Assumed Identity

by David R. Morrell

  “Oh.”

  “And if you don’t happen to have a toothbrush, you can use mine.”

  “On second thought . . .”

  “You bet.” Buchanan unlocked and opened the door. “Good night, Holly.”

  “Good night.”

  9

  “How did she know my real name? How did she know so many of my pseudonyms? How did she know where to find me? I asked her those questions several times.” Buchanan was in a phone booth on Loyola Avenue, not far from Union Passenger Terminal in New Orleans. The street was noisy. The October sky was hazy blue. The weather was warm and humid. But all Buchanan cared about was what he heard on the phone and whether he was being followed.

  “We’ll find out,” his deep-voiced contact officer said. “Do whatever you were going to do. Don’t change your plans. We’ll get back to you. But if anything new develops, call us immediately. Just remember, the evidence she claims to have—the photographs—they aren’t conclusive.”

  “But she’s not supposed to have those photographs at all. What happened in Fort Lauderdale after I left?” Buchanan demanded. “This problem was supposed to have been taken care of.”

  “We thought the woman was merely a hired hand. Nobody guessed she’d be a reporter. When she didn’t resurface, she didn’t seem important.”

  “For all I know, Bailey’s involved in this, too.”

  “No,” the voice said firmly. “He isn’t. Just stay calm. Enjoy your furlough. At the moment, the woman can’t prove anything.”

  “Tell the colonel he was in one of the photographs she showed me.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be sure to tell him. Meanwhile, in case we need to get in touch with you, stick around your hotel room between six and eight tonight. After that, check the possible rendezvous sites we agreed on before you left.”

  Tense, Buchanan hung up the phone, picked up his travel bag, opened the booth’s door, and stepped out.

  A redheaded woman and her male companion appeared from behind trees in a nearby park.

  God, Buchanan thought.

  He stalked toward them. “Enough is enough. You’re not going to ruin my furlough by following me.”

  Holly McCoy looked disappointed that she’d been spotted.

  “Who were you phoning? Your superior officers to tell them you’d been exposed?”

  “An old friend who moved down here. Not that it’s any of your business.”

  “Prove it. Let’s go visit him.”

  “His girlfriend told me he had to go to Houston for an emergency sales conference.”

  “Convenient. What’s his name?”

  “Lady, I’m annoyed that I won’t get to see him, and you’re not making things any better by—”

  “Holly. Please, call me Holly. I mean, since we nearly spent the night together, we might as well use each other’s first name.”

  Buchanan turned to her male companion. “Whatever you’re being paid, it isn’t enough. After listening to her all the time, don’t you just want to put a noose around your neck and put an end to it all?”

  He walked away toward the entrance to the nearby post office.

  “Brendan!” Holly called.

  Buchanan didn’t respond.

  “Bren!” she called.

  Buchanan kept walking.

  “Hey!” she called. “What hotel are you using?”

  It had been so long since anyone had used Buchanan’s first name and his nickname that he didn’t identify them with himself. Slowly, they registered on him. He turned. “Why should I make things easy for you? Damn it, find out for yourself.”

  In front of the post office, a man got out of a taxi. Buchanan ducked in and gave directions to the driver. As the taxi sped into traffic, the last thing he heard Holly shout was, “Hey!”

  10

  Brendan. Bren. As his first name and his nickname echoed in his consciousness, Buchanan became more aware of how long it had been since he had portrayed himself.

  But this was different. Now he found himself confronted by the most complex assumption of identity that he had ever attempted. Not one identity but two. Simultaneously. Brendan Buchanan and Peter Lang. Not schizophrenia, for in that case, one identity would alternate with the other. No, these identities had to be multilayered, coexisting. Compatible yet separate. Balanced within the same instant.

  To fulfill his purpose for coming to New Orleans, to find out why Juana had sent the postcard, to learn the trouble she was in, he had to reconstruct Peter Lang. After all, Peter Lang had made the promise to help her. Peter Lang had been in love with her. Desperate not to be himself, Buchanan wanted very much to be Peter Lang.

  But Peter Lang wasn’t being followed by Holly McCoy. Peter Lang hadn’t worked for the Intelligence Support Activity. He wasn’t now assigned to Scotch and Soda. Oh, Peter Lang had worked for a clandestine branch of Special Operations. That was true. But not these particular ones. Peter Lang wasn’t under investigation by the Washington Post. Brendan Buchanan was, and it was Brendan Buchanan who would have to deceive and discourage Holly McCoy.

  Thus Peter Lang would pretend to be Brendan Buchanan. And Brendan Buchanan . . . Well, he had to do something while he was in New Orleans. He couldn’t just sit in his hotel room and show Holly that she’d made him nervous. As a consequence, he would pretend to be Peter Lang and revisit the spots he had so admired when he’d lived here six years ago.

  Peter Lang would have stayed at a place he knew in the French Quarter, but in theory, Brendan Buchanan had never been to New Orleans. He didn’t know the secret good places. He would choose an easier-to-book, less quaint, but first-rate hotel, something near the French Quarter but also near the Riverwalk mall and the other downtown attractions. The Holiday Inn–Crowne Plaza, tall and gleaming, seemed ideal. Having made a reservation for Brendan Buchanan, he checked in, was shown to his twelfth-floor room, waited until the bellhop had left, then locked the door and transferred his handgun and Victor Grant’s passport from his travel bag to his clothes. After all, the room might be searched. The passport fit within his lightweight gray sport coat. The gun fit underneath the sport coat, behind his belt, at his spine. He didn’t bother to check the view.

  Two minutes after having been shown to his room, he left it, taking the fire stairs to the lobby. He scanned it to make sure that Holly McCoy wasn’t in sight, then walked outside and got in the taxi whose driver he had told to wait for him.

  “Where you gwin to now, suh?” the elderly, silver-haired, resonant-voiced black man asked.

  “Metairie Cemetery.”

  “Somebody die, suh?”

  “All the time.”

  “Ain’t that the truth, suh.”

  Buchanan’s contact officer had told him to stay at the hotel from six to eight this evening in case he had to be given a message. But that was three hours from now, and Buchanan wanted to keep moving. More important, he wanted to do what Peter Lang would do. So he leaned back in the taxi, pretending to admire the sights as the driver headed down Tchoupitoulas Street, got on the 90 expressway, and merged with rushing traffic, speeding toward Metairie Road.

  The huge cemetery, established in 1873, had once been a pre–Civil War racetrack. Like the many other old cemeteries in New Orleans, it consisted of rows and rows of masonry tombs. Each tomb was one hundred feet long and four tiers high, with niches into which coffins had been slid, the entrances sealed. The land was so flat and the Mississippi so close that in the previous century the city’s moist soil had necessitated aboveground burial. Since then, modern drainage systems had reduced the moisture problem. Nonetheless, tradition had been established, and most interments were still above ground.

  Peter Lang had come here often. Among the old cemeteries he’d frequently visited, Metairie had been his favorite. His ostensible purpose for coming had been his taste for gothic atmosphere and his interest in history, although the actual reason had been that the nooks and crannies of the decaying cemeteries had provided abundant location
s for message dead drops (Buchanan-Lang’s then control officer had had a morbid sense of humor). On rare occasions, a messenger had passed him a coded note by means of brush contact, the cemeteries so crowded with visitors and mourners that the skillful exchange would not have been detected.

  Now Buchanan-Lang came for another reason. He associated the cemetery with Juana. She had often accompanied him on his visits, and her interest in the old tombs had eventually rivaled his. He particularly remembered her delight when she first came upon the miniature mausoleum built for Josie Arlington, a prominent madam in the city many years before. Josie had decided to have her tomb built from symbolic red stone and decorated with granite torches. As Buchanan-Lang reached the tomb, he could almost hear Juana’s laughter. The haze in the sky had lifted. The sharp sun gleamed from deep blue, and in the sudden clarity that contrasted with the gloom of the crumbling cemetery, he imagined Juana standing next to him, her head tilted back, her smile bright, her hand on his shoulder. He wanted to hug her.

  And tonight he would.

  I should never have let you go. My life would have been so different.

  I won’t let you go a second time. I didn’t know how much I needed you.

  I meant what I said six years ago. I love you.

  Or Peter Lang does.

  But what about Buchanan-Lang? he wondered.

  And what about Buchanan?

  His skull wouldn’t stop throbbing. He massaged his temples, but his headache continued to torture him.

  11

  Six P.M.

  Back in his hotel room, he obeyed instructions and waited in case his superiors needed to contact him. He thought about ordering a meal from room service, but his appetite was gone. He thought about watching CNN, but he had no interest. Juana. He kept anticipating his reunion with her. He kept reliving their last night together six years ago. He kept regretting his failed opportunity.

  He sat in a chair, and suddenly the room was in blackness. He’d left the draperies open to appreciate the sunset. A moment ago, it seemed, the sky had been crimson. Now abruptly it and the room were dark. Confused, uneasy, he glanced at the luminous dial on his watch.

  Nine-sixteen?

  No. That wasn’t possible. The shadows must be playing tricks on him. He wasn’t seeing the dial correctly. Leaning toward a table, he turned on a light and studied his watch, disturbed to discover that the time was indeed 9:16, that three hours and sixteen minutes had passed without his being aware of them.

  Dear God, he thought, that’s the third time in the last three days. No. I’m wrong. It’s the fourth. Jesus. Am I so preoccupied that I’m blotting out my surroundings?

  He stood, went to the bathroom, then came back and paced, trying to regain his sense of motion. As he passed the telephone on the bureau near the closet, he was startled to notice that the tiny red message light was flashing.

  But I didn’t hear the phone ring.

  Worried that his contact officer had tried to relay emergency instructions, he quickly picked up the phone and pressed zero.

  After three buzzes, a woman answered. “Hotel operator.”

  He tried to sound calm. “This is room twelve fourteen. My message light is flashing.”

  “Just a moment, sir, while I . . . Yes.”

  Buchanan’s heart pounded.

  The operator said, “Holly McCoy left a message at five-forty-five. It says, ‘We’re staying in the same hotel. Why don’t we get together later?’ I can call her room if you like, sir.”

  “No, thank you. It won’t be necessary.”

  Buchanan set down the phone.

  His emotions were mixed. He felt relieved that he hadn’t missed an urgent message that his superiors had tried to give him. He felt equally relieved that the message he did receive had been logged at 5:45. Before he’d returned to his room. Before he’d sat down and lost over three hours. At least he wasn’t losing touch so deeply that a phone call had failed to rouse him.

  But he also felt disturbed that Holly McCoy had managed to track him to this hotel. It wasn’t just her annoying persistence that troubled him, her relentless pressure. It was something further. How had she found him? Was she so determined that she’d telephoned every one of the hundreds of hotels in the area and asked for . . . ?

  When I made the reservation, I should have used a different name.

  Hey, using different names is what got you into this. If Holly McCoy found out that you used an alias to register, then she’d really be suspicious. Besides, if you’d used an unauthorized false name to register, your superiors would have wondered what on earth you thought you were doing? You’re supposed to be on R and R, not on a mission.

  But that’s exactly what Buchanan was on, a mission, and the rendezvous time was almost upon him. He had to get to Café du Monde by eleven o’clock. That was when he and Juana had arrived there six years ago.

  Tonight. After making sure that his pistol was covered by his gray sport coat and securely braced behind his belt, at his spine, he opened the door, checked the hallway, locked his room, and went quickly down the fire stairs.

  12

  The night was eerily similar to the one six years ago. For example, as Buchanan left the hotel, he noticed that the air was balmy with the hint of rain, a pleasant breeze coming in from the Mississippi. The same as before.

  He took care to make sure that Holly McCoy wasn’t in sight, but as he walked along Tchoupitoulas Street, restraining his pace so he wouldn’t attract attention, another parallel between tonight and six years before became disconcertingly obvious. It was Halloween. Many pedestrians he passed wore costumes, and again similar to six years before, the most popular costume seemed to be a skeleton: a black tight-fitting garment with the phosphorescent images of bones painted on it and a head mask highlighted with white, representing a skull. With so many people resembling one another, he couldn’t tell if he was being followed. More, all Holly McCoy needed to do to disguise her conspicuous red hair was to wear a head mask. By contrast, on this night, he looked conspicuous, since he was one of the minority who weren’t wearing a costume of some sort.

  As he crossed Canal Street toward the French Quarter, he began to hear music, faint, then distinct, the increasing throb and wail of jazz. A while ago, he’d read in a newspaper that New Orleans had instituted a noise ordinance, but tonight no one seemed to care. Street bands competed with those in bars. Dixieland, the blues—these and many other styles pulsed along the French Quarter’s narrow, crowded streets as costumed revelers danced, sang, and drank in celebration of the night of the dead.

  . . . gone and left me.

  When the saints . . .

  Buchanan tried to lose himself in the crowd. He had less than an hour before he was supposed to be at Café du Monde, and he wanted to use that hour to guarantee that his meeting with Juana would not be observed.

  As he headed up Bienville Street and then along Royal Street, then up Conti to Bourbon Street, he felt frustrated by the density of the crowd. It prevented him from moving as fast as he wanted, from taking advantage of opportunities to duck into a courtyard or down a side street. Every time he attempted an evasion tactic, a group would suddenly loom in front of him, and anyone who followed would not have trouble keeping up with him while blending with the festivities. He bought a devil’s mask from a sidewalk vendor and immediately found that it restricted his vision so much that he bumped into people, making him feel vulnerable and self-conscious. He took it off, glanced at his watch, and was amazed to discover how much his concentration had compressed the time. It was almost eleven. He had to get to the rendezvous site.

  Soon, he thought. Soon he would put his arms around Juana. Soon he’d be able to find out why she needed him. He’d help her. He’d show her how much he loved her. He’d correct the mistake he’d made six years ago.

  Who had made?

  Coming down Orleans Avenue, he reached the shadows of St. Anthony’s Garden. From there, he took Pirate’s Alley down to Jackson S
quare. Its huge bronze statue of Andrew Jackson on horseback rose ghostlike from the darkness of the gardens in the locked, deserted park. Using one of the walkways that flanked the wrought-iron fence of the square, he at last reached Decatur Street and paused in the shadows next to the square while he studied his destination.

  Where he stood was surprisingly free of the congestion and noise of the rest of the French Quarter. He felt apart from things, more vulnerable. Several glances behind him gave him the assurance of being alone.

  And yet he felt threatened. Again he studied his destination. At last, he stepped into view, felt as if he had reentered the world, crossed Decatur, and made his approach toward Café du Monde.

  It was a large concrete building whose distinctive feature was that its walls were composed of tall, wide archways that made the restaurant open-air. During heavy rains, the interior could be protected by lowering green-and-white-striped canvas, but usually—and tonight was no exception—the only thing that separated people on the street from the restaurant’s patrons were waist-high iron railings. Tonight, the same as six years ago, the place was crowded more than usual. Because of the holiday. Because of Halloween. Expectant customers, many of them in costume, stood in a line on the sidewalk, waiting to be admitted.

  Buchanan strained to catch a glimpse of Juana, hoping that the crowd would have made her decide to wait outside for him. He and Juana would be able to get away from the noise and confusion. He would lovingly put his arm around her and try to find a quiet place. He would get her to tell him what terrible urgency had made her send the postcard, allowing him a second chance.

  There was an addition to the restaurant. Smaller than the main section, it had a green-and-white roof supported by widely separated slender white poles that made this part of the restaurant seem even more open-air. He stared past the low metal railing toward the customers close together around small circular tables. The place rippled with constant movement. Hundreds of conversations rushed over him.