David Morrell - Assumed Identity

“ On its . .?”

“The expert who assembled the bomb thought he’d set the remote-controlled detonator to a radio frequency that wasn’t used in the area. In fact, it had to be triggered by two different, uncommon radio frequencies, one to arm it, one to set it off. All those boats at Fort Lauderdale. All those two-way radios. Apparently there aren’t any uncommon frequencies down there.”

“Jesus,” the colonel said. “The bomb could have gone off while Buchanan had it, before he gave the cooler to Bailey.”

“I don’t know why that should bother you. You were just talking about the possibility of having Buchanan terminated.”

The colonel looked puzzled. Then abruptly he understood. “Terminated without prejudice. What’s the matter with you? Do you think I’d actually order the death of one of my men, an officer who served me faithfully for many years?”

“Whether he’s faithful hasn’t been proven.” Alan pointed toward one of the many television screens, toward the black-and-white image of Buchanan slumped on the sofa, his eyes closed, troubled, the moisture-beaded glass of bourbon and water held to his wrinkled brow. “I’m not convinced he was truthful when I talked to him.”

“About the passport?”

“I wasn’t referring to the passport. The postcard. That’s what bothers me. I think he held back. I think he lied to me.”

“Why would he do that?”

“I’m not sure. But by your own admission, he’d been working under cover, in multiple identities, for an unusual amount of time. He endured a great deal of physical trauma in Mexico. His head obviously still hurts. Maybe he’s about to fall apart. There are pictures of you and him that we can’t locate. As well, there’s a woman who saw Bailey with Buchanan and you with Buchanan. A lot of loose ends. If Buchanan is compromised, if he does fall apart, well, we obviously don’t need another Hasenfus on our hands.”

Alan was referring to an ex-Marine named Eugene Hasenfus who in 1986 was shot down while flying arms to U.S.-backed Contra rebels in Marxist Nicaragua. When questioned by Nicaraguan authorities, Hasenfus implicated the CIA and caused a political scandal that revealed a secret White House-directed war in Nicaragua. Because intermediaries had been used to hire Hasenfus, the CIA could plausibly deny any connection to him. Nonetheless, congressional and media attention directed toward the Agency had been potentially disastrous.

“Buchanan would never talk,” the colonel said. “He’d never violate our security.”

“That’s probably what someone said about Hasenfus when he was hired.”

“It’ll never come to that,” the colonel said. “I’ve made my decision. I’m putting Buchanan on inactive status. We’ll ease him out slowly so he doesn’t have culture shock. Or maybe he’ll agree to become a trainer. But his days of deep cover are over.”

“Tomorrow, when he’s taken for a new CAT scan. .”

“What are you getting at?” the colonel asked.

“I’d like to have sodium amytal administered to him and then have him questioned about that postcard,” Alan said.

“No.”

“But-”

“No,” the colonel repeated. “He’s my operative, and I know how he’d react if you used drug therapy to question him. He’d feel threatened, insulted, betrayed. Then we would have a problem. The fastest way to make a man disloyal is by treating him as if he’s disloyal.”

“Then I insist on at least keeping him under surveillance,” Alan said. “There’s something about him that bothers me. And I’m still bugged about that postcard.”

“Keeping him under surveillance?” The colonel shrugged and turned toward the television monitors, watching the black-and-white image of Buchanan slumped on the sofa, his eyes scrunched shut as if he had a headache, the glass of bourbon against his brow. “I don’t have a problem with that. After all, that’s what we’re already doing.”

Caught in limbo but not realizing it, Buchanan hadn’t been conscious of being called by his real name when the portly man in the brown-checkered sport coat had questioned him the previous night. But as soon as the man had drawn attention to what he’d been doing, as soon as Buchanan realized that he was suspended between identities, he became extremely self-conscious about his name. He was so thorough an impersonator that seldom in the past eight years had he thought of himself as Buchanan. To do so would have been incompatible with his various assumed identities. He didn’t just pretend to be those people. He was those people. He had to be. The slightest weakness in his characterization could get him killed. For the most part, he’d so thoroughly expunged the name Buchanan from his awareness that if someone had attempted to test him by unexpectedly calling his name from behind him, he wouldn’t have turned. Habit would not have controlled him. The name would have belonged to a stranger.

But now as the portly man who called himself Alan drove him to get his CAT scan, Buchanan inwardly squirmed whenever his escort called him by his true name, something the escort did often, apparently by intention. Buchanan felt as he had the first time he’d asked a girl to dance or the first time he’d heard his voice on a tape recorder or the first time he’d made love. The doubt and wonder of those experiences had been positive, however, whereas the self-consciousness he endured at being called Buchanan produced the negativity of fear. He felt exposed, vulnerable, threatened. Don’t call me that. If certain people find out who I really am, it’ll get me killed.

In Fairfax, Virginia, at a private medical clinic presumably controlled by Buchanan’s controllers, he was again made nervous, inwardly squirming when the doctor assigned to him persistently called him by his real name.

How are you, Mr. Buchanan? Does your head still hurt, Mr. Buchanan? I have to do a few tests on you, Mr. Buchanan. Excellent responses, Mr. Buchanan. My nurse will take you downstairs for your CAT scan, Mr. Buchanan.

Christ, they didn’t bother to give me even a minimal assumed identity, Buchanan thought. Not even just a John Doe cover name. I wouldn’t have needed supporting documents. An arbitrary alias for purposes of the examination would have been fine. But my real name’s on the medical file the doctor’s holding. I can understand that they wanted to protect the Don Colton pseudonym. But I didn’t have to use it. I could have called myself anything. This way, with my name associated with the CAT scan, if anyone makes a comparison, I can be linked to Victor Grant ’s CAT scan.

The doctor turned from examining the film. “Good news. The bruise is considerably reduced, Mr. Buchanan.”

If he calls me that one more time, I’ll-

“And there’s no indication of neurological damage. The shaking in your right hand has stopped. I attribute that previous symptom to trauma caused by the wound to your shoulder.”

“What about my headache?”

“After a concussion, a headache can persist for quite some time. It doesn’t trouble me.”

“Well, you’re not the one with the headache.”

The doctor didn’t react to the attempt at humor. “I can prescribe something for the pain, if you like.”

“Something with a label that says, ‘Do not drive or use heavy machinery while taking this medication’?”

“That’s correct.”

“Thanks, but I’ll stick to aspirin,” Buchanan said.

“As you wish. Come back in a week-let’s make it November second-and I’ll reexamine you. Meanwhile, be careful. Don’t bang your head again. If you have any problems, let me know.”