Assumed Identity

It took two hours, a watchful eye for the police or anyone else who showed undue interest in her, and several prudent shifts of location, but she finally used her powers of performance to sell all of her jewelry to tourists, amassing $215.

That gave her enough to travel-not enough to fly, of course (which she wouldn’t have done anyhow because the airports would be among the first places that Drummond’s men would check), but certainly enough to take a train, and a bus would be even cheaper. Plus, the way she was dressed, she thought she’d be more invisible on a bus, so she ate a hamburger while she walked to the junkie-infested Port Authority Bus Terminal, and by noon she was on her way to Baltimore.

Why Baltimore? Why not? she thought. It was close enough that a ticket there wouldn’t use all her money. At the same time, it was comfortably far. She had no previous associations with Baltimore. It was simply a random selection, impossible for Drummond to predict, although if he eliminated the cities with which she’d been associated and if he arbitrarily chose the remaining big cities within a certain radius from Manhattan, he might make a lucky guess. Nothing was guaranteed. She had to be careful.

En route to Baltimore, while she studied the other passengers to determine whether any was a threat, she had ample opportunity to think about her options. She didn’t dare fall back into old patterns. Her family and friends were a danger to her. Drummond’s men would be watching them. She had to construct a new persona, one unrelated to any character she’d assumed before. She had to make new friends and create new relatives. As far as employment was concerned, she would do whatever was most tolerable, as long as it wasn’t anything she’d done previously. She had to make a complete break with the past. Getting the proper documents for a new false identity wasn’t a problem. She was an expert.

But as she considered her existential condition, she wondered if she was prepared to make the sacrifice. She liked the person she’d been before she met Alistair Drummond. She wanted to be that person again. Had she been foolish? Had she misjudged Drummond’s intention? Perhaps she should have been patient and continued to live in luxury.

Until you served your purpose and your performance was no longer necessary.

And then?

Remember, the gems were fake, and there was no way you were ever going to get the money Drummond claimed to be paying you. The only explanation for the way he rigged that bank account was that he planned to have you killed and take back the money.

But why would he want me killed?

To hide something.

What, though?

The bus arrived in Baltimore at nine in the evening. A cold drizzle made the downtown area bleak. She found a cheap place to eat-more caffeine, calories, and carbohydrates, not to mention grease (she rationalized that the fat might help insulate her from the cold). She didn’t want to waste her remaining money on a hotel room-even a cheap one would be disastrous to her reserves. For a time, she roamed the back streets, hoping that someone would accost her. But the man who grabbed her and whose collarbone she broke had only fifty cents in his pocket.

She was tired, cold, wet, and depressed. She needed to rest. She needed a place where she’d feel reasonably safe, where she could think and sleep. When she found a shopping cart in an alley, she decided on her next role. After wiping dirt on her face, she threw trash into the cart. With her shoulders slumped and with an assumed crazy, empty look in her eyes, she pushed the cart, wheels squeaking, through the drizzle, a bag lady on her way to a shelter for the homeless that she had just passed.

What am I going to do? she thought. The confidence she’d felt when escaping had drained from her. The rigors of her new life weighed upon her imagination. Damn it, I liked who I was. I want to be her again.

How? To do that, you’ve got to beat Drummond, and he’s too powerful to be beaten.

Is he? Why did he hire me? Why did he want me to put on that performance? What’s his secret? What’s he hiding? If I can find that out, maybe he can be beaten.

One thing’s sure. Without money and resources, you need help.

But who can I ask? I don’t dare turn to my friends and family. They’re a trap. Besides, they haven’t the faintest idea of what to do, of what this involves.

So what about the people you trained with?

No, they’re a matter of public record. Drummond can use his influence to learn who they are. They’ll be watched in case I approach them-as much a liability as my family and friends.

The drizzle increased to a downpour. Her soaked clothes drooped and clung to her. In the gloom, she felt every bit the spiritless bag lady she pretended to be.

There’s got to be someone.

The cart she pushed kept squeaking.

You can’t be that alone! she wanted to scream.

Face it. The only person you could trust to help you would have to be someone so anonymous, so chameleonlike, so invisible, without a trace or a record that it would be like he’d never existed. And he’d have to be damned good at staying alive.

He? Why would it have to be a man?

But she suddenly knew, and as she reached the entrance to the shelter for the homeless, a man in a black suit with a white ministerial collar stepped out.

“Come, sister. It’s not a fit night to be out.”

Playing her role, she resisted.

“Please, sister. It’s warm inside. There’s food. A place to sleep.”

She resisted less stubbornly.

“You’ll be safe, I promise. And I’ll store your cart. I’ll protect your goods.”

That did it. Like a child, she allowed herself to be led, and as she left the gloom of the night, as she entered the brightly lit shelter, she smelled coffee, stale doughnuts, boiled potatoes, but it might as well have been a banquet. She’d found sanctuary, and as she shuffled toward a crowded wooden bench, she mentally repeated the name of the man whom she had decided to ask for help. The name filled her mind like a mantra. The problem was that he probably no longer used that name. He was constantly in flux. Officially, he didn’t exist. So how on earth could she get in touch with a man as formless and shifting as the wind? Where in hell would he be?

2

Until 1967, Cancun was a small, sleepy town on the northeastern coast of Mexico’s Yucatan Peninsula. That year, the Mexican government-seeking a way to boost the country’s weak economy-decided to promote tourism more energetically than ever. But instead of improving an existing resort, the government chose to create a world- class holiday center where there was nothing. Various requirements such as suitable location and weather were programmed into a computer, and the computer announced that the new resort would be built on a narrow sandbar in a remote area of the Mexican Caribbean. Construction began in 1968. A modern sewage-disposal system was installed, as well as a dependable water-purification system and a reliable power plant. A four-lane highway was built down the middle of the sandbar. Palm trees were planted next to the highway. Hotels designed to resemble ancient Mayan pyramids were constructed along the ocean side of the island, while nightclubs and restaurants were built along the inner lagoon. Eventually, several million tourists came each year to what had once been nothing but a sandbar.

Cancun’s sandbar had the shape of the number 7. It was twelve miles long, a quarter mile wide, and linked to the mainland by a bridge at each end. Club Internacional-where Buchanan had shot the three Hispanics-was located at the middle of the top of the 7, and as Buchanan raced away from it through the darkness along the wave-lapped beach, he ignored the other hotels that glistened on his left and tried to decide what he would do when he reached the bridge at the northern end of the sandbar. The two policemen who’d arrived at the scene of the killings would use two-way radios to contact their counterparts on the mainland. Those other policemen would block the bridges