Assumed Identity

“Holly.” He pivoted sharply toward her. “Let’s pretend I am the kind of person you think I am. What do you suppose would happen to you if told the people I work for that you had a false passport with my picture in it? How long do you think you’d get to walk around with it?”

Her emerald eyes became more intense. “Then you didn’t tell them.”

“What do you mean?”

“I wondered if you would. I doubted it. You don’t want your superiors knowing you had that passport-and lost it. What did you want it for in the first place?”

“Isn’t it obvious? So I’d be able to leave the country.”

“Is there something wrong with using your own passport?”

“Yeah.” Buchanan scanned the people near the exit. “I don’t have one. I’ve never been issued one.”

They reached the noisy street. Again the glare of the sun stabbed his eyes. “Where’s your friend? Ted. The guy on the train. It’s my guess you don’t go anywhere without him.”

“He’s nearby, looking out for my welfare.”

“Using a two-way radio? I won’t keep talking with you unless you prove to me this conversation isn’t being recorded.”

She opened her purse. “See? No radio.”

“And my belongings aren’t in there, either. Where’d you put them?”

“They’re safe.”

In front of the hospital, a man and a woman got out of a taxi. Buchanan hurried to get in after they walked toward the lobby.

Holly scrambled in after him.

“This isn’t a good idea,” Buchanan said.

“Where to?” the driver asked.

“Holiday Inn-Crowne Plaza.”

As the taxi pulled from the curb, Buchanan turned to Holly. “This is not the game you seem to think it is. I want my belongings returned to me. Give me the key to your room. I’ll get what’s mine, pack your things, and check you out.”

“What makes you think I want to leave the hotel?”

Buchanan leaned close. “Because you do not want to be seen near me. Don’t ask me to be more explicit. This is as plain as I can make it.”

“You’re trying to scare me again.”

“You bet, and lady, I hope I’m succeeding.”

6

“Close enough,” Buchanan told the driver.

“But we got another two blocks, suh.”

“This is fine. Take the lady for a drive. Be back on this corner in thirty minutes.” Buchanan stared at Holly. “The key to your room.” He held out his hand.

“You’re really serious.”

“The key.”

Holly gave it to him. “Lighten up. Your belongings, as you call them, aren’t in my room anyhow.”

“Where are they? In Ted’s room?”

She didn’t answer.

“I mean it, Holly. Neither you nor your friend wants to be found with my things in their possession. It wouldn’t be healthy for you.”

Her face changed color slightly, paling, as if he was finally getting his message across. “What do I get in return?”

“Peace of mind.”

“Not good enough,” Holly said.

“What do you want?”

“The chance to keep talking with you.”

“I told you, I’ll be back in half an hour.”

Holly studied him. “Yes. All right. They’re in Ted’s room.”

“I don’t suppose you have a key to it.”

“As a matter of fact.” She handed it to him. “In case I needed to get your belongings and Ted wasn’t around.”

“You just did a very smart thing.” Buchanan got out of the taxi.

“Be careful when you pack my underwear. It’s expensive. I don’t want the lace torn.”

Buchanan stared at her and shut the door.

7

The two blocks felt like two miles. Along the way, Buchanan unwrapped the bandage from around his skull and shoved it into a trash can. By the time he reached the Crowne Plaza, he felt light-headed, his brow filmed with sweat. His only consolation was that as he entered the softly lit lobby, escaping the hammer force of the sun, his headache felt slightly less severe.

Rather than go directly up to Ted’s room and then Holly’s, he decided he’d first better learn if he had any messages. He checked the lobby to see if anybody showed any interest in him.

There. In the corner on the right next to the entrance. A man, late twenties, in a blue seersucker suit. Sitting in a lounge chair. Reading a newspaper.

The well-built man was in a perfect position to see people coming into the lobby before they had a chance to notice him. The man’s glance in Buchanan’s direction was ever so brief but ever so intense. And like a good operative, the man gave no sign that he recognized Buchanan.

So they staked out the hotel, Buchanan thought.

But it isn’t me they’re looking for.

No. The person they’re looking for is Holly.

Showing no indication that the man in the corner interested him, Buchanan went over to the front desk, waited while a clerk took care of a guest, and then stepped forward.

“Yes, sir?”

“Are there any messages for me? My room number’s. .”

The clerk smiled, waiting.

“My room number’s. .”

“Yes?”

“. . Damn.” Buchanan’s pulse raced. “I can’t remember what it is. I left my key here at the desk when I went out, so I’m afraid I can’t tell you the number on it.”

“No problem, sir. All you have to do is give me your name. The computer will match the name with your room number.”

“Victor Grant,” Buchanan said automatically.

The clerk tapped some letters on a computer keyboard, hummed, and studied the screen. He began to frown. “Sorry, sir. No one by that name is registered here.”

“Victor Grant. There must be.”

“No, sir.”

Jesus, Buchanan suddenly realized. “Brendan Buchanan. I gave you the wrong name.”

“Wrong name? What do you mean, sir?”