David Morrell - Assumed Identity

Jenna set down her pencil and walked to the front of her tent, where she squinted in the direction that McIntyre pointed, east, toward the sun-fierce cobalt sky and a growing speck above the jungle. Although she couldn’t hear it because of the rumble of construction equipment, she imagined the helicopter’s distant drone, its gradual increase to a roar, and then as the chopper’s features became distinct, she did hear it setting down on the landing pad near camp, the churning rotors adding their own distinctive, rapid whump-whump-whump.

Dust rose-shallow soil that had been exposed when that section of forest was cut down, stumps blasted away or uprooted by bulldozers. Drivers and construction workers momentarily stopped what they were doing and stared toward the landing pad. This wasn’t one of the massive, ugly industrial helicopters that the crew had been using to lift in the vehicles and construction equipment. Rather, this was a small, sleek passenger helicopter, the kind that movie stars and sports celebrities liked to be seen in, or in this case one that could be anchored on top of a yacht and was owned by one of the richest businessmen in the world. Even from a distance, the red logo on the side of the helicopter was evident: DRUMMOND INDUSTRIES. The force of the name was such that the sight of it compelled the workmen back to their tasks, as if they feared Drummond’s anger should he think that they weren’t working hard enough.

But not the guards, Jenna noticed. Constantly patrolling with their rifles, they hadn’t paid attention to the helicopter. Professionals, they kept their attention riveted on the surrounding forest.

“We’d better not keep him waiting,” McIntyre said.

“He doesn’t wait,” Jenna said. “Hell, look at him. He’s already out of the chopper. He’ll beat us to the main office. I hear he swims two miles every morning.”

“Yeah, the old bastard’s probably got more energy than both of us,” McIntyre grumbled as Jenna rolled up the surveyor’s map and tucked it under her arm.

They walked quickly toward the most substantial structure in camp. A one-story wooden building made from logs, it contained essential supplies-food, fuel, ammunition, dynamite-items that needed to be protected from the weather or scavenging animals, and especially from humans. The building also contained an administrative center, where McIntyre stored the project’s records, kept in radio contact with his employer, and conducted daily meetings with his various subforemen.

Jenna had been right. As she and McIntyre approached the building, she saw Alistair Drummond reach it before them. His exact age wasn’t known, but he was rumored to be in his early eighties, although except for his severely wrinkled hands he looked twenty years younger, his facial skin unnaturally tight from cosmetic surgery.

In fact, rumors were the essence of Drummond’s notoriety. How much wealth had he amassed? How great was his influence with the premier of the People’s Republic of China? What had been his part in the 1973 Arab oil embargo? What had been his part in the Iran-Contra arms scandal? In his middle years, had he really been sexually involved with Ingrid Bergman, Marlene Dietrich, and Marilyn Monroe? Much more recently, what was his relationship with his frequent companion, the great opera diva Maria Tomez? Divorced six times, spending more days each year on his jet than he did at the estates he owned in eleven nations, devoting the pharmaceutical portion of his financial empire to AIDS research, able to boast of a first-name friendship with every Russian, British, and American leader since the 1940s, Alistair Drummond exhibited a combination of outrageous success and shameless self-promotion that gave him a larger-than-life stature in an arena of world-renowned figures. The rumors and riddles about him made him a blend of contradictions, capable of being interpreted in various ways. His commitment to AIDS research, for example. Was that for humanitarian reasons or for the opportunity to earn boundless profits? Both? He was a powerful enigma, and for that reason, anyone who’d ever met him never forgot the experience, regardless if the meeting had demonstrated his calculated charm or ruthless manipulation.

Certainly I won’t forget him, Jenna thought, and I sure as hell won’t forget this job. When she’d been interviewed for the project, Drummond had assessed her honey-colored hair, her high, firm breasts, her trim, equally firm hips, and with his raspy voice that caused her nerves to quiver, he had made his employment offer sound like a sexual proposition. Perhaps it had been a sexual proposition; perhaps Drummond considered all the people who worked for him to be the same as prostitutes. But high-class prostitutes, Jenna thought. While Drummond was without a doubt the coldest, meanest bastard she’d ever known, he was also the most generous. Her salary for this project was the equivalent of her last ten projects combined. Deservedly. For this assignment was obscene, and if she was going to sell her professional soul, she didn’t intend to do it cheaply.

As she and McIntyre entered the dirt-floored office, Jenna’s gaze immediately gravitated toward Drummond, who was already surrounded by a group of crew leaders, blurting questions to them and snapping orders. He took charge so rapidly that even with his blended-wool, blue-striped English-made suit in contrast with the sweat-stained, dirt-encrusted, rumpled work clothes of the crew leaders, he seemed perfectly in place, in his element. By contrast, the fair-haired, well-dressed man standing next to Drummond appeared aloof, not at all comfortable in these primitive conditions. His name was Raymond, and the cold expression in his eyes warned Jenna not to believe that his pleasant features were an indication of his personality. She suspected that Raymond was truly in his element only when he was causing pain.

Dear God, what have I gotten myself into?

“No,” Drummond told a supervisor, his voice brittle but forceful. “ No. You understood the rules before you agreed to be hired. You signed a document binding you to certain conditions. Under no circumstances are you or any member of your crew permitted to leave camp until all the work is completed. I’m paying everyone handsomely to work seven days a week, and I expect to receive maximum value for my money. Bring women in? Nonsense. No outsiders are allowed in camp. Permission to use the two-way radio for private communications? Absolutely not. What happens down here is my business, and I don’t want your men telling my business to outsiders. You know how I feel about privacy. In every way possible, this camp is sealed. Don’t raise this subject again.”

Drummond turned dismissively from the group and noticed Jenna and McIntyre just inside the open door. “Good, I want to see both of you.” He motioned for Raymond to take the supervisors outside, then gestured for Jenna and McIntyre to approach. “Have you found it?”

Jenna and McIntyre looked away.

“I don’t know why I bothered asking,” Drummond said. “If you had found it, those idiots would have been jabbering hysterically about it. They wouldn’t have been able to restrain themselves. Which means they still don’t suspect,” Drummond said. “Is that true?”

McIntyre cleared his throat. “Yes. That’s true.”

Having taken the supervisors outside, Raymond reentered the building, shut the door, and leaned against it, crossing his arms, coldly assessing Jenna. She felt his arrogant gaze upon her.

“I’m not pleased, not pleased at all,” Drummond said. “I gave you all the necessary information. The job shouldn’t be that difficult. You practically have step-by-step instructions. But you still haven’t found it.”