Assumed Identity

by David R. Morrell

  Blackmail crossed Buchanan’s mind at the same time he reacted with shock to the sight of Maria Tomez on the screen. At least, he believed it was Maria Tomez. Thinking about doubles, he couldn’t be sure. He needed to study the image carefully before he was convinced that it was definitely Maria Tomez and not Juana impersonating her. The night-vision lens tinted the image green. It showed what appeared to be the sun deck at the rear of the yacht. The angle was from above, downward, as if the camera had been hidden in an upper wall or beneath an elevated walkway. A digital display indicated that the time the tape had been made was 1:37 A.M. The sound track was somewhat crackly. Nonetheless, Buchanan was able to hear distant party music, a woman laughing faintly.

  Maria Tomez, wearing an elegant low-cut evening gown, leaned against the stern’s railing, her back to the camera, apparently watching the wake of the ship. A man spoke to her in Spanish, and she turned. A tall, slender, thin-faced, hawk-nosed Hispanic male wearing a dinner jacket stepped into view. He spoke again. This time, Maria Tomez answered. The quality of the sound became better, presumably because Drummond had used a remote control to adjust the directional microphone hidden on the sun deck. “No, I’m not cold,” Maria Tomez said in Spanish.

  The camera zoomed in as the man approached her.

  13

  “My God,” Holly said. She watched the tape and felt sick. ‘Jesus.”

  Dismayed, Buchanan had made a copy of the tape and then sealed the copy in a plastic bag that he’d found in the room. Otherwise, he had left everything the way he had found it. Muscles rigid from tension, he had locked the door behind him and crept down to the main deck. His head had continued to ache all the while he’d climbed down the anchor chain, retrieved his mask and fins from where he’d tied them, and swam back to shore, this time on his back, keeping the tape above water.

  The tape ended, and Holly continued to stare at the screen in disgust. “God damn him to hell.”

  What she had seen on a video player that Buchanan had rented when he returned to the motel was the rape and murder of Maria Tomez. Or possibly the sequence was in the reverse—murder and then rape, if it was possible to rape—as opposed to violate—a corpse. Rape implied overcoming someone’s will, whereas a corpse couldn’t object to anything, and perhaps the latter was what the tall, slender, hawk-nosed man had liked, an absolute lack of resistance.

  The man had approached Maria Tomez, asking again if she felt cold. He’d put his arm around her with the pretense of warming her. Maria Tomez had taken his arm away. The man had persisted, and Maria Tomez had begun to struggle. “Now, now,” the man had said drunkenly, “you must not be cold to me. I forbid it.” He had chuckled, pinning her with his arms, kissing her face and neck, trying to kiss the tops of her breasts while she squirmed and twisted her face from side to side and tried to push him away. “Be warm,” he had said in Spanish. “Be warm. I am warm. Can you feel it?” He had chuckled again. When she shoved at him, he had laughed and shaken her. When she slapped his face, he had punched her. She had spat at him. “Puta,” he had said and struck her with an upper-cut that jolted her up, and then back, then down. As she toppled, he grabbed for her, his fingers catching the top of her gown, ripping, exposing her breasts. As the back of her skull hit the deck, he lunged and kept ripping, exposing her stomach, her groin, her thighs, her knees. He tore off her lacy underwear. For a moment, he paused. The camera showed Maria Tomez motionless, naked on her back on the deck, her dress spread out on either side like broken wings. The man’s paralysis lasted another second. Abruptly he opened his belt, dropped his pants, and fell upon her. His breathing was rapid and hoarse. His buttocks kept pumping. Then he moaned and slumped and chuckled. “Now do you feel warm?” She didn’t answer. He nudged her. She didn’t move. He slapped her again. When she still didn’t move, he groped to his knees, grasped her face, squeezed her cheeks, twisted her head from side to side, and breathed more hoarsely. Urgently he stood, buckled his pants, glanced furtively around, lifted Maria Tomez to her feet.

  And with an expression that combined fear with disgust, he threw her overboard.

  As Holly continued to stare in dismay at the static-filled screen, Buchanan stepped past her to shut off the VCR and the television. Only then did Holly move. She lowered her gaze and shook her head. Buchanan slumped in a chair.

  “Was she dead?” Holly asked quietly. “When he dropped her into the water?”

  “I don’t know.” Buchanan hesitated. “He might have broken her neck when he hit her. She might have suffered a fatal concussion when her skull struck the deck. He might have smothered her while he was on top of her. But she might also have been in shock, catatonic, still alive when he threw her into the water. The son of a bitch didn’t even take the trouble to make sure. He didn’t care if she was alive. All he cared about was himself. He’d used her. Then he threw her away. Like a sack of garbage.”

  The room was dark. They sat in silence for quite a while.

  “So what happened next?” Holly asked bitterly. “What do you figure?”

  “The man who killed her probably thought he could convince people that she fell off the yacht. He was drunk, of course, and that would have affected his judgment in several ways. Either he would have had the false confidence to report having seen her fall or else a part of his mind would have warned him to go to his cabin, sober up, and seem as confused as everybody else when Maria Tomez was reported missing. Then he could have plausibly suggested that perhaps she’d been drinking, had lost her balance, and fallen over the railing.”

  “Except that Alistair Drummond knew the truth,” Holly said.

  Buchanan nodded. “He’d watched everything on the monitor in his private video-surveillance room. And a tape of a rape/ homicide is so much more useful than oral sex, sodomy, and drug use when you want to blackmail a member of the Mexican government. Drummond must have been delighted. I imagine him going to her murderer, revealing what’s on the tape, and arranging a cover-up in exchange for certain favors. The initial stage wouldn’t have been difficult. All Drummond needed to do was order his pilot to fly the yacht’s helicopter to the mainland. Then Drummond could have told his guests that Maria Tomez had left the cruise early. They’d have no reason to suspect differently.”

  “After that, though,” Holly said.

  “Yes, after that,” Buchanan said. “Drummond must have felt inspired when he thought of Juana. Perhaps Maria Tomez had told him about the clever way she had of avoiding tedious social events by using Juana to double for her. Perhaps Drummond found out another way. For certain, though, he did find out. He needn’t have told Juana anything incriminating. All he had to do was explain that Maria Tomez wanted absolute privacy and offer Juana an irresistible amount of money to impersonate Maria Tomez for an extended period of time.”

  “So complicated and yet so simple,” Holly said. “If I weren’t so disgusted, I’d call it brilliant.”

  “But what does Drummond want from the person he’s blackmailing?” Buchanan said. “Obviously not money. Drummond’s so rich, it’s hard to imagine that money alone would motivate him, especially the comparatively small amount that even a wealthy Mexican politician could give him. You’re a reporter. Do you recognize the man on the tape?”

  Holly shook her head. “Mexico isn’t my specialty. I wouldn’t know one of its politicians from another.”

  “But we can find out.” Buchanan stood.

  “How?”

  “We’re going back to Miami.” His voice was like flint against steel. “Then we’re flying to Mexico City.”

  14

  “This is Buttercup.” Clutching the phone, speaking urgently, the husky-voiced woman used the code name she’d been assigned.

  On the other end of the line, a man’s sleep-thickened voice was tinged with annoyance. “What time is . . . ? Lord, it’s almost five in the morning. I got to bed only an hour ago.”

  “I’m sorry. This was the first chance I had to call.”

  “Th
ey’ve been looking everywhere for you.” The man had said his name was Alan, although he was probably using a pseudonym.

  “That’s what I was afraid of. Is it safe to talk?”

  “This call is being relayed from another phone,” Alan said. “The two phones are linked by scramblers. Why are you calling me? I told you it had to be an emergency.”

  “I’m with Leprechaun.” The woman used the code name they’d agreed upon.

  “Yes. I assumed.”

  “You have to understand. He’s been telling the truth. What he’s doing has no involvement with . . .” She tactfully didn’t mention Scotch and Soda.

  “I assumed that as well. I believe he genuinely wants out. It’s his superiors who need reassurance.”

  “But how?”

  “It’s a little late to ask that,” Alan said. “You’re part of the problem, after all. If you’d stayed away from him . . .”

  “But in Washington, he came to me.”

  “Same difference. You’re together. Guilt by association. His superiors believe that the two of you reneged on your bargain not to publicize their activities.”

  “This has nothing to do with their activities. How do I get that across to . . . ? Should I phone them? Give me a number to call and . . .”

  “No,” Alan said sharply. “You’ll only make things worse. They can instantly trace any call you make. You’d be guiding them to you.”

  “Then what do I do?”

  “Sever ties with Leprechaun,” Alan said. “Go to ground. Wait until I tell you it’s safe to reappear.”

  “But that could take months.”

  “True.”

  “Damn it, I wish I’d never listened to you. When you approached me, I should have told you I wasn’t interested.”

  “Ah, but you couldn’t,” Alan said. “The story was too good to ignore.”

  “And now it might get me killed.”

  “Not if you’re careful. Not if you stop making mistakes. There’s still a way to salvage things.”

  “You son of a bitch,” she said. “You’re still thinking of the story.”

  “I’m thinking of approaching another journalist who might be interested in telling your story. That would draw so much attention to you that they wouldn’t dare make a move to have you eliminated. I could bring you in. The two of us could still get what we want.”

  “What you want. All I want is a normal life. Whatever that is. Lord, I’m not sure anymore.”

  “You should have thought of that before you accepted my information,” Alan said. “But I repeat, if you’re careful, if you do what I tell you, I think I can eventually bring you in safely. For now, go to ground. Assume another identity.”

  “And what about Leprechaun?”

  Alan didn’t answer.

  “I asked you, what about Leprechaun?” Holly said.

  “Sometimes we can’t get everything we want.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I never wanted this to happen. Really. I’d hoped that . . . He’s a soldier. He’d understand more than you. Sometimes there are . . .”

  “What?”

  “Casualties.”

  As Holly turned from staring at the phone in the booth down the lane from her room in the Key West motel, she saw a man’s shadow next to ferns in the predawn gray. In the numerous palm trees, birds began to chirp.

  “I can’t talk anymore,” Holly said into the phone.

  “Trouble?” Alan asked.

  “Let’s just say I didn’t win the Publisher’s Clearing House Sweepstakes.”

  Holly set down the phone.

  Buchanan stepped out of the shadows. Despite a predawn breeze off the ocean, the air was humid.

  “I thought you were taking back the wet-suit gear,” Holly said.

  “I was. I paid the motel clerk to return it for me when the dive shop opens.” Buchanan stopped before her. “Who were you calling?”

  She glanced away from him.

  “At least you’re not trying to lie,” Buchanan said. “And at least you had brains enough not to make the call from the motel room, where there’d be a record on the bill. Not that it matters. The area’s so small that automatic tracing equipment will tell our hunters we’re in Key West.”

  “No,” Holly said. “The number I called is private. Your people wouldn’t know about it.”

  “So you say. In my business, I don’t take anything for granted unless I do it myself. All phones are suspect. It must have been really important for you to make the call.”

  “I did it for us.”

  “Oh?”

  “I was trying to get us out of at least part of the mess we’re in,” Holly said.

  “What part is that? Right now, it seems we’ve got plenty of mess to go around.”

  Holly bit her lip. “Shouldn’t we talk about this when we’re back in our room?”

  “And give you time to think up believable answers? No, I think we ought to keep talking.” Buchanan grasped her arm. “Exactly what part of the mess were you trying to get us out of?”

  He guided her along the lane. The sky was less gray. The breeze was stronger. Birds scattered into the sky.

  “All right, I’ve been wanting to tell you since we were in New York,” Holly said. “God, I’m so relieved to . . . At the start, the reason I knew you were in Cancún, the reason I was able to get to Club Internacional ahead of time and watch you talk to those two . . .” She almost said “drug distributors,” then looked around the shadowy lane and chose other language, wary of being too specific before she reached their room. “. . . businessmen. The reason I . . .”

  “Someone in my unit set me up.” Buchanan opened the squeaky door to their room.

  Holly spun in surprise. “You knew that?”

  “It was the only explanation that made sense. Someone on the inside. No one else could have known where I’d be. The same person who told you about Yellow Fruit, Seaspray, the Intelligence Support Activity, and Scotch and Soda. That information could have come only from one of my superiors.”

  Still grasping Holly’s arm, Buchanan led her into the room, turned on the light, closed the door, locked it, and guided her to the bed. He set her down firmly. “Who?” he asked.

  Holly fidgeted.

  “Who?”

  “What will you do? Beat it out of me?”

  “No.” Buchanan studied her. “Cut my losses.” He put his toilet kit into his travel bag, glanced around the room to make sure that he hadn’t forgotten anything, and walked toward the door. “There are buses that’ll take you back to Miami.”

  “Wait.”

  Buchanan kept walking.

  “Wait. I don’t know his real name. I only know him as Alan.”

  Buchanan paused. “Medium height. Chubby face. Short brown hair. Early forties.”

  “Yes. That’s him.”

  “I know him. He was my controller a while ago. He’s with the . . .”

  The hesitation seemed to be a test for Holly. She decided to fill in the gap. “The Agency.”

  Buchanan seemed reassured by her candor. He walked toward the bed. “Keep talking.”

  “He was very straightforward about what he wanted. He doesn’t approve of the military’s involvement in civilian intelligence operations. American servicemen, armed, in civilian clothes, using false ID, conducting Agency operations in for eign countries. It’s bad enough to have a civilian caught as a spy. But a member of Army Special Forces? On active duty? Pretending to be a civilian? On a strike team intended to topple unfriendly foreign governments or engage in an unsanctioned private war against major drug dealers? If the public realized how out of control the relationship between the CIA and the military had become, Congress would be forced into a major investigation of American intelligence tactics. The Agency is under enough pressure as it is. One more controversy and it might be replaced by an intelligence bureau with stricter limits. That’s what Alan’s afraid of. So he came to me and gave me certain inf
ormation, insisting that he never be named, that he be cited only as a reliable government source. To make my story look less like a setup, he didn’t tell me everything. He gave me just enough hints that my work in checking them out and linking them would provide me with evidence to maintain the fiction that I’d come up with the story on my own. . . . Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “It doesn’t make sense. If Alan was afraid that exposing the Agency’s use of unauthorized military action would threaten the Agency, why the hell would he give you the story? It’s exactly what he doesn’t want.”

  “No.” Holly shook her head. “He was very specific about that, and I agreed. You and only you were to be the object lesson.”

  “Oh, Christ,” Buchanan said.

  “The idea was that I’d expose you as a single example of the dangerous use of the military in civilian intelligence operations. The government wouldn’t have any more information than what was in my story. I’d testify that I didn’t know anything further. The congressional investigation would eventually end. But the message would be clear. If the CIA was using military strike teams, it had better stop, or else the Agency and certain Special Operations units would be severely limited, if not disbanded. Careers would be destroyed.”

  “Sure.” Buchanan’s voice was strained. “And in the meantime, you’d be a journalist celebrity. And Alan would have the shop back in his control.”

  “That was the idea,” Holly said.

  “Politics.” Buchanan made the word sound like a curse.

  “But it’s not the idea any longer.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “That’s why I phoned Alan,” Holly said. “To cancel my agreement with him. I told him I wanted out. I told him I wanted to talk to your superiors, to assure them that what we’re doing isn’t related to them, that you aren’t a risk to them and neither am I.”