Assumed Identity

“For all I know, she’s working on that oil rig out there.”

Drummond chuckled. “Such bravado. You’re a credit to Special Forces.”

The reference surprised Buchanan. Then it didn’t. “The car I rented in New Orleans and drove to San Antonio.”

Drummond nodded. “You used your own credit card to rent it.”

“I didn’t have an alternative. It was the only card I had.”

“But it gave me a slight advantage,” Drummond said. “When my people saw you arrive at the Mendez house in San Antonio, they were able to use the car’s license number to find out who had rented the car and then to research your identity.”

Identity, Buchanan thought. After so many years of surviving as other people, I’m probably going to die because of my own identity. He felt totally exhausted. His wounds ached. His skull throbbed with greater ferocity. He didn’t have any more resources.

Then he looked at Holly, at the terror in her eyes, and the mantra again filled his mind. Have to survive to help Holly. Have to save Holly.

“You’re an instructor in tactical maneuvers,” Drummond said.

Buchanan tensed. Instructor? Then Drummond hadn’t penetrated his cover.

Drummond continued, “Did you know Juana Mendez at Fort Bragg?”

Desperate, Buchanan tried to find a role to play, an angle with which to defend himself. “Yes.”

“How? She was in Army Intelligence. What does that have to do with-?”

Abruptly, a role came to mind. Buchanan decided to play the most daring part of his life. Himself.

“Look, I’m not a field instructor, and Juana’s Army Intelligence status was only a cover.”

Drummond looked surprised.

“I’m looking for Juana Mendez because she sent me a postcard, telling me in code that she was in trouble. It had to be in code because I’m not supposed to exist. Juana used to belong and I still do belong to a Special Operations unit that’s so covert it might as well be run by ghosts. We look after our own: past members as well as present. When I got the SOS, my unit sent me to find out what was going on. I’ve been reporting on a regular basis. My unit still has no idea where Juana Mendez is. But they know I was in Cuernavaca. They know I was headed toward Delgado, and after him, they know I was headed toward you. They won’t be able to track me here, not right away, not without questioning Delgado. But they will question him, and they will come to you, and believe me, these men care only about sacrifice and loyalty. If they do not find me, they will destroy you. Take my word-at the moment, Holly McCoy and I are your most valuable assets.”

Drummond sighed. From outside the building, amid the muffled roar of the construction equipment, Buchanan thought he heard another gunshot.

“For something you invented on the spur of the moment, that’s an excellent negotiating posture,” Drummond said. “I’m a collector, did you know that? That’s how I came to be here. Journalists”-he nodded toward Holly-“have always wondered what motivates me. What do you think, Ms. McCoy?”

Despite her evident fear, Holly managed to say, “Power.”

“Partially correct. But only in a simplistic way. What keeps me going, what gives me drive, is the desire to be unique. To own unique things, to be in unique situations, to control unique people. I became interested in the Yucatan because of my collection. Three years ago, an individual came to me with an object of great price. The ancient Maya had their own version of books. They were long strips of thin bark that were folded again and again until they resembled small accordions. Historians call them codices. When the Spaniards invaded this area in the 1500s, they were determined to destroy the native culture and replace it with their own. In their zeal, they set fire to the Mayan libraries. Only three authenticated codices are known to have survived. A fourth may be a forgery. But a fifth exists. It is authentic, and I own it. It is absolutely unique because, unlike the others, which are lists, mine has substantial information. Of course, I didn’t know that at the time. I bought it because I had the means to and because I didn’t want anyone else to own it. Naturally, I wanted to know what the hieroglyphs signified, so I hired the world’s greatest experts in Mayan symbols. You might say I owned those experts. And I eventually discovered that the text described the presence of a massive oil field in this area. The Maya called it the god of darkness, the god of black water, the god that seeps from the ground. At first, I thought they were using metaphors. Then it came to me that they were being literally descriptive. The text emphasized that the god was held in control by temples and a great pyramid, but the location described in the text didn’t match any known ruins. Early this year, these ruins were discovered, thanks to photographs taken from a space shuttle. Because I controlled Delgado, I was able to control this site, to bring in my own people, to seal off the area, to search.”

“And in the process, destroy the ruins,” Buchanan said.

“An unavoidable necessity.” Drummond raised his shoulders. “Besides, I’d seen the ruins. Why should I care if anyone else does? I didn’t want to start drilling until I was certain. It turned out that the oil seepage was exactly where the text said it would be. Beneath the pyramid. The pyramid rested on it, capped it, kept the god in control. But the uniqueness doesn’t end there. Oil in the Yucatan means nothing if you can’t get to it. This area is so unstable that conventional equipment is useless here. That’s why no one else took the trouble to explore for oil in this region. Periodic earthquakes would have destroyed their derricks. But my equipment is one of a kind. It’s designed to be flexible, to withstand quakes. Because of it, from now on geologists can look for oil in areas that they previously ignored because there wasn’t any way to develop the site. Of course, they’ll have to pay a considerable amount to get permission to use my equipment. I doubt they’ll ever find an oil field as immense as this one is, however. It’s of Kuwaiti proportions, far beyond my expectations. And that’s what finally makes this situation truly unique. When the field is fully developed, the oil will not be used.”

Buchanan must have looked surprised, for in response, Drummond’s eyes gleamed. “Yes. It won’t be used. To put so much oil on the market would cause the price of oil to plummet. It would be an economic disaster to the oil-producing nations. When Delgado becomes president, he’ll allow me to negotiate with the other oil-producing nations for them to pay Mexico not to put its oil on the market. And there’s no limit to what they will pay us. As a consequence, less oil will be used. In that sense, you could say I’m a humanitarian.” Drummond smirked.

“Or maybe you just want to collect the world,” Buchanan said.

“What we’re discussing is whether your argument is persuasive enough to make me want to collect you.” Drummond squinted toward Raymond. “Find out if he’s lying about this covert Special Operations group.”

7

The sun was low, adding to the gloom of the acrid smoke that drifted across the area. Buchanan coughed again as he and Holly were shoved through the haze toward the only part of the ruins that Drummond had allowed to remain intact.

“The ball court,” Drummond said.

The haze lifted enough for Buchanan to see a flat stone playing surface one hundred feet long and twenty-five feet wide. On each side was a wall, fifteen feet high, the top of which was a terrace from which spectators could watch. Drummond climbed steps to the terrace, followed by Delgado and guards flanking Holly. She looked sick from fear. Her handcuffs had been removed. She nervously rubbed her wrists.

Buchanan did the same, trying to increase the flow of blood to his numb hands. Anxiety surged through him as he studied the walls of the court, noting the hieroglyphs and the drawings engraved on the stone.

“The acoustics of the ball court are amazing.” Drummond spoke from the terrace, peering down at Buchanan. “I’m using a normal voice, and yet it sounds as if I have a microphone.”

Despite the roar of construction equipment in the background, despite the closer crackle of flames and the occasional bark of a gunshot, Buchanan heard Drummond with remarkable clarity. The crusty voice seemed to echo from and be amplified by all points of the court.

“The game was called pok-a-tok,” Drummond said. “If you study the engravings on the stone wall below me, you can see images of the ancient Maya playing the game. They used a latex rubber ball