Assumed Identity

by David R. Morrell

  “I don’t have the authority to make that decision alone.”

  “Talk with the colonel,” Buchanan said.

  Alan continued to look interested. “Where would you go? Since you don’t have a passport, it can’t be out of the country.”

  “I wouldn’t want to leave the country, anyhow. Not that far. South. New Orleans. Two days from now is Halloween. A person can have a damned good time in New Orleans on Halloween.”

  “I heard that,” Alan said. “In fact, I heard that a person can have a damned good time in New Orleans anytime.”

  Buchanan nodded. His request would be granted.

  But he wouldn’t be going as himself.

  No way, he thought.

  He’d be stepping back six years.

  He’d be reinventing himself to be the person he was then. A hundred lifetimes ago.

  A once-happy man who liked jazz, mint juleps, and red beans with rice.

  A charter pilot named Peter Lang who’d had the tragic love affair of his life.

  14

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

  SEVEN

  1

  Pilots—especially when being a pilot is not their true occupation and they need to establish an assumed identity—ought to fly. Instead, Buchanan-Lang took the train to New Orleans.

  That method of travel had several advantages. One was that he found it relaxing. Another was that it was private, inasmuch as he’d been able to get a sleeper compartment. Still another was that it took a while, filling the time. After all, he didn’t have anything to do until Halloween the next evening. Certainly he could have spent the day sight-seeing in New Orleans. But the fact was, he was quite familiar with New Orleans, its docks, the French Quarter, the Garden District, Lake Pontchartrain, Antoine’s restaurant, Preservation Hall, and most of all, the exotic cemeteries. Peter Lang had a fascination with exotic cemeteries. He visited them whenever he could. Buchanan didn’t allow himself to analyze the implications.

  However, the major reason for taking the train instead of flying was that there wasn’t any metal-detector and X-ray security at train stations. Thus he could bring the 9-mm Beretta pistol that Jack Doyle had given him in Fort Lauderdale. It was wedged between two shirts and two changes of underwear, along with Victor Grant’s passport, next to the toilet kit in the small canvas travel bag that Buchanan had been carrying with him since Florida. As his confusion about his employers and about himself continued to aggravate him, he was grateful that he’d lied about the passport and that he hadn’t told anyone about the handgun. The passport and the gun gave him options. They allowed him potential freedom. That he’d never before lied to a debriefer should perhaps have troubled him. It should perhaps have warned him that he was more disturbed than he realized, that the blow to his head had been more serious than he knew. But as he sat next to the window of his locked compartment, listening to the clack-clack-clack of the wheels on the rails, watching the brilliant autumn colors of the Virginia countryside, he persistently rubbed his aching head and was grateful that he hadn’t tried to conceal the handgun somewhere in Don Colton’s apartment. If he had, the cameras would have exposed him. As it was, his story had evidently been convincing. Otherwise, his controllers wouldn’t have given him money as well as ID in his real name and then have allowed him to take this brief trip.

  He’d bought a paperback novel before boarding the train at Washington’s Union Station, but he barely glanced at it while the train continued south. He just kept massaging his forehead, partially because of pain and partially because of concentration, while he stared out the window at intermittent towns and cities, hills and farmland.

  Peter Lang. He had to remember everything about him. He had to become Peter Lang. Pretending to be a pilot wasn’t a problem, for Buchanan was a pilot. It was one of several skills that he’d acquired while he was being trained. Almost without exception, the occupations he pretended to have were occupations with which his employers had arranged to give him some familiarity. In a few cases, he had genuine expertise.

  But what was a problem was reacquiring Peter Lang’s attitude, his mannerisms, his personality. Buchanan had never kept notes about his numerous characters. To document an impersonation was foolish. Such documents might eventually be used against him. On principle, a paper trail was never a good idea. So he’d been forced to rely on his memory, and there had been many assignments, especially those in which he was meeting various contacts and had to switch back and forth between identities several times during one day, when his ability to recall and adapt had been taxed to the maximum. He’d suffered the constant worry that he would switch characters unintentionally, that he would behave like character X in front of a contact when he was supposed to behave like character Y.

  Peter Lang.

  2

  Buchanan had been in New Orleans, posing as a charter pilot who worked for an oil-exploration company, supposedly flying technicians and equipment to various sites in Central America. His actual mission, however, had been to fly plainclothes Special Forces advisers to secret airfields in the jungles of Nicaragua, where they would train Contra rebels to battle the Marxist regime. A year earlier, in 1986, when Eugene Hasenfus had been shot down over Nicaragua while attempting to drop munitions to the rebels, Hasenfus had told his captors that he assumed he had been working for the CIA. The trouble was that the United States Congress had specifically forbidden the CIA to have anything to do with Nicaragua. The resultant media exposure created a political scandal in which the CIA repeatedly denied any connection with Hasenfus. Since intermediaries had been used to hire him and since Hasenfus later repudiated his story, the CIA avoided blame, but Nicaragua continued to be a sensitive political subject, even though President Reagan had subsequently issued an executive order that overrode the congressional ban on U.S. aid to the Contras. However, the resumption of aid was not supposed to include American soldiers on Nicaraguan soil attempting to topple the Nicaraguan government. Inasmuch as blatant military interference was potentially an act of war, the soldiers Buchanan flew to Nicaragua were, like Buchanan, dressed in civilian clothes. Also like Buchanan, they had false identities and could not be traced to the U.S. military.

  Because New Orleans and Miami were the two cities most associated with covert aid to the Contras, investigative journalists showed great interest in private firms that sent aircraft to Latin American countries. A plane scheduled to deliver legitimate merchandise to El Salvador, Honduras, or Costa Rica might make an unscheduled, illegal stop in Nicaragua, leaving men instead of equipment. Any journalist who could prove this unauthorized degree of U.S. military involvement would be a candidate for a Pulitzer Prize. Thus Buchanan had had to be especially careful about establishing his cover. One of his techniques had been to ask his employers to provide him with a wife, a woman who was in business with her husband, who liked to fly and could speak Spanish, who would ideally be Hispanic and who would thus not attract attention if she flew with her husband on his frequent trips to Latin America. Buchanan’s intention was to deceive curious journalists into doubting that he had connections with Nicaragua. After all, they might think, who’d be callous enough to fly his wife into a war zone?

  The wife his employers had supplied to him was indeed Hispanic. A spirited, attractive woman named Juana Mendez, she’d been twenty-five. Her parents were Mexicans who’d become U.S. citizens. A sergeant in Army Intelligence, she’d been raised in San Antonio, Texas, a city that Buchanan’s persona, Peter Lang, claimed as his hometown as well. Buchanan had spent several weeks in San Antonio prior to his assignment in order to familiarize himself with the city, lest someone test his cover story by trying to manipulate him into saying things about San Antonio that weren’t accurate. Juana’s constant presence with him would make it more difficult for anyone to question him about San Antonio. If he didn’t know the answer, if he hesitated, Juana would answer for him.

  Being Peter Lang had been one of Buchanan’s longest assig
nments—four months. During that time, he and Juana had lived together in a small apartment on the second story of a quaint clapboard building with ornate wrought-iron railings and a pleasant flower-filled courtyard on Dumaine Street in the French Quarter. Both he and Juana had known the dangers of becoming emotionally involved with an undercover partner. They had tried to make their public gestures of affection strictly professional. They had done their best not to be affected by their enforced private intimacy, eating together, combining laundry, using the same bathroom, sharing the same sleeping quarters. They didn’t have intercourse. They weren’t that undisciplined. But they might as well have, for the effect was the same. Sexual activity was only a part—and often a small part, and sometimes no part—of a successful marriage. In their four months together, Buchanan and Juana portrayed their roles so well that they finally admitted awkwardly to each other that they did feel married. In the night, while he’d listened to her softly exhale in sleep, he had felt intoxicated by her smell. It reminded him of cinnamon.

  Shared stress is a powerful bonder. On one occasion, during a firefight in Nicaragua, Buchanan would never have been able to reach his plane and maneuver it for a takeoff from the primitive airstrip in the jungle if Juana hadn’t used an assault rifle to give him covering fire. Through the canopy of his slowly turning aircraft, he had watched Juana run from the jungle toward the passenger door he had opened. She had whirled toward bushes, fired her M-16, then raced onward. Bullets from the jungle had torn up dirt ahead of her. She had whirled and fired again. Revving the engines, he had managed to get the plane in position and then had raised his own M-16 to shoot through the open hatch and give her covering fire. Bullets had struck the side of the plane. As she lunged toward the hatch, he’d released the brakes and started across the bumpy clearing. She’d scrambled in, braced herself at the open hatch, and fired repeatedly at the jungle. When she emptied her weapon, she’d picked up his, emptying it as well. Then grabbing a seat belt so she wouldn’t fall out, she had laughed as the plane bounced twice and rose abruptly, skimming treetops.

  To depend on someone for your life makes you feel close to that person. Buchanan had experienced that emotion in the company of men. But that four-month assignment had been the first time he had felt it with a woman, and in the end, he was a better actor than he wanted to be, for he fell in love with her.

  He shouldn’t have. He struggled desperately with himself to repress the feeling. Nonetheless, he failed. Even then, he didn’t have sex with her. Despite powerful temptation, they didn’t violate their professional ethics by getting physically involved. But they did break another rule, one that warned them not to confuse their roles with reality, although Buchanan didn’t believe in that rule. His strength as an imposter was precisely that he did confuse his roles with reality. As long as he was portraying someone, that person was reality.

  One night, while Buchanan was watching television, Juana had come in from buying groceries. The troubled look on her face had made him frown.

  “Are you all right?” Concerned, he’d walked toward her. “Did something happen while you were out?”

  Apparently oblivious to his question, she’d set down the bag of groceries and begun to unpack. But then he’d realized that she didn’t care about the groceries. She was preoccupied by a jazz-concert handout that someone had given her on the street. She removed it from the bag, and when Buchanan saw the small x in the upper-right corner, he’d understood why she looked disturbed. The person who’d given her the handout must have been their contact. The small x, made by a felt-tip pen, was their signal to dismantle the operation.

  They were being reassigned.

  At that moment, Buchanan had been terribly conscious of Juana’s proximity, of her oval face, of her smooth dark skin and the firm-looking outline of her breasts beneath her blouse. He’d wanted to hold her, but his discipline had been too strong.

  Juana’s usually cheerful voice had sounded tight with stress. “I guess I knew we’d eventually be reassigned.” She’d swallowed. “Nothing lasts forever, right?”

  “Right,” he’d answered somberly.

  “So. . . . Do you think we’ll be reassigned together?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Juana had nodded, pensive.

  “They almost never do.”

  “Yes.” Juana had swallowed again.

  The night before they left New Orleans, they’d taken a stroll through the French Quarter. It was Halloween, and the old part of the city had been more colorful and festive than usual. Revelers wore costumes, a great many of them depicting skeletons. The crowd danced, sang, and drank in the narrow streets. Jazz—some tunes melancholy, others joyous—reverberated through open doors, merging, swelling past the wrought-iron railings above the crowd, echoing toward the reflection of the city’s lights in the sky.

  Oh, when the saints . . .

  Buchanan and Juana had ended their walk at Café du Monde near Jackson Square on Decatur Street. The famous open-air restaurant specialized in café au lait as well as beignets, deep-fried French pastries covered with powdered sugar. The place had been extremely crowded, many costumed partygoers wanting caffeine and starch to offset the alcohol they’d consumed before they continued their revels. Regardless, Buchanan and Juana had stood in line. The October night had been balmy with the hint of rain, a pleasant breeze coming in from the Mississippi. Finally, a waiter had guided them to a table and taken their order. They’d glanced around at the festive crowd, had felt out of place, uncomfortably subdued, and had finally discussed the subject that they’d been avoiding. Buchanan didn’t recall who had raised the topic or how, but the gist had been, Is this the end, or do we continue seeing each other after this? And as Buchanan had faced the question directly, he’d suddenly realized how absurd it was. Tomorrow, Peter Lang wouldn’t exist. So how could Peter Lang continue to have a relationship with his wife, who wouldn’t exist tomorrow, either?

  Softly, their conversation impossible to be overheard in the din of the crowd, Buchanan had told her that their characters were at an end, and Juana had looked at him as if he was speaking gibberish.

  “I’m not interested in who we were,” she had said. “I’m talking about us.”

  “So am I.”

  “No,” she’d told him. “Those people don’t exist. We do. Tomorrow, reality starts. The fantasy is over. What are we going to do?”

  “I love you,” he’d said.

  She’d exhaled, trembling slightly. “I’ve been waiting for you to say that. . . . Hoping . . . I don’t know how it happened, but I feel the same. I love you.”

  “I want you to know that you’ll always be special to me,” Buchanan had said.

  Juana had started to frown.

  “I want you to know,” Buchanan had continued, “that—”

  Their waiter had interrupted, setting down a tray with their steaming coffee and hot sugar-covered beignets.

  As the aproned man left, Juana had leaned toward Buchanan, her voice low but tense with concern. “What are you talking about?”

  “—that you’ll always be special to me. I’ll always feel close to you. If you ever need help, if there’s anything I can ever do . . .”

  “Wait a minute.” Juana had frowned harder, her dark eyes reflecting a light in the ceiling. “This sounds like good-bye.”

  “. . . I’ll be there. Any time. Any place. All you have to do is ask. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you.”

  “You bastard,” she had said.

  “What?”

  “This isn’t fair. I’m good enough to risk my life with you. I’m good enough to be used as a prop. But I’m not good enough for you to see after . . .”

  “That’s not what I meant,” Buchanan had said.

  “Then what does it have to do with? You’re in love with me, but you’re giving me the brush-off?”

  “I didn’t mean to fall in love. I—”

  “There aren’t many reasons why a man walks away from a
woman he claims he loves. And right now, the only one I can think of is, he doesn’t believe she’s good enough for him.”

  “Listen to me . . .”

  “It’s because I’m Hispanic.”

  “No. Not at all. That’s crazy. Please. Just listen.”

  “You listen. I could be the best thing that ever happened to you. Don’t lose me.”

  “But tomorrow I have to.”

  “Have to? Why? Because of the people we work for? To hell with them. They expect me to sign up again. But I’m not planning to.”

  “It’s got nothing to do with them,” Buchanan had said. “This is all about me. It’s about what I do. We could never have a relationship after this, because I won’t be the same. I’ll be a stranger.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll be different.”

  She had stared at him, suddenly realizing the implications of what he was saying. “You’d choose your work instead of—?”

  “My work is all I have.”

  “No,” Juana had said. “You could have me.”

  Buchanan studied her. Looked down. Looked up. Bit his lip. Slowly shook his head. “You don’t know me. You only know who I pretend to be.”

  She looked shocked.

  “I’ll always be your friend,” Buchanan had said. “Remember that. I swear to you. If you ever need help, if you’re ever in trouble, all you have to do is ask, and no matter how long it’s been, no matter how far away I am, I’ll—”

  Juana had stood, her chair scraping harshly on the concrete floor. People had stared.

  “If I ever need you, I’ll send you a goddamned postcard.”

  Hiding tears, she had hurried from the restaurant.

  And that was the last time he had spoken to her. When he returned to their apartment, she had already packed and left. Hollow, he had stayed awake all night, sitting in the dark, staring at the wall across from the bed they had shared.