David Morrell - Assumed Identity

Delgado’s pulse increased with anger. “Not a favor. A business agreement.”

“I won’t quibble with terminology. I came to tell you that despite her disappearance, I expect to be allowed to conduct my business as you agreed.”

Delgado released his nervous energy by standing. “That would be very difficult. The director of the National Institute of Archaeology and History has become furious about your control of the site in the Yucatan. He is mustering government support for a full investigation.”

“Discourage him,” Drummond said.

“He’s very determined.”

Now it was Drummond’s turn to rise. Despite his frail body, he dominated the study. “I need only another few weeks. I’m too close. I won’t be stopped.”

“Unless you fail.”

“I never fail.” Drummond bristled. “I am an unforgiving partner. If you fail me, despite the woman’s disappearance, I will take steps to make you regret it.”

“How? If you don’t find the woman and she never talks.”

“She was necessary only to protect you. To expose you, all I need is this.” Drummond snapped his fingers.

In response, Raymond opened a briefcase, then handed Drummond a large envelope that contained a videotape.

Drummond gave the envelope to Delgado. “It’s a copy, of course. I’ve been saving it as a further negotiating tactic. Be careful. Don’t leave it where your wife and daughter might wonder what was on it. Or the president. You wouldn’t want him to see it. A political scandal of this sort would threaten his administration, and needless to say, it would destroy your chances of becoming his replacement.”

Delgado felt sweat trickle down his back as he clenched the videotape.

Abruptly the study’s door was opened. Delgado whirled, his stomach cramping when he saw his wife step in. Intelligent, sophisticated, well-educated, she understood her role as a politician’s spouse and always conducted herself perfectly. She tolerated Delgado’s frequent absences and no doubt was aware of his frequent indiscretions. She was always there when he needed symbolic support at public functions. But then, she had been raised in a family of politicians. From her youth onward, she had learned the rules. She was the sister of Delgado’s best friend, the president of Mexico.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, dear. I didn’t realize you had company. How are you, Mr. Drummond?” she asked in perfect English. Her expensive clothes and jewelry enhanced her plain features.

“Excellent,” Drummond answered in Spanish. “And yourself? I trust you are well, Senora.”

“Yes, I am fine. Would you care to stay for dinner?”

“Thank you, but I’m afraid I was just about to leave. Your husband and I needed to discuss some matters. I have to fly to Europe.”

“You’re welcome anytime,” she said. “Esteban, I’ll be in the garden.” She closed the door.

The room was uncomfortably silent for a moment.

“Think about it,” Drummond said. “Don’t be a fool and ruin everything you’ve worked so hard to achieve. Don’t deny yourself the chance to achieve even greater things. Watch the tape, destroy it, and make the further arrangements we discussed.”

Delgado did not reveal the sudden anger that blazed inside him. You come to my home. You ignore my hospitality. You threaten me. You threaten my relationship with my wife and daughter. His jaw ached with fury. There will come a time when you do not have power over me.

And then I will destroy you.

“The director of the Institute of Archaeology and History,” Drummond said. “When I told you to discourage him from interfering with what I’m doing at the site, I meant eliminate him. I want him replaced by someone who knows how to compromise, who won’t make trouble, who values favors.”

NEW ORLEANS

Buchanan squirmed.

“Welcome back. How are you feeling?”

He took a moment to understand what the woman had asked him. He took another moment to answer.

“. . Sore.”

“I bet.” The woman chuckled. It wasn’t a chuckle of derision. It communicated sympathy. Its sound was soft yet deep.

He liked it.

He took another moment for the haze to clear enough that he realized he was in a hospital bed. He didn’t know what pained him more, the throbbing in his head or the burning in his right side. His skull was wrapped with bandages. His side felt stiff from bandages, as well. And stitches.

“You had me worried,” the woman said.

He focused on her, expecting to see a nurse leaning over the bed or possibly, blessedly, Juana, although this woman didn’t have an Hispanic accent.

As he noticed her red hair, the significance of it alarmed him. He squirmed harder.

“Relax,” Holly McCoy said. “You’re all right. You’re going to be fine.”

Like hell, he thought. Everything was wrong, very wrong, although his clouded thoughts prevented him from knowing precisely how wrong.

“Well,” a man said, “I see you’re coming around.”

A doctor. His white coat contrasted with his black skin. He entered the room and studied the medical chart attached to the foot of the bed, finally saying, “The nurses on the night shift had to wake you periodically to test your neurological signs. Do you remember that?”

“. . No.”

“Do you remember me ?”

“. . No.”

“Good. Because I didn’t treat you last night when you were brought into the emergency ward. Answer my questions honestly. The first thing that comes into your mind. Understand?”

Buchanan nodded, wincing from the pain that the movement had caused.

“Do you know why you’re here?”

“. . Stabbed.”

“Another good answer. Do you remember where?”

“. . My side.”

The doctor smiled slightly. “No. I mean where outside the hospital were you stabbed?”

“. . French Quarter. . Cafe du Monde.”

“Exactly. You were assaulted on the sidewalk outside the restaurant. As soon as you’re up to it, the police will want a statement from you, although I gather your friend here has already provided most of the necessary details.”

Holly nodded.

My friend?

The police?

“If you’re someone who likes company for his misery, you aren’t alone,” the doctor continued. “We had several mugging victims in the emergency ward last night, and some of them weren’t as lucky as you. A few are in critical condition.”

“. . Mugging?”

“I gave the police a description of the man who did it,” Holly said. “Not that it helps. A pirate costume. Last night, a lot of people were wearing costumes.” She raised a plastic cup and placed a bent straw between his lips.

The water was cool.

“You’re at the LSU Medical Center,” the doctor said. “Your wound required twenty stitches. But you were lucky. No major organs were injured. The blade didn’t penetrate as much as it slashed.”

The police? Buchanan thought. Jesus, I was carrying a gun. What if they found it? They must have found it. And Victor Grant’s forged passport. They’ll wonder what-

“You struck your head when you fell,” the doctor said. “You have a concussion.”

Another one?

“There doesn’t appear to be any neurologic damage. Still, you might get tired of everybody asking you the same questions. . Like, how many fingers am I holding up?”

“Three.”

“How old are you?”

“Thirty-two.”

“What’s your name?”

. .

“What’s your name?” the doctor repeated.

He concentrated.

Of all the questions. .

Come on. Come on. Who am I supposed to be?