniquet won’t do much damage. Meanwhile . . .” Buchanan tore open a packet and dumped out several gauze sponges.
Wade finished tying the rubber tube around Buchanan’s exposed shoulder. The bleeding lessened dramatically.
“That plastic container of rubbing alcohol,” Buchanan said. “Pour some of it onto those gauze sponges and start wiping the blood away from the bullet wound.” It seemed to Buchanan that his voice came from far away. Fighting to remain alert, he pried a syringe from a slot in a block of protective Styrofoam and squinted at the label, satisfying himself that the contents was an antibiotic. “Use a clean sponge and wipe some of that alcohol on the upper muscle of my right arm.”
Wade did what he was told, then quickly resumed cleaning the bullet wound.
Buchanan injected the antibiotic into his right arm. As soon as he withdrew the needle, the fingers of his right hand started jerking again. Clumsily, he returned the syringe to the slot in the Styrofoam block.
“There,” Wade said. “I finished cleaning the edges of the wound.”
“Now pour that hydrogen peroxide into it,” Buchanan said.
“Pour?” Wade asked. “That’ll hurt like—”
“Nothing compared to dying from blood poisoning. The wound has to be disinfected. Do it.”
Wade unscrewed the top from the hydrogen peroxide, pursed his lips, and poured what amounted to several tablespoons of the clear liquid into the long slash of the wound.
In the glow from the flashlight propped on the seat, Buchanan saw the liquid enter the slash. He saw his flesh and blood begin to bubble, like boiling acid. The pain suddenly hit him, even worse than the pain he’d already been feeling. It gnawed. It stabbed. It burned.
His vision doubled. He wavered.
“Buchanan?” Wade sounded alarmed.
“Do it again,” Buchanan said.
“You can’t be serious.”
“Do it again. I’ve got to be sure the wound’s clean.”
Wade poured. The wound bubbled, its edges turning white, clots of blood welling out. Sweat slicked Buchanan’s face.
“And some on the gash on my head,” Buchanan murmured.
This time, Wade surprised Buchanan by complying without objection. Good, Buchanan thought through his pain. You’re tougher than I expected, Wade. You’re going to need to be when you hear what you have to do next.
The hydrogen peroxide felt as if it had eaten through Buchanan’s skull and into his brain.
He shuddered. “Fine. Now you see that tube in the first aid kit? That’s a triple-antibiotic ointment. Squeeze some on the gash on my head and a lot more into my bullet wound.”
Wade’s movements became more confident.
Buchanan felt the tourniquet digging into his right shoulder. Apart from the agony of the wound, the arm seemed swollen and had no sensation. “Almost done,” Buchanan told Wade. “There’s only one more thing you have to do.”
“One more? What’s that?”
“You were right. I need stitches.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I want you to sew me up.”
Assumed Identity Page 10