David Morrell - Assumed Identity

“I’m telling you, we’d know!”

“Not this way. Not the way they’re doing it. They’re using rogue DEA officers to help them skim. How many shipments did you lose last year? An approximate percentage. Ten percent?”

“More or less,” the first twin said. “It’s inevitable that some of our shipments will be discovered. Couriers get nervous and make mistakes. Or DEA officers happen to be at the right place at the right time. We expect a certain percentage of losses. It goes with the business.”

“But what if some of those couriers weren’t as nervous as they pretended?” Buchanan asked. “And what if those DEA officers had advance warning to be at the right place at the right time? And what if those couriers and DEA officers were in business for themselves?”

As the waiter brought the second round of drinks, the group became silent. The moment the waiter departed, they assessed the restaurant’s customers, assured themselves that no one was close enough to overhear, then faced one another, raising glasses, going through the ritual of consuming salt, tequila, and lime.

“Finish what you were saying.” The first twin clearly hoped that the alcohol would affect Buchanan’s judgment and reveal a weakness.

“Their system’s quite clever.” Buchanan set down the slice of lime from which he’d chewed. “The rogue agents from the DEA have to satisfy their superiors that they’re doing their job. So they surrender a portion of what they confiscate. Then the government brags about how it’s winning the war on drugs, and the American television networks report the latest victory on the evening news. But what the government doesn’t know, and of course the American public, is that other shipments were confiscated and that those shipments were sold to American drug dealers. The money from those sales-millions-is divided between the rogue DEA officers and the trusted associates you’ve put in charge of sending the shipments. As far as you’re concerned, those shipments have been accounted for. By your own admission, you expect those losses. As long as you receive your usual profit, why would you think you were being cheated?”

Both twins glowered.

“ How do you know this? ” the second twin rasped.

“Because, as I told you, I used to belong to the DEA. I wasn’t on the take. I was one of the good guys. That’s how I thought of myself, dummy that I was. I did my job. But I’m not blind. I saw what was going on. The thing is, drug enforcement is the same as any other police work. You don’t turn against your fellow officers. If you do, they have ways to make your life a nightmare. So I had to keep quiet. And then. .”

Scowling, Buchanan gulped his further glass of tequila.

“Yes? And then?” The second twin leaned toward him.

“That’s none of your business.”

“With respect, given our reason for meeting here, it’s very much our business.”

“I had personal problems,” Buchanan said.

“Don’t we all? We’re men of the world. We understand personal problems only too well. There’s no need to be defensive. Unburden yourself. It’s good for the soul. What problems could have. .?”

“I prefer not to talk about it.” Buchanan made his elbow slip off the table, as if the tequila had started to work on him. “I’ve told you what I came to say. You know how to reach me. Use your contacts to investigate your associates’ offshore bank accounts. When you find out I was telling the truth, I hope you’ll decide that the three of us can cooperate.”

With heart-stopping recognition, Buchanan glanced toward the stairs that led down to the restaurant and noticed a man, an American, in company with a Hispanic woman who wore a revealing dress and too much makeup, approach a waiter and ask for a table. The American was in his forties, tall, with extremely broad shoulders and a bulky chest, his sandy hair trimmed upward in a brush cut. His ample stomach protruded against his too-small green T-shirt and hung over the waist on his low-slung jeans. He wore sneakers and puffed on a cigarette as he gave orders to the waiter.

Oh, Jesus, Buchanan thought. His mind raced. How am I going to-?

The first twin shook his head. “Too many things about you trouble us.”

Desperate to avoid the man who’d entered the restaurant, Buchanan concentrated on his targets.

“Crawford!” a booming voice called.

Buchanan ignored it. “What exactly troubles you?”

“Crawford! By Jesus, long time no see!” The booming voice cracked crustily and became a smoker’s cough.

Buchanan continued to direct his attention straight toward his targets.

“Crawford!” the voice boomed louder. “Have you gone deaf? Don’t you hear me? Where by Jesus did you get to after Iraq?” The voice was made more conspicuous because of its heavy, drawling Texas accent. “When they flew us to Germany and we touched down in Frankfurt, I wanted to buy you a drink to celebrate gettin’ out of that Arab hellhole. But one minute you was there in the terminal with all them officials greetin’ us and reporters aimin’ their cameras. The next minute you dropped out of sight like one of our broken drill bits down a dry well.”

The drawling voice boomed so close that Buchanan couldn’t possibly pretend to ignore it. He shifted his gaze from his fidgeting targets toward the looming sun-and-alcohol-reddened face of the beefy American.

“I beg your pardon?” Buchanan asked.

“Crawford. Don’t you recognize your ol’ buddy? This is Big Bob Bailey talkin’ to you. Come on, you can’t have forgotten me. We was prisoners together in Kuwait City and Baghdad. Jesus, who’d have ever figured that nutcase would actually believe he could get away with invadin’ Kuwait? I’ve worked my share of tough jobs, but when those Iraqi tanks pulled onto our drillin’ site, I don’t mind admittin’ I was so shittin’ scared I. .”

Buchanan shook his head in confusion.

“Crawford, have you got post-trauma whatever the hell the shrinks who talked to me in Germany called it? Have you been drinkin’ more than I have? This is Big Bob Bailey speakin’ to you. We and a bunch of other American oil workers was held hostages together.”

“I’m pleased to meet you, Bob,” Buchanan said. “But apparently you’ve confused me with someone else.”

The twins watched Buchanan intensely.

“Give me a break. Your name is Crawford,” the beefy American said. “Jim Crawford.”

“Nope. Sorry. My name’s Ed Potter.”

“But-”

“Honestly, I’m not Jim Crawford. I’m Ed Potter, and I’ve never seen you before. Whoever Jim Crawford is, I must resemble him.”

“More than resemble, and that’s a damned fact.”

“But you’re mistaken. I’m not him.”

The twins watched Buchanan with greater intensity.

“Well, I’ll be a. .” The American looked uneasy, his sun-and-alcohol-reddened face becoming redder with embarrassment. “Sorry, pal. I would have sworn. . I must have been partyin’ too much. Here, let me make up for interruptin’ and buy you and your friends a drink. Honest to God, I didn’t mean to bother you.” The American backed off, staggering slightly as he retreated.

“No problem,” Buchanan said.

But it was a problem. A big problem. One of the nightmares Buchanan dreaded was the risk that a contact from a previous assignment would wander into a present one. Twice in Buchanan’s career, fellow specialists had happened to enter locations (a pub in London, a cafe in Paris) where Buchanan was using false identities to recruit informants who might help him infiltrate terrorist networks. In each case, Buchanan had noticed the subtle look of recognition in his fellow operative’s eyes. Briefly, Buchanan had felt nervous. However, his counterpart-obeying an absolute rule of tradecraft-had ignored Buchanan and soon, when it seemed natural, had left the location.