But perhaps Buchanan’s opponents would take the solidity of his cover story for granted. Then what other way did they have to verify his authenticity? The more Buchanan thought about it, the more the issue became, Were the twins truly furious or only pretending to be? Would the twins suspect his credibility just because a drunken American had claimed to have known him as Jim Crawford, or was it more likely that the twins would take advantage of the drunken American’s claim and use it as a pretense for intimidating Buchanan, for trying their best to frighten him, for doing their damnedest to find a weakness in his confidence?
Layers within layers. Nothing was ever self-evident, Buchanan thought in turmoil as his captors nudged him along a path toward the muted lights of an outdoor bar at the edge of the beach.
The bar had a sloping thatched roof supported by wooden pillars. There weren’t any walls. Bamboo tables and chairs surrounded the oval counter, giving several groups of drinkers a view of white-capped waves in the darkness. Sections of the hotel bordered the gardens, so that the only way for Buchanan and his captors to get to the beach was to pass near the bar.
“Do not expect those people to help you,” the first twin murmured on Buchanan’s right as they neared the bar. “If you make a commotion, we will shoot you in front of them. They do not matter to us.”
“They are drunk, and we are in shadows. As witnesses, they are useless,” the second twin added on Buchanan’s left.
“And they cannot see my pistol. I have covered it with my jacket. But be assured I am aiming it at your spine,” the bodyguard said behind Buchanan.
“Hey, let’s lighten up, okay? I’m missing something here. Why all this talk about shooting?” Buchanan asked. “I wish the three of you would relax and tell me what’s going on. I came to you in good faith. I wasn’t armed. I’m not a threat to you. But all of a sudden, you—”
“Shut up while we pass the people in the bar,” the first twin murmured in Spanish.
“Or the next words you speak will be your last,” the second twin said. “Entiende? Understand?”
“Your logic is overwhelming,” Buchanan said.
A few tourists glanced up from their margaritas as Buchanan and the others walked by. Then one of the tourists finished telling a joke, and everybody at that table laughed.
The nearby outburst in reaction to the joke was so loud and unexpected that it made the twins flinch and jerk their heads toward the noise. Presumably, the bodyguard was also surprised. There wasn’t any way for Buchanan to know for certain. Still, the odds were in his favor. He could have done it then. He could have taken advantage of the distraction, smashed the side of his hands against the larynx of each twin, kicked backward with his left foot angled sideways to break the bodyguard’s knee, and spun to snap the wrist that held the Beretta. He could have done all that in less than two seconds. The light from the bar made him able to see clearly enough that he wouldn’t have had to worry about the accuracy of his blows. The agonizing damage to the throats of the twins would have prevented them from breathing. In their panic to fill their lungs with air, they would not have had time to think about shooting Buchanan, not before he’d finished the bodyguard and swung back to finish them. That would have taken another second or two. All told, four seconds, max, and Buchanan would have been safe.
But as confident as he was of success, Buchanan didn’t do it. Because his safety wasn’t the point. If all he cared about was his safety, he wouldn’t have accepted this mission in the first place. The mission. That was the point. As the laughter of the tourists subsided, as the twins and their bodyguard regained their discipline, as Buchanan and his captors finished passing the bar and reached the murky beach, Buchanan told himself, How would you have explained it to your superiors? I can imagine the expression on their faces if you told them the mission failed because you got so nervous you killed your contacts. Your career would be over. This isn’t the first time someone’s aimed a pistol at you. You know damned well that on this assignment it would have happened sooner or later. These guys aren’t dummies. Plus, they’ll never trust you until they learn if you can handle stress. So let them find out. Be cool. Play out the role.
But what would Ed Potter do? Buchanan wondered. Wouldn’t a corrupt ex-DEA officer try to escape if he thought the drug distributors from whom he was taking business had decided that killing him was less risky and less trouble than becoming partners with him?
Maybe, Buchanan thought. Ed Potter might try to run. After all, he isn’t me. He doesn’t have my training. But if I behave the way Ed Potter truly would, there’s a good chance I’ll get myself killed. I’ve got to modify the character. Right now, my audience is testing me for weakness.
But by God, they won’t find any.
Club Internacional had a sidewalk that ran parallel to the beach. The stars were brilliant, although the moon had not yet risen. A cool breeze came off the ocean out of the darkness. Hearing the distant echo of more laughter from the bar, which was shielded from him by a row of tall shrubs and a waist-high wall, Buchanan paused at the edge of the sidewalk.
“All right,” he said. “Here’s the beach. It’s nice. Real nice. Now would you put those guns away and tell me what in God’s name this is all about? I haven’t done anything to—”
10
“God’s name?” the first twin asked, and shoved Buchanan off the sidewalk onto the sand. “Yes, a name. Many names. That’s what this is all about. Ed Potter. Jim Crawford.”
Buchanan felt his shoes sink into the sand and spun to face the twins as well as their bodyguard, where they stood slightly above him on the sidewalk. “Hey, just because some drunk thinks he knows me? Haven’t you ever been mistaken for—?”
“The only person I have ever been mistaken for is my brother,” the second twin said. “I do not believe in coincidence. I do not believe that in the middle of a conversation about my business and my safety, I can ignore anyone—drunk or not—who interrupts to tell me the man I am speaking to is not the man he claims to be.”
“Come on! That drunk admitted he was wrong!” Buchanan insisted.
“But he did not look convinced,” the first twin snapped.
Two murky silhouettes approached along the beach. Buchanan and his antagonists became silent. The Hispanics stiffened, wary. Then the silhouettes walked near enough for Buchanan to see a man and a woman—American, early twenties—holding hands. The couple seemed oblivious to their surroundings, conscious only of each other. They passed and disappeared into the darkness farther along the beach.
“We can’t stay here,” the second twin said. “Other people will come. We’re still too close to the hotel, especially to the bar.”
“But I want this matter settled,” the first twin said. “I want it settled now.”
The bodyguard scanned the beach and pointed. “Por allí. Over them.”
Buchanan looked. Near the white-capped waves, he saw, were the distinctive outlines of several palapa sun shelters. Each small structure had a slanted circular top made from palm fronds and held up by a seven-foot-tall wooden post. Plastic tables and chairs, as white as the caps on the waves, were distributed among them.
“Yes,” the first twin said. “Over there.”
The Hispanic stepped from the concrete onto the sand and shoved Buchanan hard enough that Ed Potter could not have resisted the thrust, so Buchanan allowed himself to stumble backward.
“Move! Damn you and your mother, move!” the first twin said.
Continuing to stumble, Buchanan turned toward the deserted shelters. Immediately the Hispanic shoved him again, and Buchanan lurched, concentrating to maintain his balance, his shoes slipping in the sand.
The effect of adrenaline made his stomach seem on fire. He wondered if he’d been right not to defend himself earlier. Things had not yet gotten out of control. But the first twin was working himself into a rage. The insults and shoves were occurring more forcefully, more often, and Buchanan had to ask himself, Is this an act? Or is
it for real?
If he’s acting, I’ll fail the test by ignoring some of those insults. If this guy shoves me any harder, if I don’t anticipate and absorb the impact, he’ll knock me down. He’ll dismiss me as unworthy of respect if I don’t make a pretense of resisting.
But how much resistance can I show and still be Ed Potter? And how much resistance is enough to satisfy the twin without truly making him angry?
And—
The question kept nagging at Buchanan.
What if this is for real?
As Buchanan reached a shelter, the first twin shoved him again, knocking him across a plastic table.
Buchanan straightened and spun. “Now that’s enough! Don’t shove me again! If you’ve got questions, ask them. I’ll explain whatever’s bothering you! I can settle this misunderstanding! But damn it, keep your hands off me!”
“Keep my hands off you?” The first twin stepped close to Buchanan, grabbed Buchanan’s shirt and twisted it with his fist, then raised the shirt so that Buchanan felt suspended by it. “What I’d like to do is shove my hand down your throat and pull out your guts.”
Buchanan smelled the tequila on his breath.
Abruptly the twin released his grip on Buchanan’s shirt.
Buchanan allowed himself to topple, sprawling again across the table, this time on his back instead of his chest. It took all his discipline to restrain himself from retaliating. He kept reminding himself, The mission. You can’t jeopardize the mission. You can’t fight back until you’re certain he intends to kill you. So far, all he’s done is shove, insult, and threaten you. Those aren’t good enough reasons for you to abort the mission by responding with deadly force.
Surrounded by darkness, glimpsing the lights of the hotel beyond the twins and their bodyguard, Buchanan stared up at the first twin, who grabbed him again, jerked him to his feet, and thrust him into a chair. Buchanan’s spine banged against the plastic. Waves splashed behind him.
“You promise that you can explain? Then do so. By all means, explain. It will be amusing to hear”—the twin suddenly pressed the muzzle of his 9-mm Browning pistol against Buchanan’s forehead—“how you intend to settle what you call this misunderstanding.”
That almost made the difference. Buchanan’s pulse quickened. His muscles compacted. Inhaling, he prepared to—
But the twin hasn’t cocked the pistol, Buchanan noticed, and the Browning doesn’t have a sound suppressor. If he intends to kill me, isn’t it more likely that he’d want to avoid causing a commotion? He’d use the bodyguard’s Beretta, which does have a sound suppressor, so he wouldn’t attract a crowd from the bar.
It’s still possible that this is an act.
Sweating, mustering resolve, Buchanan watched the second twin approach.
The man stopped beside his brother and peered down. Even in the gloom, his eyes were vividly hawklike. “Listen carefully,” he told Buchanan. “We are going to talk about names. But not the name that the drunken American called you in the restaurant. Not Jim Crawford, or at least not only Jim Crawford. And not just Ed Potter. Other names. Many other names. In fact, so many that I find it impossible to remember them all.” He pulled a folded piece of paper from his suit coat. “You gave us a list of names of our associates whom you claim betrayed us. Well, I have a different list, one with other names.” He unfolded the paper and aimed a penlight at it so he could read. “John Block. Richard Davis. Paul Higgins. Andrew Macintosh. Henry Davenport. Walter Newton. Michael Galer. William Hanover. Stuart Malik.”
Oh, shit, Buchanan thought.
The second twin stopped reading, scowled at the sheet of paper, shook his head, and sighed. “There are several other names. But those will do for purposes of illustration.” He refolded the piece of paper, returned it to his suit-coat pocket, and at once thrust the penlight close to Buchanan’s face, aiming it into Buchanan’s right eye.
Buchanan jerked his face away to avoid the light.
But the bodyguard had shifted behind Buchanan and abruptly slammed his hands against the sides of Buchanan’s head, making Buchanan’s ears ring. The sudden, stunning pressure of the hands was like a vise. Buchanan tried, but he couldn’t turn his face away. He couldn’t avoid the blinding glare of the slender beam of light aimed into his eye. He reached up to grab the bodyguard’s smallest fingers and snap them in order to make the bodyguard release his grip.
But Buchanan froze in midgesture as the first twin cocked the Browning, the muzzle of which was now pressed against Buchanan’s left temple. Christ, Buchanan thought, he just might do it.
“Bueno. Muy bueno,” the first twin said. “Don’t make trouble.”
The penlight kept glaring at Buchanan’s eye. He blinked repeatedly, then scrunched his eyelid shut, but he could still see the light through the eyelid’s thin skin. He scrunched the eyelid shut tighter. A rough hand grabbed the side of his face, clawing at the eyelid, forcing it up. The light again glared. Buchanan’s eyeball suddenly felt hot, dry, and swollen. The light felt like a bright, hot needle that threatened to lance his eyeball as if it were a festering boil. Buchanan needed all his self-control not to struggle, not to attempt to break away from the hands that bound him—because he knew without doubt that if he struggled again, the first twin would blow his brains out.
“Bueno,” the first twin repeated. “Muy bueno. Excelente. Now, if you wish to live, you will tell us what all of those names that my brother read to you have in common. Think well before you answer.” He nudged the muzzle of the Browning harder against Buchanan’s temple. “I cannot respect, do business with, or tolerate a liar. The names. What is their secret?”
Buchanan swallowed. His voice was hoarse. “They’re all me.”
11
Except for the splash of the waves and the pounding of Buchanan’s heart, the night became silent. Then, in the distance, laughter echoing from the hotel’s outside bar broke the quiet. The twins and the bodyguard seemed frozen. At once they moved, the first twin lowering his pistol, the second twin releasing his grip on Buchanan’s right eyelid, then shutting off the penlight, the bodyguard removing his viselike hands from the sides of Buchanan’s head.
The first twin studied Buchanan. “I did not expect the truth.” He sat on a chair near Buchanan, placing his Browning on the table so its muzzle was pointed at Buchanan, leaving his hand on the weapon. “I asked you earlier. I’ll ask you again. Who are you?”
“Ed Potter.” Buchanan closed his right eyelid, massaging it, still seeing the painful glare from the penlight.
“And not John Block? Or Richard Davis? Or Paul Higgins?” the first twin asked.
“Or Jim Crawford?” the second twin insisted.
“I never heard of Jim Crawford,” Buchanan said. “I don’t know what the hell that drunk in the restaurant was talking about. But as far as John Block, Richard Davis, and Paul Higgins are concerned, they’re . . . How did you find out about my aliases?”
“You do not have the right to ask questions.” The first twin tapped the barrel of his pistol on the table. “Why did you assume those names?”
“I’m not a fool,” Buchanan said. His right eye watered. He kept it closed and squinted at his captors with his remaining functional eye. “You expect me to come to Mexico, start smuggling drugs north and weapons south, and use my real name? I’d use a false name if I was dealing drugs in the United States. Here in Mexico, where a yanquí is conspicuous, I had all the more reason to use a false name.”
The second twin turned his penlight on and off as if in warning. “A false name is understandable.”
“But so many false names?” The first twin persisted in tapping the side of his pistol on the table.
“Look, I told you I was doing business in more places than Cancún,” Buchanan said. “I have bases in Mérida, Acapulco, Puerto Vallarta, several resorts I haven’t mentioned.”
“But you will,” the second twin said. “You will.” His voice thickened with emotion. “The names. I want to hear ab
out these names.”
Buchanan slowly opened his right eye. The glare from the penlight was still seared upon his vision. If his gambit didn’t work, they would try to kill him. There’d be a fight (if he was lucky and had the opportunity to try to defend himself), but he didn’t have much chance of surviving a struggle against three men while his vision was impaired.
“Answer!” the second twin barked.
“I take it as a given that when an American does illegal business in a foreign country, natives of that country have to be recruited,” Buchanan said. “Those natives can go places and do things that the American wouldn’t dare to without the risk of being conspicuous. The local authorities have to be bribed. The drugs need to be picked up from the suppliers. The weapons need to be delivered to those suppliers. There’s no way I’m going to try to bribe the Mexican police. Even as bribable as they are, they might decide to make an example of a gringo and stick me in jail for a hundred years. I’d just as soon someone else took the risk of picking up the drugs and delivering the weapons, especially when it comes to dealing with those crazy bastards in the Medellín cartel. Let’s face it—Mexico’s so poor, there are plenty of young men who are glad to risk their lives if I pay them what they think is a fortune but what to me is nothing. Of course, I need recruits in every resort where I do business, and while I’m in those resorts, I need a cover story to account for my presence. A tourist attracts attention if he comes back every three weeks. But a businessman doesn’t, and one of the most commonplace American businessmen at Mexican resorts is a time-share condominium salesman. American tourists don’t trust Mexican salesmen to lease them real estate. But they’ll trust an American. Under assumed names in all the resorts where I have a base, I’ve convinced the authorities that I’m legitimate. Naturally, I use a different name in each resort, and I have false documents in that name. But here’s the trick. If my Mexican recruits in each resort get picked up by the police or questioned by suppliers who have turned against me, my recruits don’t know the assumed name I’m using. They don’t know where I live or where I do business. Except on terms of my own choosing, they have no way to get in touch with me or to lead the police or a drug supplier to me. The name by which each recruit knows me is also assumed, but of course I don’t need identification papers for those other names.”
Assumed Identity Page 6
