Just as he stared out at the darkness beyond the window of the compartment in the speeding train.
3
He had done it again, Buchanan realized.
He’d become catatonic. Rubbing at the pain in his skull, he had the sense of coming back from far away. The compartment was dark. The night beyond the window was broken only by occasional lights from farms. How long had—?
He glanced down at the luminous dial on his pilot’s watch, Peter Lang’s watch, disturbed to see that the time was eight minutes after ten. He’d left Washington shortly before noon. The train would long ago have left Virginia. It would be well into North Carolina by now, perhaps into Georgia. All afternoon and most of the evening? he thought in dismay. What’s happening to me?
His head throbbing, he stood, turned on the lights in the locked compartment, felt exposed by his reflection in the window, and quickly closed the curtains. The reflected haggard face had looked unfamiliar. He opened his travel bag, took three aspirins from his toilet kit, and swallowed them with water from the tiny sink in the compartment’s utility washroom. While he urinated, he felt his mind drifting again, going back six years, and he concentrated to pay attention to now.
He needed to get into character. He had to rebecome Peter Lang. But he also had to be functional. He couldn’t keep staring off into space. After all, the whole point of going to New Orleans, of finding out why Juana had sent the postcard, was to give himself a purpose, a sense of direction.
Juana. As much as he needed to focus on reassuming the character of Peter Lang, he had to focus on Juana. She’d be— what?—thirty-one now. He wondered if she’d kept in shape. She hadn’t been tall, and she’d been thin, but her military-trained body had compensated. It had been hard and strong and magnificent. Would her thick dark hair still be as short as when he’d known her? He had wanted to run his fingers through it, to clutch it, to tug it gently. Would her dark eyes still be fiery? Would her lips still have that sensuous contour? She’d had a habit, when she’d been concentrating, of pursing those lips and sticking them out slightly, and he had wanted to stroke them as much as he’d wanted to touch her hair.
What was his true motive for going back? he wondered. Was it really just to give himself mobility?
Or had the postcard awakened something in him? He’d repressed his memories of her, just as he’d repressed so much about himself. And now . . .
Maybe I shouldn’t have let her go. Maybe I should have . . .
No, he thought. The past is a trap. Leave it alone. Obviously, it’s not doing you any good if it makes you catatonic. What you’re feeling is a bush-league mistake. In your former lives, you left plenty of unfinished business, a lot of people whom you liked or at least whom your assumed identities liked. But you’ve never gone back before. Be careful.
But I didn’t love those other people. Why did she send the postcard? What sort of trouble is she in?
Your controllers would have a fit if they knew what you were thinking.
The trouble is, I remember her so vividly.
Besides, I promised.
No, a warning voice told him. You didn’t promise. Peter Lang did.
Exactly. And right now, that’s who I am.
I meant what I said. I promised.
4
Welcoming the distraction of hunger, relieved to be in motion, Buchanan-Lang unlocked the compartment, checked the swaying corridor, saw no one, and was just about to leave when he decided that the simple lock on the compartment couldn’t be trusted. He took his small travel bag—the passport and the handgun in it—with him, secured the compartment, and proceeded toward the dining car.
It was three cars away, and when he entered it, he discovered that it was almost deserted, a few passengers sipping coffee, waiters clearing dirty dishes from the tables. The overhead lights of the dining car gleamed off the windows and made the area seem extra bright, obscuring whatever was out in the darkness.
Buchanan rubbed his aching forehead and approached the nearest waiter.
The weary-looking man anticipated his question. “Sorry, sir. We’re closed. Breakfast starts at six in the morning.”
“I’m afraid I took a nap and overslept. I’m starved. Isn’t there something you can give me so my stomach won’t growl all night?” Buchanan discreetly held out a ten-dollar bill.
“Yes, sir. I understand your problem. I’ll see what I can do. Perhaps a couple of cold roast beef sandwiches to take with you.”
“Sounds good.”
“And maybe a soda.”
“A beer would be better.”
“Well,” a voice said behind Buchanan, “I don’t have the beer. But just in case, I did plan ahead and arranged for some sandwiches.”
Refusing to show that he was surprised, Buchanan made himself wait a moment before he slowly turned to face the woman whose voice he had heard. When he saw her, he was even more careful not to show his surprise. Because he definitely was surprised.
The woman had long, dramatic flame-red hair. She was tall. In her late twenties. Athletic figure. Strong forehead. Excellent cheekbones. Fashion-model features.
He knew this woman. At least, he’d seen her before. The first time, she’d worn beige slacks and a yellow blouse. That had been in Mexico. She’d been taking photographs of him outside the jail in Mérida.
The second time, she’d worn jeans and a denim shirt. That had been near Pier 66 in Fort Lauderdale. She’d been taking photographs of him while he stopped his boat next to Big Bob Bailey in the channel.
This time, she wore brown poplin slacks and a khaki safari jacket, the type with plenty of pockets, several of which had objects in them. She looked like an ad from a Land’s End catalog. A camera bag was slung over her left shoulder. The camera itself dangled from a sling around her neck. The only detail that didn’t fit the Land’s End image was the bulging paper bag in her right hand.
With her left hand, she added ten dollars to the ten that Buchanan had already given the waiter. “Thank you.” She smiled. “I didn’t think my friend would ever show up. I appreciate your patience.”
“No problem, ma’am.” The waiter pocketed the money. “If there’s anything else . . .”
“Nothing, thank you.”
As the waiter went back to clearing dirty dishes from a table, the woman redirected her attention toward Buchanan. “I hope your heart wasn’t set on those roast beef sandwiches he mentioned. Mine are chicken salad.”
“I beg your pardon?” Buchanan asked.
“Chicken . . .”
“That’s not what . . . Do we know each other?”
“You ask that after everything we’ve been through together?” The woman’s emerald eyes twinkled.
“Lady, I’m not in the mood. I’m sure there are plenty of other guys on the train who . . .”
“Okay, if you insist, we’ll play. Do we know each other?” She debated with herself. “Yes. In a manner of speaking. You could say we’re acquainted, although of course we’ve never met.” She looked amused.
“I don’t want to be rude.”
“It doesn’t matter to me. I’m used to it.”
“You’ve had too much to drink.”
“Not a drop. But I wish I had been drinking. I’m bored enough from waiting here so long. On second thought . . .” She turned to the waiter. “A couple of beers sound good. Do you suppose we could still have them?”
“Certainly, ma’am. Anything else?”
“Make it four beers, and you may as well add those roast beef sandwiches. I have a feeling this is going to be a long night.”
“Then maybe coffee . . . ?”
“No. The beers will be fine,” she said. As the waiter headed away from them, she turned again toward Buchanan. “Unless you’d prefer coffee.”
“What I’d prefer is to know what the hell you think you’re doing,” Buchanan said.
“Requesting an interview.”
“What?”
“I’m a reporter.�
�
“Congratulations. What’s that got to do with me?”
“I’ll make you a bet.”
Buchanan shook his head. “This is absurd.” He started to leave.
“No, really. I’ll bet I can guess your name.”
“A bet means you win or lose something. I can’t see what I win or—”
“If I can’t guess your name, I’ll leave you alone.”
Buchanan thought about it. “All right.” He sighed. “Anything to get rid of you. What’s my name?”
“Buchanan.”
“Wrong. It’s Peter Lang.” Again he started to walk away.
“Prove it.”
“I don’t have to prove anything. I’m out of patience.” Buchanan kept walking away.
She followed him. “Look, I was hoping to do this in private, but if you want to make it difficult, that’s up to you. Your name isn’t Peter Lang any more than it’s Jim Crawford, Ed Potter, Victor Grant, and Don Colton. You did use those names, of course. And many others. But your given name is Buchanan. First name: Brendan. Nickname: Bren.”
Muscles cramping, Buchanan stopped at the exit from the dining car. Not showing his tension, he turned, noting with relief that the tables at this end of the car were all empty. He pretended to be innocently exasperated. “What do I have to do to get rid of you?”
“Get rid of me? That’s a figure of speech, I hope.”
“I don’t know what you’re—”
She held up the bulging paper bag. “I’m hungry. I couldn’t find you on the train, so I kept waiting for you to come to the dining car. Then I worried that maybe you’d brought something with you to eat. Every half hour, I had to slip the waiter ten dollars so he’d let me keep my table without ordering. Another ten minutes, the place would have been empty, and he’d have made me leave. Thank God you showed up.”
“Sure,” Buchanan said. “Thank God.” He noticed the waiter come down the aisle toward them.
“Here are the sandwiches and the beer.” The waiter handed her another paper bag.
“Thanks. How much do I owe you?” She paid him, adding a further tip.
Then Buchanan and she were alone again.
“So what do you say?” The woman’s emerald eyes continued to twinkle. “At least you’ll get something to eat. Since I couldn’t find you in the coach seats, I assume you have a compartment. Why don’t we . . . ?”
“If I really use all the names you claim I do, I must be involved in something very shady.”
“I try not to make judgments.”
“But what am I? In the Mafia? A secret agent? Won’t you be afraid to be alone with me?”
“Who says I’m alone? Surely you don’t think I’d go on this assignment without help.”
“Don’t tell me you’re with those two guys who just finished their coffee at the other end of the car,” Buchanan said. “They’re leaving and not in this direction. It doesn’t look to me like you’re with anybody.”
“Whoever it is wouldn’t let you see him.”
“Yeah, sure, right.”
“Just as I assume that anybody following you wouldn’t be obvious, either.”
“Why would anybody follow me?” Buchanan suddenly wondered if he was being followed. “This is certainly the weirdest . . . Okay. I’m hungry. I get the feeling you won’t let me alone. Let’s eat.”
He opened the door from the dining car. The clack-clack-clack of the wheels became louder. “I’m warning you, though.”
“What?” She straightened.
“I’m not easy.”
“What a coincidence.” She followed.
5
Pretending not to notice her suspicion when he locked the door, Buchanan lifted the compartment’s small table from the wall and secured its brace. Then he unpacked the paper bags and spread out their contents, making sure he took the roast beef sandwiches, since he didn’t know what she might have put in the chicken salad sandwiches while she waited for him. He twisted off the caps on two bottles of beer.
Throughout, she remained standing. In the narrow compartment, Buchanan felt very aware of being close to her.
He handed her an open bottle of beer, bit into a sandwich, and sat on one side of the table. “You think you know my name. In fact, according to you, I’ve got several of them. What’s yours? ”
She sat across from him, brushing back a strand of red hair. Her lipstick was the same color. “Holly McCoy.”
“And you say you’re a reporter?” Buchanan drank from his beer, noting that she hadn’t touched hers, thinking, Maybe she expects me to drink all four bottles and hopes the beer will make me less careful about what I’m saying. “For what newspaper?”
“The Washington Post.”
“I read that paper a lot. But I don’t think I’ve ever seen your name as a byline.”
“I’m new.”
“Ah.”
“This will be my first major story.”
“Ah.”
“For the Post. Before that, I worked as a feature writer for the L.A. Times.”
“Ah.” Buchanan swallowed part of a sandwich. The roast beef wasn’t bad—a little dry, but the mayonnaise and lettuce compensated. He sipped more of his beer. “I thought you were hungry. You’re not eating.” As she made herself nibble at some chicken salad, he continued. “Now what’s this about an interview? And these names I’m supposed to have . . . I told you, I’m Peter Lang.”
Buchanan regretted that. It had been a mistake. When the woman had confronted him in the dining car, he’d responded with the name of the role on which he was concentrating at the moment. His identities had become confused. He had no ID for Peter Lang. He had to correct the problem.
“I have a confession to make,” he said. “I lied. You told me you’d leave me alone if you couldn’t guess my name. So when you called me by my right name, I decided to pretend I was somebody else and hoped you’d go away.”
“I didn’t,” she said.
“Then I might as well be honest.” He set down his bottle of beer and reached in his back pocket, bringing out his wallet showing her his driver’s license. “My name is Buchanan. Brendan. Nickname: Bren. Although no one’s called me Bren in quite a while. How did you know?”
“You’re in the military.”
“Right again. And I repeat, how did you know? Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m a captain with Special Forces. My home base is Fort Bragg. I’m on furlough, heading to New Orleans. Never been there before. So what? You have a thing about soldiers? Is that it?”
She tilted her head, a motion that emphasized her elegant neck. “In a manner of speaking.”
“Well, as long as you’re speaking, why don’t you speak plainly?” Buchanan said. “Enough is enough. You still haven’t told me how you know my name. I’ve been a good sport. What’s this about?”
“Humor me. I’d like to mention some code words to you,” she said.
“Code words? Of all the . . .” Buchanan gestured with exasperation.
“Tell me if they mean anything to you. Task Force One Hundred and Sixty. Seaspray. The Intelligence Support Activity. Yellow Fruit.”
Jesus Christ, Buchanan thought, not showing how startled he was. “I’ve never heard of them.”
“Now why don’t I believe you?”
“Look, lady—”
“Relax. Enjoy the sandwiches,” she said. “I’ll tell you a story.”
6
Operation Eagle Claw. On April 24, 1980, a U.S. military counterterrorist unit known as Delta was sent into Iran to rescue fifty-two Americans who’d been held hostage in Teheran since November of 1979. Eight helicopters, three MC-130 troop planes, and three EC-130 fuel planes were scheduled to set down at a remote area, code-named Desert One. After refueling, the helicopters would then proceed to a landing site outside Teheran. The 118-man assault team, concealed by night, would enter the city and converge on the target zone.
From the outset, however, problems afflicted th
e mission. En route from the U.S. aircraft carrier Nimitz in the Persian Gulf, one of the helicopters had to turn back because of difficulties with its rotor blades. Soon, another had to return because of a failed navigational system. At Desert One, yet another helicopter malfunctioned, this time the victim of a hydraulic leak. Because no fewer than six helicopters were required for the mission, Operation Eagle Claw had to be aborted. But as the team pulled out, one of the remaining helicopters struck one of its companion EC-130 fuel planes. The resulting explosion killed eight U.S. soldiers and critically burned five others. Flames prevented the bodies of the victims from being recovered. Secret papers and classified equipment had to be abandoned.
Humiliated and outraged, the Pentagon determined to find out what had gone wrong. Clearly, more than just mechanical failures were at fault. An exhaustive investigation concluded that various branches of the U.S. military had so competed with one another to be a part of the rescue that their efforts were dangerously counterproductive. Inefficiency, lack of preparedness, insufficient training, inadequate transportation, incomplete and unreliable information—the list of problems went on and on. It quickly became evident that if the United States was going to have an effective military antiterrorist group, that group would have to be capable of operating on its own, without needing help from outside sources, either military or civilian. Delta, the team of commandos who would have performed the hostage rescue, was assigned a permanent training base in a restricted section of Fort Bragg in North Carolina. A similar group, SEAL Team 6, was stationed at the Little Creek Naval Base in Virginia. The Joint Special Operations Command was created to supervise unconventional units in all branches of the U.S. military. A separate group, the Special Operations Division, was created to coordinate special operations exclusively within the Army.
7
As the woman talked, Buchanan finished one beer and opened another. He bunched up his sandwich wrappers, putting them in a paper bag. He stifled a yawn. “This sounds more like a history lecture than a story. Remember, I’m assigned to Fort Bragg. I know all about the specifics of the failed hostage rescue and the establishment of Delta Force.”
Assumed Identity Page 27