Assumed Identity

by David R. Morrell

  Mr. Grant? Buchanan thought.

  This man definitely wasn’t Charles Maxwell. So who was he?

  “Yeah, this is a regular country club.” The severity of Buchanan’s headache made his temples throb.

  “I’m sure it’s been frightful,” the American said. His voice was deep and mellifluous, slightly affected. “But all of that is finished now.” He shook hands. “I’m Garson Woodfield. From the American embassy. Your friend Robert Bailey telephoned us.”

  The interrogator glowered.

  “Bailey isn’t a friend,” Buchanan emphasized. “The first time I met him was here. But he’s got some delusion that he saw me in Cancún and knew me before in Kuwait. He’s the reason I’m in this mess.”

  Woodfield shrugged. “Well, apparently he’s trying to make amends. He also telephoned Charles Maxwell.”

  “A client of mine,” Buchanan said. “I was hoping he’d show up.”

  “Indeed, Mr. Maxwell has a great deal of influence, as you’re aware, but under the circumstances, he thought it would be more influential if he contacted the ambassador and requested that we solve this problem through official channels.” Woodfield peered closely at Buchanan’s face. “Those abrasions on your lips. The bruise on your chin.” He turned pensively toward the interrogator. “This man has been beaten.”

  The interrogator looked insulted. “Beaten? Nonsense. When he came here, he was so unsteady from his injuries that he fell down some stairs.”

  Woodfield turned to Buchanan, obviously expecting a heated denial.

  “I got dizzy,” Buchanan said. “I lost my grip on the stairwell railing.”

  Woodfield looked surprised by Buchanan’s response. For his part, the interrogator looked astonished.

  “Have they threatened you into lying about what happened to you here?” Woodfield asked.

  “They certainly haven’t been gentle,” Buchanan said, “but they haven’t threatened me into lying.”

  The interrogator looked even more astonished.

  “But Robert Bailey claims he saw you tied to a chair,” Woodfield said.

  Buchanan nodded.

  “And struck by a rubber hose,” Woodfield said.

  Buchanan nodded again.

  “And passing bloody urine.”

  “True.” Buchanan clutched his abdomen and winced, a reaction that he normally would not have permitted.

  “You realize that if you’ve been brutalized, there are a number of diplomatic measures I can use to try to obtain your release.”

  Buchanan didn’t like Woodfield’s “try to” qualification. He decided to continue following his instincts. “The blood in my urine is from my accident when I fell off Chuck Maxwell’s boat. As for the rest of it”—Buchanan breathed—“hey, this officer thinks I killed three men. From his point of view, what he did to me, trying to get me to confess, that was understandable. What I’m angry about is that he wouldn’t let me prove I was innocent. He wouldn’t call my client.”

  “All of that’s been taken care of,” Woodfield said. “I have a statement”—he pulled it from his briefcase—“indicating that Mr. Grant here was with Mr. Maxwell on his yacht when the murders occurred. Obviously,” he told the interrogator, “you have the wrong man.”

  “It is not obvious to me.” The interrogator’s numerous chins shook with indignation. “I have a witness who puts this man at the scene of the murders.”

  “But surely you don’t take Mr. Bailey’s word over a statement by someone as distinguished as Mr. Maxwell,” Woodfield said.

  The interrogator’s eyes gleamed fiercely. “This is Mexico. Everyone is equal.”

  “Yes,” Woodfield said. “The same as in the United States.” He turned to Buchanan. “Mr. Maxwell asked me to deliver this note.” He pulled it from his briefcase and handed it to Buchanan. “Meanwhile,” he told the interrogator, “I need to use your facilities.”

  The interrogator looked confused.

  “A bathroom,” Woodfield said. “A rest room.”

  “Ah,” the interrogator said. “A toilet. Sí.” He hefted his enormous body from the chair, opened the office door, and directed a guard to escort Mr. Woodfield to el sanitario.

  As Woodfield left, Buchanan read the note.

  Vic,

  Sorry I couldn’t be there in person. I’ll show up if I have to, but let’s exhaust other options first. Check the contents of the camera bag Woodfield brought with him. If you think what’s inside will be effective, give it a try. I hope to see you stateside soon.

  Chuck

  Buchanan glanced down toward the briefcase beside Woodfield’s chair, noticing the gray nylon camera bag.

  Meanwhile, the interrogator shut the office door and frowned at Buchanan, his voice rumbling, his ample stomach quivering. He was obviously interested in the contents of the note. “You lied about being beaten. Por qué?” He came closer. “Why?”

  Buchanan shrugged. “Simple. I want you and me to be friends.”

  “Why?” The interrogator stepped even closer.

  “Because I won’t get out of here without your cooperation. Oh, Woodfield can cause you a lot of trouble from your superiors and from politicians. But I still might not be released until a judge makes a ruling, and in the meantime, I’m at your mercy.” Buchanan paused, trying to look defeated. “Sometimes terrible accidents happen in a jail. Sometimes a prisoner can die before a judge has time to see him.”

  The interrogator studied Buchanan intensely.

  Buchanan pointed toward the camera bag. “May I?”

  The interrogator nodded.

  Buchanan set the bag on his lap. “I’m innocent,” he said. “Obviously, Bailey is confused about what he saw. My passport proves I’m not the man he thinks I am. My client says I wasn’t at the scene of the crime. But you’ve invested a great deal of time and effort in this investigation. In your place, I’d hate to think that I’d wasted my energy. The government doesn’t pay you enough for all the trouble you have to go through.” Buchanan opened the camera bag and set it on the desk.

  He and the interrogator stared at the contents. The bag was filled with neat piles of used hundred-dollar American bills. As Buchanan removed one of the stacks and leafed through it, the interrogator’s mouth hung open.

  “I’m only guessing,” Buchanan said, “but this seems to be fifty thousand dollars.” He returned the stack to the others in the bag. “Don’t misunderstand. I’m not rich. I work hard, the same as you, and I certainly don’t have this kind of money. It belongs to my client. He’s loaning it to me to help me pay my legal expenses.” Buchanan grimaced. “But I don’t see why a lawyer should get it when I’m innocent and he won’t have to earn his fee to get me released. He definitely won’t have to work as long and hard as I will to pay the money back or as long as you would to receive this much.” Buchanan sighed from pain and frowned toward the door. “Woodfield will be coming back any second. Why don’t you do both of us a favor, take the money, and let me out of here?”

  The interrogator tapped his fingers on the battered table.

  “I swear to you. I didn’t kill anybody,” Buchanan said.

  The door swung slowly open. The interrogator shielded the camera bag with his massive body, shut the bag, and with a remarkably fluid motion for so huge a man, he set the bag out of sight behind the desk as he scrunched his wide hips into his creaking chair.

  Woodfield entered.

  “To pursue this matter any further would be a mockery of justice,” the interrogator said. “Señor Grant, your passport and belongings will be returned. You are free.”

  8

  “You look like you need a doctor,” Woodfield said.

  They walked from the jail, across a dusty street, and toward a black sedan parked beneath a palm tree.

  “I know an excellent physician in Mérida,” Woodfield said. “I’ll drive you there as quickly as possible.”

  “No,” Buchanan said.

  “But . . .”

  “
No,” Buchanan repeated. He waited for a fenderless pickup truck to go by, then continued toward the car. After having been in the jail for so long, his eyes hurt from the glare of the sun, adding to his headache. “What I want is to get out of Mexico.”

  “The longer you wait to see a doctor . . .”

  Buchanan reached the car and pivoted toward Woodfield. He didn’t know how much the diplomat had been told. Probably nothing. One of Buchanan’s rules was never to volunteer information. Another rule was don’t break character. “I’ll see a doctor when I feel safe. I still can’t believe I’m out of jail. I won’t believe it until I’m on a plane to Miami. That jerk might change his mind and rearrest me.”

  Woodfield put Buchanan’s suitcase into the back of the car. “I doubt there’s any danger of that.”

  “No danger to you,” Buchanan said. “The best thing you can do is drive me to the airport, get me on a plane, then phone Charles Maxwell. Tell him I asked him to arrange for someone to meet me and to take me to a hospital.”

  “You’re certain you’ll be all right until then?”

  “I’ll have to be,” Buchanan said. He was worried that the police in Cancún would still be investigating his previous identity. Eventually, they’d find Ed Potter’s office and apartment. They’d find people who’d seen Ed Potter and who’d agree that the police sketch looked like Ed Potter. A policeman might decide to corroborate Big Bob Bailey’s story by having those people take a look at Victor Grant.

  He had to get out of Mexico.

  “I’ll telephone the airport and see if I can get you a seat on the next flight,” Woodfield said.

  “Good.” Buchanan automatically scanned the street, the pedestrians, the noisy traffic. He tensed, noticing a woman in the background, among the crowd on the sidewalk beyond Woodfield. She was American. Late twenties. A redhead. Attractive. Tall. Nice figure. She wore beige slacks and a yellow blouse. But Buchanan didn’t notice her because of her nationality or her hair color or her features. Indeed he couldn’t get a look at her face. Because she had a camera raised to it. She stood at the curb, motionless among the passing Mexicans, taking photographs of him.

  “Just a minute,” Buchanan told Woodfield. He started toward her, but the moment she saw him approaching, she lowered the camera, turned, and walked away, disappearing around a corner. The oppressive sun intensified his headache. Festering pressure in his wound made him weaker. Dizziness halted him.

  “What’s the matter?” Woodfield asked.

  Buchanan didn’t answer.

  “You looked as if you were about to go somewhere,” Woodfield said.

  Buchanan frowned toward the corner, then turned toward the car. “Yeah, with you.” He opened the passenger door. “Hurry. Find a phone. Get me on a flight to Miami.”

  All the way to the airport, Buchanan brooded about the red-haired woman. Why had she been taking photographs of him? Was she just a tourist and he merely happened to be in the foreground of a shot of a scenic building? Maybe. But if so, why had she walked away when he started toward her? Coincidence? Buchanan couldn’t afford to accept that explanation. Too much had gone wrong. And nothing was ever simple. There was always a deeper level. Then if she wasn’t just a tourist, what was she? Again he asked himself, Why was she taking pictures of me? The lack of an answer disturbed him as much as the threatening implications. He had only one consolation. At least, when she’d lowered the camera, turning to walk away, he’d gotten a good look at her face.

  And he would remember it.

  9

  ACAPULCO, MEXICO

  Among the many yachts in the resort’s famous bay, one in particular attracted Esteban Delgado’s attention. It was brilliant white against the gleaming green-blue of the Pacific. It was approximately two hundred feet long, he judged, comparing its length to familiar landmarks. It had three decks and a helicopter secured to the top. It was sculpted so that the decks curved like a hunting knife down to the point of the bow. Behind the decks, at the stern, a large sunning area—designed to allow voyeurs to peer down unobserved from the upper windows of the looming decks—was terribly familiar. If Delgado hadn’t known for certain, if his assistant hadn’t given him verified information less than an hour ago, Delgado would have sworn that the distinctive yacht didn’t just resemble the source of his sleepless nights and his ulcerated stomach but was in fact the very yacht, owned by his enemy, that figured so prominently in his nightmares. It didn’t matter that this yacht was called Full House, whereas the yacht he dreaded was called Poseidon, for Delgado felt sufficiently persecuted to have reached the stage of paranoia where he suspected that the yacht’s name had been altered in order to surprise him. But Delgado’s assistant had been emphatic in his assurance that as of noon today, the Poseidon, with Delgado’s enemy aboard, had been en route from the Virgin Islands to Miami.

  Nonetheless, Delgado kept staring from the floor-to-ceiling window of his mansion. He ignored the music, laughter, and motion of the party around the pool on the terrace below him. He ignored the women, so many beautiful women. He ignored the flowering shrubs and trees that flanked the expensive pink vacation homes similar to his, carved into the slope below him. Instead, he focused his gaze beyond the Costera Miguel Aleman boulevard that rimmed the bay, past the deluxe hotels and the spectacular beach. The yacht alone occupied him. The yacht and the yacht it resembled and the secret that Delgado’s enemy used to control him.

  Abruptly something distracted him. It wasn’t unexpected, although it was certainly long anticipated, a dark limousine reflecting sunlight, coming into view on the slope’s curving road, veering through the gates, past the guards. He brooded, squinting, hot despite the room’s powerful air conditioning. His surname had always been coincidentally appropriate for him, inasmuch as Delgado meant “thin,” and even as a boy he’d been tall and slender, but lately he had heard whispered, concerned remarks about his appearance, about how much weight he had recently lost and how his carefully tailored suits now looked loose on him. His associates suspected that his weight loss was due to disease (AIDS, it was rumored), but they were wrong.

  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, Señor 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 paperwork.”

  “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 on the president’s cabinet didn’t indicate his even greater influence as the president’s closest friend and adviser. 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 he 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 poolside 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 few of his concerns as possible be part of the public record.