David Morrell - Assumed Identity

But while Buchanan could count on the tact of a professional, there was no way to guard against the spontaneity of a civilian whom he’d encountered on another mission, a civilian who had no idea of Buchanan’s true occupation. The beefy American-now retreating in confusion to a table where his female escort waited-had indeed known Buchanan in Kuwait City as well as in Baghdad, and Buchanan’s name at that time had indeed been Jim Crawford. Prior to the Allied counterstrike, Buchanan had been inserted at night via a high-altitude, low-opening parachute drop into Kuwait to reconnoiter Iraqi defenses. Buchanan had buried his jump equipment in the desert, then hiked through the dark toward the lights of Kuwait City. He wore civilian clothes-a soiled work shirt and jeans-and carried documents that identified him as an American oil worker from Oklahoma. If stopped, his cover story would be that he’d gone into hiding when the Iraqis invaded. His scraggly beard, unkempt hair, and haggard appearance would reinforce that story. For three weeks, aided by Allied sympathizers, he was able to use a small two-way radio to broadcast important information to his superiors, but prior to his extraction by submarine, an Iraqi patrol had discovered him on the way to the beach.

It wasn’t any wonder that Big Bob Bailey shook his head in confusion as he joined his female escort at a table in the restaurant. After all, Buchanan had spent a month with Bailey and other captive oil workers, first in the confinement of a demolished Kuwait City hotel, then in one of several trucks that transported the Americans from Kuwait to Iraq, and finally in a warehouse in Baghdad.

Saddam Hussein eventually set free the Americans “as a Christmas present to the United States.” They were flown via Iraqi Airlines to various destinations, one of which was Frankfurt, Germany. Big Bob Bailey sat next to Buchanan during the latter flight. Big Bob Bailey chattered endlessly, with nervous relief, about how when they touched down he intended to get good and drunk with his good ol’ pal Jim Crawford. But when they entered the terminal, Jim Crawford disappeared among the crowd, shielded by plainclothes Special Operations personnel who hurried Buchanan to a safe site and intensely debriefed him.

That had been twelve assignments ago, however, and Big Bob Bailey had become just another vaguely remembered contact to whom Buchanan had played one of his numerous roles.

Big Bob Bailey. Damn it, he was from another life. From several lives past. Iraq’s invasion of Kuwait was ancient history. Big Bob Bailey was just a minor character in. .

But at the moment, Big Bob Bailey was very much a major character in this life, Buchanan thought in dismay.

And Big Bob Bailey wouldn’t stop looking over at Buchanan, all the while squinting and shaking his head as if he wasn’t just confused now but angry, convinced that Buchanan was Jim Crawford and insulted because Buchanan wouldn’t admit it.

Jesus, Buchanan thought, he looks pissed off enough that he might come over again! If he does, my cover will be absolutely destroyed. These two Mexican drug distributors didn’t stay alive this long by being idiots. Check their eyes. They’re already wondering what’s going on. I’ve got to. .

“I guess it’s a variation on an old joke,” he told the first twin. “South of the border, all Americans look alike, sometimes even to each other.”

“Yes,” the first twin replied.

“Very amusing,” the second twin said flatly.

“But he certainly attracted attention to us,” Buchanan continued.

“I think the sooner we get out of here, the better,” the second twin said. “Especially before that man comes back here, which I suspect he’s about to do.”

“Fine with me. Let’s go.” Buchanan stood to walk toward the stairs that led up from the restaurant.

“No, this way,” the second twin said. He touched Buchanan’s arm and gestured toward the rear entrance, a sliding glass door that gave access to the hotel’s night-shrouded gardens.

“Good idea,” Buchanan said. “It’s faster. Less conspicuous.” He signaled the waiter that he’d left money on the table and turned toward the glass door.

As Buchanan stepped from the restaurant into the humid, fragrant gardens, as he heard the glass door being slid shut behind him, he noticed that the twins had positioned themselves on either side of him. He noticed as well that they held the napkins beneath which each had earlier concealed a pistol in his lap, and the napkins didn’t look empty. Finally, he noticed a piece of the night step from between tall bushes to the left of the door, bushes that would have given the bodyguard a hidden view through the glass while Buchanan spoke with the twins.

The bodyguard was Hispanic, unusually tall and large-boned.

Like the twins, he held a pistol. Hard to tell in the shadows, but it looked like a 9-mm Beretta equipped with a sound suppressor.

And imitating the expression on his employers’ faces, the bodyguard scowled.

“Who the fuck are you?” the first twin demanded, jabbing Buchanan’s chest.

“Hey, what are you-?” Buchanan tried to object.

“We’re too close to the windows of the restaurant. Someone inside will see,” the second twin cautioned his brother. “We need to go down to the beach.”

“Yes,” the first twin said. “The beach. The fucking beach.”

“ Todavia no. Not yet,” the bodyguard warned. He unhooked a hand-held metal detector from his belt and quickly but thoroughly scanned it over Buchanan.

The metal detector beeped three times.

“His belt buckle. His keys. A pen,” the bodyguard said, not needing to explain that the buckle might conceal a knife, that the keys and pen could be used as weapons.

“Take off your belt,” the first twin ordered Buchanan. “Drop your keys and the pen on the ground.”

“What’s wrong? I don’t understand,” Buchanan insisted.

The second twin showed his pistol, a 9-mm Browning. “Do what you’re told.”

The bodyguard jabbed his Beretta into Buchanan’s left kidney. “ Rapido. Ahora. Now.”

Buchanan complied, removing his belt, dropping it along with his keys and his pen.

The first twin snatched them up.

The second twin shoved Buchanan away from the restaurant toward the gardens.

The bodyguard kept the Beretta low, inconspicuous, and followed.

The gardens were spacious, filled with flowering shrubs, trickling pools, and meandering paths. Here and there, small lights of various colors projected from the ground, illuminating the walkways, tinting the shrubs, reflecting off the pools. Nonetheless, compared to the glare from the windows of the towering hotel, the garden was cloaked in darkness. Anyone who happened to look out would see merely the vague, moving shadows of four men out for a stroll, Buchanan thought. Certainly an observer wouldn’t be able to see that three of the men held pistols by their sides. Not that it mattered. If anyone did see the weapons and felt compelled to phone the police, whatever was going to happen would have ended by the time the police arrived.

As Buchanan proceeded along a walkway toward the splash of waves on the beach, he assessed his options. One was to take advantage of the garden’s darkness, overpower his captors, and escape, using the shrubs for cover in case any of his captors survived his attack and started shooting. Or at least Buchanan could attempt to escape. The problem was that his captors would be anticipating the likelihood of his using the darkness. They’d be primed for a sudden movement, and as soon as he made one, he’d be shot. The sound suppressor on the bodyguard’s Beretta would prevent anyone in the hotel from hearing the weapon’s report. By the time Buchanan’s corpse was discovered, the three Hispanics would be far from the area.