Assumed Identity

In the restaurant in Cancun’s Club Internacional, Buchanan showed no fear when the first twin threatened him. Instead, he replied matter-of-factly, “Give you a reason not to kill me? I can give you several million of them.”

“We have many millions as it is,” the first twin said. “What makes you think a few more would make us risk trusting you?”

“Human nature. No matter how much money a person has, it’s never enough. Besides,” Buchanan said, “I didn’t offer a few million. I offered several.”

“Hard to spend in prison. Impossible to spend in the grave,” the second twin said. “The practical response to your offer is to eliminate your interference. We resent a competitor, and we have no need for a partner.”

In the background, the drone of conversing diners muffled their exchange.

“That’s just the point,” Buchanan said, still showing no apprehension. “I don’t want to be your competitor, and you do need a partner.”

The second twin bristled. “You have the nerve to tell us what we need. Your eggs are truly hard-boiled.”

“But they can be cracked,” the first twin growled.

“Definitely,” Buchanan said. “I knew the danger when I set up shop here.”

“Not only here, but in Merida, Acapulco, and Puerto Vallarta,” the second twin said angrily.

“Plus a few other resorts where you apparently don’t know I’ve established contacts.”

The first twin’s eyes narrowed, emphasizing their hawklike intensity. “You have the impudence to brag to our faces.”

“No.” Buchanan shook his head emphatically. “I’m not bragging. I’m being candid. I hope you’ll appreciate my honesty. I assure you, I’m not being disrespectful.”

The twins considered his apology, frowned at each other, nodded with sullen reluctance, and leaned back in their chairs.

“But by your own admission, you’ve been extremely industrious,” the second twin said. “And at our expense.”

“How else could I have attracted your attention?” Buchanan spread his hands deferentially. “Consider the risk I took, a norteamericano, suddenly conducting business not only in Mexico but in your backyard, in your country’s resorts, especially here in Cancun. Even with my special knowledge, I had no idea who to approach. Fernandez, I suspected you,” Buchanan told the first man. “But I had no idea you had a twin, and to tell the truth”-Buchanan switched his attention to the second man-“I don’t know which of you is Fernandez. When you entered this restaurant, I confess I was stunned. Gemelos. Twins. That explains so much. It was never clear to me how Fernandez could be in two places, Merida and Acapulco, for example, at one time.”

The first man twisted his thin lips in what passed for a grin. “That was our intention. To cause confusion.” Abruptly he sobered. “But how did you know that even one of us had the first name of Fernandez?” He spoke with increasing speed and ferocity. “What is this special information to which you refer? When our subordinates paid you our courtesy of warning you to stop interfering with our business, why did you ask for this meeting and give our subordinates the names on this sheet of paper?”

To demonstrate, the first twin reached into his wrinkled linen suit coat and produced a folded page. He slapped it onto the table. “The names on this paper are some of our most trusted associates.”

“Well”-Buchanan shrugged-“that just goes to show.”

“Show what?”

“How mistaken you can be about trusted associates.”

“Fucker of your mother, what are you talking about?” the second twin demanded.

So the bait really worked, Buchanan thought. I’m in. I’ve got their attention. Hell, they wouldn’t have both shown up if they weren’t afraid. That list of names spooked them more than I hoped.

“What am I talking about?” Buchanan said. “I’m talking about why you should trust me instead of those bastards. I used to belong to the. .”

Again, Buchanan coughed in warning.

The twins stiffened as their waiter returned, carrying a tray from which he set onto the table a plate of sliced limes, a bowl of salt, a small spoon, and six shot glasses filled with amber tequila.

“Gracias,” Buchanan said. “Give us ten minutes before we order dinner.”

He used the tiny metal spoon to place salt on his left hand, on the web of skin between his thumb and first finger. “Salud,” he told the twins. He licked the salt from his hand, quickly swallowed the contents of one of the glasses, and as quickly bit into a slice of lime. The sour juice of the lime spurted over his tongue, mixing with the sweet taste of the tequila and the bitterness of the salt, the various flavors combining perfectly. His mouth puckered slightly. His eyes almost watered.

“Never mind drinking to our health. Just worry about yours,” the first twin said.

“I’m not worried,” Buchanan said. “I think we’re going to have a productive relationship.” He watched them lick salt, swallow tequila, and chew on wedges of lime.

Immediately they placed more salt on their hands and waited for him to do the same.

As Buchanan complied, it occurred to him that his was one of the few occupations in which the consumption of alcohol was a mandatory requirement. His opponents wouldn’t trust anyone who didn’t drink with them, the implication being that an abstainer had something to hide. So it was necessary to consume quantities of alcohol, for the purpose of gaining trust from those opponents. By vigilant practice, Buchanan had learned the limit of his tolerance for alcohol, just as he’d learned how to pretend believably that he’d exceeded that tolerance and to convince his opponents that he was drunk and hence saying the truth.

The narrow-faced twins each raised their second glass of tequila, clearly expecting Buchanan to do the same. Their dark eyes glowed with the anticipation that he would soon lose control and reveal a weakness.

“You were saying,” the first twin said, “that you suspect the loyalty of our associates because you used to belong to. .”

5

“The Drug Enforcement Administration,” Buchanan’s controller had told him three months earlier. They’d sat opposite each other in the living room of the safe-site apartment in the sprawling complex in Fairfax, Virginia. Between them, on the coffee table, the gray-haired controller had spread documents, the details of Buchanan’s new identity, what was known in the trade as his legend. “You have to convince your targets that you used to be a special agent for the DEA.”

Buchanan, who was already assuming the characteristics of Edward Potter, deciding how the man would dress and what foods he preferred, pressed the tips of his fingers together almost prayerlike and raised them meditatively to his chin. “Keep talking.”

“You wanted to know your character’s motivation? Well, basically he’s sick of seeing the war against drug dealers turn into a joke. He thinks the government hasn’t provided sufficient funds to prove that it’s serious about fighting the war. He’s disgusted with CIA interference whenever the DEA gets close to the really big dealers. According to your new character, those big dealers are on the CIA payroll, supplying information about the politics in the volatile Third World countries from which they get their product. So naturally, the CIA clamps down on the DEA whenever one of the Agency’s informants steps in shit.”

“Well, that part won’t be hard to fake. The CIA does have the biggest Third World dealers on its payroll,” Buchanan said.

“Absolutely. However, that’s about to change. Those Third World dealers have become too smug. The information they’ve been supplying isn’t worth squat. They think they can take the Agency’s money, do virtually nothing in return, and in effect give the Agency the finger. Apparently, they didn’t learn from our invasion of Panama.”

“Of course not,” Buchanan said. “After we grabbed Noriega, other dealers took his place. Nothing changed, except children starved to death because of the economic embargo.”