David Morrell - Assumed Identity

“I’m not interested.”

“Oh, but I guarantee you’ll find these pictures real interestin’. I have to confess I didn’t take ’em, though. Had ’em lifted off a tape and then cleaned up. But if you didn’t know the difference, you’d swear-”

“What are you talking about?”

“ Just look at the damned pictures, Crawford. ”

Hesitant, Buchanan accepted the manila envelope. Chest tight, he was preoccupied by the threat of the pictures that Bailey had taken of him with the colonel, the major, and the captain. The officers weren’t public figures. Bailey wouldn’t know who they were. But if Bailey gave the pictures to the police and someone got curious about who was on that yacht, if the colonel was identified, the consequences would be disastrous. Somehow, Buchanan had to get his hands on the film.

But as he withdrew the photographs-eight-by-ten black-and-white glossies-as he sorted through them, he suddenly realized that he had much more to worry about than the pictures Bailey had taken of him with the colonel on the yacht. Much more. Because the photographs he now examined depicted a scene from December of 1990 in Frankfurt, Germany. They’d been lifted from a television news tape. They showed American hostages, newly released from Iraq, arriving at the Frankfurt airport. And there, in long shots and close-ups, was Big Bob Bailey getting off the plane with. .

“A mighty good likeness of you, Crawford,” Bailey said. “I’ve got copies of the original tape, so nobody can say the pictures have been fooled with. If you piss me off by not payin’ up, I swear to God I’m gonna send ’em to the cops, along with the Mexican police sketch for Ed Potter and those bottom photographs of Victor Grant.”

Photos of Victor Grant? Buchanan asked himself with puzzled alarm. He shuffled to the bottom of the pile and felt his chest turn cold as he stared at three photographs of him outside the Mexican prison, where he talked to Garson Woodfield of the American embassy.

“Another good likeness,” Bailey said. “In case you miss the point, that guy from the embassy had to be in the picture so there’d be an absolutely straight-arrow witness to identify you as Victor Grant. I’ve got you as three different people, Crawford. Got you good.”

Stalling for time while he thought, Buchanan kept staring at the pictures. The ones in Mexico. How had-? At once, Buchanan remembered. While he’d been talking to Woodfield across from the Mexican prison, he’d noticed a woman in the background, among the crowd on the sidewalk beyond Woodfield. She’d been American. Late twenties. A redhead. Attractive. Tall. Nice figure. Wearing beige slacks and a yellow blouse. But the reason he’d noticed her hadn’t been her appearance.

She’d been aiming a camera at him.

Buchanan peered up from the photographs, and there wasn’t any question now that Bailey had an accomplice. Possibly more than one. Dealing with him would be extremely complicated. I have to warn the colonel.

“Keep those pictures. I’ve got plenty like them in a real safe place, along with the negatives,” Bailey said. “Plus, I’ve also got copies of the TV news tape from Germany. Hey, it isn’t often I’m on television. A buddy taped me and made me a present of it. I never thought it would be worth anythin’.” Bailey leaned forward. “Admit it, Crawford, you’re screwed. Stop actin’ innocent. Accept the penalty for gettin’ caught. Pay the hundred thousand dollars. I won’t even ask you why all the names. That’s your business. My business is gettin’ paid.”

Buchanan suddenly noticed: Throughout their conversation, Bailey had kept his face angled to the left, as if he had a stiff neck, forcing Buchanan to shift his boat and angle his own face a similar way in order to confront Bailey eye-to-eye.

Stiff neck?

Buchanan spun toward the concrete dock across from him, and there-between two moored sailboats-was the redhead, a camera in front of her face, taking pictures of Bailey and him. Her clothes weren’t the same. This time, they were sneakers, jeans, and a denim shirt, but even though her face was obscured by the camera, there was no mistaking that athletic figure and that long, dramatic flame-red hair.

“So you noticed my friend.” Bailey exhaled from his cigarette. “I guess it’s obvious that gettin’ rid of me won’t solve your problem. She’s got plenty of pictures of you and me, and if anythin’ happens to me-which you better hope doesn’t happen, not even an accident, like me gettin’ drunk and fallin’ down a flight of stairs and breakin’ my neck-those pictures’ll be sent to the cops. Plus, she helped me make copies of the pictures you’re holdin’, and she also took pictures of you with them folks on that yacht. It might be interestin’ to find out who they are.”

The red-haired woman lowered the camera and stared across the water toward them. Definitely the same person, Buchanan thought. Strong forehead. Excellent cheekbones. Sensuous lips and chin. She reminded him of a cover model for a fashion magazine. But from the stern way she watched him, Buchanan guessed that a fashion photographer would have a hell of a hard time to get her to smile.

“Crawford, you had plenty to say until now. What’s the matter?” Bailey asked. “Cat got your tongue? Or maybe you can’t think of any more bullshit. Pay attention. I want my money. ”

Buchanan hesitated, then made a choice. “When and where?”

“Stay close to your buddy’s phone. I’ll call his place at eight-thirty tonight and give you directions.”

It was dark outside. Buchanan kept the guest room’s light off as he packed, relying on the slight illumination from the hallway. After he finished and made sure that he hadn’t left anything behind, he considered taking the 9-mm pistol from the holster attached to the side of the bed but decided against it. If there was trouble, the police might trace the gun to Doyle, and Buchanan didn’t want to involve him any more than Doyle already was.

Leaving the guest room, Buchanan almost turned left toward the lights in the kitchen but changed his mind and instead turned right toward a door farther along the dimly lit hallway. He knocked, received no answer, noticed that the door was slightly ajar, and decided to take a chance. Pushing the door farther open, he knocked again. “Cindy?”

“. . What is it?” her weary voice asked from the darkness.

Buchanan entered, crossed the murky room, and knelt beside the bed, able to see her shadowy contour under the sheets but not her face. “I missed you at supper.”

“Tired,” she whispered. “The casserole. .?”

“Was excellent. You didn’t need to use up your energy making it. Jack and I could have eaten takeout.”

“Not in my home.” Cindy managed to emphasize the word despite her fatigue.

“Well,” Buchanan said, “I just wanted to let you know I appreciate it and to thank you for everything.”

She moved slowly, evidently turning toward him. “You sound as if. . Are you leaving?”

“I have to.”

She tried to sit up but couldn’t. “I hope not because of me.”

“What would make you think that?”

“Because people feel self-conscious about me being sick. It’s hard to be around. .”

“I don’t feel that way,” Buchanan said. “It’s just that I have things to do. It’s time for me to move on and do them.”

She didn’t reply.

“Cindy?”

“I sort of hoped you’d stay so you could be company for Jack.” She inhaled in a way that made Buchanan suspect she was crying. “Seems like most of the time I’m either in the hospital or here in bed. I’m not afraid for me, but I feel so sorry for Jack.”