The man who called himself Alan set his briefcase beside a box of doughnuts and a steaming coffee percolator on the counter between the kitchen and the living room. There weren’t any ashtrays—the colonel refused to allow smoking. And there wasn’t any clutter of crumpled napkins, stale food, and used Styrofoam cups—the colonel insisted on an absolutely neat control room.
“What’s he been doing since I left?” Alan asked. The question was directed to anyone who would bother to answer (they didn’t always). As the only civilian in the apartment, he didn’t feel obligated to use military titles. Indeed, he was getting damned tired of sensing that these Special Operations types considered themselves superior to the Agency.
After a pause, the woman, Captain Weller, answered without looking at him, continuing to concentrate on the television screens. “Leaned against the door. Rubbed his skull. Appears to have a headache. Went into the kitchen. Poured another drink.”
“Another?” Alan asked, disapproving.
His judgmental tone prompted the second-in-command, Major Putnam, to face him. “It means nothing out of context. Alcohol is one of his weapons. He uses it to disarm his contacts. If he doesn’t maintain a tolerance for it, he’s as open to attack as if he doesn’t maintain his combat skills.”
“I’ve never heard that one before,” Alan said skeptically. “If he was strictly mine, I’d be alarmed. But then, from the start, nothing about this unit was conventional, was it?”
Now the colonel turned. “Don’t condescend to us.”
“I wasn’t. I was making a point about control.”
“The point is taken,” the colonel said. “If he finishes this drink and makes another, I’ll be concerned.”
“Right. It’s not as if we haven’t got plenty of other things to be concerned about. What’s your analysis of my session with him?”
A movement on one of the monitors attracted everyone’s attention. Again they stared at the screen.
Buchanan carried his drink from the kitchen.
On a separate black-and-white screen, he appeared in the living room and slumped on the sofa, placing his feet on the coffee table, leaning back, rubbing the moisture-beaded glass against his brow.
“Yeah, he sure seems to have a headache,” Alan said.
“Or maybe he’s just tired from stress and traveling,” the woman said.
“A new CAT scan will tell us what’s going on in his head,” Alan said.
The woman turned. “You mean, in his brain, of course. Not in his mind.”
“Exactly. That’s what I meant. I asked you, what’s your analysis of my session with him?”
“His explanation about the passport was reasonable,” the major said. “In his place. I might not have abandoned it, but perhaps that’s why I’m not in his place. I don’t have the talent for role-playing that he does. A water-destroyed passport, one that validated his identity without jeopardizing the passport’s source, would have added credence to his character’s death.”
“But,” Alan corrected, “the passport was never found.”
“An accident of circumstance.”
“Our opinions differ. But we’ll leave that subject for later,” Alan said. “What about the postcard?”
“Again his explanation was reasonable,” the major said.
“This conversation sounds like an echo,” Alan said. “I’m losing patience. If you wanted a whitewash, why did you need me here? I’ve got a wife and kids who wonder what I look like.”
“Whitewash?” the colonel intruded, his voice like steel against flint. “I’m losing patience with you. The person we’re observing on these monitors, the person you had the privilege of interrogating, is without doubt the finest deep-cover operative I’ve ever had the honor of directing. He has survived longer, has assumed more identities, has endured greater dangers and accomplished more critical missions than any other deep-cover specialist I’ve ever heard about. He is one of a kind, and it is only with the greatest regret that I am forced to consider his termination.”
Ah, Alan thought, there it is. We’re finally getting to it. He gestured toward the sentries. “Are you sure you want to talk about something so serious in front of—?”
“They’re loyal,” the colonel said.
“Just like Buchanan.”
“No one’s questioning Buchanan’s loyalty. It wasn’t his fault that he was compromised. There was absolutely no way to predict that someone he knew in Kuwait and Iraq would walk into that restaurant in Cancún while he was making his pitch to those two drug dealers. The worst nightmare of a deep-cover specialist—one identity colliding with another. And there was no way to predict that Bailey would be so damned persistent, that he’d put together evidence showing Buchanan in three different identities. Jesus, the photographs. If only the son of a bitch hadn’t started taking photographs.”
Especially of you and Buchanan together, Alan thought.
What the colonel said next seemed in response to the accusing look in Alan’s eyes. “I admit the mistake. That’s why I sent you to interrogate him. I will never again allow myself to be in direct contact with him. But as it is, the damage is done, and your people made mistakes, too. If there’d been time in Fort Lauderdale, I’d have brought in one of my own surveillance teams. Instead, I had to rely on . . . Your people assured me that they’d found Bailey’s hotel room and confiscated all the photographs.”
“That was my information, as well,” Alan said.
“The information was wrong. No photographs of Buchanan and myself were retrieved. And before Bailey could be interrogated, the bomb concealed in the picnic cooler was detonated.”
“Those were the orders,” Alan insisted. “The location transmitter in the wall of the cooler would lead the team to Bailey when Buchanan delivered the money. Then the C-four explosive that was also in the walls of the cooler would be detonated by remote control. Bailey wouldn’t be a problem anymore.”
“You’re simplifying to excuse failure. The specific orders were to wait in case Bailey rendezvoused with the woman photographer who was helping him. The C-four was chosen because it was a convenient means to take care of both of them.”
“In case they met,” Alan emphasized. “But what if Bailey had already paid her off and wouldn’t be seeing her again? Or what if Bailey took the money and abandoned the cooler?”
“Then you admit your people disobeyed orders by acting prematurely.”
Alan didn’t reply.
“Well?” the colonel asked.
“The truth is, no one disobeyed. The bomb went off on its own.”
“On its . . . ?”
“The expert who assembled the bomb thought he’d set the remote-controlled detonator to a radio frequency that wasn’t used in the area. In fact, it had to be triggered by two different, uncommon radio frequencies, one to arm it, one to set it off. All those boats at Fort Lauderdale. All those two-way radios. Apparently there aren’t any uncommon frequencies down there.”
“Jesus,” the colonel said. “The bomb could have gone off while Buchanan had it, before he gave the cooler to Bailey.”
“I don’t know why that should bother you. You were just talking about the possibility of having Buchanan terminated.”
The colonel looked puzzled. Then abruptly he understood. “Terminated without prejudice. What’s the matter with you? Do you think I’d actually order the death of one of my men, an officer who served me faithfully for many years?”
“Whether he’s faithful hasn’t been proven.” Alan pointed toward one of the many television screens, toward the black-and-white image of Buchanan slumped on the sofa, his eyes closed, troubled, the moisture-beaded glass of bourbon and water held to his wrinkled brow. “I’m not convinced he was truthful when I talked to him.”
“About the passport?”
“I wasn’t referring to the passport. The postcard. That’s what bothers me. I think he held back. I think he lied to me.”
“Why would he do that?”
“I’m not sure. But by your own admission, he’d been working under cover, in multiple identities, for an unusual amount of time. He endured a great deal of physical trauma in Mexico. His head obviously still hurts. Maybe he’s about to fall apart. There are pictures of you and him that we can’t locate. As well, there’s a woman who saw Bailey with Buchanan and you with Buchanan. A lot of loose ends. If Buchanan is compromised, if he does fall apart, well, we obviously don’t need another Hasenfus on our hands.”
Alan was referring to an ex-Marine named Eugene Hasenfus who in 1986 was shot down while flying arms to U.S.–backed Contra rebels in Marxist Nicaragua. When questioned by Nicaraguan authorities, Hasenfus implicated the CIA and caused a political scandal that revealed a secret White House–directed war in Nicaragua. Because intermediaries had been used to hire Hasenfus, the CIA could plausibly deny any connection to him. Nonetheless, congressional and media attention directed toward the Agency had been potentially disastrous.
“Buchanan would never talk,” the colonel said. “He’d never violate our security.”
“That’s probably what someone said about Hasenfus when he was hired.”
“It’ll never come to that,” the colonel said. “I’ve made my decision. I’m putting Buchanan on inactive status. We’ll ease him out slowly so he doesn’t have culture shock. Or maybe he’ll agree to become a trainer. But his days of deep cover are over.”
“Tomorrow, when he’s taken for a new CAT scan . . .”
“What are you getting at?” the colonel asked.
“I’d like to have sodium amytal administered to him and then have him questioned about that postcard,” Alan said.
“No.”
“But—”
“No,” the colonel repeated. “He’s my operative, and I know how he’d react if you used drug therapy to question him. He’d feel threatened, insulted, betrayed. Then we would have a problem. The fastest way to make a man disloyal is by treating him as if he’s disloyal.”
“Then I insist on at least keeping him under surveillance,” Alan said. “There’s something about him that bothers me. And I’m still bugged about that postcard.”
“Keeping him under surveillance?” The colonel shrugged and turned toward the television monitors, watching the black-and-white image of Buchanan slumped on the sofa, his eyes scrunched shut as if he had a headache, the glass of bourbon against his brow. “I don’t have a problem with that. After all, that’s what we’re already doing.”
8
Caught in limbo but not realizing it, Buchanan hadn’t been conscious of being called by his real name when the portly man in the brown-checkered sport coat had questioned him the previous night. But as soon as the man had drawn attention to what he’d been doing, as soon as Buchanan realized that he was suspended between identities, he became extremely self-conscious about his name. He was so thorough an impersonator that seldom in the past eight years had he thought of himself as Buchanan. To do so would have been incompatible with his various assumed identities. He didn’t just pretend to be those people. He was those people. He had to be. The slightest weakness in his characterization could get him killed. For the most part, he’d so thoroughly expunged the name Buchanan from his awareness that if someone had attempted to test him by unexpectedly calling his name from behind him, he wouldn’t have turned. Habit would not have controlled him. The name would have belonged to a stranger.
But now as the portly man who called himself Alan drove him to get his CAT scan, Buchanan inwardly squirmed whenever his escort called him by his true name, something the escort did often, apparently by intention. Buchanan felt as he had the first time he’d asked a girl to dance or the first time he’d heard his voice on a tape recorder or the first time he’d made love. The doubt and wonder of those experiences had been positive, however, whereas the self-consciousness he endured at being called Buchanan produced the negativity of fear. He felt exposed, vulnerable, threatened. Don’t call me that. If certain people find out who I really am, it’ll get me killed.
In Fairfax, Virginia, at a private medical clinic presumably controlled by Buchanan’s controllers, he was again made nervous, inwardly squirming when the doctor assigned to him persistently called him by his real name.
How are you, Mr. Buchanan? Does your head still hurt, Mr. Buchanan? I have to do a few tests on you, Mr. Buchanan. Excellent responses, Mr. Buchanan. My nurse will take you downstairs for your CAT scan, Mr. Buchanan.
Christ, they didn’t bother to give me even a minimal assumed identity, Buchanan thought. Not even just a John Doe cover name. I wouldn’t have needed supporting documents. An arbitrary alias for purposes of the examination would have been fine. But my real name’s on the medical file the doctor’s holding. I can understand that they wanted to protect the Don Colton pseudonym. But I didn’t have to use it. I could have called myself anything. This way, with my name associated with the CAT scan, if anyone makes a comparison, I can be linked to Victor Grant’s CAT scan.
The doctor turned from examining the film. “Good news. The bruise is considerably reduced, Mr. Buchanan.”
If he calls me that one more time, I’ll—
“And there’s no indication of neurological damage. The shaking in your right hand has stopped. I attribute that previous symptom to trauma caused by the wound to your shoulder.”
“What about my headache?”
“After a concussion, a headache can persist for quite some time. It doesn’t trouble me.”
“Well, you’re not the one with the headache.”
The doctor didn’t react to the attempt at humor. “I can prescribe something for the pain, if you like.”
“Something with a label that says, ‘Do not drive or use heavy machinery while taking this medication’?”
“That’s correct.”
“Thanks, but I’ll stick to aspirin,” Buchanan said.
“As you wish. Come back in a week—let’s make it November second—and I’ll reexamine you. Meanwhile, be careful. Don’t bang your head again. If you have any problems, let me know.”
Problems? Buchanan thought. The kind of problems I’ve got, you can’t solve.
9
Here’s the postcard I never thought I’d send.
10
“Do you want to tell me what’s going on?” Buchanan asked as they drove along the Little River Turnpike from Fairfax back to Alexandria. The day was gray, a late-October drizzle speckling the windshield.
The man who called himself Alan glanced at him, then peered forward again, concentrating on traffic. He turned on the windshield wipers. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Why have I been exposed?”
As the drizzle changed to rain, the man turned on the windshield defroster. “Exposed? What makes you think . . . ?”
Buchanan stared at him.
The man turned on the headlights.
“There’s not much left,” Buchanan said, “for you to toy with and avoid the question. What are you going to do next? Turn on the radio and keep switching stations, or pull over and start changing the oil?”
“What are you talking about, Buchanan?”
“That. My name. For the first time in eight years, people are using it openly. I’m deliberately being compromised. Why?”
“I told you last night. It’s time for a rest.”
“That doesn’t justify violating basic rules.”
“Hey, the doctor has a security clearance.”
“It was a needless violation,” Buchanan said. “He certainly didn’t need to know who I was in order to assess a CAT scan. And he mentioned the wound in my shoulder, but he didn’t get a look at that shoulder, and I didn’t tell him about it. What else has he been told that he didn’t need to know? How I got the wound?”
“Of course not.”
“Sure. I bet. This isn’t just a rest. I’m not just in limbo. I’m being eased out. Am I right?”
The man steered into the passing lane.
/> “I asked you a question. Am I being eased out?”
“Nothing lasts forever, Buchanan.”
“Stop calling me that.”
“What should I call you? Who the hell do you think you are?”
Buchanan’s skull throbbed. He didn’t have an answer.
“An operative with your talent and experience could do a lot of good as a trainer,” Alan said.
Buchanan didn’t respond.
“Did you expect to work under cover all your life?”
“I never thought about it.”
“Come on,” the man said. “I fail to believe that.”
“I meant what I said. I literally never thought about it. I never thought beyond who I was during any given assignment. If you start planning your retirement while you’re working under cover, you start making mistakes. You forget who you’re supposed to be. You fall out of character. That’s a great way to ensure you don’t live long enough for the retirement you’re not supposed to be planning.”
“Well, you’d better think about it now.”
Buchanan’s skull ached more fiercely. “Why is this being done to me? I didn’t screw up. Nothing that happened was my fault. I compensated perfectly. The operation wasn’t damaged.”
“Ah, but it could have been.”
“That still would not have been my fault,” Buchanan said.
“We’re not discussing fault. We’re discussing what did and didn’t happen and what almost happened. Maybe you’ve become unlucky. The bottom line is you’re thirty-two. In this game, that makes you a senior citizen. Eight years? Christ, it’s amazing you’re still alive. It’s time to walk away.”
Assumed Identity Page 24