Dear God, what have I gotten myself into?


'No,' Drummond told a supervisor, his voice brittle but forceful. 'No. You understood the rules before you agreed to be hired. You signed a document binding you to certain conditions. Under no circumstances are you or any member of your crew permitted to leave camp until all the work is completed. I'm paying everyone handsomely to work seven days a week, and I expect to receive maximum value for my money. Bring women in? Nonsense. No outsiders are allowed in camp. Permission to use the two-way radio for private communications? Absolutely not. What happens down here is my business, and I don't want your men telling my business to outsiders. You know how I feel about privacy. In every way possible, this camp is sealed. Don't raise this subject again.'


Drummond turned dismissively from the group and noticed Jenna and McIntyre just inside the open door. 'Good, I want to see both of you.' He motioned for Raymond to take the supervisors outside, then gestured for Jenna and McIntyre to approach. 'Have you found it?'


Jenna and McIntyre looked away.


'I don't know why I bothered asking,' Drummond said. 'If you had found it, those idiots would have been jabbering hysterically about it. They wouldn't have been able to restrain themselves. Which means they still don't suspect,' Drummond said. 'Is that true?'


McIntyre cleared his throat. 'Yes. That's true.'


Having taken the supervisors outside, Raymond re-entered the building, shut the door, and leaned against it, crossing his arms, coldly assessing Jenna. She felt his arrogant gaze upon her.


'I'm not pleased, not pleased at all,' Drummond said. 'I gave you all the necessary information. The job shouldn't be that difficult. You practically have step-by-step instructions. But you still haven't found it.'


McIntyre mumbled something.


'What?' Drummond glared. 'Damn it, man, speak up. Muttering won't trick me into thinking my ears are failing me.'


'I didn't mean to.'


'Don't apologize. I hate a whimperer. Maybe that's why you haven't achieved your objective. Because you're not man enough to direct the job.'


'The instructions weren't as specific as you claim,' Jenna interrupted.


'Oh?' The old man swung toward her. 'At least you don't mutter. But I don't recall asking you for a comment.'


'If I need to be asked, that would mean I'm not a very good employee, wouldn't you agree?'


'An excellent answer.' Drummond studied her. 'Continue.'


'A vague and possibly flawed translation isn't what I'd call step-by-step instructions.'


Drummond bristled. 'The translation wasn't flawed. The best experts for the maximum price were hired to decipher the text.'


'But even the experts don't understand all the Mayan symbols.'


'And you yourself are expert enough to know that?'


'Perhaps you've forgotten.'


'I forget nothing.'


'I'm not only a surveyor,' Jenna said. 'I'm an archaeological surveyor. My expertise is mapping sites like this one, and I may not be able to translate Mayan symbols, but I know several people who can, and they're the first to admit that there's a great deal more to be accomplished in their specialty.'


'Perhaps. Or perhaps you're trying to justify a poor performance. Perhaps I should hire someone else and deduct that person's fee from yours.'


Panic muted Jenna's anger. Stop. Keep your opinions to yourself. Don't antagonize him.


'Work harder,' Drummond said. 'Quit making excuses. The translation is as perfect as it can be. And it's explicit. What we're looking for is here. But why can't you find it?'


'Topography doesn't have much variation in the Yucatan,' Jenna said. 'The site described in the text could be anywhere. Plus, the geology in this area isn't stable. In the thousand years since the landscape was described, earthquakes could have obliterated some of the features we're searching for.'


Drummond scowled and returned his attention to McIntyre. 'I don't have time for delays. The jungle has to be cleared, but your men haven't accomplished anywhere near as much as they were supposed to by now. You haven't kept up with the schedule.'


'The schedule didn't allow for sabotage,' McIntyre said.


Drummond jerked his head back. 'Sabotage?'


'Someone's been tampering with the bulldozers and the trucks. Dirt in the fuel tanks. Radiator hoses cut. Tires slashed.'


Drummond became livid. 'Why wasn't I told?'


'We thought we could handle the problem without troubling you. We fixed the vehicles and posted guards around them,' McIntyre said.


'And?


'Posting guards around the vehicles meant we had to lessen the number of men watching the perimeter of the camp. The next night, a lot of our tools were stolen. Our water supply was contaminated. Our fuel-storage barrels were punctured. That's why we've got barrels stored in here. As an emergency backup. The helicopters have been working double time bringing in spare parts and replacement supplies instead of new equipment.'


'Replacing supplies isn't the answer!' Drummond snapped. 'Find whoever's causing the damage. What about those supervisors who were in here complaining? Could it be someone who wants to shut down work so he can spend a weekend getting drunk in Merida?'


'We thought of that,' McIntyre said. 'No. The men are tired and grumpy, but they're also eager to finish the job ahead of schedule so they can get their bonus. None of them would do anything to force them to spend more time here.'


'Then who?'


'Natives,' Jenna said. 'Maya.'


Drummond looked astonished. 'You're telling me a handful of ignorant Indians are capable of out-thinking you and paralyzing the project?'


There might be more of them than you think. And as for being ignorant, this is their backyard, not ours. They know this territory a lot better than we do.'


'Excuses.'


'I'm sure they're watching our every move from the jungle,' Jenna said, 'and I strongly suspect that this site has religious importance to them, that they're furious about what we're doing here.'


'Superstition and nonsense. I'm amazed that you've let it interfere with the project.' Drummond scowled. 'But you've given me an idea. You're right. This is their backyard.' He turned to the fair-haired, pleasant-faced, well-dressed man who leaned against the closed door. 'Raymond, how would you like to go hunting?'


'I'd like that very much, Mr Drummond.'


'The captain of the guards will see that you're outfitted properly.' Drummond turned to Jenna. 'Where do these natives live? Have you got their village marked on the map you're preparing?'


'Village?' Jenna said. 'I've had problems enough mapping the site. We're surrounded by rain forest. There aren't any trails. You don't just go wandering around out there. You'll get lost or worse. Village? We haven't seen even one native, let alone a village.''


'And yet you're certain they're responsible?' Drummond turned to his assistant. 'Raymond, find them. Stop them.'


'Yes, sir.' Raymond opened the door.


'But Raymond.'


'Yes, sir?'


'Since this is their backyard, since they know it thoroughly, I want one native able to talk. Bring him to camp for questioning. Maybe he'll know where to find what we're looking for.'


As Raymond left the building, a man in a blue pilot's uniform appeared. He had a red logo, DRUMMOND INDUSTRIES, on his jacket pocket.


'Sir, there's a call for you on the helicopter radio.' He was slightly out of breath.


'Have it transferred to here. McIntyre, what frequency have you been using?'


McIntyre told the pilot, who hurried away.


Drummond gestured toward the map that Jenna had braced beneath her left arm. 'Let me see what you've accomplished.'


Jenna spread the map across a table.


'No, no, no,' Drummond said.


'What's wrong? I was thorough. I double-checked every-'


'That's exactly the problem. You were thorough. I told you specifically. I wanted a map that would look convincing to the Mexican authorities.' Drummond led her out the door, gesturing toward the commotion of the site, workers clearing trees and stacking equipment.


Assaulted by harsh sunlight after the shadows of the room, Jenna shielded her eyes and directed her attention toward where Drummond pointed. As more and more trees were cut down and dragged away to be burned, as more bushes were plowed free, as what seemed to be hills became ever more distinctly pyramids, temples, and palaces, the legacy of the once-great Mayan empire, her heart pounded.


'Too much depends on this,' Drummond said. 'Your map can't-'


He was suddenly interrupted by a crackly, static-ridden voice on the radio.


'That's your call coming through,' McIntyre said.


'Is the scrambler functioning?'


McIntyre nodded. 'Just flick the switch.'


'Stay here. I won't be long.'


After Drummond entered the building and shut the door, leaving Jenna and McIntyre outside, Jenna shook her head, frustrated, puzzled, angry. 'That son of a bitch.'


'Keep your voice down,' McIntyre said. 'He might hear you.'


McIntyre was right, Jenna realized. Even with the noise from the vehicles and the workers, she was close enough to the door that her voice might carry.


But by that same logic.


The door fit the crude frame loosely. It had inched open after Drummond closed it. Jenna heard occasional raspy outbursts.


'. Find the woman. If Delgado learns she isn't cooperating. ruined. Everything. Find her. Use every pressure. I don't care what you have to. Kill him if.'


Then Jenna couldn't hear Drummond anymore, and at once she stepped farther from the door, joining McIntyre, feeling sick but trying to seem as if she were a good employee waiting patiently.


Drummond jerked the door open and stalked outside. A black pall appeared to surround him despite the sunlight that gleamed off his thick, white hair and his glasses. He was about to continue verbally assaulting Jenna when he noticed something to the left and looked briefly heartened.


Following his gaze, Jenna saw Raymond wearing outdoor clothes, carrying a rifle, entering the jungle. Even at a distance, his excitement was evident.


Then Drummond's brittle, forceful voice jerked her attention back to him.


'All of this,' he demanded, gesturing. 'You've been far too faithful on your map, far too diligent. The Mexican authorities can't be allowed to realize how massive and important a find this is. Your map has to make it seem minor, an insignificant site that doesn't merit undue attention, something that won't be an irreplaceable loss.' Drummond pointed toward the majestic temples, the hieroglyph-engraved palaces, and the great, terraced pyramid where gigantic snake heads guarded the bottom of the wide, high stairs that went up each side. 'Because ten days from now, I expect all of that to be leveled. Do you hear me, McIntyre?' He glared at the foreman. 'You knew the orders. You understood the schedule. Use bulldozers. Use sledge-hammers. Use dynamite. If you have to, use your fingernails. Ten days from now, I expect my equipment to be set up and all of this to be gone. Level it. Scatter the rubble. Truck it out. Dump it in sinkholes. Have the helicopters lift it out. I don't care how you do it. I want it gone!'


SIX


1


Alexandria, Virginia.


The safe site was on the third floor, yet another apartment in yet another sprawling complex into which Buchanan could easily blend. After he'd arrived in Washington from Florida, he'd used a pay phone to report to his controller, just as he'd reported at various stops along the Amtrak route. A man's voice told him to be waiting, seated, on the steps outside the Library of Congress at three p.m. Precisely at that time, a middle-aged man wearing a blue blazer and gray slacks stopped beside him and bent down to tie his right shoe. When the man departed, Buchanan concealed the small envelope that the man had slid toward him. After waiting five minutes longer, Buchanan then went into the Library of Congress, entered a men's room, and locked himself in a stall, where he opened the envelope, took out a key, and read a slip of paper that provided him with a name, some biographical information, an Alexandria address, and an apartment number. The paper and the envelope were far from ordinary. He dropped them into the water in the toilet and watched them dissolve. In the library's reference section, he used an area directory to tell him which major streets were near the Alexandria apartment, and shortly before six that evening, he got out of a taxi a few blocks from his destination, walking the rest of the way, out of habit using evasion procedures in case he was being followed.


His name was now Don Colton, he'd been informed. He was supposed to be a writer for a travel magazine that he assumed was affiliated to his controllers. Posing as a travel writer was an excellent cover, Buchanan thought, inasmuch as a travel writer by definition was on the move a great deal and hence the neighbors wouldn't consider it unusual that they never saw him. However, because Buchanan's controllers would not have had sufficient time to tailor the cover specifically to him, he automatically assumed that this identity would be temporary, an all-purpose, one-size-fits-all persona that his controllers maintained for emergencies. As Don Colton, Buchanan was in a holding pattern and would soon be sent to God-knew-where as God-knew-who.


Avoiding the elevator, he used fire stairs to get to the third floor. After all, because most people preferred elevators, there was less chance of encountering anybody on the stairs. He reached a concrete corridor with fluorescent lights along the ceiling. As he had hoped, no one was in view, the tenants having already arrived home from work. Doors to apartments flanked each side. As he walked along green, heavy-duty carpeting, he heard music behind one door, voices behind another. Then he came to 327, used the key he'd been given, and entered the apartment.


He turned on the lights, scanned the combination living room-kitchen, locked the door, checked the closets, the bathroom, and the bedroom, all the while avoiding the windows, then turned off the lights, closed the draperies, and finally turned the lights back on, only then slumping on the sofa. He was safe. For now.


2


The apartment had a hotel-room feel to it, everything clean but utilitarian and impersonal. A corner of the living room had been converted into a mini-office with a desk, a word processor, a printer, and a modem. Several copies of the magazine he was supposed to work for were stacked on the coffee table, and when Buchanan examined their contents, he found articles under his pseudonym, another indication that Don Colton was an all-purpose identity. Obviously the magazines had been prepared well in advance, not just for him but for any operative who happened to need this type of cover. Don Colton -at least this Don Colton - wouldn't be in the neighborhood very long.


Nonetheless Buchanan still had to make his portrayal of Colton believable, and the first step was to familiarize himself with the articles he was supposed to have written. But halfway through the second essay - about Tahiti - he suddenly discovered that two hours had passed. He frowned. It shouldn't have taken him that long to read just a few pages. Had he fallen asleep? His headache - which had never gone away since he'd banged his skull in Cancun - worsened, and he surprised himself by no longer caring about his persona as a travel writer. Weary, he stood, went into the kitchen, which was separated from the living room only by a counter, and poured himself a drink from a bottle of bourbon that was next to the refrigerator along with bottles of gin and rum. After adding ice and water, he debated which to do first - to shower or to open one of the cans of chili he found in a cupboard. Tomorrow, he'd have to decide what to do about clean clothes. The ones he'd found in the bedroom closet were too small for him. But he couldn't leave the apartment without establishing a procedure with his employers so they'd know how to get in touch with him, and that was when the phone rang.


It startled him.


He pivoted toward the living room, staring toward the phone on a table next to the sofa. The phone rang a second time. He sipped from his bourbon, letting his nerves calm. The phone rang a third time. He hated phones. Squinting, he entered the living room and picked up the phone before it could ring a fourth time.


'Hello.' He tried to make his voice sound neutral.


'Don!' an exuberant male voice exclaimed. 'It's Alan! I wasn't sure you'd be back yet. How the hell are you?'


'Good,' Buchanan said. 'Fine.'


'The trip went okay?'


'The last part of it.'


'Yeah, your postcards mentioned you had a few problems at some earlier stops. Nothing you couldn't handle, though, right?'


'Right,' Buchanan echoed.


'That's really swell. Listen, buddy, I know it's getting late, but I haven't seen you in I can't remember when. What do you say? Have you eaten yet? Do you feel like getting together?'


'No,' Buchanan said, 'I haven't eaten yet.'


'Well, why don't I come over?'


'Yeah, why not?'


'Great, Don. Can't wait to see you. I'll be over in fifteen minutes. Think about where you want to eat.'


'Some place that's dark and not too crowded. Maybe with a piano player.'


'You're reading my mind, Don, reading my mind.'


'Be seeing you.' Buchanan set down the phone and massaged his aching temples. The man's reference to postcards and his own reference to a piano player had been the recognition sign and countersign that the note he'd destroyed at the Library of Congress had told him to use if he was contacted. His debriefing would soon begin.


Yet another.


His temples continued to ache. He thought about washing his face but first drank his glass of bourbon.


3


Fifteen minutes later, precisely on schedule, the doorbell rang. Buchanan peered through the door's security eye and saw a fortyish, short-haired, portly man in a brown-checkered sport coat. The voice on the phone had not been familiar, so Buchanan wasn't surprised that he'd never seen this man before, assuming that the voice on the phone belonged to this man. All the same, Buchanan had hoped that one of the controllers he'd dealt with previously would show up. He'd been through too many changes.


He opened the door warily. After all, he couldn't take for granted that the man was his contact. But the man immediately allayed his suspicions by using the same cheery tone that Buchanan had heard earlier. 'Don, you look fabulous. In your postcards, you didn't say you'd lost weight.'


'My diet didn't agree with me. Come on in, Alan. I've been thinking, maybe we shouldn't go out to eat. I'm not in the mood for a piano player.'


'Whatever.' The man who'd earlier identified himself as Alan, undoubtedly a pseudonym, carried a metal briefcase into the apartment and waited while Buchanan locked the door. Then the man's demeanor changed, as if he were an actor who'd stepped out of character when he walked off a stage. His manner became businesslike. 'The apartment was swept this afternoon. There aren't any bugs. How are you feeling?'


Buchanan shrugged. The truth was he felt exhausted, but he'd been trained not to indicate weakness.


'Is your wound healing properly?' the man asked.


'The infection's gone.'


'Good,' the man said flatly. 'What about your skull? I'm told you hit it on a-'


'Stupid accident,' Buchanan said.


'The report I received mentioned a concussion.'


Buchanan nodded.


'And a skull fracture,' the man said.


Buchanan nodded again, the movement intensifying his headache. 'A depressed skull fracture. A small section of bone on the inside was pushed against the brain. That's what caused the concussion. It's not like I've got a crack in the bone. It's not that serious. In Fort Lauderdale, I was kept in the hospital overnight for observation. Then the doctor let me go. He wouldn't have let me go if-'


The portly man who called himself Alan sat on the sofa but never took his gaze from Buchanan. 'That's what the report says. The report also says you'll need another checkup, another CAT-scan, to find out if the bruise on your brain has shrunk.'


'Would I be walking around if my brain was still swollen?'


'I don't know.' The man continued to assess Buchanan. 'Would you? Agents from Special Operations have a can-do attitude. Problems that would slow someone else down don't seem to bother you.'


'No. The mission comes first. If I think an injury impairs my ability to perform the mission, I say so.'


'Commendable. And if you thought you needed some time off, you'd say that, too?'


'Of course. Nobody turns down R and R.'


The man didn't say anything, just studied him.


To change the subject as much as to relieve his curiosity, Buchanan asked, 'What happened in Fort Lauderdale after I left? Was the situation dealt with to everyone's satisfaction? Were the photographs-?'


The man lowered his gaze, worked the combination locks on his briefcase, and opened it. 'I wouldn't know anything about that.' The man pulled out a folder. 'We have some paperwork to take care of.'


Uneasy, Buchanan sat across from him. His instincts troubled him. It might have been the consequence of fatigue, or perhaps it was due to the aftermath of stress. For whatever reason, there was something about the man's attitude that made Buchanan uncomfortable.


And it wasn't just that the man was brusque. In his eight years of working deep cover, Buchanan had dealt with controllers of various types, some of whom had a manner that would disqualify them from a popularity contest. But being personable wasn't a requirement for the job. Being thorough was, and sometimes there wasn't time to say things politely, and it wasn't smart to establish a relationship with someone whom the odds were you would never see again.


Buchanan had learned that the hard way over the years. In his numerous assumed identities, he'd occasionally found that he felt close to someone, to Jack and Cindy Doyle, for example. As much as he guarded against that happening, it nonetheless sometimes did, and it made Buchanan feel hollow after he moved on. Thus he could readily understand if this controller didn't want to conduct the debriefing on anything but an objective, unemotional basis.


That wasn't it, though. That wasn't what made Buchanan feel uncomfortable. It was something else, and the best he could do was attribute it to his experience with Bailey, to an instinct that warned him to be extra cautious.


'Here's my signed receipt,' the portly man who called himself Alan said. 'Now you can give me Victor Grant's ID.'


Buchanan made a snap decision then. He didn't trust this man. 'I don't have it.'


'What?' The man looked up from the receipt.


'I had to abandon the ID in the car when I drove it into the water in Fort Lauderdale. so the authorities would have a way to identify the driver after they couldn't find a body. so they'd decide Victor Grant was dead.'


'Everything? You left everything?'


'Driver's license. Credit card. Social security card. The works. I had to leave them in a jacket in a wallet so they wouldn't float away. And I had to leave all of them. The police would have thought it strange if all they found was a driver's license.'


'But the passport, Buchanan. I'm talking about the passport. You wouldn't have left the passport. You know that's the ID we care about. Anybody with a brain can arrange to get a fake driver's license. Who cares if the cops get their hands on it? But a fake passport, a first-class fake passport, hell, better than that because the passport blank came from the State Department. If the police had an expert study that passport, there'd be all kinds of questions that the people at State couldn't answer. And then maybe the questions would come in our direction.'


'I had to leave it,' Buchanan lied. The passport was in fact in the bedroom, in a travel bag that he'd bought along with a toilet kit and a few spare clothes before leaving Florida. The travel bag also contained the handgun that Jack Doyle had given him. Buchanan wasn't about to tell this man about the handgun, either.


He continued, 'If the authorities did a thorough investigation of Victor Grant, they'd find out I'd been in Mexico. They'd find out I'd shown my passport down there. So they'd have to ask themselves, where is it now? They've got my wallet. They've got my suitcase - I left it in the trunk of the car. They've got all of Victor Grant's possessions. Except they don't have his body and they don't have his passport? No way. A good detective might decide that Victor Grant faked his death, then walked away with his passport, the only identification he'd need if he wanted to get out of the country. But since I left the passport in the jacket with my wallet, the authorities have one less detail to trouble them.'


'Smart, Buchanan,' the portly man said. 'There's just one problem.'


'Oh?'


'The police didn't find the passport.'


'What? Then it must have floated away.'


'But not the wallet?'


'Hey, the wallet was heavier. How do I know what happened? My orders were to make Victor Grant disappear. I did it the best way I knew how.'


The portly man stared at him.


'Has the missing passport made the cops think something's wrong?' Buchanan asked.


The portly man stared harder. 'You'll have to sign this document saying that you couldn't surrender the passport.'


'Whatever,' Buchanan said. He signed and returned the document, then watched the man who called himself Alan put it in his briefcase.


'The next order of business.' With an air of efficiency combined with distaste, the portly man opened and dumped the contents of a paper bag onto the coffee table.


Buchanan looked at the sprawl of magazines, catalogues, video-and-record-club solicitations, and various other forms of bulk mail. The items were addressed to several persons, Richard Dana, Robert Chambers, Craig Madden, and Brian MacDonald, the most recent pseudonyms that Buchanan had used before becoming Ed Potter in Mexico.


'House cleaning,' the portly man said.


Buchanan nodded. To appear believable in an assumed identity, he had to be equipped with more than just fake ID. Mail, for example. It wasn't natural for people never to get mail. Bills had to be paid. Letters had to be received. Magazines. lots of people subscribed to magazines. if you said your name was Brian MacDonald and you got a magazine addressed to that name, the magazine became another bit of evidence that proved you were the person you claimed to be. So, under various names, Buchanan subscribed to magazines wherever he expected to live for an extended time. But just as he created individual characteristics for each person he pretended to be, so he had to make sure that the magazines matched each character's personality. Richard Dana subscribed to Runner's World. Robert Chambers liked Gourmet. Craig Madden was a movie fanatic and received Premiere. Brian MacDonald enjoyed Car and Driver. Because magazines often sold their subscription lists to catalogue companies, soon Buchanan's various characters would begin receiving catalogues about the subject in which they were supposedly interested, and this extra mail would help legitimize his characters.


Eventually, though, Buchanan would receive a new assignment and move on, discarding one identity, assuming another. In theory, the previous identity would no longer exist. Still, even though Buchanan had made arrangements to stop mail from coming to his former characters, a few items would inevitably arrive at places where his characters had used to live. To avoid arousing suspicion, he always left a forwarding address with the landlords at those places. That forwarding address was known in the trade as an accommodation address, a safe, convenient mail drop, usually a private mail service owned by, but not traceable to, Buchanan's controllers.


'Is there anything here that needs to be dealt with?' the portly man who called himself Alan asked. 'Some loose end that needs to be tied? We ought to know before we destroy this stuff.'


Buchanan sorted through the items. 'Nope. These magazines can go. These catalogues. This circular is exactly what they call it - junk. This.'


He felt a chill as he lifted a postcard. 'It's addressed to Peter Lang. I haven't used that name in six years. How the hell did it get lost this long?'


'It didn't. Check the postmark. Someone mailed it from Baltimore. Last week.'


'Last week?' Buchanan felt cold. 'Who'd want to get in touch with Peter Lang after six years? Who'd remember him? Who'd care enough to.?'


'That's what we want to know,' Alan said, his calculated gaze threatening. 'And why a postcard? Why not a letter? And what do you make of the message?'


Troubled, Buchanan studied it. The message was handwritten in black ink, the script small, the strokes thin, the lettering ornate yet precise.


A woman's handwriting. No name.


Five sentences, some of them incomplete. Seeming gibberish.


But not to Buchanan. He didn't need a signature to tell him who had sent the postcard. Because she would have taken for granted that several people, especially Buchanan's employers, would have read the message by now, he admired her indirection.


4


Here's the postcard I never thought I'd send. I hope you meant your promise. The last time and place. Counting on you. PLEASE.


Buchanan read the message several times, then glanced up at the portly man, who now was squinting.


'So?' The man squinted harder.


'It's a woman who knew me when I was Peter Lang. Someone I needed for window dressing.'


'That's all?'


Buchanan shrugged.


'Who was she, Buchanan?'


'It's been so long I don't even remember her name.'


'Don't tell me your famous memory is failing you.'


'I remember what's essential. She wasn't.'


'Why didn't she sign her name?'


'She was a flake. That much I recall. Maybe she thought it would be cute and mysterious if she sent an unsigned postcard.'


'And yet without a name on the card, a name you claim you can't remember, you know who sent the message.'


'She used to do this kind of stuff a lot. Unsigned, cryptic messages. I'd find them in my bathroom, in my pajamas, in my sock drawer. I told you she was "a flake. But she sure was gorgeous, and I never read any handwriting as neat and elegant as this. She was proud of that -her handwriting.'


'But what does it mean?'


'Damned if I know. Maybe she was high on something when she wrote it. Or maybe she tried so hard to make the message cute that she didn't realize she was being incoherent.'


The portly man squinted even harder. 'Just like that, after six years, she decided to write to you.'


'Must be,' Buchanan said. 'Because that's what happened. She didn't even think to put a return address on it. That's how spur-of-the-moment she used to act.'


'What's this "last time and place" business?'


'Beats the hell out of me.'


The portly man didn't move. He just kept staring at Buchanan as if trying to make him uncomfortable enough to demonstrate a sign of weakness.


Buchanan returned his stare.


After thirty seconds, the portly man sighed and gestured for Buchanan to give back the postcard. He shoved it into the paper bag along with the magazines, catalogues, and circulars, then placed them in his metal briefcase and locked it. 'We'll talk again soon, Buchanan.' He stood.


'Wait a minute.'


'Is something wrong?' the man asked. 'Or maybe there's something you forgot to tell me?'


'Yeah. What about my new ID?'


'New ID?'


'The driver's license and credit card, all the documents for Don Colton.'


The man frowned. 'You must have gotten the wrong impression. You're not being issued new ID.'


'What?'


'You won't need any. The rent, the phone, and the other bills are paid through one of our cover organizations by mail. There's plenty of food here so you won't need a checkbook to go to the grocery store, and you won't need a credit card to go to a restaurant. And since we want you to stay close, you won't need ID to rent a car.'


'So what about clothes? I need a credit card to replace what I abandoned in Fort Lauderdale. What's in the closet here is too small.'


'There's a gray, cotton sweatsuit on the bedroom shelf. It's large enough to do for now. When I drive you to the hospital for your CAT-scan, I'll bring you a few more things.'


'That's it? You're leaving me without a way to prove my cover?'


'Buchanan, we don't want you to prove your cover. We don't want you to be in a position to need to prove your cover. We don't want Don Colton leaving this apartment. We don't want him wandering around the building or going to restaurants or to shopping malls and flashing ID. Don Colton's invisible. He's been living in this complex for years, and nobody knows him. He travels so much, you see. So as long as you stay in here, no one'll bother you, and for that matter, we don't want you bothering anybody, either. Do you get it?'


Buchanan narrowed his eyes. 'Yeah, I got it.'


'We don't want you even sending out for a pizza.'


'I said I got it. Anyway how could I order a pizza? I'm almost out of money.'


'Good.' The man lifted his briefcase and walked toward the door.


'I'm in limbo?'


The man kept walking. 'Until we've assessed the damage control on Cancun, Merida, and Fort Lauderdale. A while ago, you told me you'd ask for time off if you thought you needed it. You said nobody turns down R and R.' The man reached the door, unlocked it, and glanced at Buchanan. 'Well, now you've got some. You've been in the field quite a while. Eight years. A very long while. It's time for a rest.'


'And what if I don't want a rest?'


The man gripped the doorknob. 'It's a funny thing, Buchanan.'


'What?'


'I was told you were a fanatic about assuming your identities.'


'That's right.'


'A real method actor. Invented a detailed history for each of your pseudonyms. Dressed, ate, and sometimes even walked the way you decided a particular character would. Gave each of them a distinct personality.'


'You're right again. Staying totally in character is what keeps me alive.'


'Sure. The thing is, I was also told that you'd practically bite off the head of any controller who called you by your real name. But I just did, and in fact I've been doing it off and on since I came here. You should have been insisting that I call you Don Colton.'


'There's nothing strange about that. Until I get Don Colton's ID and background, I can't become him. I don't have any personality to assume.'


'Well, in that case, I'd expect you to have insisted that I call you Victor Grant.'


'How could I?'


'I don't understand.'


'Calling me Victor Grant is impossible. I wouldn't have responded.'


'Why?'


'Because Victor Grant is dead.' Abruptly Buchanan felt a further chill as he understood the significance of what he'd just said.


The man who called himself Alan understood the significance very well. 'As you said, you're in limbo.' He turned the knob and opened the door. 'Stay put. I'll be in touch.'


5


Buchanan leaned his back against the locked door and massaged the sides of his aching head. So much was wrong, he didn't know where to start analyzing.


Try starting with why you lied to him about the passport and why you didn't tell him you had a firearm.


I didn't want to lose them. I didn't trust him.


Well, you weren't wrong on that score. Whatever that conversation was, it sure wasn't a debriefing. He didn't ask you to talk about anything that you'd done. And he didn't give you new ID. He put you on ice. It was more like an interrogation, except he didn't ask you any questions that weren't about.


The postcard.


Buchanan went to the counter in the kitchen and poured more bourbon and water into a glass. He took a long swallow, then felt his cheek muscles harden with tension.


The postcard.


Yeah, the passport wasn't the only thing you lied about. What's the big deal? Why didn't you tell him the truth?


Because he was too damned interested.


Hey, a postcard arrives last week for a man who hasn't existed, whom you haven't been, for the past six years. That's an attention-getter. Naturally they want to know what the hell's going on. Something from one of your pasts, some threat to the operation, catching up to you. Why didn't you tell him?


Because I'm not sure. If I did know what was going on, maybe I'd have told him.


Bullshit. The truth is you're scared.


No way.


Yes. Confused and scared. You haven't thought about her in all this time. You've made yourself not think about her. And now all of a sudden, bang, she's back in your head, and you don't know how to handle it. But this much is sure - you don't want them to have anything to do with her.


He stared at his glass of bourbon, his emotions powerful.


6


Here's the postcard I never thought I'd send.


She'd been furious the night she decided that she didn't want to see him anymore. She'd told him not to bother trying to get in touch with her again, that if she ever needed him, she'd send him a Goddamned postcard.


I hope you meant your promise.


He'd told her that no matter how much time and distance was between them, all she had to do was ask, and he'd be there.


The last time and place.


He remembered the date of their breakup well because of what had been happening around them, the costumes, the music - October 31, Halloween. The time had been close to midnight, the place Caf‚ du Monde in New Orleans.


Counting on you. PLEASE.


In capital letters? She might as well have said that she was begging him.


That wasn't like her.


She was in trouble.


He continued staring at the glass of bourbon and imagined the tension she must have felt as she wrote the postcard. Maybe she had only seconds to write it, to condense it to its essentials and hope it was clear to him, even though she didn't sign her name.


She doesn't want anyone except me to know where she's going to be and when.


She's terrified.


7


The man who called himself Alan left Buchanan's apartment, heard the scrape of the lock, and proceeded along the green, heavy-duty carpet of the harshly lit, concrete hallway. He was pleased that no one happened to come out of another apartment and see him. Like Buchanan, he avoided the elevator and used the fire stairs - less chance of encountering anyone. But unlike Buchanan, who would have headed down to the street, the portly, short-haired man in the brown-checkered sport coat went up to the next landing, heard voices, waited in the stairwell until the voices were cut off by the sound of an elevator, and then walked briskly along the corridor until he reached the door to the apartment directly above Buchanan's. He knocked twice, paused, knocked twice more, heard a lock open, and was quickly admitted.


The apartment was dimly lit. He couldn't see who was present or how the unit was furnished. Nor could anyone who happened to be passing as he entered. But the moment the door was closed behind him, he heard the click of a switch, and at once the apartment's living room was filled with light. Thick, closed draperies prevented the light from being seen by anyone outside.


Five people were in the room. A tall, trim man with severe features and cropped, graying hair exuded the most authority. Although he wore a plain, blue, business suit, he stood with military bearing and in private was never referred to by his name but always as 'colonel'.


The next in charge was a younger man, in his forties, less tall, more muscular. He wore tan slacks, a brown blazer. Major Putnam.


Beside him was a blonde woman, in her thirties, gorgeous, her breasts bulging at her blouse. Captain Weller.


Finally there were two plain-clothed sentries, one of whom had admitted him and then relocked the door. The sentries had last seen him not long ago, just before he went down to Buchanan's apartment, so this time they didn't ask for identification. Indeed, they barely nodded to him before they redirected their attention toward the door.


The colonel, the captain, and the major didn't pay him much attention, either. After a confirming glance, they stared again at a bank of closed-circuit television screens and various black-and-white images of Buchanan's apartment. A long table supported a row of video-tape machines, each of which was in operation, recording everything that occurred in each room of Buchanan's apartment. On another table, several audio-tape machines were also in operation. Except for a sofa and two chairs shoved against a wall, the electronics were the room's only furnishings. It wasn't any wonder that the colonel had the lights dimmed when the hallway door was opened - he didn't want anyone to get a good look at what was in here.


The man who called himself Alan set his briefcase beside a box of donuts and a steaming coffee percolator on the counter between the kitchen and the living room. There weren't any ashtrays - the colonel refused to allow smoking. And there wasn't any clutter of crumpled napkins, stale food, and used styrofoam cups - the colonel insisted on an absolutely neat control room.


'What's he been doing since I left?' Alan asked. The question was directed to anyone who would bother to answer (they didn't always). As the only civilian in the apartment, he didn't feel obligated to use military titles. Indeed he was getting damned tired of sensing that these Special Operations types considered themselves superior to the Agency.


After a pause, the woman, Captain Weller, answered without looking at him, continuing to concentrate on the television screens. 'Leaned against the door. Rubbed his skull. Appears to have a headache. Went into the kitchen. Poured another drink.'


'Another?' Alan asked, disapproving.


His judgmental tone prompted the second-in-command, Major Putnam, to face him. 'It means nothing out of context. Alcohol is one of his weapons. He uses it to disarm his contacts. If he doesn't maintain a tolerance for it, he's as open to attack as if he doesn't maintain his combat skills.'


'I've never heard that one before,' Alan said skeptically. 'If he was strictly mine, I'd be alarmed. But then, from the start, nothing about this unit was conventional, was it?'


Now the colonel turned. 'Don't condescend to us.'


'I wasn't. I was making a point about control.'


'The point is taken,' the colonel said. 'If he finishes this drink and makes another, I'll be concerned.'


'Right. It's not as if we haven't got plenty of other things to be concerned about. What's your analysis of my session with him?'


A movement on one of the monitors attracted everyone's attention. Again they stared at the screen.


Buchanan carried his drink from the kitchen.


On a separate black-and-white screen, he appeared in the living room and slumped on the sofa, placing his feet on the coffee table, leaning back, rubbing the moisture-beaded glass against his brow.


'Yeah, he sure seems to have a headache,' Alan said.


'Or maybe he's just tired from stress and traveling,' the woman said.


'A new CAT-scan will tell us what's going on in his head,' Alan said.


The woman turned. 'You mean, in his brain, of course. Not in his mind.'


'Exactly. That's what I meant. I asked you what's your analysis of my session with him.'


'His explanation about the passport was reasonable,' the major said. 'In his place, I might not have abandoned it, but perhaps that's why I'm not in his place. I don't have the talent for role-playing that he does. A water-destroyed passport, one that validated his identity without jeopardizing the passport's source, would have added credence to his character's death.'


'But,' Alan corrected,'the passport was never found.'


'An accident of circumstance.'


'Our opinions differ. But we'll leave that subject for later,' Alan said. 'What about the postcard?'


'Again his explanation was reasonable,' the major said.


'This conversation sounds like an echo,' Alan said. 'I'm losing patience. If you wanted a whitewash, why did you need me here? I've got a wife and kids who wonder what I look like.'


'Whitewash?' the colonel intruded, his voice like steel against flint. 'I'm losing patience with you. The person we're observing on these monitors, the person you had the privilege of interrogating, is without doubt the finest deep-cover operative I've ever had the honor of directing. He has survived longer, has assumed more identities, has endured greater dangers and accomplished more critical missions than any other deep-cover specialist I've ever heard about. He is one of a kind, and it is only with the greatest regret that I am forced to consider his termination.'


Ah, Alan thought, there it is. We're finally getting to it. He gestured toward the sentries. 'Are you sure you want to talk about something so serious in front of-?'


'They're loyal,' the colonel said.


'Just like Buchanan.'


'No one's questioning Buchanan's loyalty. It wasn't his fault that he was compromised. There was absolutely no way to predict that someone he knew in Kuwait and Iraq would walk into that restaurant in Cancun while he was making his pitch to those two drug dealers. The worst nightmare of a deep-cover specialist - one identity colliding with another. And there was no way to predict that Bailey would be so damned persistent, that he'd put together evidence showing Buchanan in three different identities. Jesus, the photographs. If only the son of a bitch hadn't started taking photographs.'


Especially of you and Buchanan together, Alan thought.


What the colonel said next seemed in response to the accusing look in Alan's eyes. 'I admit the mistake. That's why I sent you to interrogate him. I will never again allow myself to be in direct contact with him. But as it is, the damage is done, and your people made mistakes, too. If there'd been time in Fort Lauderdale, I'd have brought in one of my own surveillance teams. Instead I had to rely on. Your people assured me that they'd found Bailey's hotel room and confiscated all the photographs.'


'That was my information as well,' Alan said.


'The information was wrong. No photographs of Buchanan and myself were retrieved. And before Bailey could be interrogated, the bomb concealed in the picnic cooler was detonated.'


'Those were the orders,' Alan insisted. 'The location transmitter in the wall of the cooler would lead the team to Bailey when Buchanan delivered the money. Then the C-4 explosive that was also in the walls of the cooler would be detonated by remote-control. Bailey wouldn't be a problem anymore.'


'You're simplifying to excuse failure. The specific orders were to wait in case Bailey rendezvoused with the woman photographer who was helping him. The C-4 was chosen because it was a convenient means to take care of both of them.'


'In case they met,' Alan emphasized. 'But what if Bailey had already paid her off and wouldn't be seeing her again? Or what if Bailey took the money and abandoned the cooler?'


'Then you admit your people disobeyed orders by acting prematurely.'


Alan didn't reply.


'Well?' the colonel asked.


'The truth is, no one disobeyed. The bomb went off on its own.'


'On its.?'


'The expert who assembled the bomb thought he'd set the remote-controlled detonator to a radio frequency that wasn't used in the area. In fact, it had to be triggered by two different, uncommon radio frequencies, one to arm it, one to set it off. All those boats at Fort Lauderdale. All those two-way radios. Apparently there aren't any uncommon frequencies down there.'


'Jesus,' the colonel said. 'The bomb could have gone off while Buchanan had it, before he gave the cooler to Bailey.'


'I don't know why that should bother you. You were just talking about the possibility of having Buchanan terminated.'


The colonel looked puzzled. Then abruptly he understood. 'Terminated without prejudice. What's the matter with you? Do you think I'd actually order the death of one of my men, an officer who served me faithfully for many years?'


'Whether he's faithful hasn't been proven.' Alan pointed toward one of the many television screens, toward the black-and-white image of Buchanan slumped on the sofa, his eyes closed, troubled, the moisture-beaded glass of bourbon and water held to his wrinkled brow. 'I'm not convinced he was truthful when I talked to him.'


'About the passport?'


'I wasn't referring to the passport. The postcard. That's what bothers me. I think he held back. I think he lied to me.'


'Why would he do that?'


'I'm not sure. But by your own admission, he'd been working under cover, in multiple identities, for an unusual amount of time. He endured a great deal of physical trauma in Mexico. His head obviously still hurts. Maybe he's about to fall apart. There are pictures of you and him that we can't locate. As well, there's a woman who saw Bailey with Buchanan and you with Buchanan. A lot of loose ends. If Buchanan is compromised, if he does fall apart, well, we obviously don't need another Hasenfus on our hands.'


Alan was referring to an ex-Marine named Eugene Hasenfus who in 1986 was shot down while flying arms to U.S.-backed contra rebels in Marxist Nicaragua. When questioned by Nicaraguan authorities, Hasenfus implicated the CIA and caused a political scandal that revealed a secret, White-House-directed war in Nicaragua. Because intermediaries had been used to hire Hasenfus, the CIA could plausibly deny any connection to him. Nonetheless, Congressional and media attention directed toward the Agency had been potentially disastrous.


'Buchanan would never talk,' the colonel said. 'He'd never violate our security.'


'That's probably what someone said about Hasenfus when he was hired.'


'It'll never come to that,' the colonel said. 'I've made my decision. I'm putting Buchanan on inactive status. We'll ease him out slowly so he doesn't have culture shock. Or maybe he'll agree to become a trainer. But his days of deep cover are over.'


'Tomorrow, when he's taken for a new CAT-scan.'


'What are you getting at?' the colonel asked.


'I'd like to have sodium amytal administered to him and then have him questioned about that postcard,' Alan said.


'No.'


'But-'


'No,' the colonel repeated. 'He's my operative, and I know how he'd react if you used drug therapy to question him. He'd feel threatened, insulted, betrayed. Then we would have a problem. The fastest way to make a man disloyal is by treating him as if he's disloyal.'


'Then I insist on at least keeping him under surveillance,' Alan said. 'There's something about him that bothers me. And I'm still bugged about that postcard.'


'Keeping him under surveillance?' The colonel shrugged and turned toward the television monitors, watching the black-and-white image of Buchanan slumped on the sofa, his eyes scrunched shut as if he had a headache, the glass of bourbon against his brow. 'I don't have a problem with that. After all, that's what we're already doing.'


8


Caught in limbo but not realizing it, Buchanan hadn't been conscious of being called by his real name when the portly man in the brown-checkered sport coat questioned him the previous night. But as soon as the man had drawn attention to what he'd been doing, as soon as Buchanan realized that he was suspended between identities, he became extremely self-conscious about his name. He was so thorough an impersonator that seldom in the past eight years had he thought of himself as Buchanan. To do so would have been incompatible with his various assumed identities. He didn't just pretend to be those people. He was those people. He had to be. The slightest weakness in his characterization could get him killed. For the most part, he'd so thoroughly expunged the name Buchanan from his awareness that if someone had attempted to test him by unexpectedly calling his name from behind him, he wouldn't have turned. Habit would not have controlled him. The name would have belonged to a stranger.


But now as the portly man who called himself Alan drove him to get his CAT-scan, Buchanan inwardly squirmed whenever his escort called him by his true name, something the escort did often, apparently by intention. Buchanan felt as he had the first time he'd asked a girl to dance or the first time he'd heard his voice on a tape recorder or the first time he'd made love. The doubt and wonder of those experiences had been positive, however, whereas the self-consciousness he endured at being called 'Buchanan' produced the negativity of fear. He felt exposed, vulnerable, threatened. Don't call me that. If certain people find out who I really am, it'll get me killed.


In Fairfax, Virginia, at a private medical clinic presumably overseen by Buchanan's controllers, he was again made nervous, inwardly squirming when the doctor assigned to him persistently called him by his real name.


How are you, Mr Buchanan? Does your head still hurt, Mr Buchanan? I have to do a few tests on you, Mr Buchanan. Excellent responses, Mr Buchanan. My nurse will take you downstairs for your CAT-scan, Mr Buchanan.


Christ, they didn't bother to give me even a minimal assumed identity, Buchanan thought. Not even just a John Doe cover name. I wouldn't have needed supporting documents. An arbitrary alias for purposes of the examination would have been fine. But my real name's on the medical file the doctor's holding. I can understand that they wanted to protect the Don Colton pseudonym. But I didn't have to use it. I could have called myself anything. This way, with my name associated with the CAT-scan, if anyone makes a comparison, I can be linked to Victor Grant's CAT-scan.


The doctor turned from examining the film. 'Good news. The bruise is considerably reduced, Mr Buchanan.'


If he calls me that one more time, I'll-


'And there's no indication of neurological damage. The shaking in your right hand has stopped. I attribute that previous symptom to trauma caused by the wound to your shoulder.'


'What about my headache?'


'After a concussion, a headache can persist for quite some time. It doesn't trouble me.'


'Well, you're not the one with the headache.'


The doctor didn't react to the attempt at humor. 'I can prescribe something for the pain, if you like.'


'Something with a label that says, "Do not drive or use heavy machinery while taking this medication"?'


'That's correct.'


'Thanks, but I'll stick to aspirin,' Buchanan said.


'As you wish. Come back in a week, let's make it November second, and I'll re-examine you. Meanwhile, be careful. Don't bang your head again. If you have any problems, let me know.'


Problems? Buchanan thought. The kind of problems I've got, you can't solve.


9


Here's the postcard I never thought I'd send.


10


'Do you want to tell me what's going on?' Buchanan asked as they drove along the Little River Turnpike from Fairfax back to Alexandria. The day was gray, a late October drizzle speckling the windshield.


The man who called himself Alan glanced at him, then peered forward again, concentrating on traffic. He turned on the windshield wipers. 'I'm not sure what you mean.'


'Why have I been exposed?'


As the drizzle changed to rain, the man turned on the windshield defroster. 'Exposed? What makes you think.?'


Buchanan stared at him. The man turned on the headlights.


'There's not much left,' Buchanan said, 'for you to toy with and avoid the question. What are you going to do next? Turn on the radio and keep switching stations, or pull over and start changing the oil?'


'What are you talking about, Buchanan?'


'That. My name. For the first time in eight years, people are using it openly. I'm deliberately being compromised. Why?'


'I told you last night. It's time for a rest.'


'That doesn't justify violating basic rules.'


'Hey, the doctor has a security clearance.'


'It was a needless violation,' Buchanan said. 'He certainly didn't need to know who I was in order to assess a CAT-scan. And he mentioned the wound in my shoulder, but he didn't get a look at that shoulder, and I didn't tell him about it. What else has he been told that he didn't need to know? How I got the wound?'


'Of course not.'


'Sure. I bet. This isn't just a rest. I'm not just in limbo. I'm being eased out. Am I right?'


The man steered into the passing lane.


'I asked you a question. Am I being eased out?'


'Nothing lasts forever, Buchanan.'


'Stop calling me that.'


'What should I call you? Who the hell do you think you are?'


Buchanan's skull throbbed. He didn't have an answer.


'An operative with your talent and experience could do a lot of good as a trainer,' Alan said.


Buchanan didn't respond.


'Did you expect to work under cover all your life?'


'I never thought about it.'


'Come on,' the man said. 'I fail to believe that.'


'I meant what I said. I literally never thought about it. I never thought beyond who I was during any given assignment. If you start planning your retirement while you're working under cover, you start making mistakes. You forget who you're supposed to be. You fall out of character. That's a great way to insure you don't live long enough for the retirement you're not supposed to be planning.'


'Well, you'd better think about it now.'


Buchanan's skull ached more fiercely. 'Why is this being done to me? I didn't screw up. Nothing that happened was my fault. I compensated perfectly. The operation wasn't damaged.'


'Ah, but it could have been.'


'That still would not have been my fault,' Buchanan said.


'We're not discussing fault. We're discussing what did and didn't happen and what almost happened. Maybe you've become unlucky. The bottom line is you're thirty-two. In this game, that makes you a senior citizen. Eight years? Christ, it's amazing you're still alive. It's time to walk away.'


'The fact that I'm still alive proves how good I am. I don't deserve.'


The rain increased, drumming on the car's roof. The windshield wipers flapped harder.


'Did you ever see your file?'


Despite his pain, Buchanan shook his head.


'Would you like to?'


'No.'


'The psychological profile is very revealing.'


'I'm not interested.'


'You've got what's called a "dissociative personality."'


'I told you I'm not interested.'


The man changed lanes again, maintaining speed despite the rain. 'I'm not a psychologist, but the file made sense to me. You don't like yourself. You do everything you can to keep from looking inward. You split away. You identify with people and objects around you. You objectify. You. dissociate.'


Buchanan frowned ahead at the traffic obscured by the rain.


'In average society, that condition would be a liability,' the man continued. 'But your trainers realized what a prize they had when their computer responded to a survey by choosing your profile. In high school, you'd already demonstrated a talent - perhaps a better term is compulsion - for acting. At Benning and Bragg, your Special Ops commanders gave you glowing reports for your combat skills. Considering the unique slant of your personality, all that remained to qualify you was even more specialized training at the Farm.'


'I don't want to hear any more,' Buchanan said.


'You're an ideal undercover operative. It's no wonder you were able to assume multiple identities for eight years, and that your commanders thought you were capable of doing so without breaking down. Hell, yes. You'd already broken down. Working under cover was the way you healed. You hated yourself so much that you'd do anything, you'd suffer anything for the chance not to be yourself.'


Buchanan calmly reached out and grasped the man's right elbow.


'Hey,' the man said.


Buchanan's middle finger found the nerve he wanted.


'Hey,' the man repeated.


Buchanan squeezed.


The man screamed. Jerking from pain, he caused the car to swerve, its rear tires fishtailing on the wet, slick pavement. Behind and in the passing lane, other drivers swerved in startled response and blared their horns.


'Now the way this is going to work,' Buchanan said, 'is either you'll shut up or else you'll feel what it's like to lose control of a car doing fifty-five miles an hour.'


The man's face was the color of concrete. His mouth hung open in agony. Sweat beaded his brow as he struggled to keep control of the car.


He nodded.


'Good,' Buchanan said. 'I knew we could reach an understanding.' Releasing his grip, he sat rigidly straight and looked forward.


The man mumbled something.


'What?' Buchanan asked.


'Nothing,' the man answered.


'That's what I thought.'


But Buchanan knew what the man had said.


Because of your brother.


11


'What's he doing now?' the man who called himself Alan asked as he entered the apartment directly above Buchanan's.


'Nothing,' the muscular man, Major Putnam, said. He sipped from a styrofoam cup of coffee and watched the television monitors. Again he wore civilian clothes.


'Well, he must be doing something.' Alan glanced around the apartment. The colonel and Captain Weller weren't around.


'Nope,' Major Putnam said. 'Nothing. When he came in, I figured he'd pour himself a drink, go to the bathroom, read a magazine, watch television, do exercises, whatever. But all he did was go over to the sofa. There he is. That's what he's been doing since you left him. Nothing.'


Alan approached the row of television monitors. Massaging his right elbow where the nerve that Buchanan had pinched still troubled him, he frowned at a black-and-white image of Buchanan sitting on the sofa. 'Jesus.'


Buchanan sat bolt-straight, motionless, his expression rigid, his intense gaze focused on a chair across from him.


'Jesus,' Alan repeated. 'He's catatonic. Does the colonel know about this?'


'I phoned him.'


'And?'


'I'm supposed to keep watching. What did the two of you talk about? When he came in, he looked.'


'It's what we didn't talk about.'


'I don't understand.'


'His brother.'


'Christ,' the major said, 'you know that's an off-limits subject.'


'I wanted to test him.'


'Well, you certainly got a reaction.'


'Yeah, but it's not the one I wanted.'


12


Buchanan was reminded of an old story about a donkey between two bales of hay. The donkey stood exactly midpoint between the bales. Each bale was the same size and had the same fragrance. With no reason to choose one bale over the other, the donkey starved to death.


The story - which could never happen in the real world because the donkey could never be exactly at midpoint and the bales could never be exactly the same - was a theoretical way to illustrate the problem of free will. The ability to choose, which most people took for granted, depended on certain conditions, and without them, a person could be motiveless, just as Buchanan found that he was now.


His brother.


Buchanan had so thoroughly worked to obliterate the memory that for the past eight years he'd managed not to be conscious of the critical event that controlled his behavior. Not once had he thought about it. On rare occasions of weakness, late at night, weary, he might sense the nightmare lurking in the darkness of his subconscious, crouching, about to spring. Then he would muster all his strength of resolve to thrust up a mental wall of denial, of refusal to accept the unacceptable.


Even now, with his defenses taken from him, with his identity exposed, unshielded, he was repulsed sufficiently that the memory was able to catch him only partially, in principle but not in detail.


His brother. His wonderful brother.


Twelve years old.


Sweet Tommy.


Was dead.


And he had killed him.


Buchanan felt as if he were trapped by ice. He couldn't move. He sat on the sofa, and his legs, his back, his arms were numb, his entire body cold, paralyzed. He kept staring toward the chair in front of him, not seeing it, barely aware of time.


Five o'clock.


Six o'clock.


Seven o'clock.


The room was in darkness. Buchanan kept staring, seeing nothing.


Tommy was dead.


And he had killed him.


Blood.


He'd clutched Tommy's stake-impaled body, trying to tug him free.


Tommy's cheeks had been terribly pale. His breathing had sounded like bubbles. His moan had been liquid, as if he were gargling. But what he gargled hadn't been salt water. It had been.


Blood.


'Hurts. Hurts so bad.'


'Tommy, oh, God, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to.'


Push him.


Just horsing around.


Didn't think Tommy would lose his balance and fall.


Didn't know anything was down in the pit.


A construction site. A summer evening. Two brothers on an adventure.


'Hurts so bad.'


'Tommy!'


'Doesn't hurt anymore.'


'Tommy!'


So much blood.


When Buchanan was fifteen.


Still catatonic, sitting bolt-straight on the sofa, staring at the darkness, Buchanan felt as if a portion of his mind were raising arms, trying to ward off the terrible memory. Although he was chilled, sweat beaded his brow. Too much, he thought. He hadn't remembered in such detail since the days and nights before Tommy's funeral and the unendurable summer that followed, the guilt-laden, seemingly endless season of grief that finally had ended when.


Buchanan's mind darted and burrowed, seeking any protection it could from the agonizing memory of Tommy's blood on his clothes, of the stake projecting from Tommy's chest.


'It's all my fault.'


'No, you didn't mean to do it,' Buchanan's mother had said.


'I killed him.'


'It was an accident,' Buchanan's mother had said.


But Buchanan hadn't believed her, and he was certain that he'd have gone insane if he hadn't found a means to protect himself from his mind. The answer turned out to be amazingly simple, wonderfully self-evident. Become someone else.


Dissociative personality. Buchanan imagined himself as his favorite sports and rock stars, as certain movie and television actors whom he idolized. He suddenly became a reader - of novels into which he could escape and become the hero with whom he so desperately wanted to identify. In high school that autumn, he discovered the drama club, subconsciously motivated by the urge to perfect the skills he would need to maintain his protective assumed identities, the personas that would allow him to escape from himself.


Then after high school, perhaps to prove himself, perhaps to punish himself, perhaps to court an early death, he'd joined the military, not just any branch, the Army, so he could enter Special Forces. The name said it all - to be special. He wanted to sacrifice himself, to atone. And one thing more - if he saw enough death, perhaps one death in particular would no longer haunt him.


As the man who called himself Alan had indicated, Buchanan's Special Operations trainers realized what a prize they had when their computer responded to a survey by choosing Buchanan's profile. A man who desperately needed to assume identities. An operative who wouldn't be wearied but on the contrary would flourish for long periods under deep cover.


Now they were stripping away his barriers, taking away his shields, exposing the guilt that had compelled him to be an operative and that he had managed to subdue.


Buchanan? Who the hell was Buchanan? Jim Crawford was a man he understood. So was Ed Potter. And Victor Grant. And all the others. He'd invented detailed personal backgrounds for each of them. Some of his characters were blessed (in Richard Dana's case literally, for Dana believed that he was the recipient of the grace of God as a born-again Christian). Others carried burdens (Ed Potter's wife had divorced him for a man who earned more money). Buchanan knew how each of them dressed (Robert Chambers was formal and always wore a suit and tie). He knew which kinds of music each liked (Peter Sloane was crazy about country and western), and which foods (Jim Crawford hated cauliflower), and which types of women (Richard Dana liked brunettes), and which types of movies (Brian MacDonald could watch Singin' in the Rain every night of the week), and.


Who the hell was Buchanan? It was significant that Buchanan and his controllers always thought of him in terms of his last name. Impersonal. Objective. After eight years of having impersonated -correction, of having been - hundreds of people, Buchanan had no idea of how to impersonate himself. What were his speech mannerisms? Did he have a distinctive walk? Which types of clothes, food, music, et cetera, did he prefer? Was he religious? Did he have any hobbies? Favorite cities? What came naturally?


Christ, he hadn't been Buchanan in so long that he didn't know who Buchanan was. He didn't want to know who Buchanan was. The story of the donkey between the two bales of hay was his story. He was caught between the identity of Victor Grant, who was dead, and the identity of Don Colton, who wasn't formed. With no way to turn, with nothing to help him choose whom to be, he was paralyzed.


Self-defense made the difference - protective instincts. Sitting rigidly in the quiet, dark room, he heard a noise, the scrape of a key in the front door's lock. A portion of his mind jolted him. His body was no longer cold and numb. His lethargy drained, dispelled by adrenaline.


The doorknob creaked. As someone in the outside hallway slowly pushed the door open, the glare of fluorescent lights spilling in, Buchanan was already off the sofa. He darted to the left and disappeared into the darkness of the bedroom. He heard the flick of a switch and stepped back farther into the bedroom as light filled the living room. He heard a metallic scratch as someone removed the key from the lock. He heard a soft thunk as the door was gently shut.


Cautious footsteps made a brushing sound as they inched across the carpet.


He tensed.


'Buchanan?' The voice was familiar. It belonged to the portly man who called himself Alan. But the voice sounded wary, troubled. 'Buchanan?'


Uneasy, Buchanan didn't want to respond to that name. Nonetheless he showed himself, careful to keep partially in the shadows of the bedroom.


Alan turned, his expression a mixture of concern and surprise.


'Don't you believe in knocking?' Buchanan asked.


'Well.' Alan rubbed his right hand against his brown-checkered sport coat, awkward. 'I thought you might be sleeping and.'


'So you decided to make yourself at home until I woke up?'


'No,' Alan said. 'Uh, not exactly.'


'Then what exactly?' The man was normally confident to the point of being brusque, but now he was behaving out of character. What was going on?


'I just thought I'd check on you to make sure you were all right.'


'Well, why wouldn't I be?'


'You, uh, you were upset in the car and.'


'Yes? And what?'


'Nothing. I just. I guess I made a mistake.'


Buchanan stepped completely from the darkness of the bedroom. Approaching, he noticed Alan direct his gaze furtively, nervously, toward a section of the ceiling in the far right corner.


Ah, Buchanan thought. So the place is wired - and not just with microphones.


With hidden cameras. Needle-nosed.


Yesterday when Buchanan had arrived, he'd felt relieved to have reached a haven. There'd been no reason for him to suspect the intentions of his controllers and hence no reason for him to check the apartment to see if it was bugged. Later, after last night's conversation with Alan, Buchanan had felt disturbed, preoccupied by the postcard, by the unexpected echo of one of his lives six years ago. It hadn't occurred to him to check the apartment. What would have been the point? Aside from the man who called himself Alan, there was no one to talk to and thus nothing for hidden microphones to overhear.


But video surveillance was a different matter. And far more serious, Buchanan thought. Something about me spooks them enough that they want to keep extremely close tabs on me.


But what? What would spook them?


For starters, being catatonic all afternoon and half the evening. I must have scared the hell out of whoever's watching me. They sent Alan down to see if I'd cracked up. The way Alan keeps pawing at his sport coat. After I bruised his arm this morning, he's probably deciding whether I'm disturbed enough that he'll have to draw his handgun.


Meanwhile the cameras are transmitting every move I make.


But Alan doesn't want me to know that.


Buchanan felt liberated. The sense of being on-stage gave him the motivation he needed to act the part of himself.


'I knocked,' Alan said. 'I guess you didn't hear me. Since you're not supposed to leave the apartment, I wondered if something had happened to you.' Alan seemed less nervous now that he'd come up with a believable cover story. He gestured with growing confidence. 'That injury to your head. Maybe you'd hurt it again. Maybe you'd slipped in the shower or something. So I decided to let myself in and check. I debrief operatives here a lot, so I always have a key.'


'I guess I ought to be flattered that you care.'


'Hey, you're not the easiest guy to get along with.' Alan rubbed his right elbow. 'But I do my job and look after the people assigned to me.'


'Listen,' Buchanan said. 'About what happened in the car this morning. I'm sorry.'


Alan shrugged.


'A lot's been happening. I guess I'm having trouble getting used to not being under pressure.'


Again Alan shrugged. 'Understandable. Sometimes an operative still feels the pressure even when it's gone.'


'Speaking of which.'


'What?'


'Pressure.'


Buchanan felt it in his abdomen. He pointed toward the bathroom, went in, shut the door, and emptied his bladder.


He assumed that the bathroom, like the other rooms in the apartment, would have a needle-nosed camera concealed in a wall. But whether he was being observed while he urinated made no difference to him. Even if he had felt self-conscious, he would never have permitted himself to show it.


And even if his bladder hadn't insisted, he would still have gone into the bathroom.


As a diversion.


Because he needed time to be away from Alan. He needed time to think.


13


Here's the postcard I never thought I'd send. I hope you meant your promise. The last time and place. Counting on you. PLEASE.


Buchanan stepped from the bathroom, its toilet flushing. 'Last night you mentioned something about R and R.'


Alan squinted, suspicious. 'That's right.'


'Well, you call this being on R and R? Being caged in here?'


'I told you Don Colton's supposed to be invisible. If you start wandering in and out, the neighbors will think you're him, and when the next Don Colton shows up, they'll get suspicious.'


'But what if I'm out of here? Me. Buchanan. A furlough. I haven't had one in eight years. Who'd notice? Who'd care?'


'Furlough?'


'Under my own name. Might do me some good to be myself for a change.'


Alan cocked his head, squinting, nonetheless betraying his interest.


'Next week, I'm supposed to go back to that doctor,' Buchanan said. 'By then, maybe your people and the colonel will have decided what to do with me.'


'I don't have the authority to make that decision alone.'


'Talk with the colonel,' Buchanan said.


Alan continued to look interested. 'Where would you go? Since you don't have a passport, it can't be out of the country.'


'I wouldn't want to leave the country anyhow. Not that far. South. New Orleans. Two days from now is Halloween. A person can have a damned good time in New Orleans on Halloween.'


'I heard that,' Alan said. 'In fact, I heard that a person can have a damned good time in New Orleans anytime.'


Buchanan nodded. His request would be granted.


But he wouldn't be going as himself.


No way, he thought.


He'd be stepping back six years.


He'd be reinventing himself to be the person he was then. A hundred lifetimes ago.


A once-happy man who liked jazz, mint juleps, and red beans with rice.


A charter pilot named Peter Lang who'd had the tragic love affair of his life.


14


Here's the postcard I never thought I'd send.


SEVEN


1


Pilots - especially when being a pilot is not their true occupation and they need to establish an assumed identity - ought to fly. Instead Buchanan-Lang took the train to New Orleans.


That method of travel had several advantages. One was that he found it relaxing. Another was that it was private inasmuch as he'd been able to get a sleeper compartment. Still another was that it took a while, filling the time. After all, he didn't have anything to do until Halloween the next evening. Certainly he could have spent the day sight-seeing in New Orleans. But the fact was, he was quite familiar with New Orleans, its docks, the French Quarter, the Garden District, Lake Pontchartrain, Antoine's restaurant, Preservation Hall, and most of all, the exotic cemeteries. Peter Lang had a fascination with exotic cemeteries. He visited them whenever he could. Buchanan didn't allow himself to analyze the implications.


However, the major reason for taking the train instead of flying was that there wasn't any metal detector and X-ray security at train stations. Thus he could bring the Beretta 9-millimeter pistol that Jack Doyle had given him in Fort Lauderdale. It was wedged between two shirts and two changes of underwear, along with Victor Grant's passport, next to the toilet kit in the small, canvas, travel bag that Buchanan had been carrying with him since Florida. As his confusion about his employers and about himself continued to aggravate him, he was grateful that he'd lied about the passport and that he hadn't told anyone about the handgun. The passport and the gun gave him options. They allowed him potential freedom. That he'd never before lied to a debriefer should perhaps have troubled him. It should perhaps have warned him that he was more disturbed than he realized, that the blow to his head had been more serious than he knew. But as he sat next to the window of his locked compartment, listening to the clack-clack-clack of the wheels on the rails, watching the brilliant autumn colors of the Virginia countryside, he persistently rubbed his aching head and was grateful that he hadn't tried to conceal the handgun somewhere in Don Colton's apartment. If he had, the cameras would have exposed him. As it was, his story had evidently been convincing. Otherwise his controllers wouldn't have given him money as well as ID in his real name and then have allowed him to take this brief trip.


He'd bought a paperback novel before boarding the train at Washington's Union Station, but he barely glanced at it while the train continued south. He just kept massaging his forehead, partially because of pain and partially because of concentration, while he stared out the window at intermittent towns and cities, hills and farmland.


Peter Lang. He had to remember everything about him. He had to become Peter Lang. Pretending to be a pilot wasn't a problem, for Buchanan was a pilot. It was one of several skills that he'd acquired while he was being trained. Almost without exception, the occupations he pretended to have were occupations with which his employers had arranged to give him some familiarity. In a few cases, he had genuine expertise.


But what was a problem was reacquiring Peter Lang's attitude, his mannerisms, his personality. Buchanan had never kept notes about his numerous characters. To document an impersonation was foolish. Such documents might eventually be used against him. On principle, a paper trail was never a good idea. So he'd been forced to rely on his memory, and there had been many assignments, especially those in which he was meeting various contacts and had to switch back-and-forth between identities several times during one day, when his ability to recall and adapt had been taxed to the maximum. He'd suffered the constant worry that he would switch characters unintentionally, that he would behave like character x in front of a contact when he was supposed to behave like character y.


Peter Lang.


2


Buchanan had been in New Orleans, posing as a charter pilot who worked for an oil-exploration company, supposedly flying technicians and equipment to various sites in Central America. His actual mission, however, had been to fly plainclothed Special Forces advisors to secret airfields in the jungles of Nicaragua, where they would train contra rebels to battle the Marxist regime. A year earlier, in 1986, when Eugene Hasenfus had been shot down over Nicaragua while attempting to drop munitions to the rebels, Hasenfus had told his captors that he assumed he had been working for the CIA. The trouble was that the United States Congress had specifically forbidden the CIA to have anything to do with Nicaragua. The resultant media exposure created a political scandal in which the CIA repeatedly denied any connection with Hasenfus. Since intermediaries had been used to hire him and since Hasenfus later repudiated his story, the CIA avoided blame, but Nicaragua continued to be a sensitive political subject, even though President Reagan had subsequently issued an executive order that overrode the congressional ban on U.S. aid to the contras. However, the resumption of aid was not supposed to include American soldiers on Nicaraguan soil attempting to topple the Nicaraguan government. Inasmuch as blatant military interference was potentially an act of war, the soldiers Buchanan flew to Nicaragua were, like Buchanan, dressed in civilian clothes. Also like Buchanan, they had false identities and could not be traced to the U.S. military.


Because New Orleans and Miami were the two cities most associated with covert aid to the contras, investigative journalists showed great interest in private firms that sent aircraft to Latin American countries. A plane scheduled to deliver legitimate merchandise to El Salvador, Honduras, or Costa Rica might make an unscheduled, illegal stop in Nicaragua, leaving men instead of equipment. Any journalist who could prove this unauthorized degree of U.S. military involvement would be a candidate for a Pulitzer prize. Thus Buchanan had to be especially careful about establishing his cover. One of his techniques had been to ask his employers to provide him with a wife, a woman who was in business with her husband, who liked to fly and could speak Spanish, who would ideally be Hispanic and who would thus not attract attention if she flew with her husband on his frequent trips to Latin America. Buchanan's intention was to deceive curious journalists into doubting that he had connections with Nicaragua. After all, they might think, who'd be callous enough to fly his wife into a war zone?


The wife his employers had supplied to him was indeed Hispanic. A spirited, attractive woman named Juana Mendez, she'd been twenty-five. Her parents were Mexicans who'd become U.S. citizens. A sergeant in Army Intelligence, she'd been raised in San Antonio, Texas, a city that Buchanan's persona, Peter Lang, claimed as his home town as well. Buchanan had spent several weeks in San Antonio prior to his assignment in order to familiarize himself with the city, lest someone test his cover story by trying to manipulate him into saying things about San Antonio that weren't accurate. Juana's constant presence with him would make it more difficult for anyone to question him about San Antonio. If he didn't know the answer, if he hesitated, Juana would answer for him.


Being Peter Lang had been one of Buchanan's longest assignments - four months. During that time, he and Juana had lived together in a small apartment on the second story of a quaint, clapboard building with ornate, wrought-iron railings and a pleasant, flower-filled courtyard on Dumaine Street in the French Quarter. Both he and Juana had known the dangers of becoming emotionally involved with an undercover partner. They had tried to make their public gestures of affection strictly professional. They had done their best not to be affected by their enforced private intimacy, eating together, combining laundry, using the same bathroom, sharing the same sleeping quarters. They didn't have intercourse. They weren't that undisciplined. But they might as well have, for the effect was the same. Sexual activity was only a part. and often a small part. and sometimes no part. of a successful marriage. In their four months together, Buchanan and Juana portrayed their roles so well that they finally admitted awkwardly to each other that they did feel married. In the night, while he'd listened to her softly exhale in sleep, he had felt intoxicated by her smell. It reminded him of cinnamon.


Shared stress is a powerful bonder. On one occasion, during a firefight with rebels in Nicaragua, Buchanan would never have been able to reach his plane and maneuver it for a take-off from the primitive airstrip in the jungle if Juana hadn't used an assault rifle to give him covering fire. Through the canopy of his slowly turning aircraft, he had watched Juana run from the jungle toward the passenger door he had opened. She had whirled toward bushes, fired her M-16, then raced onward. Bullets from the jungle had torn up dirt ahead of her. She had whirled and fired again. Revving the engines, he had managed to get the plane in position and then had raised his own M-16 to shoot through the open hatch and give her covering fire. Bullets had struck the side of the plane. As she lunged toward the hatch, he'd released the brakes and started across the bumpy clearing. She'd scrambled in, braced herself at the open hatch, and fired repeatedly at the rebels in the jungle. When she'd emptied her weapon, she'd picked up his, emptying it as well. Then grabbing a seatbelt so she wouldn't fall out, she had laughed as the plane bounced twice and rose abruptly, skimming treetops.


To depend on someone for your life makes you feel close to that person. Buchanan had experienced that emotion in the company of men. But that four-month assignment had been the first time he had felt it with a woman, and in the end, he was a better actor than he wanted to be, for he fell in love with her.


He shouldn't have. He struggled desperately with himself to repress the feeling. Nonetheless, he failed. Even then, he didn't have sex with her. Despite powerful temptation, they didn't violate their professional ethics by getting physically involved. But they did break another rule, one that warned them not to confuse their roles with reality, although Buchanan didn't believe in that rule. His strength as an imposter was precisely that he did confuse his roles with reality. As long as he was portraying someone, that person was reality.


One night, while Buchanan was watching television, Juana had come in from buying groceries. The troubled look on her face had made him frown.


'Are you all right?' Concerned, he'd walked toward her. 'Did something happen while you were out?'


Apparently oblivious to his question, she'd set down the bag of groceries and begun to unpack. But then he'd realized that she didn't care about the groceries. She was preoccupied by a jazz-concert handout that someone had given her on the street. She removed it from the bag, and when Buchanan saw the small X in the upper right corner, he'd understood why she looked disturbed. The person who'd given her the handout must have been their contact. The small X, made by a felt-tip pen, was their signal to dismantle the operation.


They were being reassigned.


At that moment, Buchanan had been terribly conscious of Juana's proximity, of her oval face, of her smooth, dark skin and the firm-looking outline of her breasts beneath her blouse. He'd wanted to hold her, but his discipline had been too strong.


Juana's usually cheerful voice had sounded tight with stress. 'I guess I knew we'd eventually be reassigned.' She'd swallowed. 'Nothing lasts forever, right?'


'Right,' he'd answered somberly.


'So. Do you think we'll be reassigned together?'


'I don't know.'


Juana had nodded, pensive.


'They almost never do.'


'Yes.' Juana had swallowed again.


The night before they left New Orleans, they'd taken a stroll through the French Quarter. It was Halloween, and the old part of the city had been more colorful and festive than usual. Revelers wore costumes, a great many of them depicting skeletons. The crowd danced, sang, and drank in the narrow streets. Jazz - some tunes melancholy, others joyous - reverberated through open doors, merging, swelling past the wrought-iron railings above the crowd, echoing toward the reflection of the city's lights in the sky.


Oh when the saints.


Buchanan and Juana had ended their walk at Caf‚ du Monde near Jackson Square on Decatur Street. The famous, open-air restaurant specialized in caf‚ au lait as well as beignets, deep-fried French pastries covered with powdered sugar. The place had been extremely crowded, many costumed partygoers wanting caffeine and starch to offset the alcohol they'd consumed before they continued their revels. Regardless, Buchanan and Juana had stood in line. The October night had been balmy with the hint of rain, a pleasant breeze coming in from the Mississippi. Finally a waiter had guided them to a table and taken their order. They'd glanced around at the festive crowd, had felt out of place, uncomfortably subdued, and had finally discussed the subject that they'd been avoiding. Buchanan didn't recall who had raised the topic or how, but the gist had been, Is this the end, or do we continue seeing each other after this? And as Buchanan had faced the question directly, he'd suddenly realized how absurd it was. Tomorrow, Peter Lang wouldn't exist. So how could Peter Lang continue to have a relationship with his wife, who wouldn't exist tomorrow, either?


Softly, their conversation impossible to overhear in the din of the crowd, Buchanan had told her that their characters were at an end, and Juana had looked at him as if he were speaking gibberish.


'I'm not interested in who we were,' she had said. 'I'm talking about us.'


'So am I.'


'No,' she'd told him. 'Those people don't exist. We do. Tomorrow, reality starts. The fantasy is over. What are we going to do?'


'I love you,' he'd said.


She'd exhaled, trembling slightly. 'I've been waiting for you to say that. Hoping. I don't know how it happened, but I feel the same. I love you.'


'I want you to know that you'll always be special to me,' Buchanan had said.


Juana had started to frown.


'I want you to know,' Buchanan had continued,'that.'


Their waiter had interrupted, setting down a tray with their steaming coffee and hot, sugar-covered beignets.


As the aproned man left, Juana had leaned toward Buchanan, her voice low but tense with concern. 'What are you talking about?'


'. that you'll always be special to me. I'll always feel close to you. If you ever need help, if there's anything I can ever do.'


'Wait a minute.' Juana had frowned harder, her dark eyes reflecting a light in the ceiling. 'This sounds like goodbye.'


'. I'll be there. Any time. Any place. All you have to do is ask. There's nothing I wouldn't do for you.'


'You bastard,' she had said.


'What?'


'This isn't fair. I'm good enough to risk my life with you. I'm good enough to be used as a prop. But I'm not good enough for you to see after.'


'That's not what I meant,' Buchanan had said.


'Then what does it have to do with? You're in love with me, but you're giving me the brush-off?'


'I didn't mean to fall in love. I-'


'There aren't many reasons why a man walks away from a woman he claims he loves. And right now, the only one I can think of is, he doesn't believe she's good enough for him.'


'Listen to me.'


'It's because I'm Hispanic.'


'No. Not at all. That's crazy. Please. Just listen.'


'You listen. I could be the best thing that ever happened to you. Don't lose me.'


'But tomorrow I have to.'


'Have to? Why? Because of the people we work for? To hell with them. They expect me to sign up again. But I'm not planning to.'


'It's got nothing to do with them,' Buchanan had said. 'This is all about me. It's about what I do. We could never have a relationship after this, because I won't be the same. I'll be a stranger.'


'What?'


'I'll be different.'


She had stared at him, suddenly realizing the implications of what he was saying. 'You'd choose your work instead of-?'


'My work is all I have.'


'No,' Juana had said. 'You could have me.'


Buchanan studied her. Looked down. Looked up. Bit his lip. Slowly shook his head. 'You don't know me. You only know who I pretend to be.'


She looked shocked.


'I'll always be your friend,' Buchanan had said. 'Remember that. I swear to you. If you ever need help, if you're ever in trouble, all you have to do is ask, and no matter how long it's been, no matter how far away I am, I'll-'


Juana had stood, her chair scraping harshly on the concrete floor. People had stared.


'If I ever need you, I'll send you a Goddamned postcard.'


Hiding tears, she had hurried from the restaurant.


And that was the last time he had spoken to her. When he returned to their apartment, she had already packed and left. Hollow, he had stayed awake all night, sitting in the dark, staring at the wall across from the bed they had shared.


Just as he stared out at the darkness beyond the window of the compartment in the speeding train.


3


He had done it again, Buchanan realized.


He'd become catatonic. Rubbing at the pain in his skull, he had the sense of coming back from far away. The compartment was dark. The night beyond the window was broken only by occasional lights from farms. How long had-?


He glanced down at the luminous dial on his pilot's watch. Peter Lang's watch, disturbed to see that the time was eight minutes after ten. He'd left Washington shortly before noon. The train would long ago have left Virginia. It would be well into North Carolina by now, perhaps into Georgia. All afternoon and most of the evening? he thought in dismay. What's happening to me?


His head throbbing, he stood, turned on the lights in the locked compartment, felt exposed by his reflection in the window, and quickly closed the curtains. The reflected haggard face had looked unfamiliar. He opened his travel bag, took three aspirins from his toilet kit, and swallowed them with water from the tiny sink in the compartment's utility washroom. While he urinated, he felt his mind drifting again, going back six years, and he concentrated to pay attention to now.


He needed to get into character. He had to re-become Peter Lang. But he also had to be functional. He couldn't keep staring off into space. After all, the whole point of going to New Orleans, of finding out why Juana had sent the postcard, was to give himself a purpose, a sense of direction.


Juana. As much as he needed to focus on re-assuming the character of Peter Lang, he had to focus on Juana. She'd be - what? - thirty-one now. He wondered if she'd kept in shape. She hadn't been tall, and she'd been thin, but her military-trained body had compensated. It had been hard and strong and magnificent. Would her thick, dark hair still be as short as when he'd known her? He had wanted to run his fingers through it, to clutch it, to tug it gently. Would her dark eyes still be fiery? Would her lips still have that sensuous contour? She'd had a habit, when she'd been concentrating, of pursing those lips and sticking them out slightly, and he had wanted to stroke them as much as he'd wanted to touch her hair.


What was his true motive for going back? he wondered. Was it really just to give himself mobility?


Or had the postcard awakened something in him? He'd repressed his memories of her, just as he'd repressed so much about himself. And now.


Maybe I shouldn't have let her go. Maybe I should have.


No, he thought. The past is a trap. Leave it alone. Obviously it's not doing you any good if it makes you catatonic. What you're feeling is a bush-league mistake. In your former lives, you left plenty of unfinished business, a lot of people whom you liked or at least whom your assumed identities liked. But you've never gone back before. Be careful.


But I didn't love those other people. Why did she send the postcard? What sort of trouble is she in?


Your controllers would have a fit if they knew what you were thinking.


The trouble is, I remember her so vividly.


Besides, I promised.


No, a warning voice told him. You didn't promise. Peter Lang did.


Exactly. And right now, that's who I am.


I meant what I said. I promised.


4


Welcoming the distraction of hunger, relieved to be in motion, Buchanan-Lang unlocked the compartment, checked the swaying corridor, saw no one, and was just about to leave when he decided that the simple lock on the compartment couldn't be trusted. He took his small travel bag - the passport and the handgun in it - with him, secured the compartment, and proceeded toward the dining car.


It was three cars away, and when he entered it, he discovered that it was almost deserted, a few passengers sipping coffee, waiters clearing dirty dishes from the tables. The overhead lights of the dining car gleamed off the windows and made the area seem extra bright, obscuring whatever was out in the darkness.


Buchanan rubbed his aching forehead and approached the nearest waiter.


The weary-looking man anticipated his question. 'Sorry, sir. We're closed. Breakfast starts at six in the morning.'


'I'm afraid I took a nap and overslept. I'm starved. Isn't there something you can give me so my stomach won't growl all night?' Buchanan discreetly held out a ten-dollar bill.


'Yes, sir. I understand your problem. I'll see what I can do. Perhaps a couple of cold roast-beef sandwiches to take with you.'


'Sounds good.'


'And maybe a soda.'


'A beer would be better.'


'Well,' a voice said behind Buchanan, 'I don't have the beer. But just in case, I did plan ahead and arranged for some sandwiches.'


Refusing to show that he was surprised, Buchanan made himself wait a moment before he slowly turned to face the woman whose voice he had heard. When he saw her, he was even more careful not to show his surprise. Because he definitely was surprised.


The woman had long, dramatic, flame-red hair. She was tall. In her late twenties. Athletic figure. Strong forehead. Excellent cheekbones. Fashion-model features.


He knew this woman. At least, he'd seen her before. The first time, she'd worn beige slacks and a yellow blouse. That had been in Mexico. She'd been taking photographs of him outside the jail in Merida.


The second time, she'd worn jeans and a denim shirt. That had been near Pier 66 in Fort Lauderdale. She'd been taking photographs of him while he stopped his boat next to Big Bob Bailey in the channel.


This time, she wore brown, poplin slacks and a khaki, safari jacket, the type with plenty of pockets, several of which had objects in them. She looked like an ad from a Land's End catalogue. A camera bag was slung over her left shoulder. The camera itself dangled from a sling around her neck. The only detail that didn't fit the Land's End image was the bulging paper bag in her right hand.


With her left hand, she added ten dollars to the ten that Buchanan had already given the waiter. 'Thank you.' She smiled. 'I didn't think my friend would ever show up. I appreciate your patience.'


'No problem, ma'am.' The waiter pocketed the money. 'If there's anything else.'


'Nothing, thank you.'


As the waiter went back to clearing dirty dishes from a table, the woman redirected her attention toward Buchanan. 'I hope your heart wasn't set on those roast-beef sandwiches he mentioned. Mine are chicken salad.'


'I beg your pardon?' Buchanan asked.


'Chicken.'


'That's not what. Do we know each other?'


'You ask that after everything we've been through together?' The woman's emerald eyes twinkled.


'Lady, I'm not in the mood. I'm sure there are plenty of other guys on the train who.'


'Okay, if you insist, we'll play. Do we know each other?' She debated with herself. 'Yes. In a manner of speaking. You could say we're acquainted, although of course we've never met.' She looked amused.


'I don't want to be rude.'


'It doesn't matter to me. I'm used to it.'


'You've had too much to drink.'


'Not a drop. But I wish I had been drinking. I'm bored enough from waiting here so long. On second thought.' She turned to the waiter. 'A couple of beers sound good. Do you suppose we could still have them?'


'Certainly, ma'am. Anything else?'


'Make it four beers, and you may as well add those roast-beef sandwiches. I have a feeling this is going to be a long night.'


'Then maybe coffee.?'


'No. The beers will be fine,' she said. As the waiter headed away from them, she turned again toward Buchanan. 'Unless you'd prefer coffee.'


'What I'd prefer is to know what the hell you think you're doing,' Buchanan said.


'Requesting an interview.'


'What?'


'I'm a reporter.'


'Congratulations. What's that got to do with me?'


'I'll make you a bet.'


Buchanan shook his head. 'This is absurd.' He started to leave.


'No, really. I'll bet I can guess your name.'


'A bet means you win or lose something. I can't see what I win or-'


'If I can't guess your name, I'll leave you alone.'


Buchanan thought about it. 'All right.' He sighed. 'Anything to get rid of you. What's my name?'


'Buchanan.'


'Wrong. It's Peter Lang.' Again he started to walk away.


'Prove it.'


'I don't have to prove anything. I'm out of patience.' Buchanan kept walking away.


She followed him. 'Look, I was hoping to do this in private, but if you want to make it difficult, that's up to you. Your name isn't Peter Lang any more than it's Jim Crawford, Ed Potter, Victor Grant, and Don Colton. You did use those names, of course. And many others. But your given name is Buchanan. First name: Brendan. Nickname: Bren.'


Muscles cramping, Buchanan stopped at the exit from the dining car. Not showing his tension, he turned, noted with relief that the tables at this end of the car were all empty. He pretended to be innocently exasperated. 'What do I have to do to get rid of you?'


'Get rid of me? That's a figure of speech, I hope.'


'I don't know what you're-'


She held up the bulging paper bag. 'I'm hungry. I couldn't find you on the train, so I kept waiting for you to come to the dining car. Then I worried that maybe you'd brought something with you to eat. Every half hour, I had to slip the waiter ten dollars so he'd let me keep my table without ordering. Another ten minutes, the place would have been empty, and he'd have made me leave. Thank God, you showed up.'


'Sure,' Buchanan said. 'Thank God.' He noticed the waiter come down the aisle toward them.


'Here are the sandwiches and the beer.' The waiter handed her another paper bag.


'Thanks. How much do I owe you?' She paid him, adding a further tip.


Then Buchanan and she were alone again.


'So what do you say?' The woman's emerald eyes continued to twinkle. 'At least you'll get something to eat. Since I couldn't find you in the coach seats, I assume you have a compartment. Why don't we.?'


'If I really use all the names you claim I do, I must be involved in something very shady.'


'I try not to make judgments.'


'But what am I? In the mafia? A secret agent? Won't you be afraid to be alone with me?'


'Who says I'm alone? Surely you don't think I'd go on this assignment without help.'


'Don't tell me you're with those two guys who just finished their coffee at the other end of the car,' Buchanan said. 'They're leaving and not in this direction. It doesn't look to me like you're with anybody.'


'Whoever it is wouldn't let you see him.'


'Yeah, sure, right.'


'Just as I assume that anybody following you wouldn't be obvious, either.'


'Why would anybody follow me? Buchanan suddenly wondered if he was being followed. 'This is certainly the weirdest. Okay. I'm hungry. I get the feeling you won't let me alone. Let's eat.'


He opened the door from the dining car. The clack-clack-clack of the wheels became louder. 'I'm warning you, though.'


'What?' She straightened.


'I'm not easy.'


'What a coincidence.' She followed.


5


Pretending not to notice her suspicion when he locked the door, Buchanan lifted the compartment's small table from the wall and secured its brace. Then he unpacked the paper bags and spread out their contents, making sure he took the roast-beef sandwiches since he didn't know what she might have put in the chicken-salad sandwiches while she waited for him. He twisted off the caps on two bottles of beer.


Throughout, she remained standing. In the narrow compartment, Buchanan felt very aware of being close to her.


He handed her an open bottle of beer, bit into a sandwich, and sat on one side of the table. 'You think you know my name. In fact, according to you, I've got several of them. What's yours?'


She sat across from him, brushing back a strand of red hair. Her lipstick was the same color. 'Holly McCoy.'


'And you say you're a reporter?' Buchanan drank from his beer, noting that she hadn't touched hers, thinking, Maybe she expects me to drink all four bottles and hopes the beer will make me less careful about what I'm saying. 'For what newspaper?'


'The Washington Post.'


'I read that paper a lot. But I don't think I've ever seen your name as a byline.'


'I'm new.'


'Ah.'


'This will be my first major story.'


'Ah.'


'For the Post. Before that, I worked as a feature writer for the L.A. Times.'


'Ah.' Buchanan swallowed part of a sandwich. The roast beef wasn't bad; a little dry, but the mayonnaise and lettuce compensated. He sipped more of his beer. 'I thought you were hungry. You're not eating.' As she made herself nibble at some chicken salad, he continued, 'Now what's this about an interview? And these names I'm supposed to have. I told you I'm Peter Lang.'


Buchanan regretted that. It had been a mistake. When the woman had confronted him in the dining car, he'd responded with the name of the role on which he was concentrating at the moment. His identities had become confused. He had no ID for Peter Lang. He had to correct the problem.


'I have a confession to make,' he said. 'I lied. You told me you'd leave me alone if you couldn't guess my name. So when you called me by my right name, I decided to pretend I was somebody else and hoped you'd go away.'


'I didn't,' she said.


'Then I might as well be honest.' He set down his bottle of beer and reached in his back pocket, bringing out his wallet, showing her his driver's license. 'My name is Buchanan. Brendan. Nickname: Bren. Although no one's called me "Bren" in quite a while. How did you know?'


'You're in the military.'


'Right again. And I repeat, how did you know? Not that it's any of your business, but I'm a captain with Special Forces. My home base is Fort Bragg. I'm on furlough, heading to New Orleans. So what?'


When in doubt, as long as it doesn't compromise an operation, the best deception is to tell the truth.


'You have a thing about soldiers?' he continued. 'Is that it?'


She tilted her head, a motion that emphasized her elegant neck. 'In a manner of speaking.'


'Well, as long as you're speaking, why don't you speak plainly?' Buchanan said. 'Enough is enough. You still haven't told me how you know my name. I've been a good sport. What's this about?'


'Humor me. I'd like to mention some code words to you,' she said.


'Code words? Of all the.' Buchanan gestured with exasperation.


'Tell me if they mean anything to you. Task Force One Hundred and Sixty. Seaspray. The Intelligence Support Activity. Yellow Fruit.'


Jesus Christ, Buchanan thought, not showing how startled he was. 'I've never heard of them.'


'Now why don't I believe you?'


'Look, lady-'


'Relax. Enjoy the sandwiches,' she said. 'I'll tell you a story.'


6


Operation Eagle Claw. On April 24, 1980, a U.S. military, counterterrorist unit known as Delta was sent into Iran to rescue fifty-two Americans who'd been held hostage in Tehran since November of 1979. Eight helicopters, three MC-130 troop planes, and three EC-130 fuel planes were scheduled to set down at a remote area, code-named Desert One. After refueling, the helicopters would then proceed to a landing site outside Tehran. The one-hundred-and-eighteen-man assault team, concealed by night, would enter the city and converge on the target zone.


From the outset, however, problems afflicted the mission. En route from the U.S. aircraft carrier Nimitz in the Persian Gulf, one of the helicopters had to turn back because of difficulties with its rotor blades. Soon, another had to return because of a failed navigational system. At Desert One, yet another helicopter malfunctioned, this time the victim of a hydraulic leak. Because no fewer than six helicopters were required for the mission, Operation Eagle Claw had to be aborted. But as the team pulled out, one of the remaining helicopters struck one of its companion, EC-130 fuel planes. The resulting explosion killed eight U.S. soldiers and critically burned five others. Flames prevented the bodies of the victims from being recovered. Secret papers and classified equipment had to be abandoned.


Humiliated and outraged, the Pentagon determined to find out what had gone wrong. Clearly, more than just mechanical failures were at fault. An exhaustive investigation concluded that various branches of the U.S. military had so competed with each other to be a part of the rescue that their efforts were dangerously counterproductive. Inefficiency, lack of preparedness, insufficient training, inadequate transportation, incomplete and unreliable information. the list of problems went on and on. It quickly became evident that if the United States were going to have an effective military antiterrorist group, that group would have to be capable of operating on its own, without needing help from outside sources, either military or civilian. Delta, the team of commandos who would have performed the hostage rescue, was assigned a permanent training base in a restricted section of Fort Bragg in North Carolina. A similar group, SEAL Team 6, was stationed at the Little Creek Naval Base in Virginia. The Joint Special Operations Command was created to supervise unconventional units in all branches of the U.S. military. A separate group, the Special Operations Division, was created to coordinate special operations exclusively within the Army.


7


As the woman talked, Buchanan finished one beer and opened another. He bunched up his sandwich wrappers, putting them in a paper bag. He stifled a yawn. 'This sounds more like a history lecture than a story. Remember, I'm assigned to Fort Bragg. I know all about the specifics of the failed hostage rescue and the establishment of Delta Force.'


'I'm sure you know much more than that,' Holly McCoy said. 'But let's take this one step at a time.'


Buchanan shrugged. As he listened to the clack-clack-clack of the swaying train, he gestured for her to continue.


'One of the first problems the Special Operations Division decided to deal with was transportation,' Holly said. 'It had taken Delta too long to get into Iran. The aircraft hadn't been adequate to the task. Too many channels in the military had needed to be informed about where and when Delta was going. Obviously some streamlining was in order. Delta needed to get to its targets as quickly and secretly as possible and with the best means. That's why Task Force One Hundred and Sixty and Seaspray were formed.'


Again Buchanan needed all his discipline not to show how startled he was by the mention of those code names. While his stomach muscles hardened, he pretended another yawn. 'Sorry. I don't want you to think you're boring me. Go ahead and finish your beer.'


Holly brushed back another strand of red hair, gave him an irritated look, and continued. 'Task Force One Hundred and Sixty was a classified Army unit that provided aviation for Delta as well as Special Forces and the Rangers. It had the big Chinook cargo helicopters as well as various utility choppers and gunships. Seaspray, though, was a totally off-the-books, covert, Army aviation unit that bought aircraft through civilian intermediaries, secretly modified the planes with state-of-the-art equipment. motor silencers, infrared radar, rocket launchers, that sort of thing. and used the planes for small-scale, secret missions. The civilian intermediaries that Seaspray used were provided by the CIA, and some of the work that Seaspray did was for another civilian agency, the Drug Enforcement Administration. That's where the trouble started, I think. Civilians and the military working together but hiding that cooperation from the Pentagon and from Congress.'


Buchanan sipped more of his second beer and glanced at his watch. 'It's almost midnight. If there's a point to this, I suggest you get to it - before I fall asleep.'


'I doubt there's much risk of that,' Holly said. 'In fact, I think you're a lot more interested than you're pretending.'


'Interested in you. Except I prefer my dates to be less talkative.'


'Pay attention,' Holly said. 'The next problem for the Special Operations Division was obtaining intelligence. When the Shah fell from power in Iran in 1979, the CIA lost most of its assets there. During the Iran hostage crisis, the Agency wasn't able to furnish much reliable information about where the hostages were being held and how they were being guarded. Obviously Delta Force needed details about the situations it would have to face. But the intelligence it received had to have a military perspective to it. So the ISA was formed. The Intelligence Support Activity.'


Again Buchanan felt his muscles cramp. Jesus, he thought. Where the hell is this woman getting her information?


'ISA was another secret military unit,' Holly said. 'Its purpose was to send soldiers, who pretended to be civilians, into emergency situations in foreign countries - a terrorist crisis at an airport, for example. There, they conducted reconnaissance of possible Delta targets and not only provided intelligence but, if necessary, tactical support. This was something new. An operational military unit working under civilian cover and providing the sort of information that the CIA normally does. Commandos who were spies. The ISA was so unorthodox and hush-hush that most top officials in the Pentagon didn't know anything about it. In theory, it didn't exist.'


Buchanan opened his third beer. He was going to close his eyes soon and pretend that the alcohol had put him to sleep.


'Pay attention,' Holly repeated.


'I am. I am.'


'You're going to like this part. The Special Operations Division discovered it had a problem. How was it going to keep all these secret units truly secret, even from the Pentagon, which has never been fond of unconventional tactics? The answer was to establish a security unit that itself was secret. Its code name was Yellow Fruit. Again military personnel used civilian cover. They dressed as civilians. They pretended to operate civilian businesses. But in reality they were providing security for Seaspray, the ISA, and several other covert military units. It was Yellow Fruit's job to make sure that everything stayed hidden.'


Holly studied him, waiting for a reaction.


Buchanan set down his beer bottle. He assumed his most judicious expression. 'Fascinating.'


'Is that all you've got to say?'


'Well, the operation certainly must have succeeded,' Buchanan said, 'assuming that what you just told me isn't a fantasy. The reason I know it succeeded is I've never heard of Yellow Fruit. Or the Intelligence Support Activity. Or Seaspray. Or Task Force One Hundred and Sixty.'


'You know, for the first time I think you might be telling the truth.'


'You're suggesting I'd lie to you?'


'In this case, maybe not. Those units were compartmentalized. Often members of one group didn't know about the other groups. For that matter, the ISA was compartmentalized within itself. Some members didn't know who their fellow members were. Plus, Seaspray and Yellow Fruit were eventually exposed and disbanded. They don't exist anymore. By those names, at least. I know that Seaspray was later temporarily reformed, using the code name Quasar Talent.'


'Then if they don't exist.'


'Some of them,' Holly said. 'Others are still doing business as usual. And others have been newly created, much more secret, much more compartmentalized, much more ambitious. Scotch and Soda, for example.'


8


'Scotch and.?' Buchanan felt the back of his neck turn cold.


'That's a code name for yet another undercover military group,' Holly said. 'It works with the Drug Enforcement Administration and the CIA to infiltrate the Central and South American drug networks and destroy them from within. But since those foreign governments haven't sanctioned the presence of plainclothed American soldiers, armed soldiers, using false names, on their soil, the operation is very much against the law.'


'Either you've got one hell of an imagination, or your sources must be in a mental ward,' Buchanan said. 'Whatever, it doesn't concern me. I don't know anything about this stuff, so why.?'


'You used to work for the ISA, but six months ago you were transferred to Scotch and Soda.'


Buchanan stopped breathing.


'You're one of numerous Special Operations soldiers assigned to covert duty, wearing civilian clothes but armed and carrying forged identities who are in effect functioning as a military branch of the DEA and the CIA in foreign countries.'


Buchanan slowly straightened. 'All right, now I've had enough. That's it. What you're telling me. what you're accusing me of. is preposterous. If you said that kind of nonsense in front of the wrong people, some fool. a politician, for example. might actually believe you. And then I'd be in crap to my eyebrows. I'd be answering questions for the rest of my career. Because of a damned fantasy.'


'Is it a fantasy?' Holly reached in her camera bag and brought out a copy of the Cancun police sketch of him as well as copies of the photographs that Big Bob Bailey had shown Buchanan in Fort Lauderdale. 'These don't look like a fantasy.'


Buchanan's chest ached as he examined the police sketch and the pictures of him getting off a plane in Frankfurt, accompanied by Bailey, and of him in front of the jail in Merida, accompanied by Garson Woodfield from the U.S. embassy. Some of the pictures were unfamiliar. They showed him on a power boat in the channel near Pier 66 in Fort Lauderdale, stopped next to another boat, talking to Bailey. The latter photograph had been taken from shore (Buchanan recalled turning and seeing Holly lower her camera), and the angle had been chosen so that it included a Fort Lauderdale sign in the background.


For God's sake, Buchanan thought, these photographs were supposed to have been destroyed. What happened in Fort Lauderdale after I left? Didn't the team do its job?


'So?' he asked, fighting not to reveal his tension. 'What are these supposed to mean?'


'You're really amazing.'


'What?'


'You sit there with a straight face and. You'd deny anything, no matter how strong the evidence was,' Holly said.


'These aren't evidence of anything. What are you talking about?'


'Come on. They show you posing as three different people.'


'They show three men who look a bit like me, and whatever they're doing, it certainly doesn't look like any secret agent stuff.'


'Jim Crawford. Ed Potter. Victor Grant.'


'Huey, Dewey, and Louie. Curly, Larry, and Moe. I don't know what you're talking about. And speaking of questions - which you're awfully good at coming up with but you don't seem to like to answer - I'll ask you again. How did you know my name? How did you know I'm a soldier? How the hell did you know I'd be on this train?'


Holly shook her head. 'Confidential.'


'And the junk you're accusing me of isn't? Look, there's a good way to prove that you're wrong about me. A simple way. It's very easy. You know my name is Buchanan. To prove I've got nothing to hide, I even showed you my driver's license. You know I'm stationed at Fort Bragg. So check on me. All you'll find is that I'm a captain whose specialty is field training. That's all. Nothing else. Nothing dark and mysterious. No cloak-and-dagger stuff.'


'I did check,' Holly said. 'And you're right about one thing. All I found out was what you just told me. There's plenty of paper work about you. But you travel around so much on these mythical training exercises that I couldn't find anyone who'd actually ever met you.'


'You asked the wrong people.'


'Who? Tell me who to ask. Not that it would make a difference. I take for granted that anyone you told me to ask would by definition be part of the conspiracy.'


'Lady, do you know what you sound like? The next thing you'll probably tell me I had something to do with the two Kennedy assassinations, not to mention Martin Luther King's.'


'Don't be condescending.'


'What I am is pissed off.'


'Or pretending to be. I've got a feeling you're all smoke and mirrors, layers within layers. Your name. Your ID. How can I be sure that "Buchanan" isn't just another pseudonym?'


'For God's sake.'


'Let's consider Delta Force, which is classified but everybody knows about it. It isn't nearly as covert and shadowy as ISA or Scotch and Soda. The members of Delta live off base. They have average, civilian apartments. They drive average, civilian cars. When they get up in the morning and go to work, it's just like they're going to any other job, except that their job is practicing how to blast their way into hijacked planes and rescue hostages. They wear civilian clothes. They carry civilian ID. Fake ID. Bogus names and backgrounds. No one who lives around them has any idea of who they really are or what they really do. In fact, most people at Fort Bragg don't have any idea, either. If members of Delta use that kind of cover, how deep would the cover be for someone who belonged to much more secret operations like ISA or Scotch and Soda?'


'You can't have it both ways, Holly. You say you want the truth, but apparently you don't intend to trust a single thing I say. What if I said I did belong to this Scotch and Soda thing? You'd probably say I was lying and actually belonged to something else.'


'You're very skilled. Honestly. My compliments.'


'Suppose you were right?' Buchanan asked. 'Isn't it foolish of you to accuse me of being some kind of spy? What if I felt threatened? I might have tried to keep you quiet.'


'I hardly think so,' Holly said. 'You wouldn't try to do anything to me unless you knew you could get away with it. I made sure I was protected.'


'You sound awfully confident.' Buchanan rubbed his aching forehead. 'Did you honestly think that I'd look at those photographs, lose control, and confess? Even if I did, I could deny it later. Your word against mine. Unless.'


Buchanan reached for her camera bag.


'Hey,' she said.


He tugged it away from where it hung on her shoulder. She tried to stop him, but he held her wrists together with his left hand while he used his right hand to open the bag. Inside there was a small tape recorder, a red light glowing, a slight hum as the recorder's wheels turned.


'My, my,' he said. 'I'm on candid camera. Only in this case it's candid audio. Naughty, naughty. It isn't nice to be deceptive.'


'Right. Coming from you.'


Buchanan pulled the machine out and traced a wire from it to a small microphone concealed in the latch on the outside of the bag. 'What were you using? An extra slow speed on the tape so you wouldn't have to worry about turning it over? And if you did have to turn it, you could always pretend to have to go to the bathroom?'


'You can't blame me for trying.'


Buchanan shut off the machine. 'For all the good it did you. I told you I've got nothing to do with this stuff you're talking about. That's all you have on the tape - my denial.'


Holly shrugged, looking less confident.


'No more games.' Buchanan stepped closer. 'Take off your clothes.'


She looked up sharply. 'What?'


'Take off your clothes, or I'll take them off for you.'


'You can't be serious!'


'Lady, when you pick up men on trains, you have to expect they might want something more than conversation. Take off your clothes.' Buchanan banged his fist on the table.


'Get away from me!'


Outside the compartment, someone pounded on the door.


'Impressive,' Buchanan said. 'Quicker than I expected.'


Holly's expression was a combination of fright, relief, and bewilderment. 'What do you-? Quicker than-?'


Buchanan opened the door. A tall man in his thirties. square-jawed, broad-shouldered, heavy-chested, an ex-football-player type. was about to ram his shoulder against the door. He blinked in surprise at Buchanan's sudden appearance.


'And who are you?' Buchanan asked. 'The husband?'


The surly man looked past Buchanan to make sure that Holly was all right.


'Or the boyfriend? Come on,' Buchanan said. 'I'm running out of categories.'


'An interested party.'


'Then you might as well join the party.' Buchanan opened the door wider and gestured for the man to enter. 'There's no point in standing in the hall and waking the neighbors. I just hope we all fit in this tiny compartment.'


His rugged features contorted with suspicion, the man slowly entered.


Buchanan felt the man's wide shoulders press against him. He managed to close the door. 'It's a good thing you didn't bring company. We might run out of oxygen.'


'Shut up with the jokes,' the man said. 'Take off her clothes? What did you think you were-?'


'Inviting you,' Buchanan said.


The big man opened his mouth.


'That tape recorder's a little too obvious,' Buchanan said and turned to Holly. 'I figured you meant for me to find it. Then I'd feel safe to talk, nothing I couldn't deny later, your word against mine, but what I wouldn't know is that the good stuff would be transmitted by a microphone you were wearing to your partner in a nearby compartment. The only way I was going to find that microphone was by doing a strip search, so I thought I'd suggest the idea and see what happened.' He turned to the man. 'And here you are.'


'You.' Holly didn't finish the curse.


'Hey, I meant what I told you. I've got nothing to do with this secret agent stuff. But that doesn't mean I'm an idiot,' Buchanan said. 'Now is there anything else you want to ask me? Because it's late. I'm tired. I want to get some sleep.'


'You.'


'Yeah, I'm probably that, too,' Buchanan said.


'Come on, Holly,' her companion said.


Buchanan squeezed out of the way. With difficulty, he opened the door. 'Thanks for paying for the beer and sandwiches. You really know how to show a guy a good time.'


Holly's eyes narrowed. 'I'm staying.'


'Don't be crazy,' her companion said.


'I know what I'm doing,' she said.


'Look, this is all very interesting,' Buchanan said. 'But I mean it. I'm tired.'


'And I mean it. I'm staying.'


'Fine,' Buchanan said. 'Anything to convince you I'm telling the truth. You can satisfy yourself that I don't say anything incriminating in my sleep.'


'Holly, think about it,' her companion said.


'I'll be fine, Ted.'


'Yeah, Ted,' Buchanan said. 'She'll be fine. I promise I won't take off her clothes. Good night, Ted.' Buchanan guided him out the door. 'Stay tuned. I hope my snoring won't keep you awake.'


In the swaying corridor, a white-haired, elderly woman in a nightgown adjusted her spectacles and peered intensely at them from the compartment to the right.


'Sorry if we woke you, ma'am,' Buchanan said. He watched Ted walk along the corridor and enter the last compartment on the right. With a wave to both him and the elderly woman, Buchanan stepped back into his compartment and closed the door.


He locked it and studied Holly. 'So which position do you like? Top or bottom?'


'Don't get the wrong idea because I stayed. Ted's really very tough. If he thinks I'm not safe with you, he'll-'


'Bunks.'


'What?'


'I'm talking about bunks.' Buchanan reached up to grab a lever and pulled down the top one. He started to prepare the bottom one. 'I don't know what you expect to accomplish by this. But I suggest we flip a coin to see who uses the bathroom first.'


'Oh.'


'And if you don't happen to have a toothbrush, you can use mine.'


'On second thoughts.'


'You bet.' Buchanan unlocked and opened the door. 'Good night, Holly.'


'Good night.'


9


'How did she know my real name? How did she know so many of my pseudonyms? How did she know where to find me? I asked her those questions several times.' Buchanan was in a phone booth on Loyola Avenue not far from Union Passenger Terminal in New Orleans. The street was noisy. The October sky was hazy blue. The weather was warm and humid. But all Buchanan cared about was what he heard on the phone and whether he was being followed.


'We'll find out,' his deep-voiced contact officer said. 'Do whatever you were going to do. Don't change your plans. We'll get back to you. But if anything new develops, call us immediately. Just remember, the evidence she claims to have - the photographs - they aren't conclusive.'


'But she's not supposed to have those photographs at all. What happened in Fort Lauderdale after I left?' Buchanan demanded. 'This problem was supposed to have been taken care of.'


'We thought the woman was merely a hired hand. Nobody guessed she'd be a reporter. When she didn't resurface, she didn't seem important.'


'For all I know, Bailey's involved in this, too.'


'No,' the voice said firmly. 'He isn't. Just stay calm. Enjoy your furlough. At the moment, the woman can't prove anything.'


'Tell the colonel he was in one of the photographs she showed me.'


'Don't worry. I'll be sure to tell him. Meanwhile, in case we need to get in touch with you, stick around your hotel room between six and eight tonight. After that, check the possible rendezvous sites we agreed on before you left.'


Tense, Buchanan hung up the phone, picked up his travel bag, opened the booth's door, and stepped out.


A redheaded woman and her male companion appeared from behind trees in a nearby park.


God, Buchanan thought.


He stalked toward them. 'Enough is enough. You're not going to ruin my furlough by following me.'


Holly McCoy looked disappointed that she'd been spotted. 'Who were you phoning? Your superior officers to tell them you'd been exposed?'


'An old friend who moved down here. Not that it's any of your business.'


'Prove it. Let's go visit him.'


'His girlfriend told me he had to go to Houston for an emergency sales conference.'


'Convenient.What's his name?'


'Lady, I'm annoyed that I won't get to see him, and you're not making things any better by-'


'Holly. Please, call me Holly. I mean, since we nearly spent the night together, we might as well use each other's first name.'


Buchanan turned to her male companion. 'Whatever you're being paid, it isn't enough. After listening to her all the time, don't you just want to put a noose around your neck and put an end to it all?'


He walked away toward the entrance to the nearby post office.


'Brendan!' Holly called.


Buchanan didn't respond.


'Bren!' she called.


Buchanan kept walking.


'Hey!' she called. 'What hotel are you using?'


It had been so long since anyone had used Buchanan's first name and his nickname that he didn't identify them with himself. Slowly they registered on him. He turned. 'Why should I make things easy for you? Damn it, find out for yourself.'


In front of the post office, a man got out of a taxi. Buchanan ducked in and gave directions to the driver. As the taxi sped into traffic, the last thing he heard Holly shout was, 'Hey!'


10


Brendan. Bren. As his first name and his nickname echoed in his consciousness, Buchanan became more aware of how long it had been since he had portrayed himself.


But this was different. Now he found himself confronted by the most complex assumption of identity that he had ever attempted. Not one identity but two. Simultaneously. Brendan Buchanan and Peter Lang. Not schizophrenia, for in that case, one identity would alternate with the other. No, these identities had to be multilayered, coexisting. Compatible, yet separate. Balanced within the same instant.


To fulfill his purpose for coming to New Orleans, to find out why Juana had sent the postcard, to learn the trouble she was in, he had to reconstruct Peter Lang. After all, Peter Lang had made the promise to help her. Peter Lang had been in love with her. Desperate not to be himself, Buchanan wanted very much to be Peter Lang.


But Peter Lang wasn't being followed by Holly McCoy. Peter Lang hadn't worked for the Intelligence Support Activity. He wasn't now assigned to Scotch and Soda. Oh, Peter Lang had worked for a clandestine branch of Special Operations. That was true. But not these particular ones. Peter Lang wasn't under investigation by The Washington Post. Brendan Buchanan was, and it was Brendan Buchanan who would have to deceive and discourage Holly McCoy.


Thus Peter Lang would pretend to be Brendan Buchanan. And Brendan Buchanan. Well, he had to do something while he was in New Orleans. He couldn't just sit in his hotel room and show Holly that she'd made him nervous. As a consequence, he would pretend to be Peter Lang and revisit the spots he had so admired when he'd lived here six years ago.


Peter Lang would have stayed at a place he knew in the French Quarter, but in theory, Brendan Buchanan had never been to New Orleans. He didn't know the secret good places. He would choose an easier-to-book, less quaint, but first-rate hotel, something near the French Quarter but also near the Riverwalk mall and the other downtown attractions. The Holiday Inn-Crowne Plaza, tall and gleaming, seemed ideal. Having made a reservation for Brendan Buchanan, he checked in, was shown to his twelfth-floor room, waited until the bellhop had left, then locked the door, and transferred his handgun and Victor Grant's passport from his travel bag to his clothes. After all, the room might be searched. The passport fit within his lightweight, gray sport coat. The gun fit underneath the sportcoat, behind his belt, at his spine. He didn't bother to check the view.


Two minutes after having been shown to his room, he left it, taking the fire stairs to the lobby. He scanned it to make sure that Holly McCoy wasn't in sight, then walked outside, and got in the taxi whose driver he had told to wait for him.


'Where you gwin to now, suh?' the elderly, silver-haired, resonant-voiced, black man asked.


'Metairie Cemetery.'


'Somebody die, suh?'


'All the time.'


'Ain't that the truth, suh.'


Buchanan's contact officer had told him to stay at the hotel from six to eight this evening in case he had to be given a message. But that was three hours from now, and Buchanan wanted to keep moving. More important, he wanted to do what Peter Lang would do. So he leaned back in the taxi, pretending to admire the sights as the driver headed down Tchoupitoulas Street, got on the 90 expressway, and merged with rushing traffic, speeding toward Metairie Road.


The huge cemetery, established in 1873, had once been a pre-Civil-War race track. Like the many other old cemeteries in New Orleans, it consisted of rows and rows of masonry tombs. Each tomb was one hundred feet long and four tiers high with niches into which coffins had been slid, the entrances sealed. The land was so flat and the Mississippi so close that in the previous century the city's moist soil had necessitated above-ground burial. Since then, modern drainage systems had reduced the moisture problem. Nonetheless, tradition had been established, and most interments were still above ground.


Peter Lang had come here often. Among the old cemeteries he'd frequently visited, Metairie had been his favorite. His ostensible purpose for coming had been his taste for Gothic atmosphere and his interest in history, although the actual reason had been that the nooks and crannies of the decaying cemeteries had provided abundant locations for message dead drops (Buchanan-Lang's then control officer had had a morbid sense of humor). On rare occasions, a messenger had passed him a coded note by means of brush contact, the cemeteries so crowded with visitors and mourners that the skillful exchange would not have been detected.


Now Buchanan-Lang came for another reason. He associated the cemetery with Juana. She had often accompanied him on his visits, and her interest in the old tombs had eventually rivaled his. He particularly remembered her delight when she first came upon the miniature mausoleum built for Josie Arlington, a prominent madam in the city many years before. Josie had decided to have her tomb built from symbolic red stone and decorated with granite torches. As Buchanan-Lang reached the tomb, he could almost hear Juana's laughter. The haze in the sky had lifted. The sharp sun gleamed from deep blue, and in the sudden clarity that contrasted with the gloom of the crumbling cemetery, he imagined Juana standing next to him, her head tilted back, her smile bright, her hand on his shoulder. He wanted to hug her.


And tonight he would.


I should never have let you go. My life would have been so different.


I won't let you go a second time. I didn't know how much I needed you.


I meant what I said six years ago. I love you.


Or Peter Lang does.


But what about Buchanan-Lang? he wondered.


And what about Buchanan?


His skull wouldn't stop throbbing. He massaged his temples, but his headache continued to torture him.


11


Six p.m.


Back in his hotel room, he obeyed instructions and waited in case his superiors needed to contact him. He thought about ordering a meal from room service, but his appetite was gone. He thought about watching CNN, but he had no interest. Juana. He kept anticipating his reunion with her. He kept reliving their last night together six years ago. He kept regretting his failed opportunity.


He sat in a chair, and suddenly the room was in blackness. He'd left the draperies open to appreciate the sunset. A moment ago, it seemed, the sky had been crimson. Now abruptly it and the room were dark. Confused, uneasy, he glanced at the luminous dial on his watch.


Nine-sixteen?


No. That wasn't possible. The shadows must be playing tricks on him. He wasn't seeing the dial correctly. Leaning toward a table, he turned on a light and studied his watch, disturbed to discover that the time was indeed nine-sixteen, that three hours and sixteen minutes had passed without his being aware of them.


Dear God, he thought, that's the third time in the last three days. No. I'm wrong. It's the fourth. Jesus. Am I so preoccupied that I'm blotting out my surroundings?


He stood, went to the bathroom, then came back and paced, trying to regain his sense of motion. As he passed the telephone on the bureau near the closet, he was startled to notice that the tiny, red, message light was flashing.


But I didn't hear the phone ring.


Worried that his contact officer had tried to relay emergency instructions, he quickly picked up the phone and pressed 0.


After three buzzes, a woman answered. 'Hotel operator.'


He tried to sound calm. 'This is room twelve-fourteen. My message light is flashing.'


'Just a moment, sir, while I. Yes.'


Buchanan's heart pounded.


The operator said, 'Holly McCoy left a message at five forty-five. It says, "We're staying in the same hotel. Why don't we get together later?" I can call her room if you like, sir.'


'No, thank you. It won't be necessary.'


Buchanan set down the phone.


His emotions were mixed. He felt relieved that he hadn't missed an urgent message that his superiors had tried to give him. He felt equally relieved that the message he had received had been logged at five forty-five. Before he'd returned to his room. Before he'd sat down and lost over three hours. At least he wasn't losing touch so deeply that a phone call failed to rouse him.


But he also felt disturbed that Holly McCoy had managed to track him to this hotel. It wasn't just her annoying persistence that troubled him, her relentless pressure. It was something further. How had she found him? Was she so determined that she'd telephoned every one of the hundreds of hotels in the area and asked for.?


When I made the reservation, I should have used a different name.


Hey, using different names is what got you into this. If Holly McCoy found out that you used an alias to register, then she'd really be suspicious. Besides, if you'd used an unauthorized false name to register, your superiors would have wondered what on earth you thought you were doing? You're supposed to be on R and R, not on a mission.


But that's exactly what Buchanan was on, a mission, and the rendezvous time was almost upon him. He had to get to Caf‚ du Monde by eleven o'clock. That was when he and Juana had arrived there six years ago.


Tonight. After making sure that his pistol was covered by his gray sport coat and securely braced behind his belt at his spine, he opened the door, checked the hallway, locked his room, and went quickly down the fire stairs.


12


The night was eerily similar to the one six years ago. For example, as Buchanan left the hotel, he noticed that the air was balmy with the hint of rain, a pleasant breeze coming in from the Mississippi. The same as before.


He took care to make sure that Holly McCoy wasn't in sight, but as he walked along Tchoupitoulas Street, restraining his pace so he wouldn't attract attention, another parallel between tonight and six years before became disconcertingly obvious. It was Halloween. Many pedestrians he passed wore costumes, and again similar to six years before, the most popular costume seemed to be a skeleton: a black, tight-fitting garment with the phosphorescent images of bones painted on it and a head mask highlighted with white representing a skull. With so many people resembling each other, he couldn't tell if he was being followed. More, all Holly McCoy needed to do to disguise her conspicuous red hair was to wear a head mask. By contrast, on this night, he looked conspicuous since he was one of the minority who weren't wearing a costume of some sort.


As he crossed Canal Street toward the French Quarter, he began to hear music, faint, then distinct, the increasing throb and wail of jazz. A while ago, he'd read in a newspaper that New Orleans had instituted a noise ordinance, but tonight no one seemed to care. Street bands competed with those in bars. Dixieland, the blues - these and many other styles pulsed along the French Quarter's narrow, crowded streets as costumed revelers danced, sang, and drank in celebration of the night of the dead.


. gone and left me. When the saints.


Buchanan tried to lose himself in the crowd. He had less than an hour before he was supposed to be at Caf‚ du Monde, and he wanted to use that hour to guarantee that his meeting with Juana would not be observed.


As he headed up Bienville Street and then along Royal Street, then up Conti to Bourbon Street, he felt frustrated by the density of the crowd. It prevented him from moving as fast as he wanted, from taking advantage of opportunities to duck into a courtyard or down a side street. Every time he attempted an evasion tactic, a group would suddenly loom in front of him, and anyone who followed would not have trouble keeping up with him while blending with the festivities. He bought a devil's mask from a sidewalk vendor and immediately found that it restricted his vision so much that he bumped into people, making him feel vulnerable and selfconscious. He took it off, glanced at his watch, and was amazed to discover how much his concentration had compressed the time. It was almost eleven. He had to get to the rendezvous site.


Soon, he thought. Soon he would put his arms around Juana. Soon he'd be able to find out why she needed him. He'd help her. He'd show her how much he loved her. He'd correct the mistake he'd made six years ago.


Who had made?


Coming down Orleans Avenue, he reached the shadows of St Anthony's Garden. From there, he took Pirate's Alley down to Jackson Square. Its huge bronze statue of Andrew Jackson on horseback rose ghostlike from the darkness of the gardens in the locked, deserted park. Using one of the walkways that flanked the wrought-iron fence of the square, he at last reached Decatur Street and paused in the shadows next to the square while he studied his destination.


Where he stood was surprisingly free of the congestion and noise of the rest of the French Quarter. He felt apart from things, more vulnerable. Several glances behind him gave him the assurance of being alone.


And yet he felt threatened. Again he studied his destination. At last he stepped into view, felt as if he re-entered the world, crossed Decatur, and made his approach toward Cafe du Monde.


It was a large, concrete building whose distinctive feature was that its walls were composed of tall, wide archways that made the restaurant open-air. During heavy rains, the interior could be protected by lowering green-and-white striped canvas, but usually -and tonight was no exception - the only thing that separated people on the street from the restaurant's patrons were waist-high, iron railings. Tonight, the same as six years ago, the place was crowded more than usual. Because of the holiday. Because of Halloween. Expectant customers, many of them in costume, stood in a line on the sidewalk, waiting to be admitted.


Buchanan strained to catch a glimpse of Juana, hoping that the crowd would have made her decide to wait outside for him. He and Juana would be able to get away from the noise and confusion. He would lovingly put his arm around her and try to find a quiet place. He would get her to tell him what terrible urgency had made her send the postcard, allowing him a second chance.


There was an addition to the restaurant. Smaller than the main section, it had a green-and-white roof supported by widely separated, slender, white poles that made this part of the restaurant seem even more open-air. He stared past the low, metal railing toward the customers close together around small, circular tables. The place rippled with constant movement. Hundreds of conversations rushed over him.


Juana. He strained harder to see her. He shifted position to view the interior of the restaurant from a different angle. He scanned the line of waiting customers.


What if she's wearing a costume? he thought. What if she's afraid to the point that she put on a disguise? He wouldn't be able to recognize her. And she might not hurry to meet him. She might be so terrified that she had to assess everyone around him before she revealed herself.


Juana. Even if she weren't wearing a costume, how could he be certain he would recognize her? Six years had passed. She might have grown her hair long. She might have.


And what about him? How had his appearance, like his identities, changed in six years? Was his hair dyed the same color? Did he weigh the same? Should he have a mustache? He couldn't remember if Peter Lang had worn a mustache. Did-?


Juana. He brushed past waiting customers and entered the restaurant, determined to find her. She had to be here. The postcard couldn't have had any other meaning. She needed to see him. She wanted his help.


'Hey, buddy, wait your turn,' someone said.


'Sir, you'll have to go to the end of the line,' a waiter told him.


'You don't understand. I'm supposed to meet someone, and-'


'Please, sir. The end of the line.'


Juana. He backed away. His headache intensified as he scanned the crush of customers in the restaurant. Outside on the sidewalk, he rubbed his throbbing head. When a rush of people in costumes swept past him, he whirled to see if Juana might be one of them.


The knife slid into his side. Sharp. Cold. Tingly. Suddenly burning. It felt like a punch. It knocked him off balance. It made him groan. As he felt the wet heat of his gushing blood, someone screamed. People scrambled to get away from him. A man knocked against him. Fighting to stem the flow of his blood, he slipped. The iron railing appeared to rush toward him.


No! he mentally screamed. Not my head! Not again! I can't hurt my-!


EIGHT


1


Cuernavaca, Mexico.


The black limousine and its escort cars proceeded along Insurgentes Sur freeway, forced to maintain a frustrating, moderate speed as the caravan fought the congestion of holiday traffic heading south from the smog of Mexico City. After thirty-seven miles, the limousine and its escorts reached Cuernavaca, the capital's most popular but at the same time most exclusive retreat. It was easy to understand why the rich and powerful came here each weekend. Sheltered in an attractive, wooded valley, Cuernavaca had space, silence, pleasant weather, and most prized of all, clean air. Aztec rulers had built palaces here. So had Cortes. Emperor Maximilian had been especially fond of the area's gardens. These days, what important visitors from the capital valued were the luxurious hotels and the castlelike mansions.


The limousine proceeded along the stately streets of a quiet neighborhood and stopped at the large, iron gate of one of the mansions. Majestic shade trees projected above the high, stone wall that enclosed the spacious grounds. The uniformed driver stepped out of the limousine and approached an armed guard, who stood beyond the bars of the gate and scowled at the visitor. After a brief conversation in which the driver showed the guard a document, the guard entered a wooden booth beside the gate and picked up a telephone, speaking to someone in the house. Thirty seconds later, he returned to the gate, opened it, and motioned for the driver to bring the limousine into the estate. As the escort cars attempted to follow, the guard raised his left hand to stop them. At the same time, another armed guard stepped into view to close and lock the gate.


The limousine proceeded along a shady, curved driveway, past trees, gardens, and fountains, toward the mansion. As it stopped before the stone steps at the entrance, one of the large double-doors opened, and a mustached, aristocratic-looking man came out. It was a measure of his need to seem respectful that he had not sent a servant to greet this particular visitor. His name was Esteban Delgado, and his surname -which meant 'thin' - was even more appropriate than when he'd met with the director of the National Institute of Archaeology and History in Acapulco a week earlier, for Delgado's body and features were now no longer merely rakishly slender but unhealthily gaunt. His aquiline face was pale, and he would almost have believed the rumors that he was seriously ill if he hadn't been acutely aware of the unbearable tension that he suffered.


At the bottom of the stairs, he forced himself to smile as the limousine's far, rear door opened and a well-dressed, fair-haired, pleasant-looking American in his middle thirties emerged from the car. The man gave the impression of exuding good-nature, but Delgado wasn't fooled, for the man's smile - on the rare occasions when he did smile, and this was not one of them - had no warmth. The man's name was Raymond, and the only time Delgado had seen him smile was during a cockfight.


Raymond ignored Delgado, assessed the estate's security, then came around the limousine and opened the other door. An elderly man with thick glasses and dense white hair stepped out. He was in his eighties although, except for extremely wrinkled hands, he appeared to be in his sixties.


'Professor Drummond,' Delgado said with forced brightness. 'I had no idea that you planned to visit. If I had known, I would have arranged a reception in your honor.'


Drummond shook Delgado's hand with authority, fixed his gaze upon him, and waited a moment before he replied in Spanish, one of his seven languages. 'I happened to be in Mexico City on business and wanted to discuss something with you. Your office informed me that you were here. If you have an hour to spare.'


'Certainly.' Delgado led Drummond and his assistant up the stairs. 'It will be an honor to have you in my home.' Despite the shade trees, Delgado found that he was sweating. 'I'll have the servants bring some refreshments. Would you like a rum and Coke? Or perhaps.'


'I never drink alcoholic beverages. By all means, you have one if you wish.'


'I was going to send for some lemonade.'


They entered subdued light in the mansion and crossed the cool, echoing, marble vestibule. A colorfully dressed, teenage girl appeared at the top of the wide, curved staircase, seemed surprised that there were visitors, and abruptly obeyed Delgado's sharp gesture commanding her to go back to where she had been. At the end of a corridor, Delgado escorted Drummond and Raymond into a mahogany-paneled study that was furnished in leather and filled with hunting trophies as well as numerous rifles and shotguns in glass cabinets, many of the firearms antique. For once, Raymond's eyes displayed interest. Two servants immediately brought in refreshments and as quickly departed.


Neither Drummond nor Raymond picked up the lemonade.


Instead Drummond leaned back in his chair, sitting imperiously straight, his long arms stretched out on the sides of the chair. His voice was brittle yet strong, his gaze direct. 'I suspect your associates have already told you, but we need to compare reactions.'


Delgado pretended to look confused.


'The woman, Minister. It will come as no surprise to you when I tell you that she has disappeared.'


'Ah.' Delgado's heart lurched, but he didn't show any reaction. 'Yes. The woman. I did receive information that led me to believe she had disappeared.'


'And?'


Delgado tried to make his voice stern. 'What do you intend to do about it?'


'What I am doing, what I have been doing, is using all my resources to locate her. Every element of her background, every conceivable place or person to whom she might run for shelter and help, is being investigated.'


'And yet after two weeks, you have no results.'


Drummond nodded in compliment. 'Your sources are excellent.'


'You still haven't answered my question. What do you intend to do about this?'


'Relative to you? Nothing,' Drummond answered. 'Our agreement remains the same.'


'I don't know why it should. You broke your part of the contract. You assured me you could control the woman. You were emphatic that she would solve my problem.'


'And she did.'


'Temporarily. But now that she's disappeared, the problem is the same as before.'


Drummond's aged eyes narrowed. 'I disagree. This disappearance cannot be traced to you.'


'Unless she talks.'


'But she won't,' Drummond said. 'Because if she planned to talk, she would have by now. It's an obvious method by which she could try to save her life. She knows we would kill her in retribution. On principle. I believe that she remains silent out of fear and as a sign to us that if we leave her alone, she won't be a threat to us. I should say, a threat to you. After all, the problem is yours. I was merely doing you a favor by trying to correct it.'


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 video tape.


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 video tape.


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, Se¤ora.'


'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 any time,' 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.'


2


New Orleans.


Buchanan squirmed.


'Welcome back. How are you feeling?'


He took a moment to understand what the woman 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 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. Caf‚ 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 L.S.U. 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?


'. Peter Lang.' He exhaled.


'Nope. Wrong answer. Your wallet - which the mugger didn't manage to get, by the way - indicates that your name is.'


'Brendan Buchanan.'


'Better,' the doctor said. 'Much better. So let's be clear. What's your name?'


'. Brendan Buchanan.'


'Then why did you say your name was Peter Lang?'


'. A friend of mine. Have to tell him what happened to me.'


'Ms McCoy can make your phone calls for you. You had me worried for a moment. I was afraid the concussion was more severe than your CAT-scan indicated.'


Didn't get my wallet? To know that, the police must have searched me. They must have found the gun.


And the passport, too! Maybe this doctor expected me to call myself Victor Grant.


A nurse had been taking his blood pressure. 'One-fifteen over seventy-five.'


The doctor nodded with approval. 'Try to open your eyes as wide as you can. I need to shine this light at your pupils. Good. Now follow the movement of my hand. Bear with me while I tap at your joints. I have to draw the end of this hammer along the bottoms of your feet. Fine. Your reflexes don't seem impaired. Your lungs sound normal. Your heartbeat is strong and regular. I'm encouraged. Try to rest. I'll be back this afternoon.'


'I'll keep him company.' Holly gave Buchanan another sip of water.


'As long as he rests. I don't want him talking a lot. On the other hand, I don't want him sleeping a lot, either. Not until I'm sure he's out of danger.'


'I understand. I'll just be here to reassure him,' Holly said.


'TLC never hurts.' The doctor started to leave, then looked back. 'You've certainly been having your share of injuries, Mr Buchanan.


What caused the wound to your shoulder?'


'. Uh. It.'


'A boating accident,' Holly said. 'The edge of a propeller.'


'It's a good thing you've got medical insurance,' the doctor said.


3


Tense, Buchanan waited for the doctor and the nurse to leave, then slowly turned his head and stared at Holly.


She smiled engagingly. 'You want more water?'


'. What's going on?'


'You know, when I was a little girl, I couldn't decide whether to be a nurse or a reporter. Now I'm getting to be both.'


Buchanan breathed with effort, his voice a gravelly whisper. 'What happened? How did.?'


'Save your strength. Last night, I followed you from the hotel.'


'How did you know where I was staying?'


'That's confidential. Rest, I told you. I'll do the talking. I figured you had to leave the hotel sometime, so I waited across the street. There's no back exit, except for service doors. But I didn't think you'd draw attention to yourself by making the staff wonder why you'd use a service door, so it seemed to me the best bet was the front. Mind you, I did have Ted. you remember Ted, from the train. watching the back. He and I were linked by two-way radios. When you came out, I was just one of several people wearing costumes. Otherwise, this red hair would have been a giveaway. You didn't notice when I followed you.'


Buchanan breathed. 'Ought to dye it.'


'What?'


'Your hair. For following people. Change the color to something bland.'


'Never. But I guess you've changed the color of your hair often enough.'


He didn't respond.


Holly gave him another sip of water. 'By the way, was my answer right? When the doctor asked how you got the wound to your shoulder? A boating accident? When you were Victor Grant, isn't that what you told the Mexican police?'


'I don't know what you're talking about.'


'Sure.'


His eyelids felt heavy.


Where does she get her information? he thought.


'Confidential,' she said.


'What?'


'You asked where I got my information. That's confidential.'


I did? I asked her that out loud? He couldn't keep his eyes open.


4


The doctor pointed at the uneaten tuna sandwich. 'Your lack of appetite worries me.'


'Hospital food. I never liked it. I can smell all the other meals that were on the cart.'


'Mr Lang.'


'Buchanan.'


'Right. Mr Buchanan. I just wanted to be sure. If you want to get out of here, you're going to have to satisfy my slightest concern about your concussion. If I were you, I'd eat that meal, and then I'd ask the nurse to get me another.'


Buchanan mustered the strength to reach for the sandwich.


'Here, I'll give you a hand,' Holly said.


'I think the doctor wants to see if I can do it by myself.'


'You're a student of human nature,' the doctor said. 'After you've enjoyed your meal, I want you out of bed and walking around a little. To the bathroom, for example. I need to be satisfied that your legs and the rest of you are all in working order.'


'Did anyone ever tell you you're a slave driver?'


The black doctor raised his eyebrows. 'You're getting better if you can make jokes. I'll be back to examine you later.'


The moment the doctor left, Buchanan set down the tuna sandwich. He glanced at Holly. 'I don't suppose you'd eat this for me. Or dump it somewhere and make it look as if I finished everything.'


'Do the manly thing and eat it yourself if you want to get out of here.' Holly's emerald eyes gleamed with mischievousness.


'How do you get your eyes that color? Tinted contact lenses?'


'French eye drops. A lot of movie stars use them. The drops emphasize the color of their eyes. It's a trick I learned when I was working in Los Angeles. Come to think of it, you'd find the trick handy. For when you're altering your appearance. You wouldn't have to fool around with those tinted contact lenses, you mentioned.'


'Why would I want to alter my appearance?'


She sounded exasperated. 'You don't give up.'


'Neither do you. Last night. What happened? You didn't finish telling me.'


'I followed you through the French Quarter and over to Caf‚ du Monde. By then, it was eleven o'clock. You seemed to be looking for somebody. In fact, you were looking pretty hard.'


'An old friend I'd arranged to meet. The only reason I didn't want you following me was that I was getting tired of your questions.'


'And here you are, listening to more of them.'


'Caf‚ du Monde.'


'I was watching from across the street, so I didn't see everything perfectly. You came out of the restaurant. There was a commotion, a group of costumed people going by. They acted as if they'd been drinking. Then one of them, a man dressed as a pirate, bumped into you. All of a sudden you grabbed your side and spun. A woman screamed. People were scrambling to get out of your way. You tripped over somebody. You hit your head on an iron railing. I ran toward you, but not before I noticed the guy in the pirate costume shove a knife back into his belt as he disappeared into the crowd down the street. I stayed with you, trying to stop the blood while one of the waiters in the restaurant phoned for an ambulance.'


'Blood, doesn't make you squeamish?'


'Hey, I can't write the end of my story if you die on me.'


'And all along, I thought it was my personality that attracted you.'


'Which one?'


'What?'


'Which personality? You've had so many.'


Buchanan set down a remnant of the tuna sandwich. 'I give up. I can't think of any way to convince you that.'


'You're right. There isn't any way to convince me. And last night made me more sure than ever. The man in the pirate costume didn't try to mug you. I just told that to the police so they wouldn't wonder about you. No, that wasn't an attempted mugging. That was an attempted murder.' She sat straighter. 'Why? Who were you meeting? What's-?'


'Holly.'


'-going on that-?'


'I've got a question of my own,' Buchanan said. 'I had something with me. If anyone found it, I'm sure the police would have-'


'Sure,' Holly said.


'-given it back or-'


'Wanted to have a very deep heart-to-heart with you about it.' Holly opened her purse. 'Is this what you lost?'


Inside the purse, Buchanan saw his Beretta 9-millimeter semiauto-matic pistol. His eyes narrowed.


'You didn't drop it,' Holly said. 'I felt it while I was trying to stop you from bleeding. Before the police and the ambulance arrived, I managed to get it off you without being noticed.'


'No big deal. I carry it for protection.'


'Sure. Like when you're meeting an old friend. I don't know what the gun-concealment laws are in this state, but it's my guess you need a permit to carry this. And for certain, if you're legitimate, I know the Army wouldn't approve of you walking around armed while you're on furlough.'


'Hey, a lot of people carry guns these days,' Buchanan said. 'That attempted mugging last night proves why.'


'An attempted murder, not a mugging.'


'That proves my point. Some nut gets drunk, maybe cranked up on drugs. He's wearing a pirate costume. Suddenly he thinks he's a real pirate. So he stabs somebody. The equivalent of a drive-by shooting. Only this is a walk-by stabbing.'


'You expect me to believe that?'


'Look, I have no idea why he stabbed me. It's as good a theory as any,' Buchanan said.


'But would the cops buy it if they'd also found the other thing you lost?'


Other.? Buchanan felt suddenly cold.


'I've been waiting for you to ask me about it.' After glancing at the door to make sure no one was looking in, Holly reached under the pistol and removed a passport from her purse. 'The ambulance attendants had to get your jacket off so they could check the wound. I told them I was your girlfriend and hung on to the jacket. A good thing I did. For your sake.' She opened the passport. 'Victor Grant. My, my.'


Buchanan felt even more chilled.


'Not a bad picture of you. Your hair was a little shorter. Yep, the gun along with a passport that didn't match the ID in your wallet would definitely have made the police wonder what was going on,' Holly said. 'For starters, they'd have suspected you were running drugs. Actually, that's not so far from the truth, given your involvement with covert operations like Scotch and Soda.'


Buchanan stopped breathing.


'So?' Holly put the passport back under the gun in her purse. 'You've always got so many reasonable explanations for your unusual behavior. What's your story this time?'


Buchanan pulled his salad toward him.


'Suddenly hungry? Trying to fill the time while you come up with a reason for the fake passport?'


'Holly, I.'


He picked up his fork.


'Can't think of one, can you?' she asked.


He put down the fork and sighed. 'You don't want to mess around with this. Do yourself a favor and bow out quietly. Forget you ever saw that passport.'


'Can't. I've always wanted a Pulitzer. I think this'll get me one.'


'Pay attention. Let's assume for the moment that you're right.'


Buchanan held up a hand. 'I'm not admitting anything, but let's assume. The people you'd be up against don't play by any rules you know about or can imagine. What you might get instead of a Pulitzer is a coffin.'


'Is that a threat?'


'It's a hypothetical, well-intentioned warning.'


'Don't you think I've protected myself? I've made copies of my research. They're with five different people I trust.'


'Sure. Like your lawyer. Your editor. Your best friend.'


'You've got the idea.'


'All predictable,' Buchanan said. 'A good black-bag man could find where the research was hidden. But it's probable that no one would even bother looking. If your research was so wonderful, the story would have been published by now. You've got nothing but suspicions. All deniable. But if anybody feels threatened by that research, they might not know or care that you've left copies of the research with other people. They might just decide to get rid of you.'


'What about you?' Holly asked.


'You mean, would I think about getting rid of you? Don't be absurd. I've got nothing to do with any of this. I was only giving advice.'


'No. What about you'? Don't you feel threatened?'


'Why on earth would I.?'


'If you were on a sanctioned mission, you wouldn't be traveling under your own identity, not while you carried a passport under someone else's name. Your controllers won't like that. After what happened to you in Mexico and Florida, they'll think they've got a loose cannon. They'll wonder what in God's name you were doing with a gun and a passport that you weren't supposed to have. You've got other problems besides me. You and your controllers must have established a schedule for staying in touch. If you've missed any part of that schedule, they'll be very nervous. You'd better call them.'


'If I'm who you say I am, do you honestly think I'd call them in front of you? On an unsecured phone?'


'You'd better do something. They'll be getting impatient. And don't forget this - the longer you're out of touch with them, the more suspicious they'll be about your ability to do your work.'


Buchanan felt pressure behind his ears.


'I see your appetite improved,' the doctor said, coming back into the room.


'Yeah, I'm almost done with my salad.'


'Well, finish your Jell-O, Mr Lang.'


'Buchanan.'


'Then take your walk to the bathroom. After that, I might be encouraged enough to think about releasing you.'


5


Wearing sneakers, jeans, and a short-sleeved, blue shirt that he'd asked Holly to buy for him to replace his blood-stained shoes and clothing, Buchanan felt trapped in the wheelchair that a nurse insisted he keep sitting in while she wheeled him from the elevator and through the hospital's crowded lobby to the main doors.


'I told you I can walk,' Buchanan said.


'Until you trip and fall and sue the hospital. Once you're out those doors, you're on your own. Meanwhile you're my responsibility.'


Through the doors, amid the din of street noises, Buchanan was forced to raise a hand to his eyes, the bright sun making him squint painfully.


The nurse helped him out of the wheelchair. 'You said somebody was going to meet you?'


'Right,' Buchanan lied. He hadn't seen Holly for quite a while and had no idea what had happened to her. Normally he would have felt reprieved from being pestered by her questions, but at the moment, he felt nervous. Worried. The gun and the passport. He had to get them back. 'I'll just sit over on that bench. My friend ought to be here any minute.'


'Enjoy your day, Mr Buchanan.'


'Lang.'


The nurse looked strangely at him as she took the chair away.


He wondered why.


Then he realized.


His skin prickled.


What's happening to me?


The moment the nurse disappeared into the hospital, he stood. The reason he hadn't wanted to be brought down in a wheelchair was that he didn't want to leave the hospital before he had a chance to get to a pay phone.


Managing not to waver, he re-entered the lobby and crossed toward a bank of telephones. His hand shook as he put coins in a slot. Thirty seconds later, he was talking to a contact officer.


'Where have you been?' the gruff voice demanded.


Keeping his own voice low, relieved that the phone on either side of him wasn't being used, taking care that he wouldn't be overheard, Buchanan answered, 'I've been in a hospital.'


'What?


'A guy tried to mug me,' he lied. 'I didn't see him coming. I got stabbed from behind.'


'Good God. When you didn't show up at the various rendezvous points this morning, we got worried. We've had a team waiting in case you're in trouble.'


'I got lucky. The wound isn't serious. Mostly they kept me in the hospital for observation. With so many nurses coming in and out, I didn't want to risk phoning this number, especially since the hospital would automatically have a record of the number. This is the first chance I've had to call in.'


'You had us sweating, buddy.'


'The emergency's over. If you had people at the rendezvous sites, that means you had something you wanted me to know about. What is it?'


'About the woman reporter you met on the train. Is your phone secure?'


'Yes.'


'Then this is the message. Continue your furlough. Don't worry about the reporter. We're taking steps to guarantee that she's discouraged.'


Buchanan's grip tightened on the phone.


'Check in at the rendezvous sites on schedule. We'll let you know if anything else develops.'


'Roger,' Buchanan said. Swallowing dryly, he set down the phone.


But he didn't turn away. He just kept staring at the phone.


Taking steps to guarantee that she's discouraged? What the hell did that mean?


It wasn't considered professional for him to ask to have a deliberately vague term clarified. His superiors never said more or less than they intended to. Their use of language, even when vague, was precise. 'Discouraged' could mean anything from seeing that Holly lost her job. to attempting to bribe her. to discrediting her research. to trying to scare her off, or.


Buchanan didn't want to consider the possibility that Holly might be the target of ultimate discouragement.


No, he thought. They wouldn't assassinate a reporter, especially one from The Washington Post. That would enflame the story rather than smother it.


But reporters have been assassinated from time to time, he thought.


And it wouldn't look like an assassination.


As he turned from the phone, he touched the bandage on his right side, the stitches under it.


Holly - wearing a brown, paisley dress that enhanced the red of her hair and the green of her eyes - was in a chair twenty feet away.


Buchanan didn't show his surprise.


She came over. 'Checking in with your superiors?'


'Calling another friend.'

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