Assumed Identity

3

The briefing had been at a safe site in Fairfax, Virginia, an apartment on the second story of a sprawling complex into which Buchanan could easily blend. He had rented it under his then pseudonym of Brian MacDonald. He had a driver’s license, a passport, a birth certificate, and several credit cards in that name, as well as a detailed fictional background for that temporary identity. His telephone bills indicated that he phoned a number in Philadelphia every Sunday evening, and if anyone investigating Brian MacDonald had called that number, a cheery female receptionist would have answered, “Golden Years Retirement Home.” That establishment did in fact exist, a profitable cover organization for Buchanan’s employers, and its records indicated that a Mrs. MacDonald, Brian’s “mother,” was in residence. She wasn’t in her room at the moment, but she’d be pleased to return a call, and soon an elderly woman who worked for Buchanan’s employers would return the call, the destination of which would of course be traced, the conversation recorded.

Buchanan’s fictitious occupation at that time, three months earlier, had been that of a computer programmer. He had an interest in and talent for computers, so that part of his assumed identity was easy to establish. He worked at home, he told anyone who happened to ask, and the powerful IBM in his apartment, supplied by his employers, validated his claim. As a further proof of his bogus identity, each Thursday he sent backup computer disks via Federal Express to New Age Technology in Boston, another profitable cover organization for Buchanan’s employers, but to maintain the skills of his true occupation, each evening for three hours he exercised at the local Gold’s Gym.

Mostly he waited, trying to be patient, maintaining discipline, eager to do his real work. So when an executive from New Age Technology at last phoned, announced that he’d be in Fairfax on business, and wondered if he could pay a visit, Buchanan thought, Soon. Soon I’ll be useful. Soon I won’t be bored.

His controller knocked on the door on schedule. That was 4:00 P.M. on a Friday, and when Buchanan-MacDonald glanced through the door’s security eye, then let him in, the short, gaunt man in a rumpled suit placed his briefcase on the living room’s coffee table, waited for Buchanan-MacDonald to close and bolt the entrance, then studied his surroundings and asked, “Which would you prefer? To go for a walk or stay here?”

“The apartment’s clean.”

“Good.” The hollow-cheeked controller opened his briefcase. “I need your driver’s license, your passport, your birth certificate, your credit cards, all of your documents for Brian MacDonald. Here are the release forms for you to sign, and here’s my signed receipt.”

Buchanan complied.

“Now here are your further documents,” the thin-lipped controller continued, “and the acceptance form for you to sign. Your new name is Edward Potter. You used to be employed as a. . Well, it’s all in this file. Every detail of your new background. Knowing how retentive your memory is, I assume that as usual you’ll be able to absorb the information by the time I come back to retrieve the file tomorrow morning. What’s wrong?”

“What took you so long to get in touch with me?” Buchanan asked. “It’s been two months.”

“After your last assignment, we wanted you to disappear for a while. Also, we thought we’d have a use for you as Brian MacDonald. Now that scenario’s been discarded. We’ve got a much more interesting project for you. I think you’ll be pleased. It’s as important as it is risky. It’ll give you quite a rush.”

“Tell me about it.”

His controller studied him. “I sometimes forget how intense field operatives can be, how anxious they are to. . But then, of course, that’s why you’re field operatives. Because. .”

“Because? I’ve asked myself that many times. What’s the answer?”

“I should have thought that was obvious. You enjoy being someone else.”

“Yes. Exactly. So indulge me. Pretend I’m a Method actor. What’s my new character’s motivation?”