Assumed Identity (1993) (30 page)

'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, catalogues, 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 sweatsuit 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 Cancun, Merida, 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.'

Chapter 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.

Chapter 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 Caf, 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.

Chapter 7.

The man who called himself Alan 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 plain-clothed 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 video-tape machines, each of which was in operation, recording everything that occurred in each room of Buchanan's apartment. On another table, several audio-tape 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.

The man who called himself Alan set his briefcase beside a box of donuts and a steaming coffee percolator on the counter between the kitchen and the living room. There weren't any ashtrays - the colonel refused to allow smoking. And there wasn't any clutter of crumpled napkins, stale food, and used styrofoam cups - the colonel insisted on an absolutely neat control room.

'What's he been doing since I left?' Alan asked. The question was directed to anyone who would bother to answer (they didn't always). As the only civilian in the apartment, he didn't feel obligated to use military titles. Indeed he was getting damned tired of sensing that these Special Operations types considered themselves superior to the Agency.

After a pause, the woman, Captain Weller, answered without looking at him, continuing to concentrate on the television screens. 'Leaned against the door. Rubbed his skull. Appears to have a headache. Went into the kitchen. Poured another drink.'

'Another?' Alan asked, disapproving.

His judgmental tone prompted the second-in-command, Major Putnam, to face him. 'It means nothing out of context. Alcohol is one of his weapons. He uses it to disarm his contacts. If he doesn't maintain a tolerance for it, he's as open to attack as if he doesn't maintain his combat skills.'

'I've never heard that one before,' Alan said skeptically. 'If he was strictly mine, I'd be alarmed. But then, from the start, nothing about this unit was conventional, was it?'

Now the colonel turned. 'Don't condescend to us.'

'I wasn't. I was making a point about control.'

'The point is taken,' the colonel said. 'If he finishes this drink and makes another, I'll be concerned.'

'Right. It's not as if we haven't got plenty of other things to be concerned about. What's your analysis of my session with him?'

A movement on one of the monitors attracted everyone's attention. Again they stared at the screen.

Buchanan carried his drink from the kitchen.

On a separate black-and-white screen, he appeared in the living room and slumped on the sofa, placing his feet on the coffee table, leaning back, rubbing the moisture-beaded glass against his brow.

'Yeah, he sure seems to have a headache,' Alan said.

'Or maybe he's just tired from stress and traveling,' the woman said.

'A new CAT-scan will tell us what's going on in his head,' Alan said.

The woman turned. 'You mean, in his brain, of course. Not in his mind.'

'Exactly. That's what I meant. I asked you what's your analysis of my session with him.'

'His explanation about the passport was reasonable,' the major said. 'In his place, I might not have abandoned it, but perhaps that's why I'm not in his place. I don't have the talent for role-playing that he does. A water-destroyed passport, one that validated his identity without jeopardizing the passport's source, would have added credence to his character's death.'