David Morrell - Assumed Identity

Holly waited.

“A human being,” Buchanan said. “That’s why I’m pissed at you. Because I let my guard down, and you betrayed me.”

“No,” Holly said, touching his right hand on the steering wheel. “Not anymore. I swear to God-I’m not a threat.”

After the noise and pollution of Mexico City, Cuernavaca’s peace and clean air were especially welcome. The sky was clear, the sun bright, making the valley resplendent. In an exclusive subdivision, Buchanan followed the directions he’d been given and found the street he wanted, coming to a high stone wall within which a large iron gate provided a glimpse of gardens, shade trees, and a Spanish-style mansion. A roof of red tile glinted in the sun.

Buchanan kept driving.

“But isn’t that where we’re supposed to go?” Holly asked.

“Yes.”

“Then why. .?”

“I haven’t decided about a couple of things.”

“Such as?”

“Maybe it’s time to cut you loose.”

Holly looked startled.

“Anything might happen. I don’t want you involved,” Buchanan said.

“I am involved.”

“Don’t you think you’re going to extremes to get a story?”

“The only extreme I care about is what I have to do to prove myself to you. Delgado’s expecting a female reporter. Without me, you won’t get in. Hey, you established a cover. You claim you’re my interpreter. Be consistent.”

“Be consistent?” Buchanan tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. “Yeah. For a change.”

He turned the car around.

An armed guard stood behind the bars of the gate.

Buchanan got out of the car, approached the man, showed Holly’s press card, and explained in Spanish that he and Senorita McCoy were expected. With a scowl, the guard stepped into a wooden booth to the right of the gate and spoke into a telephone. Meanwhile, another armed guard watched Buchanan intently. The first guard returned, his expression as surly as before. Buchanan’s muscles compacted. He wondered if something had gone wrong. But the guard unlocked the gate, opened it, and motioned for Buchanan to get back in his car.

Buchanan drove along a shady, curved driveway, past trees, gardens, and fountains, toward the three-story mansion. Simultaneously, he glanced in his rearview mirror, noting that the guard had relocked the gate. He noted as well that other armed guards patrolled the interior of the wall.

“I feel a lot more nervous than when I went on Drummond’s yacht,” Holly said. “Don’t you ever feel-?”

“Each time.”

“Then why on earth do you keep doing it?”

“I don’t have a choice.”

“In this case, maybe. But other times. .”

“No choice,” Buchanan repeated. “When you’re in the military, you follow orders.”

“Not now, you’re not. Besides, you didn’t have to join the military.”

“Wrong,” Buchanan said, thinking of the need he’d felt to punish himself for killing his brother. He urgently crushed the thought, disturbed that he’d allowed himself to be distracted. Juana. He had to pay attention. Instead of Tommy, he had to keep thinking of Juana.

“In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever felt this nervous,” Holly said.

“Stage fright. Try to relax. This is just a walk-through,” Buchanan said. “I need to check Delgado’s security. Your performance shouldn’t be difficult. Just conduct an interview. You’re perfectly safe. Which is a hell of a lot more than Delgado will be when I figure out how to get to him.”

Concealing his intensity, Buchanan parked in front of the mansion. When he got out of the car, he noticed other guards, not to mention groundskeepers who seemed more interested in visitors than in their duties. There were closed-circuit television cameras, wires in the panes of the windows, metal boxes among the shrubbery-intrusion detectors.

I might have to find another place, Buchanan thought.

Subduing his emotions, he introduced Holly and himself to a servant who came out to greet them and escort them into a cool, shadowy, echoing marble vestibule. They passed a wide, curved staircase and proceeded along a hallway to a mahogany-paneled study that smelled of wax and polish. Furnished in leather, it was filled with hunting trophies as well as numerous rifles and shotguns in glinting glass cabinets.

Although Buchanan had never met him, Delgado was instantly recognizable as he stood from behind his desk, more hawk-nosed and more arrogant-looking than he appeared on the videotape and in photographs. But he also seemed pale and thinner, his cheeks gaunt, as if he might be ill.

“Welcome,” he said.

Buchanan vividly remembered the images that showed Delgado raping and murdering Maria Tomez. As soon as he had the information he needed, Buchanan planned to kill him.

Delgado came closer, his English impressive, although his syntax was somewhat stilted. “It is always a pleasure to speak with members of the American press, especially when they work for so distinguished a periodical as the Washington Post. Senorita. .? Forgive me. I have forgotten the name that my secretary. .”

“Holly McCoy. And this is my interpreter, Ted Riley.”

Delgado shook hands with them. “Good.” He ignored Buchanan and kept his attention on Holly, obviously intrigued by her beauty. “Since I speak English, we will not need your interpreter.”

“I’m also the photographer,” Buchanan said.

Delgado gestured dismissively. “There will be an opportunity for photographs later. Senorita McCoy, may I offer you a drink before lunch? Perhaps wine?”

“Thank you, but it’s a little too early for. .”

“Sure,” Buchanan said. “Wine would be nice.” There hadn’t been time to teach Holly not to turn down an offer to drink with a target. Refusing alcohol stifled the target’s urge to be companionable. It made the target suspect that you had a reason not to want to relax your inhibitions.

“On second thought, yes,” Holly said. “Since we’re having lunch.”

“White or red?”

“White, please.”

“Chardonnay?”

“Fine.”

“The same for me.” Buchanan said.

Delgado continued ignoring him and turned to the servant, who had remained at the door. “ Lo haga, Carlos. Do it.”

“ Si, Senor Delgado. ”

The white-coated servant stepped back and disappeared along the hallway.

“Sit down, please.” Delgado led Holly toward one of the padded leather chairs.

Buchanan followed, noticing a man on a patio beyond the glass doors that led to the study. The man was an American in his middle thirties, well-dressed, fair-haired, pleasant-looking.

Noticing Buchanan’s interest in him, the man nodded and smiled, his expression boyish.

Delgado was saying, “I know Americans like to keep to a busy schedule, so if you have a few questions you would like to ask before lunch, by all means do so.”

The man came in from the patio.

“Ah, Raymond,” Delgado said. “Have you finished your stroll? Come in. I have some guests I would like you to meet. Senorita McCoy from the Washington Post. ”

Raymond nodded with respect and went over to Holly. “My pleasure.” He shook hands with her.

Something about the handshake made her frown.

Raymond turned and approached Buchanan. “How do you do? Mr. .?”

“Riley. Ted.”

They shook hands.

At once Buchanan felt a stinging sensation in his right palm.

It burned.

His hand went numb.

Alarmed, he looked over at Holly, who was staring in dismay at her right palm.

“How long does it take?” Delgado asked.

“It’s what we call a two-stepper,” Raymond said. As he took off a ring and placed it in a small jeweler’s box, he smiled again, his blue eyes bottomless and cold.