Assumed Identity

8

“You look like you need a doctor,” Woodfield said.

They walked from the jail, across a dusty street, and toward a black sedan parked beneath a palm tree.

“I know an excellent physician in Merida,” Woodfield said. “I’ll drive you there as quickly as possible.”

“No,” Buchanan said.

“But. .”

“No,” Buchanan repeated. He waited for a fenderless pickup truck to go by, then continued toward the car. After having been in the jail for so long, his eyes hurt from the glare of the sun, adding to his headache. “What I want is to get out of Mexico.”

“The longer you wait to see a doctor. .”

Buchanan reached the car and pivoted toward Woodfield. He didn’t know how much the diplomat had been told. Probably nothing. One of Buchanan’s rules was never to volunteer information. Another rule was don’t break character. “I’ll see a doctor when I feel safe. I still can’t believe I’m out of jail. I won’t believe it until I’m on a plane to Miami. That jerk might change his mind and rearrest me.”

Woodfield put Buchanan’s suitcase into the back of the car. “I doubt there’s any danger of that.”

“No danger to you,” Buchanan said. “The best thing you can do is drive me to the airport, get me on a plane, then phone Charles Maxwell. Tell him I asked him to arrange for someone to meet me and to take me to a hospital.”

“You’re certain you’ll be all right until then?”

“I’ll have to be,” Buchanan said. He was worried that the police in Cancun would still be investigating his previous identity. Eventually, they’d find Ed Potter’s office and apartment. They’d find people who’d seen Ed Potter and who’d agree that the police sketch looked like Ed Potter. A policeman might decide to corroborate Big Bob Bailey’s story by having those people take a look at Victor Grant.

He had to get out of Mexico.

“I’ll telephone the airport and see if I can get you a seat on the next flight,” Woodfield said.

“Good.” Buchanan automatically scanned the street, the pedestrians, the noisy traffic. He tensed, noticing a woman in the background, among the crowd on the sidewalk beyond Woodfield. She was American. Late twenties. A redhead. Attractive. Tall. Nice figure. She wore beige slacks and a yellow blouse. But Buchanan didn’t notice her because of her nationality or her hair color or her features. Indeed he couldn’t get a look at her face. Because she had a camera raised to it. She stood at the curb, motionless among the passing Mexicans, taking photographs of him.

“Just a minute,” Buchanan told Woodfield. He started toward her, but the moment she saw him approaching, she lowered the camera, turned, and walked away, disappearing around a corner. The oppressive sun intensified his headache. Festering pressure in his wound made him weaker. Dizziness halted him.

“What’s the matter?” Woodfield asked.

Buchanan didn’t answer.

“You looked as if you were about to go somewhere,” Woodfield said.

Buchanan frowned toward the corner, then turned toward the car. “Yeah, with you.” He opened the passenger door. “Hurry. Find a phone. Get me on a flight to Miami.”

All the way to the airport, Buchanan brooded about the red-haired woman. Why had she been taking photographs of him? Was she just a tourist and he merely happened to be in the foreground of a shot of a scenic building? Maybe. But if so, why had she walked away when he started toward her? Coincidence? Buchanan couldn’t afford to accept that explanation. Too much had gone wrong. And nothing was ever simple. There was always a deeper level. Then if she wasn’t just a tourist, what was she? Again he asked himself, Why was she taking pictures of me? The lack of an answer disturbed him as much as the threatening implications. He had only one consolation. At least, when she’d lowered the camera, turning to walk away, he’d gotten a good look at her face.

And he would remember it.