David Morrell - Assumed Identity

Finally, there were two plainclothes sentries, one of whom had admitted him and then relocked the door. The sentries had last seen him not long ago, just before he went down to Buchanan’s apartment, so this time they didn’t ask for identification. Indeed, they barely nodded to him before they redirected their attention toward the door.

The colonel, the captain, and the major didn’t pay him much attention, either. After a confirming glance, they stared again at a bank of closed-circuit television screens and various black-and-white images of Buchanan’s apartment. A long table supported a row of videotape machines, each of which was in operation, recording everything that occurred in each room of Buchanan’s apartment. On another table, several audiotape machines were also in operation. Except for a sofa and two chairs shoved against a wall, the electronics were the room’s only furnishings. It wasn’t any wonder that the colonel had the lights dimmed when the hallway door was opened-he didn’t want anyone to get a good look at what was in here.

The man who called himself Alan set his briefcase beside a box of doughnuts and a steaming coffee percolator on the counter between the kitchen and the living room. There weren’t any ashtrays-the colonel refused to allow smoking. And there wasn’t any clutter of crumpled napkins, stale food, and used Styrofoam cups-the colonel insisted on an absolutely neat control room.

“What’s he been doing since I left?” Alan asked. The question was directed to anyone who would bother to answer (they didn’t always). As the only civilian in the apartment, he didn’t feel obligated to use military titles. Indeed, he was getting damned tired of sensing that these Special Operations types considered themselves superior to the Agency.

After a pause, the woman, Captain Weller, answered without looking at him, continuing to concentrate on the television screens. “Leaned against the door. Rubbed his skull. Appears to have a headache. Went into the kitchen. Poured another drink.”

“Another?” Alan asked, disapproving.

His judgmental tone prompted the second-in-command, Major Putnam, to face him. “It means nothing out of context. Alcohol is one of his weapons. He uses it to disarm his contacts. If he doesn’t maintain a tolerance for it, he’s as open to attack as if he doesn’t maintain his combat skills.”

“I’ve never heard that one before,” Alan said skeptically. “If he was strictly mine, I’d be alarmed. But then, from the start, nothing about this unit was conventional, was it?”

Now the colonel turned. “Don’t condescend to us.”

“I wasn’t. I was making a point about control.”

“The point is taken,” the colonel said. “If he finishes this drink and makes another, I’ll be concerned.”

“Right. It’s not as if we haven’t got plenty of other things to be concerned about. What’s your analysis of my session with him?”

A movement on one of the monitors attracted everyone’s attention. Again they stared at the screen.

Buchanan carried his drink from the kitchen.

On a separate black-and-white screen, he appeared in the living room and slumped on the sofa, placing his feet on the coffee table, leaning back, rubbing the moisture-beaded glass against his brow.

“Yeah, he sure seems to have a headache,” Alan said.

“Or maybe he’s just tired from stress and traveling,” the woman said.

“A new CAT scan will tell us what’s going on in his head,” Alan said.

The woman turned. “You mean, in his brain, of course. Not in his mind.”

“Exactly. That’s what I meant. I asked you, what’s your analysis of my session with him?”

“His explanation about the passport was reasonable,” the major said. “In his place. I might not have abandoned it, but perhaps that’s why I’m not in his place. I don’t have the talent for role-playing that he does. A water-destroyed passport, one that validated his identity without jeopardizing the passport’s source, would have added credence to his character’s death.”

“But,” Alan corrected, “the passport was never found.”

“An accident of circumstance.”

“Our opinions differ. But we’ll leave that subject for later,” Alan said. “What about the postcard?”

“Again his explanation was reasonable,” the major said.

“This conversation sounds like an echo,” Alan said. “I’m losing patience. If you wanted a whitewash, why did you need me here? I’ve got a wife and kids who wonder what I look like.”

“Whitewash?” the colonel intruded, his voice like steel against flint. “ I’m losing patience with you. The person we’re observing on these monitors, the person you had the privilege of interrogating, is without doubt the finest deep-cover operative I’ve ever had the honor of directing. He has survived longer, has assumed more identities, has endured greater dangers and accomplished more critical missions than any other deep-cover specialist I’ve ever heard about. He is one of a kind, and it is only with the greatest regret that I am forced to consider his termination.”

Ah, Alan thought, there it is. We’re finally getting to it. He gestured toward the sentries. “Are you sure you want to talk about something so serious in front of-?”

“They’re loyal,” the colonel said.

“Just like Buchanan.”

“No one’s questioning Buchanan’s loyalty. It wasn’t his fault that he was compromised. There was absolutely no way to predict that someone he knew in Kuwait and Iraq would walk into that restaurant in Cancun while he was making his pitch to those two drug dealers. The worst nightmare of a deep-cover specialist-one identity colliding with another. And there was no way to predict that Bailey would be so damned persistent, that he’d put together evidence showing Buchanan in three different identities. Jesus, the photographs. If only the son of a bitch hadn’t started taking photographs.”

Especially of you and Buchanan together, Alan thought.

What the colonel said next seemed in response to the accusing look in Alan’s eyes. “I admit the mistake. That’s why I sent you to interrogate him. I will never again allow myself to be in direct contact with him. But as it is, the damage is done, and your people made mistakes, too. If there’d been time in Fort Lauderdale, I’d have brought in one of my own surveillance teams. Instead, I had to rely on. . Your people assured me that they’d found Bailey’s hotel room and confiscated all the photographs.”

“That was my information, as well,” Alan said.

“The information was wrong. No photographs of Buchanan and myself were retrieved. And before Bailey could be interrogated, the bomb concealed in the picnic cooler was detonated.”

“Those were the orders,” Alan insisted. “The location transmitter in the wall of the cooler would lead the team to Bailey when Buchanan delivered the money. Then the C-four explosive that was also in the walls of the cooler would be detonated by remote control. Bailey wouldn’t be a problem anymore.”

“You’re simplifying to excuse failure. The specific orders were to wait in case Bailey rendezvoused with the woman photographer who was helping him. The C-four was chosen because it was a convenient means to take care of both of them.”

“ In case they met,” Alan emphasized. “But what if Bailey had already paid her off and wouldn’t be seeing her again? Or what if Bailey took the money and abandoned the cooler?”

“Then you admit your people disobeyed orders by acting prematurely.”

Alan didn’t reply.

“Well?” the colonel asked.

“The truth is, no one disobeyed. The bomb went off on its own.”