Assumed Identity

by David R. Morrell

  “What do her doctors say?” Buchanan asked.

  Doyle steered onto a highway along a beach. He didn’t answer.

  “Is her treatment doing what it’s supposed to?” Buchanan persisted.

  Doyle spoke thickly, “You mean, is she going to make it?”

  “. . . Yeah, I guess that’s what I mean.”

  “I don’t know.” Doyle exhaled. “Her doctors are encouraging but noncommittal. One week, she’s better. The next week, she’s worse. The next week . . . It’s a roller coaster. But if I had to give a yes-or-no answer . . . Yes, I think she’s dying. That’s why I asked if what we’re doing puts her in danger. I’m afraid she’s got so little time left. I couldn’t stand it if something else killed her even sooner. I’d go out of my mind.”

  6

  “Who do you think phoned your house? Who asked for Victor Grant?”

  Doyle—who’d been silent for the past five minutes, brooding, preoccupied about his wife—now turned toward Buchanan. “I’ll tell you who it wasn’t. Your controllers. They told me they’d contact you by phoning either at eight in the morning, three in the afternoon, or ten at night. A man would ask to speak to me. He’d say that his name was Roger Winslow, and he’d suggest a time to meet at my office to talk about customizing a boat. That would mean you were supposed to go to a rendezvous an hour before the time they mentioned. A wholesale marine-parts supplier I use. It’s always busy. No one would notice if you were given a message via brush contact from someone passing you.”

  Buchanan debated. “So if it wasn’t my controllers who phoned . . . The only other people who know I claim to be Victor Grant and work in Fort Lauderdale customizing pleasure boats are the Mexican police.”

  Doyle shook his head. “The man I spoke to didn’t have a Spanish accent.”

  “What about the man from the American embassy?” Buchanan asked.

  “Could be. He might be phoning to make sure you’d arrived safely. He’d have access to the same information—place of employment, et cetera—that you gave the Mexican police.”

  “Yeah, maybe it was him,” Buchanan said, hoping. But he couldn’t avoid the suspicion that he wasn’t safe, that things were about to get worse.

  “Since you’re supposed to be working for me and living above my office,” Doyle said, “you’d better see what the place looks like.”

  Doyle turned off Ocean Boulevard, taking a side street across from the beach. Past tourist shops, he parked beside a drab two-story cinder-block building in a row of similar buildings, all of which were built along a canal, the dock of which was lined with boats under repair.

  “I’ve got a machine shop in back,” Doyle said. “Sometimes my clients bring their boats here. Mostly, though, I go to them.”

  “What about your secretary?” Buchanan asked, uneasy. “She’ll know I haven’t been working for you.”

  “I don’t have one. Until three months ago, Cindy did the office work. But then she got too sick to . . . That’s why she can make herself believe you came to work for me after she stayed home.”

  As Buchanan walked toward the building, he squinted from the sun and smelled a salt-laden breeze from the ocean. A young woman wearing a bikini drove by on a motorcycle and stared at his head.

  Buchanan gingerly touched the bandage around his skull, realizing how conspicuous it made him. He felt vulnerable, his head aching from the glare of the sun, while Doyle unlocked the building’s entrance, a door stenciled BON VOYAGE, INC. Inside, after Doyle shut off the time-delay switch on the intrusion detector, Buchanan surveyed the office. It was a long, narrow room with photographs of yachts and cabin cruisers on the walls, displays of nautical instruments on shelves, and miniaturized interiors of various pleasure craft on tables. The models showed the ways in which electronic instruments could be installed without taking up undue room on a crowded vessel.

  “You got a letter,” Doyle said as he sorted through the mail.

  Buchanan took it from him, careful not to break character by expressing surprise that anyone would have written to him under his new pseudonym. This office was a logical place for someone investigating him to conceal a bug, and unless Doyle assured him that it was safe to talk here, Buchanan didn’t intend to say anything that Victor Grant wouldn’t, just as he assumed that Doyle wouldn’t say anything inconsistent with their cover story.

  The letter was addressed to him in scrawled handwriting. Its return address was in Providence, Rhode Island. Buchanan tore open the flap and read two pages of the same scrawled handwriting.

  “Who’s it from?” Doyle asked.

  “My mother.” Buchanan shook his head with admiration. His efficient controllers had taken great care to give him supporting details for his new identity.

  “How is she?” Doyle asked.

  “Good. Except her arthritis is acting up again.”

  The phone rang.

  7

  Buchanan frowned.

  “Relax,” Doyle said. “This is a business, remember. And to tell the truth, I could use some business.”

  The phone rang again. Doyle picked it up, said, “Bon Voyage, Inc.,” then frowned as Buchanan had.

  He placed his hand across the mouthpiece and told Buchanan, “I was wrong. It’s that guy again asking to speak to you. What do you want me to say?”

  “Better let me say it. I’m curious who he is.” Uneasy, Buchanan took the phone. “Victor Grant here.”

  The deep, crusty voice was instantly recognizable. “Your name ain’t Victor Grant.”

  Heart pounding, Buchanan repressed his alarm and tried to sound puzzled. “What? Who is this? My boss said somebody wanted to speak to . . . Wait a minute. Is this . . .? Are you the guy in Mexico who . . .?”

  “Bailey. Big Bob Bailey. Damn it, Crawford, don’t get on my nerves. You’d still be in jail if I hadn’t called the American embassy. The least you can do is be grateful.”

  “Grateful? I wouldn’t have been in jail if you hadn’t misidentified me. How many times do I have to say it? My name isn’t Crawford. It’s Victor Grant.”

  “Sure, just like it was Ed Potter. I don’t know what kind of scam you’re runnin’, but it looks to me like you got more names than the phone book, and if you want to keep usin’ them, you’re gonna have to pay a subscriber fee.”

  “Subscriber fee? What are you talking about?”

  “After what happened in Kuwait, I’m not crazy about workin’ in the Mideast oil fields anymore,” Bailey said. “Stateside, the big companies are shuttin’ down wells instead of drillin’. I’m too old to be a wildcatter. So I guess I’ll have to rely on my buddies. Like you, Crawford. For the sake of when we were prisoners together, can you spare a hundred thousand dollars?”

  “A hundred . . .? Have you been drinking?”

  “You betcha.”

  “You’re out of your mind. One last time, and listen carefully. My name isn’t Crawford. My name isn’t Potter. My name’s Victor Grant, and I don’t know what you’re talking about. Get lost.”

  Buchanan broke the connection.

  8

  Doyle stared at him. “How bad?”

  Buchanan’s cheek muscles hardened. “I’m not sure. I’ll know in a minute.” He kept his hand on the phone.

  But it took only ten seconds before the phone rang again.

  Buchanan scowled and let it ring three more times before he picked it up. “Bon Voyage, Inc.”

  “Crawford, don’t kid yourself that you can get rid of me that easy,” Bailey said. “I’m stubborn. You can fool the Mexican police, and you can fool the American embassy, but take my word, you can’t fool me. I know your real name ain’t Grant. I know your real name ain’t Potter. And all of a sudden, I’m beginnin’ to wonder if your real name is even Crawford. Who are you, buddy? It ought to be worth a lousy hundred thousand to keep me from finding out.”

  “I’ve run out of patience,” Buchanan said. “Stop bothering me.”

  “Hey, you don’t know what being bo
thered is.”

  “I mean it. Leave me alone, or I’ll call the police.”

  “Yeah, the police might be a good idea,” Bailey said. “Maybe they can figure out what’s goin’ on and who you are. Go ahead. Prove you’re an innocent, upstandin’ citizen. Call the cops. I’d love to talk to them about those three spic drug dealers you shot in Mexico and why you’re usin’ so many different names.”

  “What do I have to do to convince—?”

  “Buddy, you don’t have to convince me of anything. All you have to do is pay me the hundred thousand bucks. After that, you can call yourself Napoleon for all I care.”

  “You haven’t listened to a word I’ve—”

  “The only words I want to hear are ‘Here’s your money.’ Crawford or whoever the hell you are, if you don’t get with the program soon, I swear to God I’ll phone the cops myself.”

  “Where are you?”

  “You don’t really expect me to answer that. When you’ve got the hundred thousand—and I want it by tomorrow—then I’ll let you know where I am.”

  “We have to meet. I can prove you’re wrong.”

  “And just how are you gonna do that, buddy? Cross your heart and hope to die?” Bailey laughed, and this time, it was he who slammed down the phone.

  9

  Buchanan’s head throbbed. He turned to Doyle. “Yeah, it’s bad.”

  He had to keep reminding himself that Bailey or somebody else might have planted a microphone in the office. So far, he hadn’t said anything incriminating. Whatever explanation he gave Doyle, it had to be consistent with Victor Grant’s innocent viewpoint. “That jerk who caused me so much trouble in Mexico. He thinks I shot three drug dealers down there. Now he’s trying to blackmail me. Otherwise, he says he’ll call the cops.”

  Doyle played his part. “Let him try. I don’t think the local cops care what happens in Mexico, and since you didn’t do anything wrong, he’ll look like a fool. Then you can have him charged with extortion.”

  “It’s not that easy.”

  “Why?”

  Buchanan’s wound cramped as he suddenly thought of something. The phone had rung just after Buchanan and Doyle entered the office. Was that merely a coincidence? Jesus.

  Buchanan hurried to the front door, yanked it open, and glanced tensely both ways along the street. A woman was carrying groceries toward a cabin cruiser. A car passed. A jogger went by. Two boat mechanics unloaded a crate from the back of a truck. A kid on a bicycle squinted at the bandage around Buchanan’s head.

  Buchanan pulled it off and continued staring along the street. His head pounded from the fierce sunlight. There! On the left. At the far end. Near the beach. A big man with strong shoulders and a brush cut—Bailey—was standing outside a phone booth, peering in Buchanan’s direction.

  Bailey raised his muscular right arm in greeting when he saw Buchanan notice him. Then, as Buchanan started up the street toward him, Bailey grinned—even at a distance, his smile was obvious—got in a dusty car, and drove away.

  10

  “Cindy?” Doyle hurried into the house.

  The kitchen was deserted.

  “Cindy?”

  No answer.

  Doyle turned to Buchanan. “The door was locked. Her car’s still here. Where would she go on foot? Why would—? Cindy?” Doyle hurried deeper into the house.

  Buchanan stayed in the kitchen, frowning out a side window toward the driveway and the street.

  “Cindy?” he heard from a room down the hall.

  At once Doyle’s voice softened. “Are you . . .? I’m sorry I woke you, honey. I didn’t know you were sleeping. When I found the door locked, I worried that something might have . . .”

  Doyle’s voice softened even more, and Buchanan couldn’t hear it. Uneasy, he waited, continuing to stare outside.

  When Doyle came back to the kitchen, he leaned against the refrigerator and rubbed his haggard cheeks.

  “Is she all right?” Buchanan asked.

  Doyle shook his head. “After we left, she threw up her lunch. She felt so weak she had to lie down. She’s been sleeping all afternoon.”

  “Did any strangers phone her or come around and bother her?”

  “No.”

  “Then why was the house locked?”

  Doyle looked confused by the question. “Well, obviously so she’d feel safe while she was napping.”

  “Sure,” Buchanan said. “But when you got here, you were surprised to find the door locked. You assumed she’d gone somewhere, which means she’s not in the habit of locking the door while she’s home.” Buchanan walked toward him. “And that means the reason she locked the door is I’m here. She senses I brought trouble. And she’s right. I did bring trouble. I don’t belong here. You can’t worry about me while you’re worried about—”

  The ringing of the phone seemed extra loud.

  Doyle flinched.

  Buchanan gestured for him to pick it up. “This is your house. If I answer, it’ll seem unusual. We have to pretend everything’s normal. Hurry, before Cindy—”

  Doyle grabbed the phone. “Hello? . . . Who is this? What do you want him for? . . . Listen, you son of a bitch. My wife might have answered. If you bother her, if—”

  It’s going to pieces quickly, Buchanan thought. We’re almost to the point where anybody listening to a recording of what we said would have to wonder if I’m really the man I claim to be. He motioned sharply for Doyle to be quiet and wrested the phone from him. “I told you to stop.”

  “Crawford, your buddy sounds as if he’s losin’ it,” Bailey said. “I guess that’s because his wife is sick, huh? Too bad. A nice-lookin’ gal like that.”

  Yeah, you did your homework, Buchanan thought. You’ve been watching. You must have flown to Miami right after I did. You drove to Fort Lauderdale and staked out where I’m supposed to be working. You found out where the man who pretends to employ me lives. You waited for me to get out of the hospital, and if I didn’t show up for work, that would prove I wasn’t who I claimed to be. Then you could really make trouble.

  “A hundred thousand dollars. Tomorrow, Crawford. If you don’t think I’m serious, you’re in for a surprise. Because, believe me, I will call the cops.”

  At once, Buchanan heard the dial tone.

  Pensive, he set down the phone.

  Doyle’s face was crimson. “Don’t ever yank a phone out of my hand.”

  “Jack, honey?”

  They spun.

  Cindy wavered at the entrance to the kitchen. She gripped the doorjamb. Her skin was pale. The black-and-red handkerchief had slipped, exposing her hairless scalp. “Who was that? Who were you yelling at?”

  Doyle’s throat made a sound as if he was being choked. He crossed the room and held her.

  11

  The Intracoastal Waterway stretches along the eastern United States from Trenton, New Jersey, to Brownsville, Texas. An inland shipping route composed of linked rivers, canals, lagoons, bays, and sounds, it runs parallel to the Atlantic Ocean and is protected from the severity of the ocean’s waves and weather by buffering strips of land. In the North, it is used mostly by commercial vessels, but in the South, particularly in Florida, the waterway’s major traffic is composed of pleasure craft, and one of its most attractive sections is at Fort Lauderdale.

  At 8:00 A.M., Buchanan parked Doyle’s van at the side of Bon Voyage, Inc., and unlocked the building. The previous night, he had driven to a shopping mall, where he used a pay phone in a bar to get in touch with his controllers. Now, as the sun’s heat strengthened, he carried several boxes of electronic components to a powerboat that Doyle kept moored at the dock behind the office. Buchanan’s wounded shoulder throbbed and his injured head felt caught in a vise due to exertion, forcing him to make several trips. But at last he had the boxes safely stowed, and after locking the building, he unmoored the boat and drove it from the canal into the long expanse of the waterway.

  Restaurants, hotels, and condominium
buildings flanked it on each side. So did many luxurious homes whose spacious grounds were landscaped with shrubs and palm trees. No matter what type of building had been built along each shore, however, docks and boats were constant. Following Doyle’s instructions, Buchanan headed south, admired a three-masted sailboat that passed him going the opposite way, and studied a mural of dolphins that someone had painted along the concrete buttress of a bridge. He pretended to enjoy the breeze and the bracing salt smell of the water. At no time did he stare behind him to see if he was being followed. It was essential that he appear to be innocent, untutored in such matters, and that he not seem preoccupied by Bailey’s threats. Bailey had phoned twice more, at midnight and at 2:00 A.M., in each case waking Cindy. Furious, Doyle had disconnected the phones, the fierce look in his eyes disturbing. The more Buchanan thought about it, the more he realized that Bailey wasn’t his only problem.

  Continuing south in accordance with Doyle’s instructions, Buchanan passed beneath more bridges, pretending to admire other buildings and boats, and finally steered to the east, toward an exclusive area of docks called Pier 66. It took him a while to find the right section, but at last he came abreast of a one-hundred-foot dark-wood yacht called Clementine, where two men and a woman stood from deck chairs and peered down at him from the stern. One of the men was tall and trim, with severe features and short graying hair. In his fifties, he wore white slacks and a monogrammed green silk shirt. The second man was younger, in his forties, less tall, less expensively dressed, and more muscular. The woman, a blonde, was in her thirties and gorgeous. She wore a short blue terry-cloth robe that was open and revealed a stunningly filled red bikini, the glossy color of which matched her lipstick.

  The tall man, obviously in charge, asked, “Are you from . . .?”

  “Bon Voyage, Inc.,” Buchanan answered. He removed his Ray-Ban sunglasses and his Miami Dolphins cap so they could have a better look at him. “I’ve got the equipment you ordered. I was told this was a good time to install it.”