Assumed Identity

would it?” the colonel said. “During the eighties, your people got so stuck on gadgets and satellites, you forgot it took operatives on-site to get the truly useful information. So after you screwed up enough times-Iran, Iraq, the old USSR-even the Soviet collapse caught you by surprise-you decided you needed a team of on-line, can-do personnel to pull your asses out of the fire. Us.”

“Not my ass,” Alan said. “I’ve never been a fan of gadgets. It wasn’t my fault that-”

“The truth is,” the colonel said, “when the Cold War ended, your people realized you’d be out of a job if you didn’t find something else to do. But the trouble is, all the jobs that needed to be done, like stomping out Third World drug lords, required more risks than you wanted to take. So you asked us to take the risk. After all, the reason there hasn’t been more success against the drug lords is you’ve been using the top men as informants in exchange for giving them immunity. It’s kind of tough to go after people you’ve been chummy with. So you ask us to go after them and do it in such a way that they don’t realize you’re the ones who turned against them.”

“Hey,” Alan said, “it’s not one of my people who suddenly thinks he’s a free spirit and drops out of sight.”

“Captain Buchanan wouldn’t have been able to drop out of sight,” the colonel said, “if your people had kept proper surveillance on the hotel.”

“It wasn’t my people who were put in charge of watching that hotel,” Alan said. “If this had been turned over to me. . This is a military screw up all the way. Soldiers don’t have any business doing-”

“That’s enough,” the colonel said. “Your opinion is no longer required.”

“But-”

“That is all.” The colonel swung toward the major and the captain, who looked shocked by the sudden argument they’d witnessed. “What do we do about Buchanan?”

Captain Weller cleared her throat. “I phoned his credit-card company and claimed that he was my husband, that his card had been stolen. I expected that maybe he’d have bought a plane ticket. I was wrong. The credit-card company told me someone using his name had rented a car in New Orleans.”

“And?” the colonel demanded.

“The next thing, someone using his card rented a motel room in Beaumont, Texas.”

“I’m impressed, Captain. I assume our people are in Beaumont now.”

“Yes. But Buchanan isn’t there.”

“Isn’t. .?”

“It turns out he only stayed a couple of hours. He left at noon.”

“What?”

“Obviously, he wants to keep on the move,” Captain Weller said.

“To where?”

She shook her head. “He seems to be heading west. The credit-card company promised to keep me informed.”

“There’s only one problem,” Alan said.

They looked at him.

“The next time Buchanan surfaces with that card, the company won’t only shut off his credit. It’ll send the police after him. That’ll be dandy, won’t it? To have the police involved.”

“Shit,” Captain Weller said.

“And if you get your hands on him first,” Alan said, “what are you going to do with him? Put him in solitary confinement? Don’t you see how out of control this could get? Why don’t you just let the man alone to disappear as he promised?”

Rain pelted against the window.

“Last night, you reported that he was convinced we were trying to assassinate him,” the colonel said.

“Correct.”

“Well, his suspicions are absurd. He’s paranoid if he thinks we’ve turned against him. What does that say about his ability to disappear as he promised? Maybe he’ll keep coming back to haunt us. And what about the reporter? She surrendered her research. But did she keep copies? Will she kill the story as she promised?”

“Whatever we decide, let’s do it fast,” the major said. “I’ve got two dozen undercover personnel in Latin America who expect me to make sure they have backup. Every minute I spend worrying about Buchanan, I run the risk that something else will go wrong. If only Buchanan had cooperated. All he had to do was stick to his cover story and become a trainer. What’s wrong with being a trainer?”

“Because that isn’t what he is,” Alan said.

They stared at him.

“And I’m not sure Buchanan is who he is, either,” Alan said.

9

The man following Buchanan became less conspicuous as they drove toward downtown San Antonio. When they reached better-lit streets, Buchanan was able to see that the man used a Jeep Cherokee, gray, a good unobtrusive color for a surveillance vehicle, especially at night. The man took care to stay back among other cars when he had the chance. It was only the first two minutes that had given him away.

It had been enough.

Buchanan pulled into a gas station, filled the tank, and went into the office to pay. When he came out, he noticed that the Jeep Cherokee was parked down the street from the gas station.

A little farther along the road, Buchanan stopped at a minimall and went into a Tex-Mex quick-service restaurant, where he ate a beef-and-bean burrito and drank a Coke while he carefully glanced out the window toward where the Jeep Cherokee was parked in the shadows at the edge of the mall. Behind the steering wheel, the driver was talking to a car phone.

The spices in the burrito made Buchanan’s face warm. Or maybe he was feverish from fatigue. He didn’t know. His injured side ached. I’ve got to get some rest, he thought, and swallowed three more Tylenol caplets.

The restaurant had an exit near the rest rooms in back. Buchanan stepped out behind the minimall and hurried along a shadowy alley in the direction of where the Jeep Cherokee was parked.

The man behind the steering wheel was too busy talking on the phone and watching the entrance to the restaurant to notice when Buchanan came up behind him on the passenger side. The moment the man-in his late twenties, wearing a Houston Oilers jacket-set down the phone, Buchanan opened the passenger door, got in, and rammed his pistol into the man’s beefy ribs.

The man groaned, his surprise aggravating his pain.

“What’s your name?” Buchanan asked.

The man was too afraid to answer.

Buchanan pressed the gun harder against the man’s ribs. “Your name.”

“Frank. . Frank Tucker.”

“Well, let’s take a drive, Frank.”

The man seemed paralyzed with shock.

“Drive, Frank, or I’ll kill you.” The threat was starkly matter-of-fact.

The man obeyed.

“That’s right,” Buchanan said. “Nice and easy into traffic. Keep both hands on the steering wheel.”

They passed Buchanan’s car. He’d parked it along with several other cars in front of the Tex-Mex restaurant, where it wouldn’t be conspicuous until the lot was otherwise empty at closing time.

“What do you want?” The man’s voice trembled.

“Well, for starters. .” Buchanan used his free hand to grope beneath Frank’s windbreaker. He found a holster but no weapon. “Where’s the piece, Frank?”