Assumed Identity

by David R. Morrell

  Juana. He strained harder to see her. He shifted position to view the interior of the restaurant from a different angle. He scanned the line of waiting customers.

  What if she’s wearing a costume? he thought. What if she’s afraid to the point that she put on a disguise? He wouldn’t be able to recognize her. And she might not hurry to meet him. She might be so terrified that she had to assess everyone around him before she revealed herself.

  Juana. Even if she wasn’t wearing a costume, how could he be certain he would recognize her? Six years had passed. She might have grown her hair long. She might have . . .

  And what about him? How had his appearance, like his identities, changed in six years? Was his hair dyed the same color? Did he weigh the same? Should he have a mustache? He couldn’t remember if Peter Lang had worn a mustache. Did—?

  Juana. He brushed past waiting customers and entered the restaurant, determined to find her. She had to be here. The postcard couldn’t have had any other meaning. She needed to see him. She wanted his help.

  “Hey, buddy, wait your turn,” someone said.

  “Sir, you’ll have to go to the end of the line,” a waiter told him.

  “You don’t understand. I’m supposed to meet someone, and—”

  “Please, sir. The end of the line.”

  Juana. He backed away. His headache intensified as he scanned the crush of customers in the restaurant. Outside on the sidewalk, he rubbed his throbbing head. When a rush of people in costumes swept past him, he whirled to see if Juana might be one of them.

  The knife slid into his side. Sharp. Cold. Tingly. Suddenly burning. It felt like a punch. It knocked him off balance. It made him groan. As he felt the wet heat of his gushing blood, someone screamed. People scrambled to get away from him. A man knocked against him. Fighting to stem the flow of his blood, he slipped. The iron railing appeared to rush toward him.

  No! he mentally screamed. Not my head! Not again! I can’t hurt my—!

  EIGHT

  1

  CUERNAVACA, MEXICO

  The black limousine and its escort cars proceeded along Insurgentes Sur freeway, forced to maintain a frustratingly moderate speed as the caravan fought the congestion of holiday traffic heading south from the smog of Mexico City. After thirty-seven miles, the limousine and its escorts reached Cuernavaca, the capital’s most popular but at the same time most exclusive retreat. It was easy to understand why the rich and powerful came here each weekend. Sheltered in an attractive wooded valley, Cuernavaca had space, silence, pleasant weather, and most prized of all, clean air. Aztec rulers had built palaces here. So had Cortés. Emperor Maximilian had been especially fond of the area’s gardens. These days, what important visitors from the capital valued were the luxurious hotels and the castlelike mansions.

  The limousine proceeded along the stately streets of a quiet neighborhood and stopped at the large iron gate of one of the mansions. Majestic shade trees projected above the high stone wall that enclosed the spacious grounds. The uniformed driver stepped out of the limousine and approached an armed guard who stood beyond the bars of the gate and scowled at the visitor. After a brief conversation during which the driver showed the guard a document, the guard entered a wooden booth beside the gate and picked up a telephone, speaking to someone in the house. Thirty seconds later, he returned to the gate, opened it, and motioned for the driver to bring the limousine into the estate. As the escort cars attempted to follow, the guard raised his left hand to stop them. At the same time, another armed guard stepped into view to close and lock the gate.

  The limousine proceeded along a shady, curved driveway, past trees, gardens, and fountains, toward the mansion. As it stopped before the stone steps at the entrance, one of the large double doors opened, and a mustached, aristocratic-looking man came out. It was a measure of his need to seem respectful that he had not sent a servant to greet this particular visitor. His name was Esteban Delgado, and his surname—which meant “thin”—was even more appropriate than when he’d met with the director of the National Institute of Archaeology and History in Acapulco a week earlier, for Delgado’s body and features were now no longer merely rakishly slender but unhealthily gaunt. His aquiline face was pale, and he would almost have believed the rumors that he was seriously ill if he hadn’t been acutely aware of the unbearable tension that he suffered.

  At the bottom of the stairs, he forced himself to smile as the limousine’s far-rear door opened and a well-dressed, fairhaired, pleasant-looking American in his middle thirties emerged from the car. The man gave the impression of exuding good nature, but Delgado wasn’t fooled, for the man’s smile—on the rare occasions when he did smile, and this was not one of them—had no warmth. The man’s name was Raymond, and the only time Delgado had seen him smile was during a cockfight.

  Raymond ignored Delgado, assessed the estate’s security, then came around the limousine and opened the other door. An elderly man with thick glasses and dense white hair stepped out. He was in his eighties although, except for extremely wrinkled hands, he appeared to be in his sixties.

  “Professor Drummond,” Delgado said with forced brightness. “I had no idea that you planned to visit. If I had known, I would have arranged a reception in your honor.”

  Drummond shook Delgado’s hand with authority, fixed his gaze upon him, and waited a moment before he replied in Spanish, one of his seven languages. “I happened to be in Mexico City on business and wanted to discuss something with you. Your office informed me that you were here. If you have an hour to spare . . .”

  “Certainly.” Delgado led Drummond and his assistant up the stairs. “It will be an honor to have you in my home.” Despite the shade trees, Delgado found that he was sweating. “I’ll have the servants bring some refreshments. Would you like a rum and Coke? Or perhaps . . .”

  “I never drink alcoholic beverages. By all means, you have one if you wish.”

  “I was going to send for some lemonade.”

  They entered subdued light in the mansion and crossed the cool, echoing marble vestibule. A colorfully dressed teenage girl appeared at the top of the wide, curved staircase, seemed surprised that there were visitors, and abruptly obeyed Delgado’s sharp gesture commanding her to go back to where she had been. At the end of a corridor, Delgado escorted Drummond and Raymond into a mahogany-paneled study that was furnished in leather and filled with hunting trophies as well as numerous rifles and shotguns in glass cabinets, many of the firearms antique. For once, Raymond’s eyes displayed interest. Two servants immediately brought in refreshments and as quickly departed.

  Neither Drummond nor Raymond picked up the lemonade.

  Instead, Drummond leaned back in his chair, sitting imperiously straight, his long arms stretched out on the sides of the chair. His voice was brittle yet strong, his gaze direct. “I suspect your associates have already told you, but we need to compare reactions.”

  Delgado pretended to look confused.

  “The woman, Minister. It will come as no surprise to you when I tell you that she has disappeared.”

  “Ah.” Delgado’s heart lurched, but he didn’t show any reaction. “Yes. The woman. I did receive information that led me to believe she had disappeared.”

  “And?”

  Delgado tried to make his voice stern. “What do you intend to do about it?”

  “What I am doing, what I have been doing, is using all my resources to locate her. Every element of her background, every conceivable place or person where she might run for shelter and help, is being investigated.”

  “And yet after two weeks, you have no results.”

  Drummond nodded in compliment. “Your sources are excellent.”

  “You still haven’t answered my question. What do you intend to do about this?”

  “Relative to you? Nothing,” Drummond answered. “Our agreement remains the same.”

  “I don’t know why it should. You broke your part of the contract. You assured me you could
control the woman. You were emphatic that she would solve my problem.”

  “And she did.”

  “Temporarily. But now that she’s disappeared, the problem is the same as before.”

  Drummond’s aged eyes narrowed. “I disagree. This disappearance cannot be traced to you.”

  “Unless she talks.”

  “But she won’t,” Drummond said. “Because if she planned to talk, she would have by now. It’s an obvious method by which she could try to save her life. She knows we would kill her in retribution. On principle. I believe that she remains silent out of fear and as a sign to us that if we leave her alone, she won’t be a threat to us. I should say, a threat to you. After all, the problem is yours. I was merely doing you a favor by trying to correct it.”

  Delgado’s pulse increased with anger. “Not a favor. A business agreement.”

  “I won’t quibble with terminology. I came to tell you that despite her disappearance, I expect to be allowed to conduct my business as you agreed.”

  Delgado released his nervous energy by standing. “That would be very difficult. The director of the National Institute of Archaeology and History has become furious about your control of the site in the Yucatán. He is mustering government support for a full investigation.”

  “Discourage him,” Drummond said.

  “He’s very determined.”

  Now it was Drummond’s turn to rise. Despite his frail body, he dominated the study. “I need only another few weeks. I’m too close. I won’t be stopped.”

  “Unless you fail.”

  “I never fail.” Drummond bristled. “I am an unforgiving partner. If you fail me, despite the woman’s disappearance, I will take steps to make you regret it.”

  “How? If you don’t find the woman and she never talks.”

  “She was necessary only to protect you. To expose you, all I need is this.” Drummond snapped his fingers.

  In response, Raymond opened a briefcase, then handed Drummond a large envelope that contained a videotape.

  Drummond gave the envelope to Delgado. “It’s a copy, of course. I’ve been saving it as a further negotiating tactic. Be careful. Don’t leave it where your wife and daughter might wonder what was on it. Or the president. You wouldn’t want him to see it. A political scandal of this sort would threaten his administration, and needless to say, it would destroy your chances of becoming his replacement.”

  Delgado felt sweat trickle down his back as he clenched the videotape.

  Abruptly the study’s door was opened. Delgado whirled, his stomach cramping when he saw his wife step in. Intelligent, sophisticated, well-educated, she understood her role as a politician’s spouse and always conducted herself perfectly. She tolerated Delgado’s frequent absences and no doubt was aware of his frequent indiscretions. She was always there when he needed symbolic support at public functions. But then, she had been raised in a family of politicians. From her youth onward, she had learned the rules. She was the sister of Delgado’s best friend, the president of Mexico.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, dear. I didn’t realize you had company. How are you, Mr. Drummond?” she asked in perfect English. Her expensive clothes and jewelry enhanced her plain features.

  “Excellent,” Drummond answered in Spanish. “And yourself? I trust you are well, Señora.”

  “Yes, I am fine. Would you care to stay for dinner?”

  “Thank you, but I’m afraid I was just about to leave. Your husband and I needed to discuss some matters. I have to fly to Europe.”

  “You’re welcome anytime,” she said. “Esteban, I’ll be in the garden.” She closed the door.

  The room was uncomfortably silent for a moment.

  “Think about it,” Drummond said. “Don’t be a fool and ruin everything you’ve worked so hard to achieve. Don’t deny yourself the chance to achieve even greater things. Watch the tape, destroy it, and make the further arrangements we discussed.”

  Delgado did not reveal the sudden anger that blazed inside him. You come to my home. You ignore my hospitality. You threaten me. You threaten my relationship with my wife and daughter. His jaw ached with fury. There will come a time when you do not have power over me.

  And then I will destroy you.

  “The director of the Institute of Archaeology and History,” Drummond said. “When I told you to discourage him from interfering with what I’m doing at the site, I meant eliminate him. I want him replaced by someone who knows how to compromise, who won’t make trouble, who values favors.”

  2

  NEW ORLEANS

  Buchanan squirmed.

  “Welcome back. How are you feeling?”

  He took a moment to understand what the woman had asked him. He took another moment to answer.

  “. . . Sore.”

  “I bet.” The woman chuckled. It wasn’t a chuckle of derision. It communicated sympathy. Its sound was soft yet deep.

  He liked it.

  He took another moment for the haze to clear enough that he realized he was in a hospital bed. He didn’t know what pained him more, the throbbing in his head or the burning in his right side. His skull was wrapped with bandages. His side felt stiff from bandages, as well. And stitches.

  “You had me worried,” the woman said.

  He focused on her, expecting to see a nurse leaning over the bed or possibly, blessedly, Juana, although this woman didn’t have an Hispanic accent.

  As he noticed her red hair, the significance of it alarmed him. He squirmed harder.

  “Relax,” Holly McCoy said. “You’re all right. You’re going to be fine.”

  Like hell, he thought. Everything was wrong, very wrong, although his clouded thoughts prevented him from knowing precisely how wrong.

  “Well,” a man said, “I see you’re coming around.”

  A doctor. His white coat contrasted with his black skin. He entered the room and studied the medical chart attached to the foot of the bed, finally saying, “The nurses on the night shift had to wake you periodically to test your neurological signs. Do you remember that?”

  “. . . No.”

  “Do you remember me?”

  “. . . No.”

  “Good. Because I didn’t treat you last night when you were brought into the emergency ward. Answer my questions honestly. The first thing that comes into your mind. Understand?”

  Buchanan nodded, wincing from the pain that the movement had caused.

  “Do you know why you’re here?”

  “. . . Stabbed.”

  “Another good answer. Do you remember where?”

  “. . . My side.”

  The doctor smiled slightly. “No. I mean where outside the hospital were you stabbed?”

  “. . . French Quarter. . . . Café du Monde.”

  “Exactly. You were assaulted on the sidewalk outside the restaurant. As soon as you’re up to it, the police will want a statement from you, although I gather your friend here has already provided most of the necessary details.”

  Holly nodded.

  My friend?

  The police?

  “If you’re someone who likes company for his misery, you aren’t alone,” the doctor continued. “We had several mugging victims in the emergency ward last night, and some of them weren’t as lucky as you. A few are in critical condition.”

  “. . . Mugging?”

  “I gave the police a description of the man who did it,” Holly said. “Not that it helps. A pirate costume. Last night, a lot of people were wearing costumes.” She raised a plastic cup and placed a bent straw between his lips.

  The water was cool.

  “You’re at the LSU Medical Center,” the doctor said. “Your wound required twenty stitches. But you were lucky. No major organs were injured. The blade didn’t penetrate as much as it slashed.”

  The police? Buchanan thought. Jesus, I was carrying a gun. What if they found it? They must have found it. And Victor Grant’s forged passport. They’ll wonder what—<
br />
  “You struck your head when you fell,” the doctor said. “You have a concussion.”

  Another one?

  “There doesn’t appear to be any neurologic damage. Still, you might get tired of everybody asking you the same questions. . . . Like, how many fingers am I holding up?”

  “Three.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Thirty-two.”

  “What’s your name?”

  . . .

  “What’s your name?” the doctor repeated.

  He concentrated.

  Of all the questions . . .

  Come on. Come on. Who am I supposed to be?

  “. . . Peter Lang.” He exhaled.

  “Nope. Wrong answer. Your wallet—which the mugger didn’t manage to get, by the way—indicates that your name is . . .”

  “Brendan Buchanan.”

  “Better,” the doctor said. “Much better. So let’s be clear. What’s your name?”

  “. . . Brendan Buchanan.”

  “Then why did you say your name was Peter Lang?”

  “. . . A friend of mine. Have to tell him what happened to me.”

  “Ms. McCoy can make your phone calls for you. You had me worried for a moment. I was afraid the concussion was more severe than your CAT scan indicated.”

  Didn’t get my wallet? To know that, the police must have searched me. They must have found the gun.

  And the passport, too! Maybe this doctor expected me to call myself Victor Grant.

  A nurse had been taking his blood pressure. “One fifteen over seventy-five.”

  The doctor nodded with approval. “Try to open your eyes as wide as you can. I need to shine this light at your pupils. Good. Now follow the movement of my hand. Bear with me while I tap at your joints. I have to draw the end of this hammer along the bottoms of your feet. Fine. Your reflexes don’t seem impaired. Your lungs sound normal. Your heartbeat is strong and regular. I’m encouraged. Try to rest. I’ll be back this afternoon.”