Assumed Identity

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 minioffice 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 by only 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.”

“Someplace 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.