Assumed Identity

2

In New Orleans, before Holly had gone back to Washington, Buchanan had explained to her that if he phoned and suggested they get together, she was to choose a public place in the area. The place had to be part of her routine. (“Do nothing conspicuous.”) It had to have numerous entrances. (“So we don’t get trapped.”) And it had to be dependable in terms of not being closed at unpredictable hours. (“I was once told to meet a man at a restaurant that had burned down the day before. Nobody on the team advising me had checked the location to make sure the rendezvous site was viable.”)

In terms of those criteria, McPherson Square was ideal. The park was hardly likely to have burned down. It was as public as a restaurant but far more open, and it was only a few blocks from Holly’s office, hence a natural place for her to meet someone.

Buchanan managed to reach the rendezvous area before the forty-minute deadline. Watching the newspaper building from a crowded bus stop farther along L Street, he saw Holly come out of the Washington Post and head down Fifteenth Street, but at the moment, he wasn’t so much interested in her as he was in anyone who might be following her. He waited until she was out of his sight, waited another fifteen seconds, then strolled with other pedestrians toward the corner. There, while waiting for a traffic light, he glanced down Fifteenth Street in Holly’s direction toward her destination on K Street.

She wore a London Fog raincoat, tan, an excellent neutral color when you didn’t want to stand out in a crowd. A matching cap had the extra merit of concealing Holly’s red hair, which she’d tucked up beneath it. The only thing conspicuous about her was the camera bag that she carried in lieu of a purse.

It was enough for Buchanan to distinguish her from other tan raincoats in the crowd. He followed slowly, glancing unobtrusively at store windows and cars, subtly scanning the area to see if Holly had anyone observing her.

Yes. A man in a brown leather jacket on the opposite side of the street.

As the man walked, he never took his gaze away from Holly. On occasion, he adjusted something in his right ear and lowered his chin toward his left chest, moving his lips.

Buchanan studied the street more intently and saw a man on the corner ahead of Holly. The man wore a business suit, held an umbrella, and glanced at his watch a couple of times as if waiting for someone. But he, too, adjusted something in his ear and did so at the same time that the first man was lowering his chin and moving his lips. Hearing aid-style audio receivers. Lapel-button miniature microphones.

But which group-the colonel’s or Alan’s-was tailing Holly? Were they military or civilian, from Special Operations or the Agency? As Holly reached K Street and crossed toward the park, Buchanan got a look at the backs of the men who followed her. They had narrow hips, their torsos veering upward toward broad shoulders, a distinctive build for Special Operations personnel. Their training was designed to make them limber while giving them considerable upper-body strength. Too much muscle in their legs and hips would slow them down. But muscle in the upper body didn’t interfere with anything, creating only advantages. Buchanan himself had once possessed that body build, but since it would identify his background to anyone who understood these matters, he’d cut back on building up his arms and shoulders, going instead for activities that gave him stamina and agility.

Now that he had a distinctive silhouette to look for, he noticed two other men dressed in civilian clothes and with a Special Operations build. The colonel must certainly be apprehensive about her or else he wouldn’t have so many men on her, Buchanan thought. The two men he’d just noticed were ahead of Holly, staking out the park. The only way they could have known to get to the park ahead of her was if they had her phones tapped and knew where and when she had arranged to meet someone named Mike Hamilton. He’d been right to be cautious.

Instead of following Holly into the park, Buchanan hung back, turned right on K Street, and went around the next block. His approach returned him to Fifteenth Street, but this time farther south, where Fifteenth intersected with I Street. From a busy entrance to the Veterans Administration Building, he looked across to the leafless trees in the park and glimpsed Holly sitting on a bench near the statue of General McPherson in the middle of the square. Pedestrians came and went, but the four broad-shouldered men had spread out through the park and were now immobile, on occasion touching an ear or lowering a chin, concentrating on Holly, then switching their attention to anyone who seemed to be approaching her.

How do I get a message to her? Buchanan thought.

Continuing along I Street, he came to a black man who held a small sign that read, I’LL WORK FOR FOOD. The man needed a haircut but had shaved. He wore plain, clean clothes. His leather shoes looked freshly shined but were worn down at the heels.

“Can you spare the price of a hamburger?” the man asked. His eyes showed subdued bitterness. Shame struggled with anger as he tried to maintain his dignity even though he was begging.

“I think I can do better than the price of a hamburger,” Buchanan said.

The man’s eyebrows narrowed. His expression became puzzled, with a trace of wariness.

“You want to work?” Buchanan asked.

“Look, I don’t know what’s on your mind, but I hope it isn’t trouble. The last guy stopped told me if I wanted to work, why the hell didn’t I get a job? He called me a lazy bastard and walked away. Get a job? No shit. I wouldn’t be out here beggin’, lettin’ people call me names if I could find a job.”

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

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