David Morrell - Assumed Identity

Buchanan thanked her and replaced the phone, then analyzed the rendezvous tactic. A surveillance team is watching the courtesy telephones, he concluded. After Victor Grant’s name was called, they waited for a man to go to one of the phones. The team has either studied a photograph of me or been given a description. In any case, now they’ve identified me, and they’ll hang back to see if anyone is following me while I go to the information counter.

But as pleased as Buchanan was about the care of the rendezvous procedure and as delighted as he was to have escaped the authorities in Mexico, to be back in the United States, he was also troubled. His controllers obviously thought that the situation remained delicate. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have involved so many operatives in making contact with him.

At a modest pace, giving the surveillance team ample chance to watch the crowd (besides, he was in too much pain to walk any faster), Buchanan pulled his suitcase and proceeded toward the information counter. A pleasant, athletic-looking, casually dressed man in his thirties emerged from the commotion of passengers. He held out his hand, smiled, and said, “Hello, Vic. It’s good to see you. How are you feeling? How was the flight?”

Buchanan shook hands with him. “Fine.”

“Great. The van’s right this way. Here, I’ll take your bag.”

The man, who had brown hair, blue eyes, and sun-leathered skin, touched Buchanan’s elbow and guided him toward an exit. Buchanan went along, although he didn’t feel comfortable since he hadn’t received some kind of identification code. When the man said, “By the way, both Charles Maxwell and Wade want us to phone and let them know you’re okay,” Buchanan relaxed. Several people knew about his claimed relationship with Charles Maxwell, but only his controllers knew that Buchanan’s case officer in Cancun had used the pseudonym of Wade.

Across from the terminal, in the airport’s crowded parking ramp, the man unlocked a gray van, the side of which was stenciled with white: BON VOYAGE, INC., PLEASURE CRAFTS REFITTED, REMODELED. Until then, they’d been making small talk, but now Buchanan became silent, waiting for the man to give him directions, to let him know if it was safe to speak candidly and to tell him what scenario he was supposed to follow.

As the man drove from the parking ramp, he pressed a button on what looked like a portable radio mounted under the dash. “Okay. The jammer’s on. It’s safe to talk. I’ll give you the quick version and fill in the fine points later. I’m Jack Doyle. Used to be a SEAL. Took a hit in Panama, had to resign, and started a business, outfitting pleasure boats in Fort Lauderdale. All of that’s true. Now this is where you come in. From time to time, I do favors for people I used to work for. In this case, they’ve asked me to give you a cover. You’re supposed to be an employee of mine. Your controllers supplied all the necessary background documentation, Social Security, taxes, that sort of thing. As Victor Grant, you used to be in the SEALs as well, so it was natural that I’d treat you like more than just a hired hand. You live in an apartment above my office. You’re a loner. You travel around a lot, doing jobs for me. If my neighbors get asked about you, it won’t be surprising that they’re not familiar with you. Any questions?”

“How long have you employed me?”

“Three months.”

“How much do I earn?”

“Thirty thousand a year.”

“In that case, I’d like a raise.”

Doyle laughed. “Good. A sense of humor. We’ll get along.”

“Sure,” Buchanan said. “But we’ll get along even better if you stop at that gas station up ahead.”

“Oh?”

“Otherwise I’ll be pissing blood inside your van.”

“Jesus.”

Doyle quickly turned off the freeway toward a gas station. When Buchanan came out of the men’s room, Doyle was leaving a pay phone. “I called one of our team who’s acting as communications relay at the airport. He’s positive no one followed you.”

Buchanan slumped against the van, his face cold with sweat “You’d better get me to a. .”

The doctor stood beside Buchanan’s bed, read Buchanan’s chart, listened to his heart and respiration, checked his intravenous bottle, then took off his bifocals and scratched his salt-and-pepper beard. “You have an amazing constitution, Mr. Grant. Normally, I don’t see anybody as banged up as you unless they’ve been in a serious car accident.” He paused. “Or. .”

He never finished his statement, but Buchanan was certain that what the doctor meant to add was “combat,” just as Buchanan was certain that Doyle would never have brought him here unless the small hospital had affiliations with his controllers. In all likelihood, the doctor had once been a military physician.

“I have the results of your X rays and other tests,” the doctor continued. “Your wound is infected, as you guessed. But now that I’ve redressed and resutured it and started you on antibiotics, it ought to heal with reasonable speed and without complication. Your temperature is already coming down.”

“Which means-given how serious you look-the bad news is my internal bleeding,” Buchanan said.

The doctor hesitated. “Actually, that bleeding seems more serious than it is. No doubt, it must have been quite a shock when you discovered blood in your urine. I’m sure you’ve been worried about a ruptured organ. The reassuring truth is that the bleeding is caused by a small broken blood vessel in your bladder. Surgery isn’t necessary. If you rest, if you don’t indulge in strenuous activity, the bleeding will stop and the vessel will heal fairly soon. It sometimes occurs among obsessive joggers, for example. If they take a few weeks off, they’re able to jog again.”

“Then what is it?” The doctor’s somber expression made Buchanan more uneasy. “What’s wrong?”

“The injury to your skull, Mr. Grant. And the periodic tremors in your right hand.”

Buchanan’s chest felt icy. “I thought the tremors were caused by shock to the nerves because of the wound in my shoulder. When the wound heals, I assumed. .”

The doctor squinted, concerned. “Shock. Nerves. You’re partially correct. The problem does involve the nerves. But not in the way you imagine. Mr. Grant, to repeat, you have an amazing constitution. Your skull has been fractured. You’ve suffered a concussion. That accounts for your dizziness and blurred vision. Frankly, given the bruise I saw on the CAT scan of your brain, I’m amazed that you were able to stay on your feet, let alone think on your feet. You must have remarkable endurance, not to mention determination.”

“It’s called adrenaline, Doctor.” Buchanan’s voice dropped. “You’re telling me I have neurologic damage?”

“That’s my opinion.”

“Then what happens now? An operation?”

“Not without a second opinion,” the doctor said. “I’d have to consult with a specialist.”

Restraining an inward tremor, appalled by the notion of willingly being rendered unconscious, Buchanan said, “I’m asking for your opinion, Doctor.”

“Have you been sleeping for an unusual amount of time?”

“Sleeping?” Buchanan almost laughed but resisted the impulse because he knew that the laugh would sound hysterical. “I’ve been too busy to sleep.”

“Have you vomited?”

“No.”

“Have you experienced any unusual physical aberrations, apart from the dizziness, blurred vision, and tremors in your right hand?”

“No.”

“Your answers are encouraging. I’d like to consult with a specialist in neurology. It may be that surgery isn’t required.”