Assumed Identity

by David R. Morrell

  “I had to abandon the ID in the car when I drove it into the water in Fort Lauderdale . . . so the authorities would have a way to identify the driver after they couldn’t find a body . . . so they’d decide Victor Grant was dead.”

  “Everything? You left everything? ”

  “Driver’s license. Credit card. Social Security card. The works. I had to leave them in a wallet in a jacket so they wouldn’t float away. And I had to leave all of them. The police would have thought it strange if all they found was a driver’s license.”

  “But the passport, Buchanan. I’m talking about the passport. You wouldn’t have left the passport. You know that’s the ID we care about. Anybody with a brain can arrange to get a fake driver’s license. Who cares if the cops get their hands on it? But a fake passport, a first-class fake passport, hell, better than that because the passport blank came from the State Department. If the police had an expert study that passport, there’d be all kinds of questions that the people at State couldn’t answer. And then maybe the questions would come in our direction.”

  “I had to leave it,” Buchanan lied. The passport was, in fact, in the bedroom, in a small travel bag that he’d bought along with a toilet kit and a few spare clothes before leaving Florida. The travel bag also contained the handgun that Jack Doyle had given him. Buchanan wasn’t about to tell this man about the handgun, either.

  He continued, “If the authorities did a thorough investigation of Victor Grant, they’d find out I’d been in Mexico. They’d find out I’d shown my passport down there. So they’d have to ask themselves, Where is it now? They’ve got my wallet. They’ve got my suitcase—I left it in the trunk of the car. They’ve got all of Victor Grant’s possessions. Except they don’t have his body and they don’t have his passport? No way. A good detective might decide that Victor Grant faked his death, then walked away with his passport, the only identification he’d need if he wanted to get out of the country. But since I left the passport in the jacket with my wallet, the authorities have one less detail to trouble them.”

  “Smart, Buchanan,” the portly man said. “There’s just one problem.”

  “Oh?”

  “The police didn’t find the passport.”

  “What? Then it must have floated away.”

  “But not the wallet?”

  “Hey, the wallet was heavier. How do I know what happened? My orders were to make Victor Grant disappear. I did it the best way I knew how.”

  The portly man stared at him.

  “Has the missing passport made the cops think something’s wrong?” Buchanan asked.

  The portly man stared harder. “You’ll have to sign this document saying that you couldn’t surrender the passport.”

  “Whatever,” Buchanan said. He signed and returned the document, then watched the man who called himself Alan put it in his briefcase.

  “The next order of business.” With an air of efficiency combined with distaste, the portly man opened and dumped the contents of a paper bag onto the coffee table.

  Buchanan looked at the sprawl of magazines, catalogs, video- and record-club solicitations, and various other forms of bulk mail. The items were addressed to several persons, Richard Dana, Robert Chambers, Craig Madden, and Brian MacDonald, the most recent pseudonyms that Buchanan had used before becoming Ed Potter in Mexico.

  “Housecleaning,” the portly man said.

  Buchanan nodded. To appear believable in an assumed identity, he had to be equipped with more than just fake ID. Mail, for example. It wasn’t natural for people never to get mail. Bills had to be paid. Letters had to be received. Magazines—lots of people subscribed to magazines. If you said your name was Brian MacDonald and you got a magazine addressed to that name, the magazine became another bit of evidence that proved you were the person you claimed to be. So, under various names, Buchanan subscribed to magazines wherever he expected to live for an extended time. But just as he created individual characteristics for each person he pretended to be, so he had to make sure that the magazines matched each character’s personality. Richard Dana subscribed to Runner’s World. Robert Chambers liked Gourmet. Craig Madden was a movie fanatic and received Premiere. Brian MacDonald enjoyed Car and Driver. Because magazines often sold their subscription lists to catalog companies, soon Buchanan’s various characters would begin receiving catalogs about the subject in which they were supposedly interested, and this extra mail would help legitimize his characters.

  Eventually, though, Buchanan would receive a new assignment and move on, discarding one identity, assuming another. In theory, the previous identity would no longer exist. Still, even though Buchanan had made arrangements to stop mail from coming to his former characters, a few items would inevitably arrive at places where his characters used to live. To avoid arousing suspicion, he always left a forwarding address with the landlords at those places. That forwarding address was known in the trade as an accommodation address, a safe, convenient mail drop, usually a private mail service owned by—but not traceable to—Buchanan’s controllers.

  “Is there anything here that needs to be dealt with?” the portly man who called himself Alan asked. “Some loose end that needs to be tied? We ought to know before we destroy this stuff.”

  Buchanan sorted through the items. “Nope. These magazines can go. These catalogs. This circular is exactly what they call it—junk. This . . .”

  He felt a chill as he lifted a postcard. “It’s addressed to Peter Lang. I haven’t used that name in six years. How the hell did it get lost this long?”

  “It didn’t. Check the postmark. Someone mailed it from Baltimore. . . . Last week.”

  “Last week?” Buchanan felt cold. “Who’d want to get in touch with Peter Lang after six years? Who’d remember him? Who’d care enough to . . .?”

  “That’s what we want to know,” Alan said, his calculated gaze threatening. “And why a postcard? Why not a letter? And what do you make of the message?”

  Troubled, Buchanan studied it. The message was handwritten in black ink, the script small, the strokes thin, the lettering ornate yet precise.

  A woman’s handwriting. No name.

  Five sentences, some of them incomplete, seeming gibberish.

  But not to Buchanan. He didn’t need a signature to tell him who had sent the postcard. Because she would have taken for granted that several people, especially Buchanan’s employers, would have read the message by now, he admired her indirection.

  4

  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.

  Buchanan read the message several times, then glanced up at the portly man, who now was squinting.

  “So?” The man squinted harder.

  “It’s a woman who knew me when I was Peter Lang. Someone I needed for window dressing.”

  “That’s all?”

  Buchanan shrugged.

  “Who was she, Buchanan?”

  “It’s been so long, I don’t even remember her name.”

  “Don’t tell me your famous memory is failing you.”

  “I remember what’s essential. She wasn’t.”

  “Why didn’t she sign her name?”

  “She was a flake. That much, I recall. Maybe she thought it would be cute and mysterious if she sent an unsigned postcard.”

  “And yet without a name on the card, a name you claim you can’t remember, you know who sent the message.”

  “She used to do this kind of stuff a lot. Unsigned cryptic messages. I’d find them in my bathroom, in my pajamas, in my sock drawer. I told you she was a flake. But she sure was gorgeous, and I never read any handwriting as neat and elegant as this. She was proud of that—her handwriting.”

  “But what does it mean?”

  “Damned if I know. Maybe she was high on something when she wrote it. Or maybe she tried so hard to make the message cute that she didn’t realize she was being incoherent.”


  The portly man squinted even harder. “Just like that, after six years, she decided to write to you.”

  “Must be,” Buchanan said. “Because that’s what happened. She didn’t even think to put a return address on it. That’s how spur-of-the-moment she used to act.”

  “What’s this ‘last time and place’ business?”

  “Beats the hell out of me.”

  The portly man didn’t move. He just kept staring at Buchanan as if trying to make him uncomfortable enough to demonstrate a sign of weakness.

  Buchanan returned his stare.

  After thirty seconds, the portly man sighed and gestured for Buchanan to give back the postcard. He shoved it into the paper bag along with the magazines, catalogs, and circulars, then placed them in his metal briefcase and locked it. “We’ll talk again soon, Buchanan.” He stood.

  “Wait a minute.”

  “Is something wrong?” the man asked. “Or maybe there’s something you forgot to tell me?”

  “Yeah. What about my new ID?”

  “New ID?”

  “The driver’s license and credit card, all the documents for Don Colton.”

  The man frowned. “You must have gotten the wrong impression. You’re not being issued new ID.”

  “What?”

  “You won’t need any. The rent, the phone, and the other bills are paid through one of our cover organizations by mail. There’s plenty of food here, so you won’t need a checkbook to go to the grocery store, and you won’t need a credit card to go to a restaurant. And since we want you to stay close, you won’t need ID to rent a car.”

  “So what about clothes? I need a credit card to replace what I abandoned in Fort Lauderdale. What’s in the closet here is too small.”

  “There’s a gray cotton sweat suit on the bedroom shelf. It’s large enough to do for now. When I drive you to the hospital for your CAT scan, I’ll bring you a few more things.”

  “That’s it? You’re leaving me without a way to prove my cover?”

  “Buchanan, we don’t want you to prove your cover. We don’t want you to be in a position to need to prove your cover. We don’t want Don Colton leaving this apartment. We don’t want him wandering around the building or going to restaurants or to shopping malls and flashing ID. Don Colton’s invisible. He’s been living in this complex for years, and nobody knows him. He travels so much, you see. So as long as you stay in here, no one’ll bother you, and for that matter, we don’t want you bothering anybody, either. Do you get it?”

  Buchanan narrowed his eyes. “Yeah, I got it.”

  “We don’t want you even sending out for a pizza.”

  “I said I got it. Anyway, how could I order a pizza? I’m almost out of money.”

  “Good.” The man lifted his briefcase and walked toward the door.

  “I’m in limbo?”

  The man kept walking. “Until we’ve assessed the damage control on Cancún, Mérida, and Fort Lauderdale. A while ago, you told me you’d ask for time off if you thought you needed it. You said nobody turns down R and R.” The man reached the door, unlocked it, and glanced at Buchanan. “Well, now you’ve got some. You’ve been in the field quite a while. Eight years. A very long while. It’s time for a rest.”

  “And what if I don’t want a rest?”

  The man gripped the doorknob. “It’s a funny thing, Buchanan.”

  “What?”

  “I was told you were a fanatic about assuming your identities.”

  “That’s right.”

  “A real Method actor. Invented a detailed history for each of your pseudonyms. Dressed, ate, and sometimes even walked the way you decided a particular character would. Gave each of them a distinct personality.”

  “You’re right again. Staying totally in character is what keeps me alive.”

  “Sure. The thing is, I was also told that you’d practically bite off the head of any controller who called you by your real name. But I just did, and in fact I’ve been doing it off and on since I came here. You should have been insisting that I call you Don Colton.”

  “There’s nothing strange about that. Until I get Don Colton’s ID and background, I can’t become him. I don’t have any personality to assume.”

  “Well, in that case, I’d expect you to have insisted that I call you Victor Grant.”

  “How could I?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Calling me Victor Grant is impossible. I wouldn’t have responded.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Victor Grant is dead.” Abruptly Buchanan felt a further chill as he understood the significance of what he’d just said.

  The man who called himself Alan understood the significance very well. “As you said, you’re in limbo.” He turned the knob and opened the door. “Stay put. I’ll be in touch.”

  5

  Buchanan leaned his back against the locked door and massaged the sides of his aching head. So much was wrong, he didn’t know where to start analyzing.

  Try starting with why you lied to him about the passport and why you didn’t tell him you had a firearm.

  I didn’t want to lose them. I didn’t trust him.

  Well, you weren’t wrong on that score. Whatever that conversation was, it sure wasn’t a debriefing. He didn’t ask you to talk about anything that you’d done. And he didn’t give you new ID. He put you on ice. It was more like an interrogation, except he didn’t ask you any questions that weren’t about . . .

  The postcard.

  Buchanan went to the counter in the kitchen and poured more bourbon and water into a glass. He took a long swallow, then felt his cheek muscles harden with tension.

  The postcard.

  Yeah, the passport wasn’t the only thing you lied about. What’s the big deal? Why didn’t you tell him the truth?

  Because he was too damned interested.

  Hey, a postcard arrives last week for a man who hasn’t existed, whom you haven’t been, for the past six years. That’s an attention getter. Naturally, they want to know what the hell’s going on. Something from one of your pasts, some threat to the operation, catching up to you. Why didn’t you tell him?

  Because I’m not sure. If I did know what was going on, maybe I’d have told him.

  Bullshit. The truth is, you’re scared.

  No way.

  Yes. Confused and scared. You haven’t thought about her in all this time. You’ve made yourself not think about her. And now all of a sudden, bang, she’s back in your head, and you don’t know how to handle it. But this much is sure—you don’t want them to have anything to do with her.

  He stared at his glass of bourbon, his emotions powerful.

  6

  Here’s the postcard I never thought I’d send.

  She’d been furious the night she decided that she didn’t want to see him anymore. She’d told him not to bother trying to get in touch with her again, that if she ever needed him, she’d send him a goddamned postcard.

  I hope you meant your promise.

  He’d told her that no matter how much time and distance was between them, all she had to do was ask, and he’d be there.

  The last time and place.

  He remembered the date of their breakup well because of what had been happening around them, the costumes, the music—October 31, Halloween. The time had been close to midnight, the place Café du Monde in New Orleans.

  Counting on you. PLEASE.

  In capital letters? She might as well have said that she was begging him.

  That wasn’t like her.

  She was in trouble.

  He continued staring at the glass of bourbon and imagined the tension she must have felt as she wrote the postcard. Maybe she had only seconds to write it, to condense it to its essentials and hope it was clear to him, even though she didn’t sign her name.

  She doesn’t want anyone except me to know where she’s going to be and when.

  She’s terrified.

  7

&n
bsp; The man who called himself Alan had left Buchanan’s apartment, heard the scrape of the lock, and proceeded along the green heavy-duty carpet of the harshly lit, concrete hallway. He was pleased that no one happened to come out of another apartment and see him. Like Buchanan, he avoided the elevator and used the fire stairs—less chance of encountering anyone. But unlike Buchanan, who would have headed down to the street, the portly, short-haired man in the brown-checkered sport coat went up to the next landing, heard voices, waited in the stairwell until the voices were cut off by the sound of an elevator, and then walked briskly along the corridor until he reached the door to the apartment directly above Buchanan’s. He knocked twice, paused, knocked twice more, heard a lock open, and was quickly admitted.

  The apartment was dimly lit. He couldn’t see who was present or how the unit was furnished. Nor could anyone who happened to be passing as he entered. But the moment the door was closed behind him, he heard the click of a switch, and at once the apartment’s living room was filled with light. Thick, closed draperies prevented the light from being seen by anyone outside.

  Five people were in the room. A tall, trim man with severe features and cropped graying hair exuded the most authority. Although he wore a plain blue business suit, he stood with military bearing and in private was never referred to by his name but always as Colonel.

  The next in charge was a younger man, in his forties, less tall, more muscular. He wore tan slacks, a brown blazer. Major Putnam.

  Beside him was a blonde woman in her thirties, gorgeous, her breasts bulging at her blouse. Captain Weller.

  Finally, there were two plainclothes sentries, one of whom had admitted him and then relocked the door. The sentries had last seen him not long ago, just before he went down to Buchanan’s apartment, so this time they didn’t ask for identification. Indeed, they barely nodded to him before they redirected their attention toward the door.

  The colonel, the captain, and the major didn’t pay him much attention, either. After a confirming glance, they stared again at a bank of closed-circuit television screens and various black-and-white images of Buchanan’s apartment. A long table supported a row of videotape machines, each of which was in operation, recording everything that occurred in each room of Buchanan’s apartment. On another table, several audiotape machines were also in operation. Except for a sofa and two chairs shoved against a wall, the electronics were the room’s only furnishings. It wasn’t any wonder that the colonel had the lights dimmed when the hallway door was opened—he didn’t want anyone to get a good look at what was in here.