David Morrell - Assumed Identity

“That’s it ? You’re leaving me without a way to prove my cover?”

“Buchanan, we don’t want you to prove your cover. We don’t want you to be in a position to need to prove your cover. We don’t want Don Colton leaving this apartment. We don’t want him wandering around the building or going to restaurants or to shopping malls and flashing ID. Don Colton’s invisible. He’s been living in this complex for years, and nobody knows him. He travels so much, you see. So as long as you stay in here, no one’ll bother you, and for that matter, we don’t want you bothering anybody, either. Do you get it?”

Buchanan narrowed his eyes. “Yeah, I got it.”

“We don’t want you even sending out for a pizza.”

“I said I got it. Anyway, how could I order a pizza? I’m almost out of money.”

“Good.” The man lifted his briefcase and walked toward the door.

“I’m in limbo?”

The man kept walking. “Until we’ve assessed the damage control on Cancun, Merida, and Fort Lauderdale. A while ago, you told me you’d ask for time off if you thought you needed it. You said nobody turns down R and R.” The man reached the door, unlocked it, and glanced at Buchanan. “Well, now you’ve got some. You’ve been in the field quite a while. Eight years. A very long while. It’s time for a rest.”

“And what if I don’t want a rest?”

The man gripped the doorknob. “It’s a funny thing, Buchanan.”

“What?”

“I was told you were a fanatic about assuming your identities.”

“That’s right.”

“A real Method actor. Invented a detailed history for each of your pseudonyms. Dressed, ate, and sometimes even walked the way you decided a particular character would. Gave each of them a distinct personality.”

“You’re right again. Staying totally in character is what keeps me alive.”

“Sure. The thing is, I was also told that you’d practically bite off the head of any controller who called you by your real name. But I just did, and in fact I’ve been doing it off and on since I came here. You should have been insisting that I call you Don Colton.”

“There’s nothing strange about that. Until I get Don Colton’s ID and background, I can’t become him. I don’t have any personality to assume.”

“Well, in that case, I’d expect you to have insisted that I call you Victor Grant.”

“How could I?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Calling me Victor Grant is impossible. I wouldn’t have responded.”

“Why?”

“Because Victor Grant is dead.” Abruptly Buchanan felt a further chill as he understood the significance of what he’d just said.

The man who called himself Alan understood the significance very well. “As you said, you’re in limbo.” He turned the knob and opened the door. “Stay put. I’ll be in touch.”

Buchanan leaned his back against the locked door and massaged the sides of his aching head. So much was wrong, he didn’t know where to start analyzing.

Try starting with why you lied to him about the passport and why you didn’t tell him you had a firearm.

I didn’t want to lose them. I didn’t trust him.

Well, you weren’t wrong on that score. Whatever that conversation was, it sure wasn’t a debriefing. He didn’t ask you to talk about anything that you’d done. And he didn’t give you new ID. He put you on ice. It was more like an interrogation, except he didn’t ask you any questions that weren’t about. .

The postcard.

Buchanan went to the counter in the kitchen and poured more bourbon and water into a glass. He took a long swallow, then felt his cheek muscles harden with tension.

The postcard.

Yeah, the passport wasn’t the only thing you lied about. What’s the big deal? Why didn’t you tell him the truth?

Because he was too damned interested.

Hey, a postcard arrives last week for a man who hasn’t existed, whom you haven’t been, for the past six years. That’s an attention getter. Naturally, they want to know what the hell’s going on. Something from one of your pasts, some threat to the operation, catching up to you. Why didn’t you tell him?

Because I’m not sure. If I did know what was going on, maybe I’d have told him.

Bullshit. The truth is, you’re scared.

No way.

Yes. Confused and scared. You haven’t thought about her in all this time. You’ve made yourself not think about her. And now all of a sudden, bang, she’s back in your head, and you don’t know how to handle it. But this much is sure-you don’t want them to have anything to do with her.

He stared at his glass of bourbon, his emotions powerful.

Here’s the postcard I never thought I’d send.

She’d been furious the night she decided that she didn’t want to see him anymore. She’d told him not to bother trying to get in touch with her again, that if she ever needed him, she’d send him a goddamned postcard.

I hope you meant your promise.

He’d told her that no matter how much time and distance was between them, all she had to do was ask, and he’d be there.

The last time and place.

He remembered the date of their breakup well because of what had been happening around them, the costumes, the music-October 31, Halloween. The time had been close to midnight, the place Cafe du Monde in New Orleans.

Counting on you. PLEASE.

In capital letters? She might as well have said that she was begging him.

That wasn’t like her.

She was in trouble.

He continued staring at the glass of bourbon and imagined the tension she must have felt as she wrote the postcard. Maybe she had only seconds to write it, to condense it to its essentials and hope it was clear to him, even though she didn’t sign her name.

She doesn’t want anyone except me to know where she’s going to be and when.

She’s terrified.

The man who called himself Alan had left Buchanan’s apartment, heard the scrape of the lock, and proceeded along the green heavy-duty carpet of the harshly lit, concrete hallway. He was pleased that no one happened to come out of another apartment and see him. Like Buchanan, he avoided the elevator and used the fire stairs-less chance of encountering anyone. But unlike Buchanan, who would have headed down to the street, the portly, short-haired man in the brown-checkered sport coat went up to the next landing, heard voices, waited in the stairwell until the voices were cut off by the sound of an elevator, and then walked briskly along the corridor until he reached the door to the apartment directly above Buchanan’s. He knocked twice, paused, knocked twice more, heard a lock open, and was quickly admitted.

The apartment was dimly lit. He couldn’t see who was present or how the unit was furnished. Nor could anyone who happened to be passing as he entered. But the moment the door was closed behind him, he heard the click of a switch, and at once the apartment’s living room was filled with light. Thick, closed draperies prevented the light from being seen by anyone outside.

Five people were in the room. A tall, trim man with severe features and cropped graying hair exuded the most authority. Although he wore a plain blue business suit, he stood with military bearing and in private was never referred to by his name but always as Colonel.

The next in charge was a younger man, in his forties, less tall, more muscular. He wore tan slacks, a brown blazer. Major Putnam.

Beside him was a blonde woman in her thirties, gorgeous, her breasts bulging at her blouse. Captain Weller.