Assumed Identity

by David R. Morrell

  Buchanan glanced toward the right, toward the bathroom, to make sure that no one else was waiting. The closet was open, unoccupied.

  He took his key from the lock, closed the door, locked it, and walked toward them. Late-afternoon sunlight filled the room.

  “Captain,” the major said.

  Buchanan nodded and stopped five feet away.

  “You don’t seem surprised to see us,” the major said.

  “At the Farm, I had an Agency trainer who used to say, ‘The only thing you ought to expect is the unexpected.’”

  “Good advice,” the woman said. “I understand a mugger stabbed you.”

  “That I certainly didn’t expect.”

  “How’s the wound?”

  “Healing. Where’s the colonel?”

  “I’m afraid he couldn’t make it,” Alan said.

  “Well, I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”

  “Aren’t you curious how we got in?”

  Buchanan shook his head.

  “Captain”—the major looked displeased—“you were seen in the hotel lobby at one-forty-five. Supposedly you were going to your room. Now you’ve come back, but no one saw you leave in the interim. Where have you been for the past three hours?”

  “Taking a steamboat ride.”

  “Is that before or after you checked the reporter out of her room?”

  “So you know about that? After. In fact, the reporter went with me on the steamboat ride.”

  “What?” Captain Weller leaned forward, her blouse tightening against her breasts. “Weren’t you informed that we were looking for her?”

  “I was told you intended to discourage her. But she kept hounding me, so I decided to do some discouraging of my own. I scared her away from the story.”

  “You . . . ? How did . . . ?”

  “By using her arguments against her. She showed me these.” Buchanan pulled the newspaper clippings from a jacket pocket and set them on the coffee table. As the major grabbed and read them, Buchanan continued, “About Bob Bailey dying in an explosion. About Jack Doyle killing his wife and then himself. Alan”—Buchanan turned to him—“you left out a few things when you told me what happened in Fort Lauderdale after I disappeared from there. Did you know about Bailey and the Doyles?”

  “It didn’t seem necessary to tell you.”

  “Why?”

  “The less you knew about Bailey, the better. If you were interrogated, your confusion would be genuine. As far as the Doyles are concerned, well, we didn’t want to burden you with the knowledge that a man you had worked with had killed his wife and then himself shortly after you left them.”

  “I convinced the reporter that what happened to the Doyles was actually a double murder.”

  “You what? Oh, Jesus,” the major said.

  “I asked her to consider a hypothetical situation,” Buchanan said. “If Bailey was killed because he was blackmailing me, and if the Doyles were killed because they knew too much and might be linked to me when the divers couldn’t find my body, what did that say about the further lengths certain people would go in order to keep Scotch and Soda—she mentioned it first— a secret? I don’t think there’s anything paler than a redhead when the blood drains from her face. She suddenly realized how much danger she was in, that writing a front-page story wasn’t worth losing her life. She’s in a taxi on her way to the airport, where she’ll catch the first plane back to Washington. There won’t be any story.”

  “You actually believe her?”

  “Yes. I told her I’d kill her if she ever wrote the story. I believe her because I know she believed me.”

  The room became silent.

  “She’s out of it,” Buchanan said.

  The major and the captain looked at each other.

  Come on, Buchanan thought. Take the bait.

  “We’d want all the photographs and the negatives.” Alan shifted his weight on the bed.

  The major and the captain turned in his direction, as if they hadn’t been aware of him until now, surprised that he’d spoken.

  “That’s not a problem,” Buchanan said. “She’s already agreed to give them to me. As a gesture of good faith”—he pulled some photographs from an inside pocket of his jacket— “these are the ones she had on her.”

  “You honestly think she’ll stick to her bargain?” the major asked.

  “She’s too afraid not to.”

  “You certainly must have been convincing.”

  “That’s my speciality. Being convincing.”

  But have I convinced you? Buchanan thought.

  “She could make copies of the photographs and create new negatives,” the major said.

  “Or hold some back,” the captain added. “The only way to be sure is to get rid of her.”

  Alan squirmed again, then stood from the bed. “I don’t know.” He shook his head, troubled. “Would that really solve anything? Even if she was terminated, we’d still have to worry that she had copies of her research hidden with friends. There’d be no guarantee that we could find it all. Fear can be an effective motivator. If Buchanan thinks he managed to neutralize the situation without the need for violence, maybe we ought to go along with his suggestion. After all, no matter how much we made her death seem like an accident, there would still be repercussions. Suspicions. Killing her might cause more problems than it solves.”

  Inwardly, Buchanan sighed. I’ve got him. He’s agreeing. Now all I have to do is . . .

  The major frowned. “I’ll have to talk with the colonel.”

  “Of course,” Alan said sarcastically. “The colonel has the final word. The Agency doesn’t count in this. Only you people.”

  The major responded flatly, “We have as much authority as you. The colonel has to be consulted.”

  Shit, Buchanan thought. I only got a postponement.

  He quickly tried another approach.

  “I have something else for you to tell the colonel.”

  “Oh?”

  “. . . I’m resigning.”

  They stared.

  “You were already planning to take me out of operations and use me as an instructor. Why do things halfway? Accept my resignation. If I’m out of the military, I won’t be a threat to you.”

  “Threat? What do you mean?” the major asked.

  “I think that’s obvious enough. The real problem here is me.”

  The room seemed to shrink.

  “I repeat, Captain. What do you mean?” the major asked.

  “We wouldn’t be in this situation if it hadn’t been for what happened to me in Cancún and then in Fort Lauderdale. The operation wouldn’t be threatened if I was out of the way. That wasn’t a mugger who stabbed me last night. It was someone working for you.”

  “That’s absurd,” the captain said.

  “Using a street weapon so it wouldn’t look like a professional hit. Because of the knife, I didn’t figure it out right away. No reputable assassin would ever use a blade. Compared to a bullet, it’s too uncertain. For that matter, too risky, because you have to get right next to your target. But then I realized that what looked like an amateur killing would be a perfect cover for a professional one. Bailey, the Doyles, me. We’d all be dead. A suspicious coincidence, yes. But each of the deaths would be explainable without any need to drag in a conspiracy theory. And if the reporter had a car accident . . .”

  Everyone became very still.

  “All because of the photographs,” Buchanan said. “The ones that showed you, Major, and you, Captain, and more important, the colonel with me on the yacht in Fort Lauderdale. For me to be exposed wasn’t a problem. You knew I’d never implicate anyone. But for you two to have your photograph on the front page of the Washington Post, and in particular for the colonel to be on the front page, that’s a different matter. That would lead to the exposure of all sorts of things. You don’t have to worry about any of that now. The reporter isn’t going to write her story. And even if I hadn’t scared he
r off, the photograph of me with the two of you and the colonel doesn’t mean anything if I can’t be linked to Scotch and Soda. You don’t need to go to the trouble of killing me. I’ll do you all a favor and disappear.”

  The group seemed frozen.

  Finally, the major cleared his throat, then looked awkwardly at the woman and finally Alan.

  “Come on,” Buchanan said. “We’ve got a problem. Let’s discuss it.”

  “Captain, do you realize what you sound like?” the major asked, uneasy.

  “Direct.”

  “Try paranoid.”

  “Fine,” Buchanan said. “Nobody ordered my termination. We’ll pretend it was the random act of violence you wanted it to resemble. However you want to play this. It makes no difference to me. Just so you get the point. I’ll disappear. That way, you’ve got double protection. Holly McCoy won’t write her story. I won’t be around to be questioned.”

  “To hear you talk like this.” The major frowned. “I’m glad we did decide to observe you. You’ve definitely been under cover too long.”

  “I think you’d better get some rest,” Alan said. “You’ve just been released from the hospital. You’ve got to be tired.”

  The woman added, “Being stabbed. Injuring your head again. In your place, I’d—”

  “How’d you know I hurt my head again? I didn’t mention it to anybody.”

  “I just assumed.”

  “Or you heard it from the man you sent to kill me.”

  “Captain, you’re obviously distressed. I want you—in fact, I order you—to stay in this room, to try to relax and get some sleep. We’ll be back here at nine hundred hours tomorrow morning to continue this conversation. Hopefully, you’ll feel less disturbed by then.”

  “I honestly don’t blame you for trying to protect the mission,” Buchanan said. “But let’s not talk around the problem. Get it out in the open. Now that I’ve given you a better solution, you don’t have to kill me.”

  Alan studied Buchanan with concern, then followed the major and the captain somberly out the door.

  12

  Buchanan’s legs felt unsteady as he crossed the room and secured the lock. The strain of the conversation had intensified his headache. He shoved three Tylenol caplets into his mouth and went into the bathroom to drink a glass of water. His mouth was so dry that he drank a second glass. His reflection in the mirror showed dark patches under his eyes. I’m losing it, he thought.

  In the bedroom, he awkwardly closed the draperies. His side hurt when he stretched out on the bed. The darkness was soothing.

  But his mind wouldn’t stop working.

  Did I pull it off?

  Were they convinced?

  He didn’t understand why he was so concerned about Holly’s safety. He’d met her only a few days ago. In theory, they were antagonists. Most of his troubles were due to her interference. In fact, it could be argued that Jack and Cindy Doyle were dead because of her. But the truth was that Holly McCoy hadn’t killed the Doyles. His own people had. Just as they’d killed Bailey. And they’d have killed me, too, if I’d been around when Bailey opened the cooler to look at his money.

  So they waited for another chance to get me, a way that wouldn’t look suspicious even to a reporter.

  Holly McCoy.

  Have I grown attracted to her? he wondered. There had been a time when he could have justified anything—the murder of a reporter, anything—for the sake of maintaining an operation’s security. Now . . .

  Yes?

  Maybe I don’t care about the operation any longer. Or maybe . . .

  What?

  Maybe I’m becoming a human being.

  Yeah, but which human being?

  13

  “One more time,” Alan said. “I want to be sure about this.” He drove a rented Pontiac from the Crowne Plaza hotel. Major Putnam sat next to him. Captain Weller leaned forward from the back. “Do any of you know anything about an order to terminate Buchanan?”

  “Absolutely not,” the captain said.

  “I received no such instructions,” the major said.

  “And I didn’t,” Alan said.

  “What’s this about Jack and Cindy Doyle?” the major asked. “I thought their deaths were a murder-suicide.”

  “So did I,” the captain said. “Buchanan caught me totally off balance when he said they were a double murder. I don’t know anything about orders to terminate them.”

  “Who tried to kill Buchanan?” Alan asked.

  “An attempted mugging is still the most logical explanation,” the major said.

  “In the middle of a crowd outside a restaurant?” Alan gripped the steering wheel harder. “A pickpocket, sure. But I never heard of a pickpocket who drew attention to himself by stabbing the guy he was trying to lift a wallet from.”

  “How about some weirdo who gets his kicks out of stabbing people in public?” the captain asked.

  “That makes more sense.” Alan turned onto Canal Street, squinting at headlights. “It’s crazy, but it makes sense.”

  “The thing is, Buchanan believes we did it,” the major said. “And that’s just as crazy.”

  “But do you think he really believes it?” the captain asked. “He’s an actor. He says things for effect. He can be very convincing.”

  “He certainly convinced me,” Alan said.

  “But why would he lie?” the major asked.

  “To create a smoke screen. To confuse us and divert our attention from the reporter.”

  “Why?” the major repeated.

  “Buchanan might be right that killing the reporter would cause more problems than it solves,” Alan said. “If she’s genuinely intimidated and she doesn’t write the story, we’ve accomplished our purpose.”

  “If. I keep hearing a lot of ifs.”

  “I agree with Buchanan,” the captain said. “I think it’s better if we do nothing at this point and just sweat it out.”

  “On that score, the colonel’s opinion is the only one that matters,” the major said.

  They drove in silence.

  “We still haven’t . . .” Alan scowled at the bright lights of traffic.

  “What?” the captain asked.

  “Did someone try to kill Buchanan? Not a wacko but a professional following orders. And if we didn’t give the orders, who did?”

  14

  The rule was, if a contact didn’t show up at an agreed place on schedule and if no arrangements had been made for an alternate time and place for a meeting, you returned to the rendezvous site twenty-four hours later. With luck, whatever had prevented the contact from coming to the meeting would no longer be an obstacle. But if the contact didn’t show up the second time . . .

  Buchanan didn’t want to think about it. He made his way through the French Quarter. Crowded, narrow streets. Dixieland. The blues. Dancing on the sidewalk. Commotion. But no costumes. This time, with no masks to hide people’s faces, Buchanan would have a much better chance to learn if he was being followed. Last time, he’d been conspicuous because he hadn’t been wearing a costume. Now, just one of the many people in street clothes, he would have a much better chance of blending with a crowd, slipping down an alley, and evading anyone who did try to follow.

  With a sense of déjà vu that made him wince from the memory of when the knife had entered his side, he passed the shadows of Jackson Square, studied Decatur Street, and once more crossed toward Café du Monde. Again the restaurant was busy, although not as much as on Halloween. To make sure that the crowd didn’t prevent him from entering, he’d taken care to arrive early, at 10:15 rather than the scheduled time of eleven when he had last been here with Juana six years ago.

  He festered with impatience. Never showing it, he waited his turn and was escorted by a waiter past pillars, through the noise of the crowd, and to a seat at a small circular white-topped table surrounded by similar busy tables in a corner at the back. By chance, the table was in exactly the spot he would have chosen
to give himself an effective view of the entrance.

  But he wasn’t satisfied. He needed something more, another way to be sure, a further guarantee, and when he saw his chance, he stood to claim a suddenly empty table near the center of the restaurant. It was here, he remembered, that he and Juana had sat six years earlier. Not this same table. He could never be positive of that. But the position was close enough, and when Juana came in, she would have no trouble finding him. Her gaze would scan the congested room, settle on the area that she associated with him, and there he would be, rising, smiling, walking toward her, eager to hold her.

  He glanced at his watch: 10:40. Soon, he thought. Soon.

  His headache made him sick again. When the waiter came to take his order, he asked for the specialty: café au lait and beignets. He also asked for water. That was what he really wanted. Water. The coffee and the beignets were just so he’d be allowed to sit there. The water was so he could swallow more Tylenol.

  Soon.

  Juana.

  “I love you,” he had told her. “I want you to know that you’ll always be special to me. I want you to know that I’ll always feel close to you. I swear to you. If you ever need help, if you’re ever in trouble, all you have to do is ask, and no matter how long it’s been, no matter how far away I am, I’ll—”

  Buchanan blinked, realizing that the waiter was setting down the water, the coffee, and the beignets. After he swallowed the Tylenol, he was startled when he glanced at his watch. Fifteen minutes had passed like fifteen seconds. It was almost eleven o’clock.

  He kept staring toward the entrance.

  Here’s the postcard I never thought I’d send. I hope you meant your promise. The last time and place. Counting on you. PLEASE.

  “Is something wrong, sir?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’ve been sitting here for half an hour and you haven’t touched your coffee or the beignets.”

  “Half an hour?”

  “Other people would like a chance to sit down.”

  “I’m waiting for someone.”

  “Even so, other people would like—”

  “Bring me another round. Here’s ten dollars for your trouble.”