Assumed Identity

7

He was taken back to his cell. Staggering across it, trying not to bump into the other prisoners and cause an incident, he noticed that many of the faces scowling at him were different from those who had scowled at him when he’d first arrived, however long ago that was. His weary guess was that new drunks had replaced those who’d sobered but that the thieves and other predators had been left here until somebody got motivated enough to take the trouble to put them on trial. He knew that in his weakened condition it wouldn’t be long before the predators moved against him, so he found a space against a wall and sat, straining to remain awake, staring in response to their stares, hiding his pain, calculating how best to defend himself. He didn’t realize right away that two guards had unlocked the cell and were gesturing for him to come out.

They didn’t take him toward the interrogation room, however. Instead they took him in the opposite direction, toward a section of the jail that he hadn’t seen.

What now? Is this when I disappear?

The guards opened a door, and Buchanan blinked in confusion. He’d expected the interrogator, but what he faced was a sink, a toilet, and a shower stall. He was told to strip, bathe, shave, and put on the white cotton shirt and pants that were stacked on a chair along with a pair of cheap rubber sandals. Confused, he obeyed, the lukewarm water not only making him feel welcomely clean but bolstering his meager energy. The guards stood watch. Later, as Buchanan finished dressing, another guard came in and set a tray upon the sink. Buchanan was astonished. The tray held a plate of refried beans and tortillas, the first food that he had received since he’d been brought here. Weakness and pain had stifled his appetite, but he didn’t need any encouragement to grab something else that was on the tray. A bottle of purified water. In a rush, he broke the seal, unscrewed the cap, and swallowed several large mouthfuls. Not too much. You’ll get sick.

He studied the food, the aroma of which both attracted and repelled him. The food might be contaminated, he thought, the shower and the fresh clothes a trick to make him ignore his suspicion and eat. But I have to take the risk. Even if my stomach doesn’t want it, I’ve got to force myself to eat.

Again he reminded himself, Not too much at once. It took him a long time to chew and swallow the first mouthful of beans. When his stomach didn’t revolt, he was encouraged to drink more water and bite off a piece of tortilla.

He never was able to finish the meal. Holding his spoon in his right hand, he almost dropped it because his fingers began to twitch again, alarmingly. When he switched the spoon to his left hand but before he could raise more food, another guard arrived, and the four of them, looking somber, took him past his crowded cell, toward the interrogation rooms. Why? Buchanan thought. Why would they let me clean up and give me something to eat if they’re planning to give me another session with the rubber hose? That doesn’t make sense. Unless. .

The guards escorted him into a room that Buchanan had never seen, a dingy, cluttered office in which the interrogator sat stiffly behind his desk and faced a stern, pinch-lipped American who sat with equal stiffness across from him. When Buchanan appeared, each man directed a narrow gaze at him, and Buchanan’s hidden elation at the hope that he might be released turned into abrupt suspicion.

The American was in his middle forties, of middle height and weight, with a pointed chin, a slender nose, and thick dark eyebrows that contrasted with his thinning sun-bleached hair. He was deeply tanned and wore an expensive tropical-blend blue suit with a red-striped silk tie and a gleaming white shirt that not only accentuated his tan but seemed to reflect it. He wore a Harvard ring, a Piaget watch, and Cole-Haan shoes. Distinguished. Impressive. A man to have on your side.

The trouble was that Buchanan had no idea who the man was. He didn’t dare assume that the interrogator had responded to his demand and contacted his alibi, Charles Maxwell. The emergency alibi had been established hastily. Normally, every detail of a plan was checked many times, but in this case, Buchanan didn’t know what on earth Maxwell looked like. It was reasonable to assume that Maxwell, having been contacted, would come here to support Buchanan’s claims. But what if the interrogator had found an American to impersonate Maxwell? What if the interrogator wanted to trick Buchanan into pretending to know the American and thus prove that Buchanan was lying about his alibi?

The American stood expectantly.

Buchanan had to react. He couldn’t just keep peering blankly. If this really was Maxwell, the interrogator would expect Buchanan to show grateful recognition. But what if this wasn’t Maxwell?

The interrogator withdrew his chin into the numerous folds of his neck.

Buchanan sighed, approached the American, placed an unsteady hand on his shoulder, and said, “I was getting worried. It’s so good to see. .”

To see whom? Buchanan let the sentence dangle. He might have been referring to his relief at seeing his friend and client, Charles “Chuck” Maxwell, or he might have been saying that he was delighted to see another American.

“Thank God you’re here,” Buchanan added, another statement that could apply either to Maxwell or to a fellow American whom Buchanan didn’t know. He slumped on a chair beside the battered desk. Tension increased his pain.

“I came as soon as I heard,” the American said.

Although the statement implied a strong relationship between the American and Buchanan, it still wasn’t forthright enough for Buchanan to treat him as Charles Maxwell. Come on, give me a clue. Let me know who you are.

The American continued, “And what I heard alarmed me. But I must say, Mr. Grant, you appear in better condition than I expected.”

Mr. Grant? Buchanan thought.

This man definitely wasn’t Charles Maxwell. So who was he?

“Yeah, this is a regular country club.” The severity of Buchanan’s headache made his temples throb.

“I’m sure it’s been frightful,” the American said. His voice was deep and mellifluous, slightly affected. “But all of that is finished now.” He shook hands. “I’m Garson Woodfield. From the American embassy. Your friend Robert Bailey telephoned us.”

The interrogator glowered.

“Bailey isn’t a friend,” Buchanan emphasized. “The first time I met him was here. But he’s got some delusion that he saw me in Cancun and knew me before in Kuwait. He’s the reason I’m in this mess.”

Woodfield shrugged. “Well, apparently he’s trying to make amends. He also telephoned Charles Maxwell.”

“A client of mine,” Buchanan said. “I was hoping he’d show up.”

“Indeed, Mr. Maxwell has a great deal of influence, as you’re aware, but under the circumstances, he thought it would be more influential if he contacted the ambassador and requested that we solve this problem through official channels.” Woodfield peered closely at Buchanan’s face. “Those abrasions on your lips. The bruise on your chin.” He turned pensively toward the interrogator. “This man has been beaten.”

The interrogator looked insulted. “Beaten? Nonsense. When he came here, he was so unsteady from his injuries that he fell down some stairs.”

Woodfield turned to Buchanan, obviously expecting a heated denial.

“I got dizzy,” Buchanan said. “I lost my grip on the stairwell railing.”

Woodfield looked surprised by Buchanan’s response. For his part, the interrogator looked astonished.

“Have they threatened you into lying about what happened to you here?” Woodfield asked.

“They certainly haven’t been gentle,” Buchanan said, “but they haven’t threatened me into lying.”

The interrogator looked even more astonished.

“But Robert Bailey claims he saw you tied to a chair,” Woodfield said.

Buchanan nodded.

“And struck by a rubber hose,” Woodfield said.

Buchanan nodded again.

“And passing bloody urine.”

“True.” Buchanan clutched his abdomen and winced, a reaction that he normally would not have permitted.

“You realize that if you’ve been brutalized, there are a number of diplomatic measures I can use to try to obtain your release.”

Buchanan didn’t like Woodfield’s “try to” qualification. He decided to continue following his instincts. “The blood in my urine is from my accident when I fell off Chuck Maxwell’s boat. As for the rest of it”-Buchanan breathed-“hey, this officer thinks I killed three men. From his point of view, what he did to me, trying to get me to confess, that was understandable. What I’m angry about is that he wouldn’t let me prove I was innocent. He wouldn’t call my client.”

“All of that’s been taken care of,” Woodfield said. “I have a statement”-he pulled it from his briefcase-“indicating that Mr. Grant here was with Mr. Maxwell on his yacht when the murders occurred. Obviously,” he told the interrogator, “you have the wrong man.”

“It is not obvious to me.” The interrogator’s numerous chins shook with indignation. “I have a witness who puts this man at the scene of the murders.”

“But surely you don’t take Mr. Bailey’s word over a statement by someone as distinguished as Mr. Maxwell,” Woodfield said.

The interrogator’s eyes gleamed fiercely. “This is Mexico. Everyone is equal.”

“Yes,” Woodfield said. “The same as in the United States.” He turned to Buchanan. “Mr. Maxwell asked me to deliver this note.” He pulled it from his briefcase and handed it to Buchanan. “Meanwhile,” he told the interrogator, “I need to use your facilities.”

The interrogator looked confused.

“A bathroom,” Woodfield said. “A rest room.”

“Ah,” the interrogator said. “A toilet. Si.” He hefted his enormous body from the chair, opened the office door, and directed a guard to escort Mr. Woodfield to el sanitario.

As Woodfield left, Buchanan read the note.

Vic,

Sorry I couldn’t be there in person. I’ll show up if I have to, but let’s exhaust other options first. Check the contents of the camera bag Woodfield brought with him. If you think what’s inside will be effective, give it a try. I hope to see you stateside soon.

Chuck

Buchanan glanced down toward the briefcase beside Woodfield’s chair, noticing the gray nylon camera bag.

Meanwhile, the interrogator shut the office door and frowned at Buchanan, his voice rumbling, his ample stomach quivering. He was obviously interested in the contents of the note. “You lied about being beaten. Por que?” He came closer. “Why?”

Buchanan shrugged. “Simple. I want you and me to be friends.”

“Why?” The interrogator stepped even closer.

“Because I won’t get out of here without your cooperation. Oh, Woodfield can cause you a lot of trouble from your superiors and from politicians. But I still might not be released until a judge makes a ruling, and in the meantime, I’m at your mercy.” Buchanan paused, trying to look defeated. “Sometimes terrible accidents happen in a jail. Sometimes a prisoner can die before a judge has time to see him.”

The interrogator studied Buchanan intensely.

Buchanan pointed toward the camera bag. “May I?”

The interrogator nodded.

Buchanan set the bag on his lap. “I’m innocent,” he said. “Obviously, Bailey is confused about what he saw. My passport proves I’m not the man he thinks I am. My client says I wasn’t at the scene of the crime. But you’ve invested a great deal of time and effort in this investigation. In your place, I’d hate to think that I’d wasted my energy. The government doesn’t pay you enough for all the trouble you have to go through.” Buchanan opened the camera bag and set it on the desk.

He and the interrogator stared at the contents. The bag was filled with neat piles of used hundred-dollar American bills. As Buchanan removed one of the stacks and leafed through it, the interrogator’s mouth hung open.

“I’m only guessing,” Buchanan said, “but this seems to be fifty thousand dollars.” He returned the stack to the others in the bag. “Don’t misunderstand. I’m not rich. I work hard, the same as you, and I certainly don’t have this kind of money. It belongs to my client. He’s loaning it to me to help me pay my legal expenses.” Buchanan grimaced. “But I don’t see why a lawyer should get it when I’m innocent and he won’t have to earn his fee to get me released. He definitely won’t have to work as long and hard as I will to pay the money back or as long as you would to receive this much.” Buchanan sighed from pain and frowned toward the door. “Woodfield will be coming back any second. Why don’t you do both of us a favor, take the money, and let me out of here?”

The interrogator tapped his fingers on the battered table.

“I swear to you. I didn’t kill anybody,” Buchanan said.

The door swung slowly open. The interrogator shielded the camera bag with his massive body, shut the bag, and with a remarkably fluid motion for so huge a man, he set the bag out of sight behind the desk as he scrunched his wide hips into his creaking chair.

Woodfield entered.

“To pursue this matter any further would be a mockery of justice,” the interrogator said. “Senor Grant, your passport and belongings will be returned. You are free.”