Assumed Identity

by David Morrell

  Friday night traffic was dense. Amid gleaming headlights, Buchanan reached the glass-and-steel Tower Hotel two minutes ahead of schedule. Telling the parking attendant that he would probably need the car right away, he darted inside the plush lobby and found his jeans, nylon jacket, and picnic cooler being sternly assessed by a group of men and women wearing tuxedos and glittering evening gowns. Sure, Buchanan thought. There's a reception going on. Bailey found out and took advantage of it. He wants me and especially anyone following me to be conspicuous.

  Used to being inconspicuous, Buchanan felt self-conscious as he waited in the lobby. He looked for Bailey among the guests, not expecting to find him, wondering how Bailey would contact him this time. The clock behind the check-in counter showed twenty after nine, exactly when Buchanan was supposed to.

  'Mr Grant?' a uniformed bellhop asked.

  Buchanan had noticed the short, middle-aged man moving from guest to guest in the lobby, speaking softly to each. 'That's right.'

  'A friend of yours left this envelope for you.'

  Finding a deserted corner, Buchanan ripped it open.

  At quarter to ten, be at the entrance to Shirttail Charlie's restaurant on.

  16

  Three stops later, at eleven o'clock, Buchanan arrived at the Riverside Hotel on Las Olas, a street that seemed the local equivalent of Beverly Hills' Rodeo Drive. From information in the terracotta-floored lobby, he learned that the hotel had been built in 1936, a date which was very old by Fort Lauderdale standards. A few decades before, this area had been wilderness. The wicker furniture and coral fireplaces exuded a sense of history, no matter how recent.

  Buchanan had a chance to learn these facts and notice these details because Bailey didn't contact him on schedule. By twenty after eleven, Bailey still hadn't been in touch. The lobby was deserted.

  'Mr Grant?'

  Buchanan looked up from where he sat on a rattan chair near glass patio doors, a location that he'd chosen because it allowed him to be observed from outside. A woman behind the small reception counter was speaking to him, her eyebrows raised.

  'Yes.'

  'I have a phone call for you.'

  Buchanan carried the picnic cooler to the counter and took the phone from the receptionist.

  'Go out the rear door, cross the street, and walk through the gate, then past the swimming pool.' Bailey's curt instructions were followed by the sudden hum of the dial tone.

  Buchanan handed the telephone back to the receptionist, thanked her, and used the rear exit. Outside, he saw the gate across the street and a walkway through a small, murky park beside the swimming pool, although the swimming pool itself was deserted, its lights off.

  Moving closer, enveloped by the shadows of palm trees, he expected Bailey's voice to drift from the darkness, to give him instructions to leave the money on a barely visible poolside table and continue to stroll as if he hadn't been contacted.

  The only lights were ahead, from occasional arclamps along the canal as well as from a cabin cruiser and a houseboat moored there. He heard an engine rumbling. Then he heard a man call, 'Mr Grant? Is that you over there, Mr Grant?'

  Buchanan continued forward, away from the swimming pool, toward the canal. He immediately realized that the rumbling engine belonged to a water taxi that was temporarily docked, bow first, between the cabin cruiser and the houseboat. The water taxi was yellow, twenty feet long with poles along the gunwales supporting a yellow and green, striped canvas roof. In daylight, the roof would shade passengers from the glare and heat of the sun. But at night, it shut out the little illumination that the arclamps along the canal provided and prevented Buchanan from seeing who was in there.

  Certainly there were passengers. At least fifteen. Their shadowy outlines were evident. But Buchanan had no way to identify them. The canvas roof muffled what they said to each other, although their slurred rhythms made him suspect they were on a Friday-night round of parties and bars.

  'That's right. My name is Grant,' Buchanan said to the driver, who sat at controls in front of the passengers.

  'Well, your friend's already aboard. I wondered if you were going to show up. I was just about to leave.'

  Buchanan strained to see through the darkness beneath the water taxi's roof, then stepped onto the gangplank that extended from the canal to the bow. With his right hand, he gripped a rope railing for balance while he held the picnic cooler in his left and climbed down a few steps into the taxi. Passengers in their early twenties, dressed casually but expensively for an evening out, sat on benches along each side.

  The stern remained shrouded by darkness.

  'How much do I owe you?' Buchanan asked the driver.

  'Your friend already paid for you.'

  'How generous.'

  'Back here, Vic,' a crusty voice called from the gloomy stern.

  As the driver retracted the gangplank, Buchanan made his way past a group of young men on his left and stopped at the stern, his eyes now sufficiently adjusted to the darkness to see Bailey slouched on a bench.

  Bailey waved a beefy hand. 'How ya doin', buddy?'

  Buchanan sat and placed the picnic cooler between them.

  'You didn't need to bring your lunch,' Bailey said.

  Buchanan just stared at him as the driver backed the water taxi from between the cabin cruiser and the houseboat, then increased speed along the canal. Slick, Buchanan thought. I'm separated from my backup team. They couldn't have gotten to the water taxi in time, and certainly they couldn't have hurried on board without making Bailey suspicious.

  Now that Buchanan's eyes had become even more accustomed to the darkness, the glow from condominiums, restaurants, and boats along the canal seemed to increase in brightness. But Buchanan was interested in the spectacle only because the illumination allowed him to see the cellular telephone that Bailey folded and placed in a pouch attached to his belt.

  'Handy things,' Bailey said. 'You can call anybody from anywhere.'

  'Like from a car to a pizza parlor. Or from a water taxi to a hotel lobby.'

  'You got it,' Bailey said. 'Makes it easy to keep in touch while I'm on the go or hangin' around to see if extra company's comin'.' Bailey lowered his voice and gestured toward the cooler. 'No joke. That better not be your lunch, and it better all be here.'

  The other passengers on the boat were talking loudly, obscuring what Bailey and Buchanan said.

  'There's no more where that came from,' Buchanan murmured.

  Bailey raised his bulky shoulders. 'Hey, I'm not greedy. All I need is a little help with my expenses, a little reward for my trouble.'

  'I went through a lot of effort to get what's in this cooler,' Buchanan said. 'I won't go through it again.'

  'I don't expect you to.'

  'That definitely eases my mind.'

  The water taxi arrived at a restaurant-tavern, where a sign on the dock said PAUL'S-ON-THE-RIVER. The stylish building was long and low, its rear section almost completely glass, separated by segments of white stucco. Inside, a band played. Beyond the large windows, customers danced. Others strolled outside, carrying drinks, or sat at tables amid flowering bushes near palm trees.

  The taxi's driver set down the gangplank. Four passengers got up unsteadily to go ashore.

  At once Bailey stood and clutched the picnic cooler. 'This is where we part company, Crawford. Almost forgot, I mean Grant. Why don't you stay aboard, see the sights, enjoy the ride?'

  'Why not?' Buchanan said.

  Bailey looked very pleased with himself. 'Be seein' you.'

  'No. You won't.'

  'Right,' Bailey said and carried the picnic cooler off the water taxi onto the dock. He strolled across the colorfully illuminated lawn toward the music, 'Moon River', and disappeared among the crowd.

  17

  Thirty minutes later, the water taxi brought Buchanan back to the Riverside Hotel. He wouldn't have returned there, except that he needed to retrieve his suitcase from the trunk of Cindy's car. The car
was parked on a quiet street next to the hotel, and after Buchanan placed the keys beneath the driver's floor mat, he carried his suitcase into the hotel, where he phoned for a taxi. When it arrived, he instructed the driver to take him to an all-night car-rental agency. As it happened, the only one that was open was at the Fort Lauderdale airport, and after Buchanan rented a car, he drove to a pay phone to contact Doyle and tell him where to find Cindy's car. Next, he bought -a twelve-pack of beer at a convenience store, drove to a shadowy, deserted street, poured every can of beer over the front seat and floor of the car, then tossed the empty cans onto the floor, and drove away, keeping all the windows open lest he get sick from the odor of the beer. By then, it was quarter after one in the morning. He headed toward the ocean, found a deserted park next to the Intracoastal Waterway, and smashed the car through a protective barrier, making sure he left skid marks, as if the car had been out of control. He stopped the car, got out, put the automatic gearshift into drive, and pushed the car over the seawall into the water. Even as he heard it splash, he was hurrying away to disappear into the darkness. He'd left his suitcase in the car along with his wallet in the nylon jacket he'd borrowed from Doyle. He'd kept his passport, though. He didn't want anyone to do a background check on that. When the police investigated the 'accident' and hoisted the car from the water, they'd find the beer cans. The logical conclusion would be that the driver - Victor Grant, according to the ID in the wallet and the car-rental agreement in the glove compartment - had been driving while under the influence, had crashed through the barricade, and helpless because of alcohol, had drowned. When the police didn't find the body, divers would search, give up, and decide that the corpse would surface in a couple of days. When it didn't, they'd conclude that the remains had been wedged beneath a dock or had been carried by the tide out to sea. More important, Buchanan hoped that Bailey would believe the same thing. Under stress from being blackmailed, fearful that Bailey would keep coming back for more and more money, Crawford-Potter-Grant had rented a car to flee the area, had gotten drunk in the process, had lost control of the vehicle, and.

  Maybe, Buchanan thought. It just might work. Those had been the colonel's instructions at any rate - to make Victor Grant disappear. Buchanan hadn't told Doyle and Cindy what he intended to do because he wanted them to be genuinely surprised if the police questioned them. The disappearance would break the link between Buchanan and Bailey. It would also break the link between Buchanan and what had happened in Mexico. If the Mexican authorities decided to reinvestigate Victor Grant and asked for the cooperation of the American authorities, there'd be no one to investigate.

  All problems solved, Buchanan thought as he hurried from the shadowy park, then slowed his pace as he walked along a dark side street. He'd find a place to hide until morning, buy a razor, clean up in a public restroom, take a bus twenty-five miles south to Miami, use cash to buy an Amtrak ticket, and become an anonymous passenger on the train north to Washington. Now you see me, now you don't. Definitely time for a new beginning.

  The only troubling detail, Buchanan thought, was how the colonel could be sure that he got his hands on all the photographs and the negatives. What if Bailey went into the first men's room he could find, locked a stall, removed the money from the cooler, and left the cooler next to the waste bin? In that case, the surveillance team wouldn't be able to trail Bailey to where he was staying and where presumably he kept the photos. Another troubling detail was the woman, the redhead who'd taken photographs of Buchanan outside the Mexican prison while he talked with the man from the American embassy, the same woman who'd also taken photographs of Buchanan with the colonel on the yacht and later with Bailey on the waterway. What if Bailey had already paid her off and never went near her again? The surveillance team wouldn't be able to find her.

  So what? Buchanan decided as he walked quickly through the secluded, exclusive neighborhood, prepared to duck behind any of the numerous flowering shrubs if he saw headlights approaching. So what if Bailey did pay the woman and never went near her again? He'd have made sure he got the pictures and the negatives first. He wouldn't have confided in her. So it won't matter if the surveillance team can't locate her. It won't even matter if Bailey ditches the cooler and the surveillance team can't find the photographs and the negatives. After all, the pictures are useless to Bailey if the man he's blackmailing is dead.

  18

  EXPLOSION KILLS THREE

  FT LAUDERDALE - A powerful explosion shortly before midnight last night destroyed a car in the parking lot of Paul's-on-the-River restaurant, killing its occupant identified by a remnant of his driver's license as Robert Bailey, 48, a native of Oklahoma. The explosion also killed two customers leaving the restaurant. Numerous other cars were destroyed or damaged. Charred fragments of a substantial amount of money found at the scene have prompted authorities to theorize that the explosion may have been the consequence of a recent, escalating war among drug smugglers.

  19

  MURDER-SUICIDE

  FT LAUDERDALE - Responding to a telephone call from a frightened neighbor, police early this morning investigated gunshots at 233 Glade Street in Plantation and discovered the bodies of Jack Doyle (34) and his wife, Cindy (30), both dead from bullet wounds. It is believed that Mr Doyle, despondent about his wife's cancer, shot her with a.38-caliber, snub-nosed revolver while she slept in their bedroom, then used the same weapon on himself.

  20

  The Yucatan peninsula.

  Struggling to concentrate amid the din of bulldozers, trucks, jeeps, chainsaws, generators, and shouting construction workers, Jenna Lane drew another line on the surveyor's map she was preparing. The map was spread out, anchored by books, on a trestle table in a twenty-by-ten-foot tent that was her office. Sweat trickled down her face and hung on the tip of her chin as she intensified her concentration and made a note beside the line she'd drawn on the map.

  A shadow appeared at the open entrance to her tent. Glancing up, she saw McIntyre, the foreman of the project, silhouetted by dust raised by a passing bulldozer. He removed his stetson, swabbed a checkered handkerchief across his sunburned, dirty, sweaty brow, and raised his voice to be heard above the racket outside. 'He's coming.'

  Jenna frowned and glanced at her watch, the metal band of which was embedded with grit. 'Already? It's only ten o'clock. He's not supposed to be here until-'

  'I told you he's coming.'

  Jenna set down her pencil and walked to the front of her tent, where she squinted in the direction that McIntyre pointed, east, toward the sun-fierce cobalt sky and a growing speck above the jungle. Although she couldn't hear it because of the rumble of construction equipment, she imagined the helicopter's distant drone, its gradual increase to a roar, and then as the chopper's features became distinct, she did hear it setting down on the landing pad near camp, the churning rotors adding their own, distinctive, rapid whump-whump-whump.

  Dust rose - shallow soil that had been exposed when that section of forest was cut down, stumps blasted away or uprooted by bulldozers. Drivers and construction workers momentarily stopped what they were doing and stared toward the landing pad. This wasn't one of the massive, ugly, industrial helicopters that the crew had been using to lift in the vehicles and construction equipment. Rather, this was a small, sleek, passenger helicopter, the kind that movie stars and sports celebrities liked to be seen in, or in this case one that could be anchored on top of a yacht and was owned by one of the richest businessmen in the world. Even from a distance, the red logo on the side of the helicopter was evident: DRUMMOND INDUSTRIES. The force of the name was such that the sight of it compelled the workmen back to their tasks, as if they feared Drummond's anger should he think that they weren't working hard enough.

  But not the guards, Jenna noticed. Constantly patrolling with their rifles, they hadn't paid attention to the helicopter. Professionals, they kept their attention riveted on the surrounding forest.

  'We'd better not keep him waiting,' McIntyre sai
d.

  'He doesn't wait,' Jenna said. 'Hell, look at him. He's already out of the chopper. He'll beat us to the main office. I hear he swims two miles every morning.'

  'Yeah, the old bastard's probably got more energy than both of us,' McIntyre grumbled as Jenna rolled up the surveyor's map and tucked it under her arm.

  They walked quickly toward the most substantial structure in the camp. A one-story, wooden building made from logs, it contained essential supplies - food, fuel, ammunition, dynamite - items that needed to be protected from the weather or scavenging animals, and especially from humans. The building also contained an administrative center where McIntyre stored the project's records, kept in radio contact with his employer, and conducted daily meetings with his various subforemen.

  Jenna had been right. As she and McIntyre approached the building, she saw Alistair Drummond reach it before them. His exact age wasn't known, but he was rumored to be in his early eighties, although except for his severely wrinkled hands he looked twenty years younger, his facial skin unnaturally tight from cosmetic surgery.