Assumed Identity

TWO
1

CANCUN, MEXICO

All the hotels were shaped like Mayan temples, a row of terraced pyramids along the four-lane highway dividing the sandbar that until twenty-five years ago had been uninhabited. Buchanan ignored them and the redbrick sidewalk along which he concentrated to walk with deceptive calm. As twilight thickened into night, what he paid attention to were the disturbing proximity of tourists before and behind him, the threatening rumble and glare of traffic passing him on the right, and the ominous shadows among the palm trees that flanked the hotels on his left.

Something was wrong. Every instinct and intuition warned him. His stomach felt rigid. He tried to tell himself that he was merely experiencing the equivalent of stage fright. But his experience of too many dangerous missions had taught him the hard way to pay attention to the visceral warning signals that alerted him when something wasn’t as it should be.

But what? Buchanan strained to analyze. Your preparation was thorough. Your bait for the target is perfect. Why in God’s name are you so nervous?

Burnout? Too many assignments? Too many identities? Too many high-wire juggling acts?

No, Buchanan mentally insisted. I know what I’m doing. After eight years, after having survived this long, I recognize the difference between nerves and. .

Relax. You’re on top of things. Give yourself a break. It’s hot. It’s muggy. You’re under stress. You’ve done this a hundred times before. Your plan is solid. The bottom line is quit second-guessing. Get control of your doubts, and do your job.

Sure, Buchanan thought. But he wasn’t convinced. Maintaining his deceptively leisurely pace in spite of the pressure in his chest, he shifted leftward, relieved to escape the threatening traffic. Past the equally threatening shadows of the dense, colorfully flowered shrubs that lined the driveway, he proceeded warily up the curving entrance toward the glistening Mayan-temple shape of Club Internacional.