David Morrell - Assumed Identity

“How does this sound?” Buchanan asked. “Five minutes’ work for a hundred dollars?”

“A hundred dollars? For that much money, I’d. . Wait a minute. If this is about drugs or. .”

At a safe-site apartment five blocks north of the Washington Post, the phone barely rang before the colonel stopped pacing and grabbed it off its hook. “Home Video Service.”

“Looks like it’s a no-show,” a man’s voice said. “Whoever this Mike Hamilton is, he was supposed to meet her at twenty after two. But now it’s quarter to three, the drizzle’s turning to rain, and she’s making moves as if that park bench she’s sitting on is awfully cold.”

“Keep watching until she goes back to work and our man in her department can take over watching her,” the colonel said.

“Maybe that’s what she’s doing now. Working,” the man’s voice said. “Just because the guy at the desk next to hers never heard her talk about anybody named Mike Hamilton, that doesn’t mean Hamilton still can’t be a source for a story she’s working on. Hell, for that matter, he might be a friend she knew when she worked in California.”

“Might be, Major? I don’t like my officers to make assumptions. The tapes of the conversations don’t mention California or anything else. She and Hamilton talk as if they’ve got some kind of relationship. But what? It’s all smoke.”

“Well, most people don’t review their life history when they phone somebody for lunch.”

“Are you being sarcastic, Major?”

“No, sir. Definitely not. I’m just trying to think out loud and analyze the problem. I’m guessing that if this meeting with Hamilton has anything to do with us, she wouldn’t be doing it in plain sight. Besides, we checked our computer records. No one named Hamilton was ever associated with our operations.”

“No one named Hamilton?” the colonel said. “Doesn’t it seem relevant to you that one of our specialties is pseudonyms? Damn it, what if Hamilton isn’t his real name?”

The line became silent for a moment. “Yes, sir, I get your point.”

“Since she came back from New Orleans, everything she’s done has been routine. Now, for the first time, she’s doing something that can’t be fully explained. For her sake, I hope it doesn’t involve us. I want to believe what she told Buchanan, that she’s given up the story. But I also want to know who the hell Mike Hamilton is.”

“Colonel, you can depend on me to. . Hold it. I’m getting a report from the surveillance team. . Somebody’s approaching the woman.”

The colonel stopped moving, stopped blinking, stopped breathing. He stared at the opposite wall.

“False alarm, sir,” the voice said. “It’s a black guy with a sign about needing a job. He’s trying to beg from everybody in the park.”

The colonel exhaled and seemed to come out of a trance. “Maintain surveillance. Keep me informed. I want to know what that woman’s doing every second.” With force, he terminated the connection.

From a chair in the corner of the room, Alan studied him. “Why don’t you give it a rest? Whatever happens will happen regardless if you’re staring at the phone.”

“You don’t seem to take this seriously.”

“Oh, I take it very seriously,” Alan said. “To me, this is a sign of how out of control this operation has become. Instead of taking care of business, you’re wasting all your resources worrying about Buchanan and this reporter.”

“Wasting?”

“As far as I’m concerned, both problems are solved. Let Buchanan keep digging a hole to bury himself. He’s gone-and I say fine. He’ll act his way into oblivion. About the reporter-hey, without Buchanan she doesn’t have a story. It’s as simple as that. If she breaks her agreement, we’ll deny everything she says, accuse her of putting her career ahead of the truth, and challenge her to produce this mysterious man she claims was God knows how many people.”

“Maybe she can.”

“What are you talking about?” Alan asked.

“She’s the reason Buchanan walked away from us,” the colonel said. “But maybe it’s not just professional. He tried to protect her, after all. Maybe there’s something personal between them.”

Alan frowned.

“One of Buchanan’s talents is changing his voice, imitating other people,” the colonel said. “Hasn’t it occurred to you that no matter what this guy sounds like on tape, Mike Hamilton could be Buchanan?”

Before Holly had returned to Washington from New Orleans, there hadn’t been time for Buchanan to explain all the basics of how to behave if she thought she was being watched. The most important thing, he’d emphasized, was not to become so self-conscious that she exaggerated her movements as if putting on a show for someone. “Never do something that you wouldn’t normally do. Never fail to do something that you would normally do.”

At the moment, what Holly would normally have done would have been to stop sitting on a goddamned park bench when the drizzle turned to rain. She’d been on the bench since twenty after two, the rendezvous time she’d established with Buchanan. Now he was twenty-five minutes late, and in New Orleans he had told her that thirty minutes was the maximum time she should ever wait for him to show up. Otherwise, if she was under surveillance, she would make her observers wonder why she was lingering. That she was lingering now became even more conspicuous given the recent turn in the weather.

Holly strongly suspected that she should do the natural thing and leave right now. Buchanan had told her that if he ever failed to show up, she should return to the rendezvous area twenty-four hours later, provided he didn’t get a message to her in the meantime. Returning tomorrow would be conspicuous, yes, but it was a lot less conspicuous than seeming not to have the brains to get out of the rain. There weren’t many people in the park anymore; most had headed toward the shelter of buildings. She felt as if she was center stage and hoped that she seemed natural when she looked around. When she made up her mind and stood, she abruptly noticed movement to her left.

The movement had been there for about a minute. She just hadn’t paid attention to it. It was so common that she took it dismally for granted. But now turning, she saw a black man with a cardboard sign that said I’LL WORK FOR FOOD approach a woman who was hurrying through the park. The black man said something to her. The woman shook her head with force and kept hurrying. The black man continued through the park. The rain had begun to streak the inked letters on his sign so that now it read, I ORK OR OOD.

Holly felt a pang of sympathy as the black man approached another hurrying pedestrian, a man this time, who strode quickly on as if the beggar were invisible. Now the black man’s sign began to droop.

Oh, hell, at least one good thing will come out of this, Holly thought. She reached in her camera bag, took a dollar from her wallet, and handed it to the man as he came to her. She felt so dejected that she would have given him more, just to heighten her spirits, but she kept remembering Buchanan’s instruction not to do anything unusual. A dollar at least was better than a quarter.

“Thank you, ma’am.” What he said next startled her. “Mike Hamilton says you’re being watched.”

Holly’s pulse faltered. “What?”

“You’re to go over to the Fourteenth Street entrance to the Metro. Take the train to. . Metro Center. Go out the east doors. Walk toward the. . yes. . the National Portrait Gallery. He’ll be in touch.”

Pocketing the dollar Holly had given him, the black man moved on.