Assumed Identity

by David Morrell

  '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 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 overseen 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 re-examine 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?'

&
nbsp; '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 insure 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.'

  'The fact that I'm still alive proves how good I am. I don't deserve.'

  The rain increased, drumming on the car's roof. The windshield wipers flapped harder.

  'Did you ever see your file?'

  Despite his pain, Buchanan shook his head.

  'Would you like to?'

  'No.'

  'The psychological profile is very revealing.'

  'I'm not interested.'

  'You've got what's called a "dissociative personality."'

  'I told you I'm not interested.'

  The man changed lanes again, maintaining speed despite the rain. 'I'm not a psychologist, but the file made sense to me. You don't like yourself. You do everything you can to keep from looking inward. You split away. You identify with people and objects around you. You objectify. You. dissociate.'

  Buchanan frowned ahead at the traffic obscured by the rain.

  'In average society, that condition would be a liability,' the man continued. 'But your trainers realized what a prize they had when their computer responded to a survey by choosing your profile. In high school, you'd already demonstrated a talent - perhaps a better term is compulsion - for acting. At Benning and Bragg, your Special Ops commanders gave you glowing reports for your combat skills. Considering the unique slant of your personality, all that remained to qualify you was even more specialized training at the Farm.'

  'I don't want to hear any more,' Buchanan said.

  'You're an ideal undercover operative. It's no wonder you were able to assume multiple identities for eight years, and that your commanders thought you were capable of doing so without breaking down. Hell, yes. You'd already broken down. Working under cover was the way you healed. You hated yourself so much that you'd do anything, you'd suffer anything for the chance not to be yourself.'

  Buchanan calmly reached out and grasped the man's right elbow.

  'Hey,' the man said.

  Buchanan's middle finger found the nerve he wanted.

  'Hey,' the man repeated.

  Buchanan squeezed.

  The man screamed. Jerking from pain, he caused the car to swerve, its rear tires fishtailing on the wet, slick pavement. Behind and in the passing lane, other drivers swerved in startled response and blared their horns.

  'Now the way this is going to work,' Buchanan said, 'is either you'll shut up or else you'll feel what it's like to lose control of a car doing fifty-five miles an hour.'

  The man's face was the color of concrete. His mouth hung open in agony. Sweat beaded his brow as he struggled to keep control of the car.

  He nodded.

  'Good,' Buchanan said. 'I knew we could reach an understanding.' Releasing his grip, he sat rigidly straight and looked forward.

  The man mumbled something.

  'What?' Buchanan asked.

  'Nothing,' the man answered.

  'That's what I thought.'

  But Buchanan knew what the man had said.

  Because of your brother.

  11

  'What's he doing now?' the man who called himself Alan asked as he entered the apartment directly above Buchanan's.

  'Nothing,' the muscular man, Major Putnam, said. He sipped from a styrofoam cup of coffee and watched the television monitors. Again he wore civilian clothes.

  'Well, he must be doing something.' Alan glanced around the apartment. The colonel and Captain Weller weren't around.

  'Nope,' Major Putnam said. 'Nothing. When he came in, I figured he'd pour himself a drink, go to the bathroom, read a magazine, watch television, do exercises, whatever. But all he did was go over to the sofa. There he is. That's what he's been doing since you left him. Nothing.'

  Alan approached the row of television monitors. Massaging his right elbow where the nerve that Buchanan had pinched still troubled him, he frowned at a black-and-white image of Buchanan sitting on the sofa. 'Jesus.'

  Buchanan sat bolt-straight, motionless, his expression rigid, his intense gaze focused on a chair across from him.

  'Jesus,' Alan repeated. 'He's catatonic. Does the colonel know about this?'

  'I phoned him.'

  'And?'

  'I'm supposed to keep watching. What did the two of you talk about? When he came in, he looked.'

  'It's what we didn't talk about.'

  'I don't understand.'

  'His brother.'

  'Christ,' the major said, 'you know that's an off-limits subject.'

  'I wanted to test him.'

  'Well, you certainly got a reaction.'

  'Yeah, but it's not the one I wanted.'

  12

  Buchanan was reminded of an old story about a donkey between two bales of hay. The donkey stood exactly midpoint between the bales. Each bale was the same size and had the same fragrance. With no reason to choose one bale over the other, the donkey starved to death.

  The story - which could never happen in the real world because the donkey could never be exactly at midpoint and the bales could never be exactly the same - was a theoretical way to illustrate the problem of free will. The ability to choose, which most people took for granted, depended on certain conditions, and without them, a person could be motiveless, just as Buchanan found that he was now.

  His brother.

  Buchanan had so thoroughly worked to obliterate the memory that for the past eight years he'd managed not to be conscious of the critical event that controlled his behavior. Not once had he thought about it. On rare occasions of weakness, late at night, weary, he might sense the nightmare lurking in the darkness of his subconscious, crouching, about to spring. Then he would muster all his strength of resolve to thrust up a mental wall of denial, of refusal to accept the unacceptable.

  Even now, with his defenses taken from him, with his identity exposed, unshield
ed, he was repulsed sufficiently that the memory was able to catch him only partially, in principle but not in detail.

  His brother. His wonderful brother.

  Twelve years old.

  Sweet Tommy.

  Was dead.

  And he had killed him.

  Buchanan felt as if he were trapped by ice. He couldn't move. He sat on the sofa, and his legs, his back, his arms were numb, his entire body cold, paralyzed. He kept staring toward the chair in front of him, not seeing it, barely aware of time.