David Morrell - Assumed Identity

“Yes. That’s him.”

“I know him. He was my controller a while ago. He’s with the. .”

The hesitation seemed to be a test for Holly. She decided to fill in the gap. “The Agency.”

Buchanan seemed reassured by her candor. He walked toward the bed. “Keep talking.”

“He was very straightforward about what he wanted. He doesn’t approve of the military’s involvement in civilian intelligence operations. American servicemen, armed, in civilian clothes, using false ID, conducting Agency operations in for eign countries. It’s bad enough to have a civilian caught as a spy. But a member of Army Special Forces? On active duty? Pretending to be a civilian? On a strike team intended to topple unfriendly foreign governments or engage in an unsanctioned private war against major drug dealers? If the public realized how out of control the relationship between the CIA and the military had become, Congress would be forced into a major investigation of American intelligence tactics. The Agency is under enough pressure as it is. One more controversy and it might be replaced by an intelligence bureau with stricter limits. That’s what Alan’s afraid of. So he came to me and gave me certain information, insisting that he never be named, that he be cited only as a reliable government source. To make my story look less like a setup, he didn’t tell me everything. He gave me just enough hints that my work in checking them out and linking them would provide me with evidence to maintain the fiction that I’d come up with the story on my own. . Why are you looking at me like that?”

“It doesn’t make sense. If Alan was afraid that exposing the Agency’s use of unauthorized military action would threaten the Agency, why the hell would he give you the story? It’s exactly what he doesn’t want.”

“No.” Holly shook her head. “He was very specific about that, and I agreed. You and only you were to be the object lesson.”

“Oh, Christ,” Buchanan said.

“The idea was that I’d expose you as a single example of the dangerous use of the military in civilian intelligence operations. The government wouldn’t have any more information than what was in my story. I’d testify that I didn’t know anything further. The congressional investigation would eventually end. But the message would be clear. If the CIA was using military strike teams, it had better stop, or else the Agency and certain Special Operations units would be severely limited, if not disbanded. Careers would be destroyed.”

“Sure.” Buchanan’s voice was strained. “And in the meantime, you’d be a journalist celebrity. And Alan would have the shop back in his control.”

“That was the idea,” Holly said.

“Politics.” Buchanan made the word sound like a curse.

“But it’s not the idea any longer.”

“What are you talking about?”

“That’s why I phoned Alan,” Holly said. “To cancel my agreement with him. I told him I wanted out. I told him I wanted to talk to your superiors, to assure them that what we’re doing isn’t related to them, that you aren’t a risk to them and neither am I.”

“You honestly expected he’d go along? No hard feelings? Nice try? We can’t win ’em all? That sort of thing? Jesus.”

“Alan told me he was sorry things got out of hand.”

“I bet.”

“We’re still being hunted. He suggested I distance myself from you while he figures out a way to bring me in.”

“Damned good advice.” Buchanan squinted. “Distance yourself.”

“No,” Holly said. “I won’t let you go.”

“Just how the hell do you think you’re going to stop me?”

“Follow.”

“Lots of luck. What is it with you? You still think I’m a front-page story?”

No answer.

“Then maybe you figure it’s safer to stay with me and run from them than to try to do it by yourself.”

Still no answer.

“Look, I don’t have time to guess what you’re thinking. I’ve got to get out of Key West before your phone call brings a hit team down here.”

“You.”

“What?” Buchanan frowned.

“You,” Holly said. “That’s why I want to go with you.”

“Make sense.”

“I can’t make it any plainer. I want to be with you. It’s not just because I feel safe with you, although I do. It’s. . I didn’t expect you to be what you are. I didn’t expect to feel attracted to you. I didn’t expect that I’d get so used to being with you that my stomach cramps at the thought of you going away.”

“Now who’s playing a role?”

“I’m telling the truth! I got used to you. And as long as we’re spreading blame around, don’t forget you’re the one who came to me the second time. I wouldn’t be in danger if you hadn’t decided to use me. Hell, in Washington I saved your life. That ought to prove something.”

“Yeah, and I’m so wonderful that you fell in love with me.”

She started to say something.

“Save your energy,” Buchanan said. “You’re going to get your wish.”

Holly’s eyes widened in surprise.

“I can’t leave you behind,” Buchanan said. “I just realized I made a mistake. I told you where I was going.”

“Yes. Mexico City,” Holly said.

“Because of Juana, I can’t change my plans. I swore I’d help her if she ever needed me, and I intend to keep that promise. Which means I can’t let you wander around until you’re caught and you tell them where I’ve gone and what I’m doing. Pack. I want to get off this island before they get here.”

Holly breathed out. “Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me. This isn’t a favor. As soon as I think you’re no longer a risk to me, I’m cutting you loose. But in the meantime, Holly, pay attention. Take this advice. Do not force me to treat you as an enemy.”

THE YUCATAN PENINSULA

A pall of smoke clung to the massive clearing. As construction proceeded, the crackle of gunshots punctuated the roar of bulldozers, cranes, and other heavy machinery. So did the crackle of flames, the source of the smoke that filled the area. Trees were being burned back, the clearing widened, anything to reduce the cover from which natives-descendants of the original Maya-persisted in their attacks on the construction crew and the equipment. The scattered stones of the leveled ruins of once-magnificent towering pyramids and temples still lay among the towers that had replaced them, these made of steel. Occasionally the earth tremored, but the workers and guards no longer paid attention. As with the snakes, the smoke, and the gunshots, those who labored here had become used to anything. The job mattered. Completing it. Being paid. Escaping.

Alistair Drummond did that to a person, Jenna thought as she obeyed his orders, completing the archaeological survey map that would show that the ruins were not as impressive as photographs from space had led scholars to expect. A few minor structures. Numerous scattered stones, the result of earthquakes. Pathetic remnants of a formerly great culture. With one exception. The Mayan ball court. For reasons unexplained-perhaps because one intact structure might lend credence to his story-Drummond had insisted that the ball court, a distance from the area of demolition and construction, be spared. There, on its grassy rectangular surface flanked by stone terraces upon which royal spectators had nodded approval, teams of men wearing leather armor had played a game in which they attempted to throw a punishing globe the size and weight of a medicine ball through a vertical hoop on either side of the court. The stakes of the game had been ultimate: life or death. Perhaps that was why Drummond had spared it- because the ball court represented his cruelty, his pursuit of a goal at any cost.