David Morrell - Assumed Identity

“He’s getting in his car,” Duncan emphasized.

“No problem. The license number you gave me.”

“What about it?”

“I accessed the Louisiana motor-vehicles computer. The Taurus belongs to a New Orleans car-rental agency.”

“That doesn’t tell us much,” Duncan said.

“There’s more. I phoned the agency. Pretended to be a state trooper. Said there’d been an accident. Wanted to know who’d rented the car.”

“And?”

“Brendan Buchanan. That’s the name on the rental agreement.”

Tucker’s headlights loomed larger on the rear-view television screen.

On the front-view screen, two blocks away, the Taurus’s lights came on. The car pulled away.

With a flash, Tucker’s Jeep Cherokee passed the van. Duncan pivoted his gaze from the night-vision television image and smiled toward the front windshield and the swiftly receding taillights of Tucker’s Jeep.

“See, I told you,” Tucker said through the cellular phone. “No sweat. I’m on him. No headlights pulling away from the curb behind him. Nothing to make him suspicious.”

“Brendan Buchanan?” Duncan wondered. “Who the hell is Brendan Buchanan? And what’s his connection with the woman?”

“The head office is checking on him.” Tucker’s taillights diminished to red specks as he followed the even-more-minute specks of the Taurus. “Meantime, I’ll find out where he’s staying. We’ll pay him a visit. We’ll find out all we need to know about Brendan Buchanan.”

A microphone-transmitter required something to receive its broadcast. Depending on the strength of the transmitter, the receiver might be as far away as a mile. But practical considerations-static-producing electrical equipment in the area, for example-usually required that the receiver be much closer to the source. As well, it was useful for the person monitoring the reception to maintain visual surveillance on the target area. Thus the odds were, Buchanan concluded, that the receiver was in the neighborhood-possibly in a building, although in this respectable single-family-dwelling area it would have been difficult for a surveillance team to take over a house-more likely in a vehicle of some sort. But there weren’t any other cars parked on the street in this block. Buchanan had noticed that when he’d arrived, and he checked again as he crossed the lawn toward his rented car.

He turned to glare at Pedro Mendez, who continued to stand on his front porch, scowling at Buchanan.

Damned good, Pedro, Buchanan thought. You missed your calling. You could have been an actor.

Pretending to be furious, Buchanan spun toward his Taurus. As he rounded it to unlock the driver’s side, he glanced both ways along the street, and there it was, some kind of vehicle parked two blocks away. He hadn’t noticed it before because the vehicle, small down there, was in shadows between widely spaced streetlights. The only reason he noticed it now was that the headlights of an approaching car exposed it.

I think it’s time to pay somebody a visit, Buchanan thought as he started the Taurus, turned on its lights, and drove away. The headlights of the approaching car came up behind him, aggravating his headache.

Somebody wants to find Juana badly enough that they bug the house. But they still can’t be sure Juana didn’t get a message to her parents in a way that the microphones couldn’t detect, so whoever wants to find Juana becomes impatient and sends somebody around to the house to pretend they know Juana and ask where she is. No success. They send somebody else. Nothing. So they send yet another. .

Does that make sense? Buchanan wondered. They must have realized that three old friends coming around in two weeks would make Juana’s parents suspicious. Then why would-?

Yes, Buchanan thought. If Juana is in touch with her parents, whoever is after her wants her to know that her parents are being watched. They want to make Juana nervous about her parents. They want to threaten her by implying a threat against her parents. They hope that’ll force her to come out of hiding.

And now that I showed up, now that the surveillance unit knows there’s a wild card, they might get nervous enough to stop being patient and have a long, forceful chat with Juana’s parents. I have to let Pedro and Anita know they’re in danger.

And what about me? Buchanan thought as he steered around a corner. Whoever’s after Juana will want to talk to a stranger who suddenly shows up and asks the same questions they did.

Buchanan steered around another corner.

The headlights behind him kept following.

My, my, Buchanan thought.

FALLS CHURCH, VIRGINIA

The colonel had chosen a motel on the edge of town, using a pay phone to reserve a room under a pseudonym. At 11:00 P.M., after he’d used an electronic scanner to make sure that the room was free of microphones, his three associates arrived, their clothes speckled with water from the dank November rain that had greeted them at Washington National Airport following their flight from New Orleans.

All of them looked tired, even Captain Weller, who normally exuded sexual vitality. Her blond hair looked stringy, her blouse wrinkled. She took off her jacket, slumped on the motel room’s sofa, and toed off her high-heeled shoes. Major Putnam and Alan had haggard red cheeks, presumably from fatigue combined with the dehydration that occurs on aircraft and the further dehydrating effect of alcohol.

“Can we get some coffee?” Captain Weller asked.

“Over there,” the colonel said flatly. “The carafe on the tray beside the phone.” In contrast with his visitors, the colonel looked fit and alert, standing as straight and attentively as ever. He’d shaved and showered before he’d arrived, partly to keep himself fresh, partly to appear more energized than his companions. His clothes, too, were fresh: shined Bally loafers, pressed gray slacks, a starched white shirt, a newly purchased red-striped tie, and a double-breasted blue blazer. The effect was to make his tall, trim body suggest the military, even though he did not wear military clothing.

“Oh.” Captain Weller glanced toward the carafe on the tray beside the phone. She and Major Putnam, who slumped on a chair beside the television, did not wear military clothing, either. “Right. I didn’t notice it when I came in.”

The colonel’s eyes narrowed as if to imply that she had been failing to notice a lot of things.

Alan, the only civilian in the room, loosened his rumpled tie, unbuttoned the top of his wrinkled shirt, and walked over to the coffee, pouring a cup. Everyone in the room looked surprised when he carried the cup over to Captain Weller and then returned to pour another cup, blowing steam from it, sipping. “What are we doing here? Couldn’t this have waited until the morning? I’m dead on my feet, not to mention I’ve got a wife and kids who haven’t seen me in-”

The colonel’s flint-and-steel voice interrupted, “I want a thorough update. No more of your hints and guesses that you don’t feel comfortable talking about because you don’t trust the security of the phones.”

“Hey,” Alan said, “if we’d been given portable scramblers, I’d talk on phones all you wanted, but once burned, twice shy, Colonel. In this case, we need extra-tight security.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” The colonel stood straighter. Rain pelted against the window, making the dismal room even less agreeable. “That’s why I ordered you to be here right now instead of at home in bed with your wife.”

Alan’s expression hardened. “Ordered, Colonel?”

“Somebody tell me what’s going on.” The colonel’s voice became more flinty. “Major, you’ve been unusually silent so far.”