Assumed Identity

7

But it was a problem. A big problem. One of the nightmares Buchanan dreaded was the risk that a contact from a previous assignment would wander into a present one. Twice in Buchanan’s career, fellow specialists had happened to enter locations (a pub in London, a cafe in Paris) where Buchanan was using false identities to recruit informants who might help him infiltrate terrorist networks. In each case, Buchanan had noticed the subtle look of recognition in his fellow operative’s eyes. Briefly, Buchanan had felt nervous. However, his counterpart-obeying an absolute rule of tradecraft-had ignored Buchanan and soon, when it seemed natural, had left the location.

But while Buchanan could count on the tact of a professional, there was no way to guard against the spontaneity of a civilian whom he’d encountered on another mission, a civilian who had no idea of Buchanan’s true occupation. The beefy American-now retreating in confusion to a table where his female escort waited-had indeed known Buchanan in Kuwait City as well as in Baghdad, and Buchanan’s name at that time had indeed been Jim Crawford. Prior to the Allied counterstrike, Buchanan had been inserted at night via a high-altitude, low-opening parachute drop into Kuwait to reconnoiter Iraqi defenses. Buchanan had buried his jump equipment in the desert, then hiked through the dark toward the lights of Kuwait City. He wore civilian clothes-a soiled work shirt and jeans-and carried documents that identified him as an American oil worker from Oklahoma. If stopped, his cover story would be that he’d gone into hiding when the Iraqis invaded. His scraggly beard, unkempt hair, and haggard appearance would reinforce that story. For three weeks, aided by Allied sympathizers, he was able to use a small two-way radio to broadcast important information to his superiors, but prior to his extraction by submarine, an Iraqi patrol had discovered him on the way to the beach.

It wasn’t any wonder that Big Bob Bailey shook his head in confusion as he joined his female escort at a table in the restaurant. After all, Buchanan had spent a month with Bailey and other captive oil workers, first in the confinement of a demolished Kuwait City hotel, then in one of several trucks that transported the Americans from Kuwait to Iraq, and finally in a warehouse in Baghdad.

Saddam Hussein eventually set free the Americans “as a Christmas present to the United States.” They were flown via Iraqi Airlines to various destinations, one of which was Frankfurt, Germany. Big Bob Bailey sat next to Buchanan during the latter flight. Big Bob Bailey chattered endlessly, with nervous relief, about how when they touched down he intended to get good and drunk with his good ol’ pal Jim Crawford. But when they entered the terminal, Jim Crawford disappeared among the crowd, shielded by plainclothes Special Operations personnel who hurried Buchanan to a safe site and intensely debriefed him.

That had been twelve assignments ago, however, and Big Bob Bailey had become just another vaguely remembered contact to whom Buchanan had played one of his numerous roles.

Big Bob Bailey. Damn it, he was from another life. From several lives past. Iraq’s invasion of Kuwait was ancient history. Big Bob Bailey was just a minor character in. .

But at the moment, Big Bob Bailey was very much a major character in this life, Buchanan thought in dismay.

And Big Bob Bailey wouldn’t stop looking over at Buchanan, all the while squinting and shaking his head as if he wasn’t just confused now but angry, convinced that Buchanan was Jim Crawford and insulted because Buchanan wouldn’t admit it.

Jesus, Buchanan thought, he looks pissed off enough that he might come over again! If he does, my cover will be absolutely destroyed. These two Mexican drug distributors didn’t stay alive this long by being idiots. Check their eyes. They’re already wondering what’s going on. I’ve got to. .

“I guess it’s a variation on an old joke,” he told the first twin. “South of the border, all Americans look alike, sometimes even to each other.”

“Yes,” the first twin replied.

“Very amusing,” the second twin said flatly.

“But he certainly attracted attention to us,” Buchanan continued.

“I think the sooner we get out of here, the better,” the second twin said. “Especially before that man comes back here, which I suspect he’s about to do.”

“Fine with me. Let’s go.” Buchanan stood to walk toward the stairs that led up from the restaurant.

“No, this way,” the second twin said. He touched Buchanan’s arm and gestured toward the rear entrance, a sliding glass door that gave access to the hotel’s night-shrouded gardens.

“Good idea,” Buchanan said. “It’s faster. Less conspicuous.” He signaled the waiter that he’d left money on the table and turned toward the glass door.

As Buchanan stepped from the restaurant into the humid, fragrant gardens, as he heard the glass door being slid shut behind him, he noticed that the twins had positioned themselves on either side of him. He noticed as well that they held the napkins beneath which each had earlier concealed a pistol in his lap, and the napkins didn’t look empty. Finally, he noticed a piece of the night step from between tall bushes to the left of the door, bushes that would have given the bodyguard a hidden view through the glass while Buchanan spoke with the twins.

The bodyguard was Hispanic, unusually tall and large-boned.

Like the twins, he held a pistol. Hard to tell in the shadows, but it looked like a 9-mm Beretta equipped with a sound suppressor.

And imitating the expression on his employers’ faces, the bodyguard scowled.