David Morrell - Assumed Identity

On the sofa, a muscular man-Major Putnam-sat next to an attractive blond woman-Captain Weller. Buchanan had met them on the yacht in Fort Lauderdale. Each wore civilian clothes: in the major’s case, a beige suit; in the captain’s, a white silk blouse and blue skirt, both of which were tight and were no doubt intended to attract public attention away from the two men.

Buchanan glanced toward the right, toward the bathroom, to make sure that no one else was waiting. The closet was open, unoccupied.

He took his key from the lock, closed the door, locked it, and walked toward them. Late-afternoon sunlight filled the room.

“Captain,” the major said.

Buchanan nodded and stopped five feet away.

“You don’t seem surprised to see us,” the major said.

“At the Farm, I had an Agency trainer who used to say, ‘The only thing you ought to expect is the unexpected.’”

“Good advice,” the woman said. “I understand a mugger stabbed you.”

“That I certainly didn’t expect.”

“How’s the wound?”

“Healing. Where’s the colonel?”

“I’m afraid he couldn’t make it,” Alan said.

“Well, I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”

“Aren’t you curious how we got in?”

Buchanan shook his head.

“Captain”-the major looked displeased-“you were seen in the hotel lobby at one-forty-five. Supposedly you were going to your room. Now you’ve come back, but no one saw you leave in the interim. Where have you been for the past three hours?”

“Taking a steamboat ride.”

“Is that before or after you checked the reporter out of her room?”

“So you know about that? After. In fact, the reporter went with me on the steamboat ride.”

“ What? ” Captain Weller leaned forward, her blouse tightening against her breasts. “Weren’t you informed that we were looking for her?”

“I was told you intended to discourage her. But she kept hounding me, so I decided to do some discouraging of my own. I scared her away from the story.”

“You. .? How did. .?”

“By using her arguments against her. She showed me these.” Buchanan pulled the newspaper clippings from a jacket pocket and set them on the coffee table. As the major grabbed and read them, Buchanan continued, “About Bob Bailey dying in an explosion. About Jack Doyle killing his wife and then himself. Alan”-Buchanan turned to him-“you left out a few things when you told me what happened in Fort Lauderdale after I disappeared from there. Did you know about Bailey and the Doyles?”

“It didn’t seem necessary to tell you.”

“Why?”

“The less you knew about Bailey, the better. If you were interrogated, your confusion would be genuine. As far as the Doyles are concerned, well, we didn’t want to burden you with the knowledge that a man you had worked with had killed his wife and then himself shortly after you left them.”

“I convinced the reporter that what happened to the Doyles was actually a double murder.”

“You what? Oh, Jesus,” the major said.

“I asked her to consider a hypothetical situation,” Buchanan said. “If Bailey was killed because he was blackmailing me, and if the Doyles were killed because they knew too much and might be linked to me when the divers couldn’t find my body, what did that say about the further lengths certain people would go in order to keep Scotch and Soda-she mentioned it first- a secret? I don’t think there’s anything paler than a redhead when the blood drains from her face. She suddenly realized how much danger she was in, that writing a front-page story wasn’t worth losing her life. She’s in a taxi on her way to the airport, where she’ll catch the first plane back to Washington. There won’t be any story.”

“You actually believe her?”

“Yes. I told her I’d kill her if she ever wrote the story. I believe her because I know she believed me. ”

The room became silent.

“She’s out of it,” Buchanan said.

The major and the captain looked at each other.

Come on, Buchanan thought. Take the bait.

“We’d want all the photographs and the negatives.” Alan shifted his weight on the bed.

The major and the captain turned in his direction, as if they hadn’t been aware of him until now, surprised that he’d spoken.

“That’s not a problem,” Buchanan said. “She’s already agreed to give them to me. As a gesture of good faith”-he pulled some photographs from an inside pocket of his jacket- “these are the ones she had on her.”

“You honestly think she’ll stick to her bargain?” the major asked.

“She’s too afraid not to.”

“You certainly must have been convincing.”

“That’s my speciality. Being convincing.”

But have I convinced you? Buchanan thought.

“She could make copies of the photographs and create new negatives,” the major said.

“Or hold some back,” the captain added. “The only way to be sure is to get rid of her.”

Alan squirmed again, then stood from the bed. “I don’t know.” He shook his head, troubled. “Would that really solve anything? Even if she was terminated, we’d still have to worry that she had copies of her research hidden with friends. There’d be no guarantee that we could find it all. Fear can be an effective motivator. If Buchanan thinks he managed to neutralize the situation without the need for violence, maybe we ought to go along with his suggestion. After all, no matter how much we made her death seem like an accident, there would still be repercussions. Suspicions. Killing her might cause more problems than it solves.”

Inwardly, Buchanan sighed. I’ve got him. He’s agreeing. Now all I have to do is. .

The major frowned. “I’ll have to talk with the colonel.”

“Of course,” Alan said sarcastically. “The colonel has the final word. The Agency doesn’t count in this. Only you people.”

The major responded flatly, “We have as much authority as you. The colonel has to be consulted.”

Shit, Buchanan thought. I only got a postponement.

He quickly tried another approach.

“I have something else for you to tell the colonel.”

“Oh?”

“. . I’m resigning.”

They stared.

“You were already planning to take me out of operations and use me as an instructor. Why do things halfway? Accept my resignation. If I’m out of the military, I won’t be a threat to you.”

“Threat? What do you mean?” the major asked.

“I think that’s obvious enough. The real problem here is me.”

The room seemed to shrink.

“I repeat, Captain. What do you mean?” the major asked.

“We wouldn’t be in this situation if it hadn’t been for what happened to me in Cancun and then in Fort Lauderdale. The operation wouldn’t be threatened if I was out of the way. That wasn’t a mugger who stabbed me last night. It was someone working for you.”

“That’s absurd,” the captain said.

“Using a street weapon so it wouldn’t look like a professional hit. Because of the knife, I didn’t figure it out right away. No reputable assassin would ever use a blade. Compared to a bullet, it’s too uncertain. For that matter, too risky, because you have to get right next to your target. But then I realized that what looked like an amateur killing would be a perfect cover for a professional one. Bailey, the Doyles, me. We’d all be dead. A suspicious coincidence, yes. But each of the deaths would be explainable without any need to drag in a conspiracy theory. And if the reporter had a car accident. .”

Everyone became very still.

“All because of the photographs,” Buchanan said. “The ones that showed you, Major, and you, Captain, and more important, the colonel with me on the yacht in Fort Lauderdale. For me to be exposed wasn’t a problem. You knew I’d never implicate anyone. But for you two to have your photograph on the front page of the Washington Post, and in particular for the colonel to be on the front page, that’s a different matter. That would lead to the exposure of all sorts of things. You don’t have to worry about any of that now. The reporter isn’t going to write her story. And even if I hadn’t scared her off, the photograph of me with the two of you and the colonel doesn’t mean anything if I can’t be linked to Scotch and Soda. You don’t need to go to the trouble of killing me. I’ll do you all a favor and disappear.”