David Morrell - Assumed Identity

by Assumed Identity(lit)

  The old man glowered, his thin body rigid with fury. Seated in a leather chair in the main cabin of his two-hundred-foot-long yacht, flanked by displays of his current passion, Mayan art, he stretched his gaunt frame to its maximum. His gaze intensified by his glasses, his pinched expression emphasized by his thick, white hair, he dominated the cabin, even though he wasn't tall. 'Human nature. Damn it, that's always been your problem. You're excellent when it comes to tactics. But your emotional range is so limited that you don't understand.'

  'She was lonely,' the pleasant-faced man said. 'I anticipated that possibility. My people were watching her in case she attempted to do something foolish. Her maid, her butler, her chauffeur, the doorman at her condominium building in Manhattan - all of them worked for me. Every exit from that building was constantly watched. On those rare occasions when she had permission to leave it, she was followed.'

  'And yet,' the old man rasped, his nostrils flaring with angry sarcasm,'she managed to disappear.' His white hair contrasted with the pewter tint of his skin, which in turn was emphasized by the gray of his robe, the left sleeve of which was rolled up to admit the intravenous tube leading into his arm. 'You. I blame you.' He pointed his bony, right index finger. 'Everything depends on her. How in God's name did this happen?'

  The well-dressed man gestured in frustration. 'I don't know. My people don't know. It happened last night. Between two a.m. when the maid last saw her and noon when the maid decided to check on her, the woman managed to get out of the condo and the building. We have no idea how. When I learned what had happened, I decided I'd better report to you in person rather than use the telephone. I caught the first available flight.' He gestured toward the starboard windows of the cabin and the numerous other yachts in St Thomas' hotel-rimmed, sunset-tinted harbor.

  The old man squinted. 'Willingness to face blame. I respect that. It's rare for a sociopath to have character. Does she have access to her bank account?'

  'No. Since she was provided with all the comforts she wanted, she had no need to spend money. Hence she didn't realize that the bank statements she was shown, the ones that indicated her salary deposits, were for an account that required me to cosign for withdrawals. The money's inaccessible to her.'

  'Jewelry?'

  'She took it all. The diamond necklace alone is worth four-hundred-thousand dollars. In theory. But of course, the stones aren't genuine. Still, there are only certain establishments in the New York area that would have the resources to buy such an item, if it weren't a copy. And since she doesn't know it's a copy, she'll have to go to them. My people are watching those establishments.'

  The old man frowned. 'Assuming she's able to obtain money, and I suspect she will, given the ingenuity she showed in escaping your people, where would she go? What can she do?'

  'She'd be a fool to go back to her former patterns. She has to assume that we'll watch her relatives, her friends, and her previous business associates, that we'll tap their phones, et cetera. If she's smart, and she's proven she is, she'll go to ground. The last thing she wants is trouble from us.'

  'Us?'

  'From you.'

  The old man gestured with a wrinkled hand, his eyes harsh with disapproval yet glinting with superiority. 'Human nature. You still haven't learned the lesson. If loneliness made her run, the one thing she won't do is go to ground. She'll want companionship. She'll want the security and satisfaction of a life that she creates, not one that's forced upon her. She won't trade one cage for another.'

  'Then what will.?'

  The old man stared at his intravenous line and brooded. 'She'll get help.'

  'From?'

  'There are only two reasons for someone to help someone else,' the old man said. 'Money and love. We can't possibly anticipate who would work for her. But I wonder if she would trust a stranger who is loyal to her only for money. I suspect that someone in her position would prefer to depend on love, or at least friendship. Who in her background has the skills to help her?'

  'As I told you, her family, friends, and former contacts are under surveillance.'

  'No. Look deeper. She wouldn't have fled unless she had a plan. Somewhere there's someone who knows about this sort of thing and whom she knows she can ask for help. Someone who isn't obvious. Someone she trusts.'

  'I'll get started immediately.'

  'You've disappointed me,' the old man said. 'Your success in Chicago and Guatemala was so encouraging that I'd arranged a reward for you. Now, I'm afraid, I'll have to withhold it.'

  An intercom buzzed on a table beside the old man's chair. He pressed a button. 'I told you not to interrupt me.'

  'Sheik Hazim is returning your telephone call, Professor,' a female voice said.

  'Of course. I'll speak to him.' The old man rested his hand on the telephone beside the intercom. But before he picked it up, he told his visitor, his voice stern and flinty, 'Don't disappoint me again.' He adjusted the flow of red liquid that drained from an intravenous bottle into his arm - blood treated with hormones from unborn lambs. 'Find the bitch before she ruins everything. If Delgado discovers she's loose, if he discovers she's out of control, he'll go after her and possibly us.'

  'I can deal with Delgado.'

  'Of that, I have no doubt. Without Delgado, however, I can't do business. I can't get access to the ruins. And that would make me very unhappy. You do not want to be near me when I am unhappy.'

  'No, sir.'

  'Get out.'

  TWO

  1

  Cancun, Mexico.

  All the hotels were shaped like Mayan temples, a row of terraced pyramids along the four-lane highway dividing the sandbar that until twenty-five years ago had been uninhabited. Buchanan ignored them and the red, brick sidewalk along which, concentrating, he walked with deceptive calm. As twilight thickened into night, what he paid attention to were the disturbing proximity of tourists before and behind him, the threatening rumble and glare of traffic passing him on the right, and the ominous shadows among the palm trees that flanked the hotels on his left.

  Something was wrong. Every instinct and intuition warned him. His stomach felt rigid. He tried to tell himself that he was merely experiencing the equivalent of stage fright. But his experience of too many dangerous missions had taught him the hard way to pay attention to the visceral, warning signals that alerted him when something wasn't as it should be.

  But what? Buchanan strained to analyze. Your preparation was thorough. Your bait for the target is perfect. Why in God's name are you so nervous?

  Burn-out? Too many assignments? Too many identities? Too many high-wire, juggling acts?

  No, Buchanan mentally insisted. I know what I'm doing. After eight years, after having survived this long, I recognize the difference between nerves and.

  Relax. You're on top of things. Give yourself a break. It's hot. It's muggy. You're under stress. You've done this a hundred times before. Your plan is solid. The bottom line is quit second-guessing. Get control of your doubts, and do your job.

  Sure, Buchanan thought. But he wasn't convinced. Maintaining his deceptively leisurely pace in spite of the pressure in his chest, he shifted leftward, relieved to escape the threatening traffic. Past the equally threatening shadows of the dense, colorfully flowered shrubs that lined the driveway, he proceeded warily up the curving entrance toward the glistening, Mayan-temple shape of Club Internacional.

  2

  Buchanan's appointment was for nine-thirty, but he took care to arrive ten minutes early in order to survey the meeting place and verify that nothing about the site had changed to jeopardize the rendezvous. For the past three evenings, he'd visited this hotel exactly at this time, and on each occasion, he'd satisfied himself that the location was perfect.

  The problem was that this night wasn't those other nights. A plan that existed perfectly on paper had to match the'real world,' and the real world had a dangerous habit of changing from day to day. A fire might have damaged the building. Or the site might
be so unusually crowded that a discreet, nonetheless damning conversation could be easily overheard. An exit might be blocked. There were too many variables. If anything disturbed him, Buchanan would disguise his concern and drift back into the night. Then by prior agreement, when his contact arrived at nine-thirty and didn't see Buchanan, the contact would know that the circumstance wasn't ideal, a euphemism for 'get your ass out of here,' that the meeting had been postponed until eight tomorrow morning at breakfast at another hotel, and of course Buchanan had arranged a further backup plan in case that second meeting, too, was postponed. Because Buchanan had to assure his contact that every precaution was being considered, that the safety of the contact was Buchanan's primary consideration.

  So Buchanan strolled past the two Mexican porters at the entrance to Club Internacional. Inside the lobby, he eased beyond a group of jovial American tourists on their way to Cancun's Hard Rock Cafe and tried not to breathe the perfumed, acrid odor of insecticide that the hotel periodically sprayed along its corridors to discourage the area's considerable population of cockroaches. Buchanan wondered which the guests hated more - the offending spray or the ubiquitous insects which after a while seemed as commonplace as the area's numerous lizards. While a maid unobtrusively swept up dead insects, Buchanan hesitated at the rear of the lobby just long enough to notice a Japanese guest coming through a door beside the gift shop on the left. That door, Buchanan knew, led to balconies, rooms, and stairwells to the beach. One of many exits. In working order. So far so good.

  To his right, he proceeded along a short hallway and came to steps that went down to a restaurant. As on previous nights, the restaurant was moderately busy, just enough for Buchanan and his contact to be inconspicuous but not so busy that they'd be surrounded by potential eavesdroppers.

  Again so far so good. Perhaps I'm wrong, Buchanan thought.

  Perhaps everything's going to be fine.

  Don't kid yourself, a warning voice insisted.

  Hey, I'm not about to cancel a meeting just because I've got a case of nerves.

  He felt briefly reassured when a Mexican waiter came over and agreed to sit him at the table he requested. That table was ideally situated in the far right corner, away from the other diners, near the exit to the hotel's gardens. Buchanan chose a chair that put his back to the wall and gave him a view of the stairs leading down to the restaurant. The air conditioning cooled his sweat. He glanced at his watch. Nine twenty-five. His contact would be here in five minutes. Pretending to study a menu, he tried to seem calm.

  At once, pulse increasing, he noticed two men appear at the top of the stairs that led to the restaurant.

  But Buchanan had expected to meet only one man.

  Both were Hispanic. Both wore beige, linen suits that were stylishly wrinkled, their yellow, silk shirts open to their breastbones. Each had a gold Rolex watch as well as several gold neckchains and bracelets. Each was thin, in his thirties, with chiseled, narrow, severe features and thick, dark, slicked-back hair gathered in a ponytail. Their hooded eyes were as dark as their hair, and like their hair, their eyes glinted. Predator's eyes. Hawk's eyes. Merciless eyes. The men were gemelos, twins, and as they descended toward the restaurant, they braced their shoulders, puffed out their chests, and exuded confidence, the world at their command.

  Buchanan tried to look relaxed while he intensified his awareness. The men immediately headed in his direction. Their footsoldiers would have given them his description, Buchanan knew. More, there would have been surreptitious photographs taken of him. He dreaded being photographed.

  As the twins reached his table, Buchanan stood to shake hands with them. He deliberately hadn't worn a jacket, wanting them to see that he wasn't armed. They would note that his navy shirt was tucked under his belt rather than hanging loose and possibly concealing a pistol. They would also note that his shirt was somewhat tight, sufficiently so that if he were hiding a tape recorder or a transmitting device, the outline would be obvious. Of course, state-of-the-art transmitters were so miniaturized that one could easily be disguised as a button on his shirt, just as a small handgun could be secured above his ankle beneath his pants. Not that Buchanan would need a handgun at this proximity. The ballpoint pen in his shirt pocket could be equally lethal. Nonetheless Buchanan knew that these hawk-eyed men would appreciate his gesture of apparent openness. At the same time, he took for granted that, despite their display of confidence, they would maintain the wariness that had kept them alive this long.

  They greeted him in English.

  Buchanan replied in Spanish, 'Thank you for meeting me.' He used 'ustedes,' the formal word for 'you.'

  'De nada,' the first man said and gestured for Buchanan to sit.

  Both glanced around the restaurant, seemed satisfied by the meeting place, and sat as well. No doubt, Buchanan thought, they'd ordered subordinates to check the restaurant's suitability before they'd arrived. Presumably they also had stationed guards inconspicuously outside the hotel and in the corridor that led to the restaurant. As a further precaution, they took napkins from the table, spread them on their laps, and made a smooth, practiced motion with their right hands that told Buchanan they'd slid a pistol beneath each napkin.

  Finally settled, they studied him.

  'You have cojones,' the first twin said.

  'Gracias.'

  'And the luck of a fool,' the second twin said. 'We could have dealt with you permanently at any time.'

  'Claro que si,' Buchanan said. 'Of course. But I hoped that you would listen to reason. I have confidence in the business opportunity I came to offer you.'

  'Our business is already satisfying,' the first twin said.

  'So what makes you think that you can make our business even more satisfying?' The second twin squinted.

  Buchanan spoke softly. 'Because you know how satisfying my own business has become. I take for granted that I'm reasoning with disciplined businessmen. Professionals. The proof is that you didn't respond to my efforts by. as you put it. dealing with me permanently. You saw how.'

  Buchanan coughed discreetly in warning and cocked his head to the left.

  Their waiter approached and gave them menus. He compared his two Hispanic guests to the solitary norteamericano and obviously decided that since Cancun was Mexico's most popular resort for Americans, he would give Buchanan the most attention. 'Would you like a drink, senores?

  'Tequila for me. Y para mis compadres?' Buchanan turned to them.

  'The same,' the first twin said. 'Bring lime and salt.'

  'Make it doubles for everyone,' the second twin said.

  As the waiter departed, the first twin scowled, leaned over the table, almost touching Buchanan, and whispered hoarsely, 'No more bullshit, Se¤or Potter,' the first time he'd used Buchanan's pseudonym. 'What do you want from us? This is your one and only chance.' He reached toward the napkin that covered his lap and patted his pistol. 'Give us a reason not to kill you.'

  3

  The briefing had been at a safe site in Fairfax, Virginia, an apartment on the second story of a sprawling complex into which Buchanan could easily blend. He had rented it under his then pseudonym of Brian MacDonald. He had a driver's license, a passport, a birth certificate, and several credit cards in that name as well as a detailed fictional background for that temporary identity. His telephone bills indicated that he phoned a number in Philadelphia every Sunday evening, and if anyone investigating Brian MacDonald had called that number, a cheery female receptionist would have answered, 'Golden Years Retirement Home.' That establishment did in fact exist, a profitable cover organization for Buchanan's employers, and its records indicated that a Mrs MacDonald, Brian's 'mother,' was in residence. She wasn't in her room at the moment, but she'd be pleased to return a call, and soon an elderly woman who worked for Buchanan's employers would return the call, the destination of which would of course be traced, the conversation recorded.

  Buchanan's fictitious occupation at that time, three months earlier, ha
d been that of a computer programmer. He had an interest in and talent for computers, so that part of his assumed identity was easy to establish. He worked at home, he told anyone who happened to ask, and the powerful IBM in his apartment, supplied by his employers, validated his claim. As a further proof of his bogus identity, each Thursday he sent backup computer disks via Federal Express to New Age Technology in Boston, another profitable cover organization for Buchanan's employers, but to maintain the skills of his true occupation, each evening for three hours he exercised at the local Gold's Gym.

  Mostly he waited, trying to be patient, maintaining discipline, eager to do his real work. So when an executive from New Age Technology at last phoned, announced that he'd be in Fairfax on business, and wondered if he could pay a visit, Buchanan thought, Soon. Soon I'll be useful. Soon I won't be bored.