David Morrell - Assumed Identity

But what captured Buchanan’s attention was the welter of activity around him, workmen rushing, bulldozers and trucks laboring past, cranes lifting girders and pipes. Amid the din of machinery, Buchanan thought he heard a shot, and then he saw stone blocks scattered before him, hieroglyphs on them, obviously from ruins. Here and there, he saw the stunted remains of ancient temples. At once, as the smoke cleared temporarily, he had a brief view of a pyramid. But the pyramid wasn’t ancient, and it wasn’t composed of stone blocks.

This one, tall and wide, was built of steel. Buchanan had never seen anything like it. The structure was like a gigantic tripod, its legs splayed, unfamiliar reinforcements linking them. Even though he’d never seen anything like it, he knew intuitively what it was, what it resembled. An oil derrick. Is that what Drummond wants down here? he wondered. But why does the derrick have such an unusual design?

At the smoke-hazed log building, Raymond shoved the door, then thrust Buchanan and Holly through the opening.

Buchanan almost fell into the shadowy, musty interior, his eyes needing time to adjust to the dim, generator-powered overhead light bulbs. He staggered to a halt, straightened, felt Holly stumble next to him, and found himself blinking upward at Alistair Drummond.

None of the photographs in the biography and the newspaper stories Buchanan had read communicated how fiercely Drummond dominated a room. Behind thick spectacles, the old man’s eyes were deep in their sockets and radiated an unnerving, penetrating gaze. Even the age in his voice worked to his advantage, powerful despite its brittleness.

“Mr. Buchanan,” Drummond said.

The reference was startling. How did he find out my name? Buchanan thought.

Drummond squinted, then turned his attention to Holly. “Ms. McCoy, I trust that Raymond made you comfortable on the flight. Senor Delgado, I’m pleased that you could join me.”

“The way it was put to me, I didn’t feel I had a choice.”

“Of course you have a choice,” Drummond said. “You can go to jail or become the next president of Mexico. Which would you prefer?”

Raymond had shut the door after they entered. Now it was bumped open, the cacophony of the construction equipment intruding. A woman in dusty jeans and a sweaty work shirt came in holding long tubes of thick paper that Buchanan thought might have been charts.

“Not now, goddamn it,” Drummond said.

The woman looked startled. Smoke drifted behind her as she backed awkwardly from the building and shut the door.

Drummond returned his attention to Delgado. “We’re much further along than I anticipated. By tomorrow morning, we ought to be able to start pumping. When you get back to Mexico City, I want you to make the necessary arrangements. Tell your people that everything’s in place. I don’t want any trouble. The payments have been made. I expect everyone to cooperate.”

“You brought me here to tell me what I already knew?”

“I brought you here to see what you sold your soul for,” Drummond said. “It’s not good to keep a distance from the price of your sins. Otherwise, you might be tempted to forget the bargain you made. To remind you, I want you to see what happens to my two guests.” With a fluid motion amazing for his age, he turned toward Buchanan and Holly. “How much do you know?”

“I found this in their camera bag,” Raymond said. He placed a videotape on a table.

“My, my,” Drummond said.

“I played it at Delgado’s.”

“And?”

“The copy’s a little grainy, but Delgado’s performance is as enthralling as ever. It holds my attention every time,” Raymond said.

“Then you know more than you should,” Drummond told Buchanan and Holly.

“Look, this isn’t any of our business,” Buchanan said.

“You’re right about that.”

“I’m not interested in oil, and I don’t care about whatever you’re doing to punish Delgado,” Buchanan said. “All I’m trying to do is find Juana Mendez.”

Drummond raised his dense white eyebrows. “Well, in that you’re not alone.”

They stared at each other, and Buchanan suddenly realized what must have happened. Juana had agreed to work for Drummond and impersonate Maria Tomez. But after several months, Juana had felt either trapped or threatened, or possibly she’d just been disgusted by Drummond. Whatever her motive, she’d broken her agreement and fled. Along the way, unable to risk a phone call to Buchanan’s superiors, needing to contact Buchanan but without allowing any outsider to understand her message, she’d mailed the cryptic postcard that only Buchanan could decipher. Meanwhile, Drummond’s people had frantically searched for her, staking out her home and her parent’s home and anywhere else they suspected she might go. They had to guarantee her silence. If the truth about Maria Tomez was revealed, Drummond would no longer have control of Delgado. Without Delgado, Drummond wouldn’t have the political means to sustain this project. The oil industry in Mexico had been nationalized back in the thirties. Foreigners weren’t allowed to have the influence in it that Drummond evidently wanted. That this was an archaeological site made the political problem all the more enormous, although from the looks of things, Drummond had solved the archaeological problem simply and obscenely by destroying the ruins. When Delgado became president of Mexico, he could use his power with appropriate politicians. A back-door arrangement could be made with Drummond. For discovering and developing the site, Drummond would secretly be paid the huge profits that foreign oil companies used to earn before the days of nationalization. But that wasn’t all of it, Buchanan sensed. There was something more, a further implication, although he was too preoccupied with saving his life to analyze what it was.

“Do you know where Juana Mendez is?” Drummond asked.

“For all I know, she’s working on that oil rig out there.”

Drummond chuckled. “Such bravado. You’re a credit to Special Forces.”

The reference surprised Buchanan. Then it didn’t. “The car I rented in New Orleans and drove to San Antonio.”

Drummond nodded. “You used your own credit card to rent it.”

“I didn’t have an alternative. It was the only card I had.”

“But it gave me a slight advantage,” Drummond said. “When my people saw you arrive at the Mendez house in San Antonio, they were able to use the car’s license number to find out who had rented the car and then to research your identity.”

Identity, Buchanan thought. After so many years of surviving as other people, I’m probably going to die because of my own identity. He felt totally exhausted. His wounds ached. His skull throbbed with greater ferocity. He didn’t have any more resources.

Then he looked at Holly, at the terror in her eyes, and the mantra again filled his mind. Have to survive to help Holly. Have to save Holly.

“You’re an instructor in tactical maneuvers,” Drummond said.

Buchanan tensed. Instructor? Then Drummond hadn’t penetrated his cover.

Drummond continued, “Did you know Juana Mendez at Fort Bragg?”

Desperate, Buchanan tried to find a role to play, an angle with which to defend himself. “Yes.”

“How? She was in Army Intelligence. What does that have to do with-?”

Abruptly, a role came to mind. Buchanan decided to play the most daring part of his life. Himself.

“Look, I’m not a field instructor, and Juana’s Army Intelligence status was only a cover.”

Drummond looked surprised.

“I’m looking for Juana Mendez because she sent me a postcard, telling me in code that she was in trouble. It had to be in code because I’m not supposed to exist. Juana used to belong and I still do belong to a Special Operations unit that’s so covert it might as well be run by ghosts. We look after our own: past members as well as present. When I got the SOS, my unit sent me to find out what was going on. I’ve been reporting on a regular basis. My unit still has no idea where Juana Mendez is. But they know I was in Cuernavaca. They know I was headed toward Delgado, and after him, they know I was headed toward you. They won’t be able to track me here, not right away, not without questioning Delgado. But they will question him, and they will come to you, and believe me, these men care only about sacrifice and loyalty. If they do not find me, they will destroy you. Take my word-at the moment, Holly McCoy and I are your most valuable assets.”