David Morrell - Assumed Identity

“Buchanan.”

“Wrong. It’s Peter Lang.” Again he started to walk away.

“Prove it.”

“I don’t have to prove anything. I’m out of patience.” Buchanan kept walking away.

She followed him. “Look, I was hoping to do this in private, but if you want to make it difficult, that’s up to you. Your name isn’t Peter Lang any more than it’s Jim Crawford, Ed Potter, Victor Grant, and Don Colton. You did use those names, of course. And many others. But your given name is Buchanan. First name: Brendan. Nickname: Bren.”

Muscles cramping, Buchanan stopped at the exit from the dining car. Not showing his tension, he turned, noting with relief that the tables at this end of the car were all empty. He pretended to be innocently exasperated. “What do I have to do to get rid of you?”

“Get rid of me? That’s a figure of speech, I hope.”

“I don’t know what you’re-”

She held up the bulging paper bag. “I’m hungry. I couldn’t find you on the train, so I kept waiting for you to come to the dining car. Then I worried that maybe you’d brought something with you to eat. Every half hour, I had to slip the waiter ten dollars so he’d let me keep my table without ordering. Another ten minutes, the place would have been empty, and he’d have made me leave. Thank God you showed up.”

“Sure,” Buchanan said. “Thank God.” He noticed the waiter come down the aisle toward them.

“Here are the sandwiches and the beer.” The waiter handed her another paper bag.

“Thanks. How much do I owe you?” She paid him, adding a further tip.

Then Buchanan and she were alone again.

“So what do you say?” The woman’s emerald eyes continued to twinkle. “At least you’ll get something to eat. Since I couldn’t find you in the coach seats, I assume you have a compartment. Why don’t we. .?”

“If I really use all the names you claim I do, I must be involved in something very shady.”

“I try not to make judgments.”

“But what am I? In the Mafia? A secret agent? Won’t you be afraid to be alone with me?”

“Who says I’m alone? Surely you don’t think I’d go on this assignment without help.”

“Don’t tell me you’re with those two guys who just finished their coffee at the other end of the car,” Buchanan said. “They’re leaving and not in this direction. It doesn’t look to me like you’re with anybody.”

“Whoever it is wouldn’t let you see him.”

“Yeah, sure, right.”

“Just as I assume that anybody following you wouldn’t be obvious, either.”

“Why would anybody follow me ?” Buchanan suddenly wondered if he was being followed. “This is certainly the weirdest. . Okay. I’m hungry. I get the feeling you won’t let me alone. Let’s eat.”

He opened the door from the dining car. The clack-clack-clack of the wheels became louder. “I’m warning you, though.”

“What?” She straightened.

“I’m not easy.”

“What a coincidence.” She followed.

Pretending not to notice her suspicion when he locked the door, Buchanan lifted the compartment’s small table from the wall and secured its brace. Then he unpacked the paper bags and spread out their contents, making sure he took the roast beef sandwiches, since he didn’t know what she might have put in the chicken salad sandwiches while she waited for him. He twisted off the caps on two bottles of beer.

Throughout, she remained standing. In the narrow compartment, Buchanan felt very aware of being close to her.

He handed her an open bottle of beer, bit into a sandwich, and sat on one side of the table. “You think you know my name. In fact, according to you, I’ve got several of them. What’s yours? ”

She sat across from him, brushing back a strand of red hair. Her lipstick was the same color. “Holly McCoy.”

“And you say you’re a reporter?” Buchanan drank from his beer, noting that she hadn’t touched hers, thinking, Maybe she expects me to drink all four bottles and hopes the beer will make me less careful about what I’m saying. “For what newspaper?”

“The Washington Post. ”

“I read that paper a lot. But I don’t think I’ve ever seen your name as a byline.”

“I’m new.”

“Ah.”

“This will be my first major story.”

“Ah.”

“For the Post. Before that, I worked as a feature writer for the L.A. Times.”

“Ah.” Buchanan swallowed part of a sandwich. The roast beef wasn’t bad-a little dry, but the mayonnaise and lettuce compensated. He sipped more of his beer. “I thought you were hungry. You’re not eating.” As she made herself nibble at some chicken salad, he continued. “Now what’s this about an interview? And these names I’m supposed to have. . I told you, I’m Peter Lang.”

Buchanan regretted that. It had been a mistake. When the woman had confronted him in the dining car, he’d responded with the name of the role on which he was concentrating at the moment. His identities had become confused. He had no ID for Peter Lang. He had to correct the problem.

“I have a confession to make,” he said. “I lied. You told me you’d leave me alone if you couldn’t guess my name. So when you called me by my right name, I decided to pretend I was somebody else and hoped you’d go away.”

“I didn’t,” she said.

“Then I might as well be honest.” He set down his bottle of beer and reached in his back pocket, bringing out his wallet showing her his driver’s license. “My name is Buchanan. Brendan. Nickname: Bren. Although no one’s called me Bren in quite a while. How did you know?”

“You’re in the military.”

“Right again. And I repeat, how did you know? Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m a captain with Special Forces. My home base is Fort Bragg. I’m on furlough, heading to New Orleans. Never been there before. So what? You have a thing about soldiers? Is that it?”

She tilted her head, a motion that emphasized her elegant neck. “In a manner of speaking.”

“Well, as long as you’re speaking, why don’t you speak plainly?” Buchanan said. “Enough is enough. You still haven’t told me how you know my name. I’ve been a good sport. What’s this about?”

“Humor me. I’d like to mention some code words to you,” she said.

“Code words? Of all the. .” Buchanan gestured with exasperation.

“Tell me if they mean anything to you. Task Force One Hundred and Sixty. Seaspray. The Intelligence Support Activity. Yellow Fruit.”

Jesus Christ, Buchanan thought, not showing how startled he was. “I’ve never heard of them.”

“Now why don’t I believe you?”

“Look, lady-”

“Relax. Enjoy the sandwiches,” she said. “I’ll tell you a story.”

Operation Eagle Claw. On April 24, 1980, a U.S. military counterterrorist unit known as Delta was sent into Iran to rescue fifty-two Americans who’d been held hostage in Teheran since November of 1979. Eight helicopters, three MC-130 troop planes, and three EC-130 fuel planes were scheduled to set down at a remote area, code-named Desert One. After refueling, the helicopters would then proceed to a landing site outside Teheran. The 118-man assault team, concealed by night, would enter the city and converge on the target zone.

From the outset, however, problems afflicted the mission. En route from the U.S. aircraft carrier Nimitz in the Persian Gulf, one of the helicopters had to turn back because of difficulties with its rotor blades. Soon, another had to return because of a failed navigational system. At Desert One, yet another helicopter malfunctioned, this time the victim of a hydraulic leak. Because no fewer than six helicopters were required for the mission, Operation Eagle Claw had to be aborted. But as the team pulled out, one of the remaining helicopters struck one of its companion EC-130 fuel planes. The resulting explosion killed eight U.S. soldiers and critically burned five others. Flames prevented the bodies of the victims from being recovered. Secret papers and classified equipment had to be abandoned.