Assumed Identity

6

He found himself sitting upright once more, still tied to the chair. It took several moments for his vision to focus, for his mind to become alert. Pain definitely helped him sharpen his consciousness. He had no way of knowing how long he’d been out. The room had no windows. The fat interrogator seemed to be wearing the same sweaty uniform. But Buchanan noticed that the blood-tinted urine had disappeared from the floor. Not even a damp spot. Considerable time must have passed, he concluded. Then he noticed something else-that his pants remained wet. Hell, all they did was move me to a different room. They’re trying to screw with my mind.

“We have brought a friend to see you.”

“Good.” Buchanan’s voice broke. He fought not to lose his strength. “My client can vouch for me. We can clear up this mistake.”

“Client? Did I say anything about a client?” The interrogator opened the door.

A man, an American, stood flanked by guards in a dim hallway. The man was tall, with broad shoulders and a bulky chest, his sandy hair in a brush cut. He wore sneakers, jeans, and a too-small green T-shirt, the same clothes he’d been wearing when he’d come into the restaurant at Club Internacional in Cancun. The clothes were rumpled, and the man looked exhausted, his face still red but less from sun and alcohol than from strain. He hadn’t shaved. Big Bob Bailey.

Yeah, I bet you’re sorry now that you didn’t stay away from me at the restaurant, Buchanan thought.

The interrogator gestured sharply, and the guards nudged Bailey into the room, guiding him with a firm hand on each of his elbows. He walked unsteadily.

Sure, they’ve been questioning you since they caught you on the beach, Buchanan thought. They’ve been pumping you for every speck of information they can get, and the pressure they put on you encourages you to stick to your story. If they get what they want, they’ll apologize and treat you royally to make certain you don’t change your mind.

The guards stopped Bailey directly in front of Buchanan.

The interrogator used the tip of the rubber hose to raise Buchanan’s face. “Is this the man you saw in Cancun?”

Bailey hesitated.

“Answer,” the interrogator said.

“I. .” Bailey drew a shaky hand across his brush cut. “It could be the man.” He stank of cigarettes. His voice was gravelly.

“Could be?” The interrogator scowled and showed him the police sketch. “When you helped the artist prepare this sketch, I am told that you were definite in your description.”

“Well, yeah, but. .”

“But?”

Bailey cleared his throat. “I’d been drinkin’. My judgment might have been clouded.”

“And are you sober now?”

“I wish I wasn’t, but yeah, I’m sober.”

“Then your judgment should be improved. Is this the man you saw shoot the three other men on the beach behind the hotel?”

“Wait a minute,” Bailey said. “I didn’t see anybody shoot nobody. What I told the police in Cancun was I saw a friend of mine with three Mexicans. I followed ’em from the restaurant to the beach. It was dark. There were shots. I dove for cover. I don’t know who shot who, but my friend survived and ran away.”

“It is logical to assume that the man who survived the shooting is responsible for the deaths of the others.”

“I don’t know.” Bailey pawed at the back of his neck. “An American court might not buy that logic.”

“This is Mexico,” the interrogator said. “Is this the man you saw run away?”

Bailey squinted toward Buchanan. “He’s wearin’ different clothes. His hair’s got blood in it. His face is dirty. His lips are scabbed. He hasn’t shaved, and he generally looks like shit. But yeah, he looks like my friend.”

“Looks like?” The interrogator scowled. “Surely you can be more positive, Senor Bailey. After all, the sooner we get this settled, the sooner you can go back to your hotel room.”

“Okay.” Bailey squinted harder. “Yeah, I think he’s my friend.”

“He’s wrong,” Buchanan said. “I never saw this man in my life.”

“He claims he knew you in Kuwait and Iraq,” the interrogator said. “During the Gulf War.”

“Oh, sure. Yeah, right.” The pain in Buchanan’s abdomen worsened. He bit his lip, then struggled to continue. “And then he just happened to bump into me in Cancun. Hey, I was never in Kuwait or Iraq, and I can prove it. All you have to do is look at the stamps on my passport. I bet this guy doesn’t even know my name.”

“Jim Crawford,” Bailey said with sudden anger. “Except you lied to me. You told me your name was Ed Potter.”

“Jim Crawford?” Buchanan grimaced at the interrogator. “Ed Potter? Get real. Does this guy know my name’s Victor Grant? Show him my passport. From the sound of things-he admitted as much-he was so drunk, I’m surprised he doesn’t claim he saw Elvis Presley. I’m not whoever he thinks I am, and I don’t know anything about three men who were murdered.”

“In Cancun,” the interrogator said, “my brothers on the police force are investigating Ed Potter. Assuming that you did not lie when you gave Senor Bailey that name, you will have left some evidence in the area. You had to stay somewhere. You had to store your clothes. You had to sleep. We will find that place. There will be people who saw you at that place. We will bring those people here, and they will identify you as Ed Potter, proving that Senor Bailey is right.” The interrogator shook the piece of rubber hose in front of Buchanan’s face. “And then you will explain not only why you shot those three men but why you carry a passport with a different name, why you use so many names.”

“Yeah. Like Jim Crawford,” Bailey said. “In Kuwait.”

The interrogator looked extremely satisfied now that Bailey was cooperating again.

Throughout, Buchanan showed no reaction except pain-aggravated anger. But his thoughts, despite his excruciating headache, were urgent. He worked to calculate how protected he was. He’d used the mail to negotiate for and to pay the rent on his office. The only times he’d spoken to the landlord had been on the telephone. The same methods had been employed with regard to his apartment in downtown Cancun. Recommended trade craft. So far so good. It was also to Buchanan’s advantage that the police would take quite a while to contact every hotel manager and landlord in Cancun. Still, eventually they would, and although Buchanan’s landlords couldn’t describe him, they would tell the police that they recognized the name Ed Potter, and the police would question people who frequented the area where Ed Potter worked and lived. Eventually, someone would be brought here who would agree with Big Bob Bailey’s claim that the man who called himself Victor Grant looked very much like Ed Potter, and things would get very sticky after that.

“Let them,” Buchanan said. “They can waste all the time they want investigating Ed Potter, whoever he is. I’m not worried. Because I’m not that man.” Pain gnawed at his abdomen. He had to relieve his bladder once more, and he feared that his urine would be an even darker red. “The trouble is, while they’re wasting their time, I’m getting the hell beat out of me.” He shuddered. “And it’s not going to stop-because I swear to God I won’t confess to something I didn’t do.” He glared at the beefy, nervous Texan. “What did this cop say your name is? Bailey? Is that what-?”

Bailey looked exasperated. “Crawford, you know damned well my name’s-”

“Stop calling me Crawford. Stop calling me Potter. You’ve made a terrible mistake, and if you don’t get your memory straight. .”

Buchanan couldn’t restrain his bladder any longer. Indeed, he didn’t want to. He’d suddenly decided on a new tactic. He released his abdominal muscles, urine dribbling onto the floor, and he didn’t need to look down to know that the liquid was bloody.

Because Bailey turned pale, raised a hand to his mouth, and mumbled, “Holy. . Look at. . He’s. . It’s. .”

“Yeah, Bailey, take a good look. They worked me over until they broke something inside me.” Buchanan was almost breathless. He had to fight to muster the strength for every word. “What happens if they kill me before they find out you made a mistake?”

Bailey turned paler.

“Kill you? That is ridiculous,” the interrogator interrupted. “Obviously, you have suffered other injuries besides those to your shoulder and your head. I did not know this. I realize now that you need further medical attention. As soon as Senor Bailey signs this document, identifying you as the man he saw run from the three victims, he can leave, and I can send for a doctor.”

The interrogator thrust a pen and a typed statement toward Bailey.

“Yeah, go ahead and sign it,” Buchanan murmured hoarsely. “And then pray to God that the police realize there’s been a mistake. . before they beat me worse. . before I hemorrhage so bad I. .” Buchanan breathed. “Because if they kill me, you’re next.”

“What?” Bailey frowned. “What are you talkin’ about?”

“Don’t be dense, Bailey. Think about it. You’re the one who’ll be blamed. We’re talking about the death of an American citizen in a Mexican jail. Do you think this cop will admit to what happened? My corpse will disappear. There’ll be no record of my arrest. And the only person who can say different is you.”

Bailey suddenly looked with suspicion toward the interrogator.

The interrogator grasped Bailey’s arm. “The prisoner is obviously delirious. We must allow him to rest. While you sign this document in the outer office, I will see that he gets medical attention.”

Hesitant, Bailey allowed the interrogator to turn him toward the door.

“Sure,” Buchanan said. “Medical attention. What he means is another whack with that rubber hose because I made you realize how much trouble you’re in. Think, Bailey. You admitted you were drunk. Why won’t you admit that there’s every chance I’m not the man you saw in Cancun?”

“I have had enough of this.” The interrogator jabbed Buchanan’s injured shoulder. “Any fool can see that you are guilty. How do you explain this bullet wound?”

Writhing in pain against the pressure of the ropes that bound him to the chair, Buchanan spoke through gritted teeth. “It’s not a bullet wound.”

“But the doctor said-”

“How would he know what caused it? He didn’t do tests to look for gunpowder in the wound. All he did was restitch it.” Buchanan grimaced. “I got this injury and the one on my skull in a boating accident.” Light-headedness again overcame him. He feared he’d pass out before he could finish. “I fell off my client’s yacht as we left port. My skull hit the hull. . One of the propellers cut my shoulder. . Lucky I didn’t get killed.”

“This is a fantasy,” the interrogator said.

“Right.” Buchanan swallowed. “Prove it. Prove I’m lying. For God’s sake, do what I’ve been begging you to do. Bring my client here. Ask him if he knows me. Ask if he can explain how I hurt myself.”

“Yeah, maybe that ain’t a bad idea,” Bailey said.

“What?” The interrogator jerked toward the beefy Texan. “Are you telling me that the description you gave in Cancun, that the drawing on this police sketch-which you helped prepare-does not match the prisoner? Are you telling me that the identification you made five minutes ago. .?”

“All I said was he looks like the man I saw.” Pensive, Bailey rubbed a callused large fist against his beard-stubbled chin. “Now I ain’t so sure. My memory’s fadin’. I need time to think. This is pretty serious business.”

“Anybody can make a mistake,” Buchanan said. “Your word against mine. That’s all this is until we get my client to vouch for me.”

Bailey narrowed his eyes toward the bloody urine on the floor. “I ain’t signin’ nothin’ till this man’s client proves I’m right or wrong.”

Jubilant despite his pain, Buchanan managed to squeeze out a few more words. “Charles Maxwell. His yacht’s moored near the Columbus dock in Cancun.”

With that, Buchanan gave in to the dizziness that insisted. He’d done everything possible. Drifting, he heard the interrogator and Big Bob Bailey exchanging angry words.