Assumed Identity

The interrogator jammed the tip of the hose beneath Buchanan’s chin. “You entered Mexico illegally.” He stared deeply into Buchanan’s eyes, then released the hose so Buchanan could speak.

Buchanan’s voice thickened, affected by the swelling in his throat that the hose had caused. “First you accuse me of killing three men.” Breathing became more difficult. “Now you blame me for failing to have a business visa. What’s next? Are you going to charge me with pissing on your floor? Because that’s what I’m going to have to do if I’m not allowed to use a bathroom soon.”

The man behind Buchanan yanked his hair again, forcing tears from Buchanan’s eyes. “You do not seem to believe that this is serious.”

“Not true. Take my word, I think this is very serious.”

“But you do not act afraid.”

“Oh, I’m afraid. In fact, I’m terrified.”

The interrogator glowered with satisfaction.

“But because I haven’t done what you claim I did, I’m also furious.” Buchanan forced himself to continue. “I’ve had enough of this.” Each word was an effort. “I want to see a lawyer.”

The interrogator stared in disbelief, then bellowed with laughter, his huge stomach heaving. “Lawyer?”

The guard behind Buchanan laughed as well.

“Un jurisconsulto?” the interrogator asked with derision. “Que tu necesitas esta un sacerdote.” He whacked the rubber hose across Buchanan’s shins. “What do you think about that?”

“I told you, I hardly know any Spanish.”

“What I said is, you don’t need a lawyer, you need a priest. Because all that will help you now, Victor Grant, is prayers.”

“I’m a U.S. citizen. I have a right to. .” Buchanan couldn’t help it. His bladder was swollen beyond tolerance. He had to let go.

Urinating in his pants, he felt the hot liquid stream over the seat of the chair and dribble onto the floor.

“Cochino! Pig!” The interrogator whacked Buchanan’s wounded shoulder.

Any second now, Buchanan thought. Dear God, let me faint.

The interrogator grabbed Buchanan’s shirt and yanked him forward, overturning the chair, toppling him to the floor.

Buchanan’s face struck the concrete. He heard the interrogator shout in Spanish to someone about bringing rags, about forcing the gringo to clean up his filth. But Buchanan doubted he’d be conscious by the time the rags arrived. Still, although his vision dimmed, it didn’t do so quickly enough to prevent him from seeing with shock that his urine was tinted red. They broke something inside me. I’m pissing blood.

“You know what I think, gringo?” the interrogator asked.

Buchanan wasn’t capable of responding.

“I think you are involved with drugs. I think that you and the men you killed had an argument about drug money. I think. .”

The interrogator’s voice dimmed, echoing. Buchanan fainted.

6

He found himself sitting upright once more, still tied to the chair. It took several moments for his vision to focus, for his mind to become alert. Pain definitely helped him sharpen his consciousness. He had no way of knowing how long he’d been out. The room had no windows. The fat interrogator seemed to be wearing the same sweaty uniform. But Buchanan noticed that the blood-tinted urine had disappeared from the floor. Not even a damp spot. Considerable time must have passed, he concluded. Then he noticed something else-that his pants remained wet. Hell, all they did was move me to a different room. They’re trying to screw with my mind.

“We have brought a friend to see you.”

“Good.” Buchanan’s voice broke. He fought not to lose his strength. “My client can vouch for me. We can clear up this mistake.”

“Client? Did I say anything about a client?” The interrogator opened the door.

A man, an American, stood flanked by guards in a dim hallway. The man was tall, with broad shoulders and a bulky chest, his sandy hair in a brush cut. He wore sneakers, jeans, and a too-small green T-shirt, the same clothes he’d been wearing when he’d come into the restaurant at Club Internacional in Cancun. The clothes were rumpled, and the man looked exhausted, his face still red but less from sun and alcohol than from strain. He hadn’t shaved. Big Bob Bailey.

Yeah, I bet you’re sorry now that you didn’t stay away from me at the restaurant, Buchanan thought.

The interrogator gestured sharply, and the guards nudged Bailey into the room, guiding him with a firm hand on each of his elbows. He walked unsteadily.

Sure, they’ve been questioning you since they caught you on the beach, Buchanan thought. They’ve been pumping you for every speck of information they can get, and the pressure they put on you encourages you to stick to your story. If they get what they want, they’ll apologize and treat you royally to make certain you don’t change your mind.

The guards stopped Bailey directly in front of Buchanan.

The interrogator used the tip of the rubber hose to raise Buchanan’s face. “Is this the man you saw in Cancun?”

Bailey hesitated.

“Answer,” the interrogator said.

“I. .” Bailey drew a shaky hand across his brush cut. “It could be the man.” He stank of cigarettes. His voice was gravelly.

“Could be?” The interrogator scowled and showed him the police sketch. “When you helped the artist prepare this sketch, I am told that you were definite in your description.”

“Well, yeah, but. .”

“But?”

Bailey cleared his throat. “I’d been drinkin’. My judgment might have been clouded.”

“And are you sober now?”

“I wish I wasn’t, but yeah, I’m sober.”

“Then your judgment should be improved. Is this the man you saw shoot the three other men on the beach behind the hotel?”

“Wait a minute,” Bailey said. “I didn’t see anybody shoot nobody. What I told the police in Cancun was I saw a friend of mine with three Mexicans. I followed ’em from the restaurant to the beach. It was dark. There were shots. I dove for cover. I don’t know who shot who, but my friend survived and ran away.”

“It is logical to assume that the man who survived the shooting is responsible for the deaths of the others.”

“I don’t know.” Bailey pawed at the back of his neck. “An American court might not buy that logic.”

“This is Mexico,” the interrogator said. “Is this the man you saw run away?”

Bailey squinted toward Buchanan. “He’s wearin’ different clothes. His hair’s got blood in it. His face is dirty. His lips are scabbed. He hasn’t shaved, and he generally looks like shit. But yeah, he looks like my friend.”

“Looks like?” The interrogator scowled. “Surely you can be more positive, Senor Bailey. After all, the sooner we get this settled, the sooner you can go back to your hotel room.”

“Okay.” Bailey squinted harder. “Yeah, I think he’s my friend.”

“He’s wrong,” Buchanan said. “I never saw this man in my life.”

“He claims he knew you in Kuwait and Iraq,” the interrogator said. “During the Gulf War.”

“Oh, sure. Yeah, right.” The pain in Buchanan’s abdomen worsened. He bit his lip, then struggled to continue. “And then he just happened to bump into me in Cancun. Hey, I was never in Kuwait or Iraq, and I can prove it. All you have to do is look at the stamps on my passport. I bet this guy doesn’t even know my name.”