“What could I possibly accomplish?” Buchanan gestured. “Until you investigate the men on that list and decide if my information is valuable, you won’t let me into your confidence. You won’t do business with me.”
“We might not do business with you even if you’re telling the truth.” The first twin kept tapping his fingers on the table.
“There’s always that possibility.” Buchanan shrugged. “But the way I see it, I’m taking all the risks and you’re taking none. Certainly there’s nothing risky about your meeting me here—at a mutually agreeable, neutral place—for drinks and dinner. At the worst, you’ve been inconvenienced. From my point of view, however, at the worst, I get dead.”
Without looking at each other, the twins seemed to reach a mutual conclusion.
“Exactamente.” The second twin turned toward the half-filled restaurant, caught their waiter’s attention, pointed toward the glasses on their table, held up two fingers, and then waved his hand in a circle, indicating he wanted another round of tequila, doubles for everyone. Seeing the waiter nod, he pivoted toward Buchanan. “You interrupted before I could finish my earlier question.”
“Perdón. So ask it now.”
“Assuming you’re telling the truth about these offshore bank accounts, how do you explain the considerable amounts you claim our associates have hidden from us? What is the source of those funds? They must be bribes from drug-enforcement officers for supplying information. The only other explanation would be that they’re stealing a portion of our merchandise or else the money we collect, and I assure you we can account for every kilo we send to the United States and every dollar we get back.”
Buchanan shook his head. “Bribes alone won’t explain the tremendous sums in these offshore accounts. As you’re aware, drug-enforcement officers have never been known for being overly generous with their bribes. Their budget’s stretched too thin. But as it happens, you’re wrong about having protected yourselves against theft. Your men are running an extremely sophisticated skim operation.”
“What?” The second twin looked stunned. “No es posible.”
“It’s not only possible. It’s a fact.”
“I’m telling you, we’d know!”
“Not this way. Not the way they’re doing it. They’re using rogue DEA officers to help them skim. How many shipments did you lose last year? An approximate percentage. Ten percent?”
“More or less,” the first twin said. “It’s inevitable that some of our shipments will be discovered. Couriers get nervous and make mistakes. Or DEA officers happen to be at the right place at the right time. We expect a certain percentage of losses. It goes with the business.”
“But what if some of those couriers weren’t as nervous as they pretended?” Buchanan asked. “And what if those DEA officers had advance warning to be at the right place at the right time? And what if those couriers and DEA officers were in business for themselves?”
As the waiter brought the second round of drinks, the group became silent. The moment the waiter departed, they assessed the restaurant’s customers, assured themselves that no one was close enough to overhear, then faced one another, raising glasses, going through the ritual of consuming salt, tequila, and lime.
“Finish what you were saying.” The first twin clearly hoped that the alcohol would affect Buchanan’s judgment and reveal a weakness.
“Their system’s quite clever.” Buchanan set down the slice of lime from which he’d chewed. “The rogue agents from the DEA have to satisfy their superiors that they’re doing their job. So they surrender a portion of what they confiscate. Then the government brags about how it’s winning the war on drugs, and the American television networks report the latest victory on the evening news. But what the government doesn’t know, and of course the American public, is that other shipments were confiscated and that those shipments were sold to American drug dealers. The money from those sales—millions—is divided between the rogue DEA officers and the trusted associates you’ve put in charge of sending the shipments. As far as you’re concerned, those shipments have been accounted for. By your own admission, you expect those losses. As long as you receive your usual profit, why would you think you were being cheated?”
Both twins glowered.
“How do you know this?” the second twin rasped.
“Because, as I told you, I used to belong to the DEA. I wasn’t on the take. I was one of the good guys. That’s how I thought of myself, dummy that I was. I did my job. But I’m not blind. I saw what was going on. The thing is, drug enforcement is the same as any other police work. You don’t turn against your fellow officers. If you do, they have ways to make your life a nightmare. So I had to keep quiet. And then . . .”
Scowling, Buchanan gulped his further glass of tequila.
“Yes? And then?” The second twin leaned toward him.
“That’s none of your business.”
“With respect, given our reason for meeting here, it’s very much our business.”
“I had personal problems,” Buchanan said.
“Don’t we all? We’re men of the world. We understand personal problems only too well. There’s no need to be defensive. Unburden yourself. It’s good for the soul. What problems could have . . .?”
“I prefer not to talk about it.” Buchanan made his elbow slip off the table, as if the tequila had started to work on him. “I’ve told you what I came to say. You know how to reach me. Use your contacts to investigate your associates’ offshore bank accounts. When you find out I was telling the truth, I hope you’ll decide that the three of us can cooperate.”
With heart-stopping recognition, Buchanan glanced toward the stairs that led down to the restaurant and noticed a man, an American, in company with a Hispanic woman who wore a revealing dress and too much makeup, approach a waiter and ask for a table. The American was in his forties, tall, with extremely broad shoulders and a bulky chest, his sandy hair trimmed upward in a brush cut. His ample stomach protruded against his too-small green T-shirt and hung over the waist on his low-slung jeans. He wore sneakers and puffed on a cigarette as he gave orders to the waiter.
Oh, Jesus, Buchanan thought. His mind raced. How am I going to—?
The first twin shook his head. “Too many things about you trouble us.”
Desperate to avoid the man who’d entered the restaurant, Buchanan concentrated on his targets.
“Crawford!” a booming voice called.
Buchanan ignored it. “What exactly troubles you?”
“Crawford! By Jesus, long time no see!” The booming voice cracked crustily and became a smoker’s cough.
Buchanan continued to direct his attention straight toward his targets.
“Crawford!” the voice boomed louder. “Have you gone deaf? Don’t you hear me? Where by Jesus did you get to after Iraq?” The voice was made more conspicuous because of its heavy, drawling Texas accent. “When they flew us to Germany and we touched down in Frankfurt, I wanted to buy you a drink to celebrate gettin’ out of that Arab hellhole. But one minute you was there in the terminal with all them officials greetin’ us and reporters aimin’ their cameras. The next minute you dropped out of sight like one of our broken drill bits down a dry well.”
The drawling voice boomed so close that Buchanan couldn’t possibly pretend to ignore it. He shifted his gaze from his fidgeting targets toward the looming sun-and-alcohol-reddened face of the beefy American.
“I beg your pardon?” Buchanan asked.
“Crawford. Don’t you recognize your ol’ buddy? This is Big Bob Bailey talkin’ to you. Come on, you can’t have forgotten me. We was prisoners together in Kuwait City and Baghdad. Jesus, who’d have ever figured that nutcase would actually believe he could get away with invadin’ Kuwait? I’ve worked my share of tough jobs, but when those Iraqi tanks pulled onto our drillin’ site, I don’t mind admittin’ I was so shittin’ scared I . . .”
Buchanan shook his head in confusion.
&nb
sp; “Crawford, have you got post-trauma whatever the hell the shrinks who talked to me in Germany called it? Have you been drinkin’ more than I have? This is Big Bob Bailey speakin’ to you. We and a bunch of other American oil workers was held hostages together.”
“I’m pleased to meet you, Bob,” Buchanan said. “But apparently you’ve confused me with someone else.”
The twins watched Buchanan intensely.
“Give me a break. Your name is Crawford,” the beefy American said. “Jim Crawford.”
“Nope. Sorry. My name’s Ed Potter.”
“But—”
“Honestly, I’m not Jim Crawford. I’m Ed Potter, and I’ve never seen you before. Whoever Jim Crawford is, I must resemble him.”
“More than resemble, and that’s a damned fact.”
“But you’re mistaken. I’m not him.”
The twins watched Buchanan with greater intensity.
“Well, I’ll be a . . .” The American looked uneasy, his sun-and-alcohol-reddened face becoming redder with embarrassment. “Sorry, pal. I would have sworn . . . I must have been partyin’ too much. Here, let me make up for interruptin’ and buy you and your friends a drink. Honest to God, I didn’t mean to bother you.” The American backed off, staggering slightly as he retreated.
“No problem,” Buchanan said.
7
But it was a problem. A big problem. One of the nightmares Buchanan dreaded was the risk that a contact from a previous assignment would wander into a present one. Twice in Buchanan’s career, fellow specialists had happened to enter locations (a pub in London, a café in Paris) where Buchanan was using false identities to recruit informants who might help him infiltrate terrorist networks. In each case, Buchanan had noticed the subtle look of recognition in his fellow operative’s eyes. Briefly, Buchanan had felt nervous. However, his counterpart—obeying an absolute rule of tradecraft—had ignored Buchanan and soon, when it seemed natural, had left the location.
But while Buchanan could count on the tact of a professional, there was no way to guard against the spontaneity of a civilian whom he’d encountered on another mission, a civilian who had no idea of Buchanan’s true occupation. The beefy American—now retreating in confusion to a table where his female escort waited—had indeed known Buchanan in Kuwait City as well as in Baghdad, and Buchanan’s name at that time had indeed been Jim Crawford. Prior to the Allied counterstrike, Buchanan had been inserted at night via a high-altitude, low-opening parachute drop into Kuwait to reconnoiter Iraqi defenses. Buchanan had buried his jump equipment in the desert, then hiked through the dark toward the lights of Kuwait City. He wore civilian clothes—a soiled work shirt and jeans—and carried documents that identified him as an American oil worker from Oklahoma. If stopped, his cover story would be that he’d gone into hiding when the Iraqis invaded. His scraggly beard, unkempt hair, and haggard appearance would reinforce that story. For three weeks, aided by Allied sympathizers, he was able to use a small two-way radio to broadcast important information to his superiors, but prior to his extraction by submarine, an Iraqi patrol had discovered him on the way to the beach.
It wasn’t any wonder that Big Bob Bailey shook his head in confusion as he joined his female escort at a table in the restaurant. After all, Buchanan had spent a month with Bailey and other captive oil workers, first in the confinement of a demolished Kuwait City hotel, then in one of several trucks that transported the Americans from Kuwait to Iraq, and finally in a warehouse in Baghdad.
Saddam Hussein eventually set free the Americans “as a Christmas present to the United States.” They were flown via Iraqi Airlines to various destinations, one of which was Frankfurt, Germany. Big Bob Bailey sat next to Buchanan during the latter flight. Big Bob Bailey chattered endlessly, with nervous relief, about how when they touched down he intended to get good and drunk with his good ol’ pal Jim Crawford. But when they entered the terminal, Jim Crawford disappeared among the crowd, shielded by plainclothes Special Operations personnel who hurried Buchanan to a safe site and intensely debriefed him.
That had been twelve assignments ago, however, and Big Bob Bailey had become just another vaguely remembered contact to whom Buchanan had played one of his numerous roles.
Big Bob Bailey. Damn it, he was from another life. From several lives past. Iraq’s invasion of Kuwait was ancient history. Big Bob Bailey was just a minor character in . . .
But at the moment, Big Bob Bailey was very much a major character in this life, Buchanan thought in dismay.
And Big Bob Bailey wouldn’t stop looking over at Buchanan, all the while squinting and shaking his head as if he wasn’t just confused now but angry, convinced that Buchanan was Jim Crawford and insulted because Buchanan wouldn’t admit it.
Jesus, Buchanan thought, he looks pissed off enough that he might come over again! If he does, my cover will be absolutely destroyed. These two Mexican drug distributors didn’t stay alive this long by being idiots. Check their eyes. They’re already wondering what’s going on. I’ve got to . . .
“I guess it’s a variation on an old joke,” he told the first twin. “South of the border, all Americans look alike, sometimes even to each other.”
“Yes,” the first twin replied.
“Very amusing,” the second twin said flatly.
“But he certainly attracted attention to us,” Buchanan continued.
“I think the sooner we get out of here, the better,” the second twin said. “Especially before that man comes back here, which I suspect he’s about to do.”
“Fine with me. Let’s go.” Buchanan stood to walk toward the stairs that led up from the restaurant.
“No, this way,” the second twin said. He touched Buchanan’s arm and gestured toward the rear entrance, a sliding glass door that gave access to the hotel’s night-shrouded gardens.
“Good idea,” Buchanan said. “It’s faster. Less conspicuous.” He signaled the waiter that he’d left money on the table and turned toward the glass door.
As Buchanan stepped from the restaurant into the humid, fragrant gardens, as he heard the glass door being slid shut behind him, he noticed that the twins had positioned themselves on either side of him. He noticed as well that they held the napkins beneath which each had earlier concealed a pistol in his lap, and the napkins didn’t look empty. Finally, he noticed a piece of the night step from between tall bushes to the left of the door, bushes that would have given the bodyguard a hidden view through the glass while Buchanan spoke with the twins.
The bodyguard was Hispanic, unusually tall and large-boned.
Like the twins, he held a pistol. Hard to tell in the shadows, but it looked like a 9-mm Beretta equipped with a sound suppressor.
And imitating the expression on his employers’ faces, the bodyguard scowled.
8
“Who the fuck are you?” the first twin demanded, jabbing Buchanan’s chest.
“Hey, what are you—?” Buchanan tried to object.
“We’re too close to the windows of the restaurant. Someone inside will see,” the second twin cautioned his brother. “We need to go down to the beach.”
“Yes,” the first twin said. “The beach. The fucking beach.”
“Todavia no. Not yet,” the bodyguard warned. He unhooked a hand-held metal detector from his belt and quickly but thoroughly scanned it over Buchanan.
The metal detector beeped three times.
“His belt buckle. His keys. A pen,” the bodyguard said, not needing to explain that the buckle might conceal a knife, that the keys and pen could be used as weapons.
“Take off your belt,” the first twin ordered Buchanan. “Drop your keys and the pen on the ground.”
“What’s wrong? I don’t understand,” Buchanan insisted.
The second twin showed his pistol, a 9-mm Browning. “Do what you’re told.”
The bodyguard jabbed his Beretta into Buchanan’s left kidney. “Rapido. Ahora. Now.”
Buchanan complied, removin
g his belt, dropping it along with his keys and his pen.
The first twin snatched them up.
The second twin shoved Buchanan away from the restaurant toward the gardens.
The bodyguard kept the Beretta low, inconspicuous, and followed.
9
The gardens were spacious, filled with flowering shrubs, trickling pools, and meandering paths. Here and there, small lights of various colors projected from the ground, illuminating the walkways, tinting the shrubs, reflecting off the pools. Nonetheless, compared to the glare from the windows of the towering hotel, the garden was cloaked in darkness. Anyone who happened to look out would see merely the vague, moving shadows of four men out for a stroll, Buchanan thought. Certainly an observer wouldn’t be able to see that three of the men held pistols by their sides. Not that it mattered. If anyone did see the weapons and felt compelled to phone the police, whatever was going to happen would have ended by the time the police arrived.
As Buchanan proceeded along a walkway toward the splash of waves on the beach, he assessed his options. One was to take advantage of the garden’s darkness, overpower his captors, and escape, using the shrubs for cover in case any of his captors survived his attack and started shooting. Or at least Buchanan could attempt to escape. The problem was that his captors would be anticipating the likelihood of his using the darkness. They’d be primed for a sudden movement, and as soon as he made one, he’d be shot. The sound suppressor on the bodyguard’s Beretta would prevent anyone in the hotel from hearing the weapon’s report. By the time Buchanan’s corpse was discovered, the three Hispanics would be far from the area.
That wasn’t the only problem, Buchanan thought. If he did manage to catch the Hispanics by surprise, the darkness that initially helped him might then work against him. All he needed to do was collide with an unseen object as he fought with his captors. If he lost his balance . . .
But a further problem—and the one to which Buchanan gave the most importance—was that the Hispanics might be threatening him merely to test him. After all, he couldn’t expect the twins to believe his cover story simply because his manner of presenting it was confident and convincing. They’d need all sorts of proof about his authenticity. All sorts. Every detail of his fictitious background would bear up under investigation. Buchanan’s controllers had made sure of that. A female operative was posing as Ed Potter’s ex-wife. A male operative was posing as her new husband. Each had a well-documented fictitious background, and each had been coached about what to say if anyone asked questions. Certain members of the DEA were prepared to claim that they’d known Ed Potter when he was an agent. In addition, the details of Ed Potter’s DEA career had been planted in a dossier in government computers.
Assumed Identity Page 5
