David Morrell - Assumed Identity

After leaving the taxi, Buchanan and Holly passed through a crowd and entered the National Palace’s vestibule, where large colorful murals lined the main staircase and the first-floor corridors. The murals, by Diego Rivera, conveyed the sprawling history of Mexico from the era of the Aztecs and Maya, to the invasion by the Spaniards, to the mixture of races, the numerous revolutions, and ultimately an idealized future in which Mexican peasants worked happily and coexisted gloriously with nature. Given the pollution outside, that idealized future was obviously a long way off.

Buchanan stopped only a moment to assess the murals. He’d become more intense, more driven, as if he was controlled by a terrible premonition and didn’t dare waste even a second. In a noisy, echoing corridor, he spoke to a guide and was directed toward a door down the hall. There, in a gift shop, Buchanan ignored books and artifacts on sale, scanning the walls, seeing photographs of what were obviously government officials, some in groups, others alone. He studied several of the photographs, as did Holly, although she risked a sideways glance toward him that revealed his alarmingly rigid cheek muscles and a strong, furious pulse in his neck and temple. His dark eyes seemed to blaze. He pointed at a photograph, the image catching Holly’s attention as well: a tall, slender, thin-faced, hawk-nosed Hispanic male in his early forties. The man had a mustache, wore an expensive suit, and exuded arrogance.

“Yes,” Holly said.

Buchanan turned to a young female clerk and pointed toward the photograph. “ Este hombre. Como se llama, por favor? ”

“ Quien? Ah, si. Esteban Delgado. El Ministro de Asuntos Interiores. ”

“ Gracias, ” Buchanan said. As he bought a book, he asked the clerk more questions, and five minutes later, when he and Holly left the gift shop, Buchanan had learned that the man who’d raped and murdered Maria Tomez was “not just the Minister of the Interior. He’s the second most powerful man in Mexico. Next in line to be president. According to the clerk, that’s common knowledge,” Buchanan said. “In Mexico, when the outgoing president chooses his replacement, the election is mostly a formality.”

Surprised that he’d broken his silence toward her, Holly took advantage of the opportunity, hoping that his anger toward her had softened. “Unless somebody’s got a videotape of him that’s so disgusting it would totally destroy his career, not to mention put him in prison.”

“Or get him executed.” Buchanan rubbed his pained forehead. “A man like Delgado would give anything not to have that tape made public. The question is what, though? What does Drummond want?”

“And what happened to Juana Mendez?”

Buchanan’s gaze was intense. “Yes. That’s finally what this is about. Juana.”

The word stung, as did its implication: not you.

“Don’t just tolerate me,” Holly said. “Don’t just keep me along because you’re afraid I’ll turn against you. I’m not your enemy. Please. Use me. Let me help.”

“My name is Ted Riley,” Buchanan said in Spanish. With Holly, he stood in a carpeted, paneled office, the door of which was labeled MINiSTRO DE ASUNTOS INTERIORES. Minister of the Interior. A bespectacled gray-haired secretary nodded and waited.

“I’m the interpreter for Senorita McCoy.” Buchanan gestured toward Holly. “As you can see from her credentials, she is a reporter for the Washington Post. She is in Mexico City for a limited time, doing interviews with important government officials-to learn their opinions about how the United States could improve its relations with your country. If at all possible, could Senor Delgado spare a few moments to speak with her? It would be greatly appreciated.”

The secretary looked sympathetic, spreading her hands in a gesture of regret. “Senor Delgado is not expected in the office for the rest of the week.”

Buchanan sighed in frustration. “Perhaps he would meet us if we travel to where he is. Senorita McCoy’s newspaper considers his opinions to be of particular importance. It is widely known that he is likely to be the next president.”

The secretary looked pleased by Buchanan’s recognition that she was associated with future greatness.

Buchanan continued. “And I am certain that Senor Delgado would benefit from complimentary remarks about him in the newspaper that the President of the United States reads every morning. It would be a fine opportunity for the minister to make some constructive comments that would prepare the United States government for his views when he becomes president.”

The secretary debated, assessed Holly, and nodded. “One moment, please.”

She entered another office, shut the door, and left Buchanan and Holly to glance at each other. Numerous footsteps clattered past in the hallway. In rows of offices, voices murmured.

The secretary returned. “Senor Delgado is at his home in Cuernavaca, an hour’s drive south of here. I will give you directions. He invites you to be his guests for lunch.”

“Can I ask you something?”

Holly waited for a reply, but Buchanan ignored her, staring straight ahead as he drove their rented car south along the Insurgentes Sur freeway.

“Sure, what did I expect?” Holly said. “You haven’t been communicative since. . Never mind. We’ll skip that topic. What I want to ask is, how do you do it?”

Again Buchanan didn’t reply.

“At Delgado’s office,” Holly said. “That secretary could just as easily have told us to get lost. Somehow you manipulated her into phoning Delgado. I’ve been trying to figure out how. It wasn’t what you said exactly. It. .”

“I get in someone else’s mind.”

Holly frowned at him. “And the CIA taught you how to do this?”

Buchanan’s voice hardened. “Now you’re being a reporter again.”

“Will you stop being so defensive? How many times do I have to tell you? I’m on your side. I’m not out to destroy you. I. . ”

“Let’s just say I had training along the line.” Buchanan clutched the steering wheel and continued to stare at the busy highway. “Being a deep-cover operative isn’t just having false documents and a believable cover story. To assume an identity, I have to transmit the absolute conviction that I am who I claim to be. That means believing it absolutely myself. When I spoke to that secretary, I was Ted Riley, and something in me went out to her. Went into her mind. Stroked her into believing in me. Remember we talked about elicitation? It isn’t merely asking subtle questions. It’s enveloping someone in an attitude and emotionally drawing them toward you.”

“It sounds like hypnotism.”

“That’s how I made my mistake with you.” Buchanan’s tone changed, becoming bitter.

Holly tensed.

“I stopped concentrating on controlling you,” Buchanan said.

“I still don’t understand.”

“I stopped acting,” Buchanan said. “For a while with you, I had an unusual experience. I stopped impersonating. Without realizing it, I became somebody I’d forgotten about. Myself. I related to you as. . me.” He sounded more bitter.

“Maybe that’s why I became attracted to you,” Holly said.

Buchanan scoffed. “I’ve been plenty of people better than myself. In fact, I’m the only identity I don’t like.”

“So now you’re avoiding yourself by being-who did you say you once were? Peter Lang?. . searching for Juana?”

“No,” Buchanan said. “Since I met you, Peter Lang has become less and less important. Juana matters to me because. . In Key West, I told you I couldn’t decide anything about my future until I settled my past.” He finally looked at her. “I’m not a fool. I know I can’t go back six years and God knows how many identities and start up where I left off with her. It’s like. . For a very long time I’ve been pretending, acting, switching from role to role, and I’ve known people I couldn’t allow myself to care about in those roles. A lot of those people needed help that I couldn’t go back and give them. A lot of those people died, but I couldn’t go back and mourn for them. Most of my life’s been a series of boxes unrelated to one another. I’ve got to connect them. I want to become. .”