David Morrell - Assumed Identity

The group seemed frozen.

Finally, the major cleared his throat, then looked awkwardly at the woman and finally Alan.

“Come on,” Buchanan said. “We’ve got a problem. Let’s discuss it.”

“Captain, do you realize what you sound like?” the major asked, uneasy.

“Direct.”

“Try paranoid. ”

“Fine,” Buchanan said. “Nobody ordered my termination. We’ll pretend it was the random act of violence you wanted it to resemble. However you want to play this. It makes no difference to me. Just so you get the point. I’ll disappear. That way, you’ve got double protection. Holly McCoy won’t write her story. I won’t be around to be questioned.”

“To hear you talk like this.” The major frowned. “I’m glad we did decide to observe you. You’ve definitely been under cover too long.”

“I think you’d better get some rest,” Alan said. “You’ve just been released from the hospital. You’ve got to be tired.”

The woman added, “Being stabbed. Injuring your head again. In your place, I’d-”

“How’d you know I hurt my head again? I didn’t mention it to anybody.”

“I just assumed.”

“Or you heard it from the man you sent to kill me.”

“Captain, you’re obviously distressed. I want you-in fact, I order you-to stay in this room, to try to relax and get some sleep. We’ll be back here at nine hundred hours tomorrow morning to continue this conversation. Hopefully, you’ll feel less disturbed by then.”

“I honestly don’t blame you for trying to protect the mission,” Buchanan said. “But let’s not talk around the problem. Get it out in the open. Now that I’ve given you a better solution, you don’t have to kill me.”

Alan studied Buchanan with concern, then followed the major and the captain somberly out the door.

Buchanan’s legs felt unsteady as he crossed the room and secured the lock. The strain of the conversation had intensified his headache. He shoved three Tylenol caplets into his mouth and went into the bathroom to drink a glass of water. His mouth was so dry that he drank a second glass. His reflection in the mirror showed dark patches under his eyes. I’m losing it, he thought.

In the bedroom, he awkwardly closed the draperies. His side hurt when he stretched out on the bed. The darkness was soothing.

But his mind wouldn’t stop working.

Did I pull it off?

Were they convinced?

He didn’t understand why he was so concerned about Holly’s safety. He’d met her only a few days ago. In theory, they were antagonists. Most of his troubles were due to her interference. In fact, it could be argued that Jack and Cindy Doyle were dead because of her. But the truth was that Holly McCoy hadn’t killed the Doyles. His own people had. Just as they’d killed Bailey. And they’d have killed me, too, if I’d been around when Bailey opened the cooler to look at his money.

So they waited for another chance to get me, a way that wouldn’t look suspicious even to a reporter.

Holly McCoy.

Have I grown attracted to her? he wondered. There had been a time when he could have justified anything-the murder of a reporter, anything-for the sake of maintaining an operation’s security. Now. .

Yes?

Maybe I don’t care about the operation any longer. Or maybe. .

What?

Maybe I’m becoming a human being.

Yeah, but which human being?

“One more time,” Alan said. “I want to be sure about this.” He drove a rented Pontiac from the Crowne Plaza hotel. Major Putnam sat next to him. Captain Weller leaned forward from the back. “Do any of you know anything about an order to terminate Buchanan?”

“Absolutely not,” the captain said.

“I received no such instructions,” the major said.

“And I didn’t,” Alan said.

“What’s this about Jack and Cindy Doyle?” the major asked. “I thought their deaths were a murder-suicide.”

“So did I,” the captain said. “Buchanan caught me totally off balance when he said they were a double murder. I don’t know anything about orders to terminate them. ”

“Who tried to kill Buchanan?” Alan asked.

“An attempted mugging is still the most logical explanation,” the major said.

“In the middle of a crowd outside a restaurant?” Alan gripped the steering wheel harder. “A pickpocket, sure. But I never heard of a pickpocket who drew attention to himself by stabbing the guy he was trying to lift a wallet from.”

“How about some weirdo who gets his kicks out of stabbing people in public?” the captain asked.

“That makes more sense.” Alan turned onto Canal Street, squinting at headlights. “It’s crazy, but it makes sense.”

“The thing is, Buchanan believes we did it,” the major said. “And that’s just as crazy.”

“But do you think he really believes it?” the captain asked. “He’s an actor. He says things for effect. He can be very convincing.”

“He certainly convinced me,” Alan said.

“But why would he lie?” the major asked.

“To create a smoke screen. To confuse us and divert our attention from the reporter.”

“Why?” the major repeated.

“Buchanan might be right that killing the reporter would cause more problems than it solves,” Alan said. “If she’s genuinely intimidated and she doesn’t write the story, we’ve accomplished our purpose.”

“If. I keep hearing a lot of ifs.”

“I agree with Buchanan,” the captain said. “I think it’s better if we do nothing at this point and just sweat it out.”

“On that score, the colonel’s opinion is the only one that matters,” the major said.

They drove in silence.

“We still haven’t. .” Alan scowled at the bright lights of traffic.

“What?” the captain asked.

“ Did someone try to kill Buchanan? Not a wacko but a professional following orders. And if we didn’t give the orders, who did?”

The rule was, if a contact didn’t show up at an agreed place on schedule and if no arrangements had been made for an alternate time and place for a meeting, you returned to the rendezvous site twenty-four hours later. With luck, whatever had prevented the contact from coming to the meeting would no longer be an obstacle. But if the contact didn’t show up the second time. .

Buchanan didn’t want to think about it. He made his way through the French Quarter. Crowded, narrow streets. Dixieland. The blues. Dancing on the sidewalk. Commotion. But no costumes. This time, with no masks to hide people’s faces, Buchanan would have a much better chance to learn if he was being followed. Last time, he’d been conspicuous because he hadn’t been wearing a costume. Now, just one of the many people in street clothes, he would have a much better chance of blending with a crowd, slipping down an alley, and evading anyone who did try to follow.

With a sense of deja vu that made him wince from the memory of when the knife had entered his side, he passed the shadows of Jackson Square, studied Decatur Street, and once more crossed toward Cafe du Monde. Again the restaurant was busy, although not as much as on Halloween. To make sure that the crowd didn’t prevent him from entering, he’d taken care to arrive early, at 10:15 rather than the scheduled time of eleven when he had last been here with Juana six years ago.

He festered with impatience. Never showing it, he waited his turn and was escorted by a waiter past pillars, through the noise of the crowd, and to a seat at a small circular white-topped table surrounded by similar busy tables in a corner at the back. By chance, the table was in exactly the spot he would have chosen to give himself an effective view of the entrance.