David Morrell - Assumed Identity

The interrogator withdrew his chin into the numerous folds of his neck.

Buchanan sighed, approached the American, placed an unsteady hand on his shoulder, and said, “I was getting worried. It’s so good to see. .”

To see whom? Buchanan let the sentence dangle. He might have been referring to his relief at seeing his friend and client, Charles “Chuck” Maxwell, or he might have been saying that he was delighted to see another American.

“Thank God you’re here,” Buchanan added, another statement that could apply either to Maxwell or to a fellow American whom Buchanan didn’t know. He slumped on a chair beside the battered desk. Tension increased his pain.

“I came as soon as I heard,” the American said.

Although the statement implied a strong relationship between the American and Buchanan, it still wasn’t forthright enough for Buchanan to treat him as Charles Maxwell. Come on, give me a clue. Let me know who you are.

The American continued, “And what I heard alarmed me. But I must say, Mr. Grant, you appear in better condition than I expected.”

Mr. Grant? Buchanan thought.

This man definitely wasn’t Charles Maxwell. So who was he?

“Yeah, this is a regular country club.” The severity of Buchanan’s headache made his temples throb.

“I’m sure it’s been frightful,” the American said. His voice was deep and mellifluous, slightly affected. “But all of that is finished now.” He shook hands. “I’m Garson Woodfield. From the American embassy. Your friend Robert Bailey telephoned us.”

The interrogator glowered.

“Bailey isn’t a friend,” Buchanan emphasized. “The first time I met him was here. But he’s got some delusion that he saw me in Cancun and knew me before in Kuwait. He’s the reason I’m in this mess.”

Woodfield shrugged. “Well, apparently he’s trying to make amends. He also telephoned Charles Maxwell.”

“A client of mine,” Buchanan said. “I was hoping he’d show up.”

“Indeed, Mr. Maxwell has a great deal of influence, as you’re aware, but under the circumstances, he thought it would be more influential if he contacted the ambassador and requested that we solve this problem through official channels.” Woodfield peered closely at Buchanan’s face. “Those abrasions on your lips. The bruise on your chin.” He turned pensively toward the interrogator. “This man has been beaten.”

The interrogator looked insulted. “Beaten? Nonsense. When he came here, he was so unsteady from his injuries that he fell down some stairs.”

Woodfield turned to Buchanan, obviously expecting a heated denial.

“I got dizzy,” Buchanan said. “I lost my grip on the stairwell railing.”

Woodfield looked surprised by Buchanan’s response. For his part, the interrogator looked astonished.

“Have they threatened you into lying about what happened to you here?” Woodfield asked.

“They certainly haven’t been gentle,” Buchanan said, “but they haven’t threatened me into lying.”

The interrogator looked even more astonished.

“But Robert Bailey claims he saw you tied to a chair,” Woodfield said.

Buchanan nodded.

“And struck by a rubber hose,” Woodfield said.

Buchanan nodded again.

“And passing bloody urine.”

“True.” Buchanan clutched his abdomen and winced, a reaction that he normally would not have permitted.

“You realize that if you’ve been brutalized, there are a number of diplomatic measures I can use to try to obtain your release.”

Buchanan didn’t like Woodfield’s “try to” qualification. He decided to continue following his instincts. “The blood in my urine is from my accident when I fell off Chuck Maxwell’s boat. As for the rest of it”-Buchanan breathed-“hey, this officer thinks I killed three men. From his point of view, what he did to me, trying to get me to confess, that was understandable. What I’m angry about is that he wouldn’t let me prove I was innocent. He wouldn’t call my client.”

“All of that’s been taken care of,” Woodfield said. “I have a statement”-he pulled it from his briefcase-“indicating that Mr. Grant here was with Mr. Maxwell on his yacht when the murders occurred. Obviously,” he told the interrogator, “you have the wrong man.”

“It is not obvious to me.” The interrogator’s numerous chins shook with indignation. “I have a witness who puts this man at the scene of the murders.”

“But surely you don’t take Mr. Bailey’s word over a statement by someone as distinguished as Mr. Maxwell,” Woodfield said.

The interrogator’s eyes gleamed fiercely. “This is Mexico. Everyone is equal.”

“Yes,” Woodfield said. “The same as in the United States.” He turned to Buchanan. “Mr. Maxwell asked me to deliver this note.” He pulled it from his briefcase and handed it to Buchanan. “Meanwhile,” he told the interrogator, “I need to use your facilities.”

The interrogator looked confused.

“A bathroom,” Woodfield said. “A rest room.”

“Ah,” the interrogator said. “A toilet. Si. ” He hefted his enormous body from the chair, opened the office door, and directed a guard to escort Mr. Woodfield to el sanitario.

As Woodfield left, Buchanan read the note.

Vic,

Sorry I couldn’t be there in person. I’ll show up if I have to, but let’s exhaust other options first. Check the contents of the camera bag Woodfield brought with him. If you think what’s inside will be effective, give it a try. I hope to see you stateside soon.

Chuck

Buchanan glanced down toward the briefcase beside Woodfield’s chair, noticing the gray nylon camera bag.

Meanwhile, the interrogator shut the office door and frowned at Buchanan, his voice rumbling, his ample stomach quivering. He was obviously interested in the contents of the note. “You lied about being beaten. Por que? ” He came closer. “Why?”

Buchanan shrugged. “Simple. I want you and me to be friends.”

“Why?” The interrogator stepped even closer.

“Because I won’t get out of here without your cooperation. Oh, Woodfield can cause you a lot of trouble from your superiors and from politicians. But I still might not be released until a judge makes a ruling, and in the meantime, I’m at your mercy.” Buchanan paused, trying to look defeated. “Sometimes terrible accidents happen in a jail. Sometimes a prisoner can die before a judge has time to see him.”

The interrogator studied Buchanan intensely.

Buchanan pointed toward the camera bag. “May I?”

The interrogator nodded.

Buchanan set the bag on his lap. “I’m innocent,” he said. “Obviously, Bailey is confused about what he saw. My passport proves I’m not the man he thinks I am. My client says I wasn’t at the scene of the crime. But you’ve invested a great deal of time and effort in this investigation. In your place, I’d hate to think that I’d wasted my energy. The government doesn’t pay you enough for all the trouble you have to go through.” Buchanan opened the camera bag and set it on the desk.

He and the interrogator stared at the contents. The bag was filled with neat piles of used hundred-dollar American bills. As Buchanan removed one of the stacks and leafed through it, the interrogator’s mouth hung open.

“I’m only guessing,” Buchanan said, “but this seems to be fifty thousand dollars.” He returned the stack to the others in the bag. “Don’t misunderstand. I’m not rich. I work hard, the same as you, and I certainly don’t have this kind of money. It belongs to my client. He’s loaning it to me to help me pay my legal expenses.” Buchanan grimaced. “But I don’t see why a lawyer should get it when I’m innocent and he won’t have to earn his fee to get me released. He definitely won’t have to work as long and hard as I will to pay the money back or as long as you would to receive this much.” Buchanan sighed from pain and frowned toward the door. “Woodfield will be coming back any second. Why don’t you do both of us a favor, take the money, and let me out of here?”