Assumed Identity

defend himself), but he didn’t have much chance of surviving a struggle against three men while his vision was impaired.

“Answer!” the second twin barked.

“I take it as a given that when an American does illegal business in a foreign country, natives of that country have to be recruited,” Buchanan said. “Those natives can go places and do things that the American wouldn’t dare to without the risk of being conspicuous. The local authorities have to be bribed. The drugs need to be picked up from the suppliers. The weapons need to be delivered to those suppliers. There’s no way I’m going to try to bribe the Mexican police. Even as bribable as they are, they might decide to make an example of a gringo and stick me in jail for a hundred years. I’d just as soon someone else took the risk of picking up the drugs and delivering the weapons, especially when it comes to dealing with those crazy bastards in the Medellin cartel. Let’s face it-Mexico’s so poor, there are plenty of young men who are glad to risk their lives if I pay them what they think is a fortune but what to me is nothing. Of course, I need recruits in every resort where I do business, and while I’m in those resorts, I need a cover story to account for my presence. A tourist attracts attention if he comes back every three weeks. But a businessman doesn’t, and one of the most commonplace American businessmen at Mexican resorts is a time-share condominium salesman. American tourists don’t trust Mexican salesmen to lease them real estate. But they’ll trust an American. Under assumed names in all the resorts where I have a base, I’ve convinced the authorities that I’m legitimate. Naturally, I use a different name in each resort, and I have false documents in that name. But here’s the trick. If my Mexican recruits in each resort get picked up by the police or questioned by suppliers who have turned against me, my recruits don’t know the assumed name I’m using. They don’t know where I live or where I do business. Except on terms of my own choosing, they have no way to get in touch with me or to lead the police or a drug supplier to me. The name by which each recruit knows me is also assumed, but of course I don’t need identification papers for those other names.”

The first twin leaned forward, his hand on his pistol. “Keep talking.”

“Each of the characters I pretend to be has a particular style of clothes, a preference for different foods, an individual way about him. One might slouch. Another might stand rigidly straight, as if he used to be in the military. Another might have a slight stutter. Still another might comb his hair straight back. Or have spectacles. Or wear a baseball cap. There’s always something about the character that’s memorable. That way, if the police start asking questions about a man with a certain name and certain mannerisms, it’ll be difficult to find that man because the mannerisms are as false as the name. I mentioned after that drunken American confused me with someone else back at the restaurant-his mistake is a variation of an old saying that all foreigners look the same to Americans. Well, that saying can be turned around. Most Americans resemble one another as far as Mexicans are concerned. We weigh too much. We’re clumsy. We’ve got too much money, and we’re not very generous with it. We’re loud. We’re rude. So any American who has easy-to-describe individual characteristics will be remembered by my recruits, and if they’re forced to give that description-‘he has spectacles and always wears a baseball cap’-to an enemy, all I have to do is assume a different set of characteristics, blend with other Americans, and become invisible.”

Buchanan watched the twins, wondering, Are they buying it?

The first twin frowned. “Since you use so many false names, how do we know that Ed Potter is your true identity?”

“What motive would I have for lying? I had to tell you my real name or else you wouldn’t be able to investigate my background and satisfy yourselves that I’m not a threat to you.”

Buchanan waited, hoping that he’d overcome their misgivings. He’d followed a rule of deep-cover operations. If someone challenges you to the point that you’re about to be exposed, the best defense was the truth-or rather, a version of the truth, a special slant on it that doesn’t compromise the mission and yet sounds so authentic that it defeats skepticism. In this case, Buchanan had established a cover, as he’d explained to the twins, but then he had yet another cover, that of Ed Potter. The latter cover was intended to manipulate the twins into accepting him as a partner. But the false names he used as a time-share condominium salesman in various resorts, and the further false names that he used with his recruits, had not been intended as a way to impress the twins and demonstrate that he would be an asset to them. Rather, those false identities had been a way for Buchanan to protect himself against the Mexican government and, equally important, to prevent the Mexican authorities from tracing his illegal activities to a covert branch of the United States military. The last thing Buchanan’s controllers wanted was an international incident. Indeed, even if Buchanan was arrested while he was posing as Edward Potter, his activities could still not be traced to his controllers. Because he had yet another cover. He would deny to the authorities that he had ever belonged to the DEA, and in the meantime, his controllers would remove or erase all the supporting details for that assumed identity. Buchanan would claim that he had invented the DEA story in order to infiltrate the drug distribution system. He would insist-and there would be supporting details for this cover also-that he was a free-lance journalist who wanted to write an expose about the Mexican drug connection. If the Mexican authorities tried to investigate beyond that cover, they would find nothing that linked Buchanan to U.S. Special Operations.

“Perhaps,” the first twin said. “Perhaps we can work together.”

“Perhaps?” Buchanan asked. “Madre de Dios, what do I have to do to convince you?”

“First we will investigate your background.”

“By all means,” Buchanan said.

“Then we will determine if some of our associates have betrayed us as you claim.”

“No problem.” Buchanan’s chest flooded with triumph. I’ve turned it around, he thought. Five minutes ago, they were ready to kill me, and I was trying to decide if I’d have to kill them. But I did the right thing. I kept my cool. I talked my way out of it. The mission hasn’t been jeopardized.

“You will stay with us while we verify your credentials,” the second twin said.

“Stay with you?”

“Do you have a problem with that?” the first twin asked.

“Not really,” Buchanan said. “Except that making me a prisoner is a poor way to begin a partnership.”

“Did I say anything about making you a prisoner?” The second twin smiled. “You will be our guest. Every comfort will be given to you.”

Buchanan forced himself to return the smile. “Sounds fine with me. I could use a taste of the lifestyle I want to become accustomed to.”

“But there is one other matter,” the first twin said.

“Oh? What’s that?” Buchanan inwardly tensed.

The second twin turned on his penlight and flicked its glare past Buchanan’s right eye. “The drunken American in the restaurant. You will need to prove to our satisfaction that you were not in Kuwait and Iraq at the time he claims he spent time with you there.”

“For Christ sake, are you still fixated on that drunk? I don’t understand how I’m supposed to-”

12

“Crawford!” a man’s voice boomed from the darkness near the hotel’s bar. The voice was deep, crusty from cigarettes, thick from alcohol.

“What’s that?” the first twin quickly asked.

Oh no, Buchanan thought. Oh, Jesus, no. Not when I’ve almost undone the damage from the first time.

“Crawford!” Big Bob Bailey yelled again. “Is that you flashin’ that light over there?” A hulking silhouette lurched from the hotel’s gardens, a beefy man who’d had too much to drink and now had trouble walking in the sand. “Yes, you, damn it! I mean you, Crawford! You and them spics you’re talkin’ with under that fancy beach umbrella or whatever the hell it is.” He stumbled closer, breathing heavily. “You son of a bitch, I want a straight answer! I want to know why you’re lyin’ to me! ’Cause you and me both know your name’s Jim Crawford! We both know we was prisoners in Kuwait and Iraq! So why won’t you admit it? How come you made a fool of me? You think I’m not good enough to drink with