Assumed Identity

Buchanan tried to look relaxed while he intensified his awareness. The men immediately headed in his direction. Their foot soldiers would have given them his description, Buchanan knew. More, there would have been surreptitious photographs taken of him. He dreaded being photographed.

As the twins reached his table, Buchanan stood to shake hands with them. He deliberately hadn’t worn a jacket, wanting them to see that he wasn’t armed. They would note that his navy shirt was tucked under his belt rather than hanging loose and possibly concealing a pistol. They would also note that his shirt was somewhat tight, sufficiently so that if he were hiding a tape recorder or a transmitting device, the outline would be obvious. Of course, state-of-the-art transmitters were so miniaturized that one could easily be disguised as a button on his shirt, just as a small handgun could be secured above his ankle, beneath his pants. Not that Buchanan would need a handgun at this proximity. The ballpoint pen in his shirt pocket could be equally lethal. Nonetheless, Buchanan knew that these hawk-eyed men would appreciate his gesture of apparent openness. At the same time, he took for granted that, despite their display of confidence, they would maintain the wariness that had kept them alive this long.

They greeted him in English.

Buchanan replied in Spanish, “Thank you for meeting me.” He used ustedes, the formal word for “you.”

“De nada,” the first man said, and gestured for Buchanan to sit.

Both glanced around the restaurant, seemed satisfied by the meeting place, and sat as well. No doubt, Buchanan thought, they’d ordered subordinates to check the restaurant’s suitability before they’d arrived. Presumably, they also had stationed guards inconspicuously outside the hotel and in the corridor that led to the restaurant. As a further precaution, they took napkins from the table, spread them on their laps, and made a smooth, practiced motion with their right hands that told Buchanan they’d slid a pistol beneath each napkin.

Finally settled, they studied him.

“You have cojones,” the first twin said.

“Gracias.”

“And the luck of a fool,” the second twin said. “We could have dealt with you permanently at any time.”

“Claro que si,” Buchanan said. “Of course. But I hoped that you would listen to reason. I have confidence in the business opportunity I came to offer you.”

“Our business is already satisfying,” the first twin said.

“So what makes you think that you can make our business even more satisfying?” The second twin squinted.

Buchanan spoke softly. “Because you know how satisfying my own business has become. I take for granted that I’m reasoning with disciplined businessmen. Professionals. The proof is that you didn’t respond to my efforts by. . as you put it. . dealing with me permanently. You saw how. .”

Buchanan coughed discreetly in warning and cocked his head to the left.

Their waiter approached and gave them menus. He compared his two Hispanic guests to the solitary norteamericano and obviously decided that since Cancun was Mexico’s most popular resort for Americans, he would give Buchanan the most attention. “Would you like a drink, senores?”

“Tequila for me. Y para mis compadres?” Buchanan turned to them.

“The same,” the first twin said. “Bring lime and salt.”

“Make it doubles for everyone,” the second twin said.

As the waiter departed, the first twin scowled, leaned over the table, almost touching Buchanan, and whispered hoarsely, “No more bullshit, Senor Potter”-the first time he’d used Buchanan’s pseudonym. “What do you want from us? This is your one and only chance.” He reached toward the napkin that covered his lap and patted his pistol. “Give us a reason not to kill you.”

3

The briefing had been at a safe site in Fairfax, Virginia, an apartment on the second story of a sprawling complex into which Buchanan could easily blend. He had rented it under his then pseudonym of Brian MacDonald. He had a driver’s license, a passport, a birth certificate, and several credit cards in that name, as well as a detailed fictional background for that temporary identity. His telephone bills indicated that he phoned a number in Philadelphia every Sunday evening, and if anyone investigating Brian MacDonald had called that number, a cheery female receptionist would have answered, “Golden Years Retirement Home.” That establishment did in fact exist, a profitable cover organization for Buchanan’s employers, and its records indicated that a Mrs. MacDonald, Brian’s “mother,” was in residence. She wasn’t in her room at the moment, but she’d be pleased to return a call, and soon an elderly woman who worked for Buchanan’s employers would return the call, the destination of which would of course be traced, the conversation recorded.

Buchanan’s fictitious occupation at that time, three months earlier, had been that of a computer programmer. He had an interest in and talent for computers, so that part of his assumed identity was easy to establish. He worked at home, he told anyone who happened to ask, and the powerful IBM in his apartment, supplied by his employers, validated his claim. As a further proof of his bogus identity, each Thursday he sent backup computer disks via Federal Express to New Age Technology in Boston, another profitable cover organization for Buchanan’s employers, but to maintain the skills of his true occupation, each evening for three hours he exercised at the local Gold’s Gym.

Mostly he waited, trying to be patient, maintaining discipline, eager to do his real work. So when an executive from New Age Technology at last phoned, announced that he’d be in Fairfax on business, and wondered if he could pay a visit, Buchanan thought, Soon. Soon I’ll be useful. Soon I won’t be bored.

His controller knocked on the door on schedule. That was 4:00 P.M. on a Friday, and when Buchanan- MacDonald glanced through the door’s security eye, then let him in, the short, gaunt man in a rumpled suit placed his briefcase on the living room’s coffee table, waited for Buchanan-MacDonald to close and bolt the entrance, then studied his surroundings and asked, “Which would you prefer? To go for a walk or stay here?”

“The apartment’s clean.”

“Good.” The hollow-cheeked controller opened his briefcase. “I need your driver’s license, your passport, your birth certificate, your credit cards, all of your documents for Brian MacDonald. Here are the release forms for you to sign, and here’s my signed receipt.”

Buchanan complied.

“Now here are your further documents,” the thin-lipped controller continued, “and the acceptance form for you to sign. Your new name is Edward Potter. You used to be employed as a. . Well, it’s all in this file. Every detail of your new background. Knowing how retentive your memory is, I assume that as usual you’ll be able to absorb the information by the time I come back to retrieve the file tomorrow morning. What’s wrong?”

“What took you so long to get in touch with me?” Buchanan asked. “It’s been two months.”

“After your last assignment, we wanted you to disappear for a while. Also, we thought we’d have a use for you as Brian MacDonald. Now that scenario’s been discarded. We’ve got a much more interesting project for you. I think you’ll be pleased. It’s as important as it is risky. It’ll give you quite a rush.”

“Tell me about it.”

His controller studied him. “I sometimes forget how intense field operatives can be, how anxious they are to. . But then, of course, that’s why you’re field operatives. Because. .”

“Because? I’ve asked myself that many times. What’s the answer?”

“I should have thought that was obvious. You enjoy being someone else.”

“Yes. Exactly. So indulge me. Pretend I’m a Method actor. What’s my new character’s motivation?”

4