Assumed Identity

TEN

1

WASHINGTON, D.C.

One-thirty in the afternoon. As soon as Buchanan got off the TWA flight from San Antonio, he headed toward the first row of pay phones he saw in the terminal at National Airport. He’d managed to get some sleep during the five-hour, several-stop trip. The naps, combined with the additional four hours of sleep he’d gotten the night before at a motel near San Antonio’s airport, had given him back some energy, as had a carbohydrate-rich breakfast at the airport and another on the plane. His wounds still hurt. His head still ached. But he felt more alert than he had in days, adrenaline pushing him. He was traveling as Charles Duffy. He felt in control again.

A man answered Holly’s phone at the Washington Post, explained that she was on another line, and asked who was calling.

“Mike Hamilton.”

That was the name Buchanan had told Holly he would be using to contact her. He had to assume that the colonel and Alan would have her under surveillance, watching for any sign that she didn’t intend to keep her agreement with them. If she seemed intent on pursuing the story, if she gave indications that she had not surrendered all of her research, there was a strong chance they would move against her. For certain, if the colonel and Alan found out that Buchanan remained in contact with her, that would be enough to arouse their suspicions to a deadly level. Even if Holly wasn’t in danger, Buchanan couldn’t afford to use his real name. The colonel and Alan would be searching for him.

That thought made Buchanan uneasy as he waited for Holly to come on the line. His nervousness wasn’t caused by concern about his safety. Rather, he was nervous because he wondered about his motives. What did he think he was doing? You didn’t just leave a top-secret undercover military operation as if you were quitting a job at Domino’s Pizza. For eight years as a deep-cover operative and for three years prior to that, Buchanan had followed every order. He was a soldier. It was his job to be obedient. He’d been proud of that. Now suddenly his discipline had snapped. He’d walked away, not even toward the future but into the past, not as himself but as one of his characters.

Hey, buddy, he told himself, it’s not too late. You’d better get back in line and with the program. Phone the colonel. Tell him you made a mistake but you’re better now. Tell him you’ll do whatever he wants. You’ll be an instructor. You’ll stay out of sight. Anything.

But a stronger thought insisted.

Have to find Juana.

He must have said that out loud, because a woman’s voice was suddenly speaking to him on the telephone. “What? I didn’t hear what you said. Mike? Is that you?”

The throaty, sensuous voice belonged to Holly.

Buchanan straightened. “Yeah, it’s me.” Before leaving San Antonio this morning, he’d called Holly’s apartment to make certain she was in Washington, to ensure he didn’t make the trip for nothing. Six-thirty in Texas had been 7:30 along the Potomac. She’d been awake and about to go to work when she’d picked up the phone rather than let her answering machine take the message. Assuming that her phone was tapped, he’d used the name Mike Hamilton and made tentative arrangements to meet her.

“Is our late lunch still on?” she now asked.

“If your schedule’s free.”

“Hey, for you, it’s always free. I’ll meet you in McPherson Square.”

“Give me forty minutes.”

“No rush.”

“See you.” Buchanan put the phone back on its hook. The conversation had gone perfectly. Sounding natural, it had nonetheless contained the words no rush, the code they’d chosen in New Orleans to indicate that Holly did not sense a threat. See you was Buchanan’s equivalent message.

He picked up his small bag, turned from the phone, and joined a mass of passengers that had just gotten off another flight. Both National and Dulles airports were under constant surveillance from various government agencies. Some of the surveillance was a throwback to the Cold War. Some of it was due to a practical need to know which travelers of importance were showing up unexpectedly in the nation’s capital. A lot of it had to do with the increasing conviction that Mideastern terrorists were poised to make their long-postponed assault on the United States.

Buchanan had no reason to suspect that the colonel would have operatives watching the airport in case he passed through. After all, logic suggested that Washington would be one of the places Buchanan wanted most to avoid. Besides, his paper trail would have led the colonel’s operatives to San Antonio by now. Before leaving Texas, Buchanan had left his car at an office of the company from which he’d rented it. That would be the dead end of the paper trail. The colonel’s people would assume that Buchanan had flown out of San Antonio, since the car-rental office was near the airport. But they would have no way of knowing that Buchanan had used Charles Duffy’s name and credit card to rent the motel room and buy a plane ticket to Washington.

The only risk Buchanan took in the airport was that someone would notice him by accident, but that would happen only if he drew attention to himself, and he wasn’t about to get that careless. Buchanan-Lang-Duffy- Hamilton blended skillfully with fellow travelers, exited into a drab, damp afternoon, got into a taxi, and headed toward downtown Washington. The terminal had not been a threat.

But McPherson Square would be another matter.

2

In New Orleans, before Holly had gone back to Washington, Buchanan had explained to her that if he phoned and suggested they get together, she was to choose a public place in the area. The place had to be part of her routine. (“Do nothing conspicuous.”) It had to have numerous entrances. (“So we don’t get trapped.”) And it had to be dependable in terms of not being closed at unpredictable hours. (“I was once told to meet a man at a restaurant that had burned down the day before. Nobody on the team advising me had checked the location to make sure the rendezvous site was viable.”)

In terms of those criteria, McPherson Square was ideal. The park was hardly likely to have burned down. It was as public as a restaurant but far more open, and it was only a few blocks from Holly’s office, hence a natural place for her to meet someone.

Buchanan managed to reach the rendezvous area before the forty-minute deadline. Watching the newspaper building from a crowded bus stop farther along L Street, he saw Holly come out of the Washington Post and head down Fifteenth Street, but at the moment, he wasn’t so much interested in her as he was in anyone who might be following her. He waited until she was out of his sight, waited another fifteen seconds, then strolled with other pedestrians toward the corner. There, while waiting for a traffic light, he glanced down Fifteenth Street in Holly’s direction toward her destination on K Street.

She wore a London Fog raincoat, tan, an excellent neutral color when you didn’t want to stand out in a crowd. A matching cap had the extra merit of concealing Holly’s red hair, which she’d tucked up beneath it. The only thing conspicuous about her was the camera bag that she carried in lieu of a purse.

It was enough for Buchanan to distinguish her from other tan raincoats in the crowd. He followed slowly, glancing unobtrusively at store windows and cars, subtly scanning the area to see if Holly had anyone observing her.

Yes. A man in a brown leather jacket on the opposite side of the street.

As the man walked, he never took his gaze away from Holly. On occasion, he adjusted something in his right ear and lowered his chin toward his left chest, moving his lips.

Buchanan studied the street more intently and saw a man on the corner ahead of Holly. The man wore a business suit, held an umbrella, and glanced at his watch a couple of times as if waiting for someone. But he, too,