Assumed Identity

9

The gardens were spacious, filled with flowering shrubs, trickling pools, and meandering paths. Here and there, small lights of various colors projected from the ground, illuminating the walkways, tinting the shrubs, reflecting off the pools. Nonetheless, compared to the glare from the windows of the towering hotel, the garden was cloaked in darkness. Anyone who happened to look out would see merely the vague, moving shadows of four men out for a stroll, Buchanan thought. Certainly an observer wouldn’t be able to see that three of the men held pistols by their sides. Not that it mattered. If anyone did see the weapons and felt compelled to phone the police, whatever was going to happen would have ended by the time the police arrived.

As Buchanan proceeded along a walkway toward the splash of waves on the beach, he assessed his options. One was to take advantage of the garden’s darkness, overpower his captors, and escape, using the shrubs for cover in case any of his captors survived his attack and started shooting. Or at least Buchanan could attempt to escape. The problem was that his captors would be anticipating the likelihood of his using the darkness. They’d be primed for a sudden movement, and as soon as he made one, he’d be shot. The sound suppressor on the bodyguard’s Beretta would prevent anyone in the hotel from hearing the weapon’s report. By the time Buchanan’s corpse was discovered, the three Hispanics would be far from the area.

That wasn’t the only problem, Buchanan thought. If he did manage to catch the Hispanics by surprise, the darkness that initially helped him might then work against him. All he needed to do was collide with an unseen object as he fought with his captors. If he lost his balance. .

But a further problem-and the one to which Buchanan gave the most importance-was that the Hispanics might be threatening him merely to test him. After all, he couldn’t expect the twins to believe his cover story simply because his manner of presenting it was confident and convincing. They’d need all sorts of proof about his authenticity. All sorts. Every detail of his fictitious background would bear up under investigation. Buchanan’s controllers had made sure of that. A female operative was posing as Ed Potter’s ex-wife. A male operative was posing as her new husband. Each had a well-documented fictitious background, and each had been coached about what to say if anyone asked questions. Certain members of the DEA were prepared to claim that they’d known Ed Potter when he was an agent. In addition, the details of Ed Potter’s DEA career had been planted in a dossier in government computers.

But perhaps Buchanan’s opponents would take the solidity of his cover story for granted. Then what other way did they have to verify his authenticity? The more Buchanan thought about it, the more the issue became, Were the twins truly furious or only pretending to be? Would the twins suspect his credibility just because a drunken American had claimed to have known him as Jim Crawford, or was it more likely that the twins would take advantage of the drunken American’s claim and use it as a pretense for intimidating Buchanan, for trying their best to frighten him, for doing their damnedest to find a weakness in his confidence?

Layers within layers. Nothing was ever self-evident, Buchanan thought in turmoil as his captors nudged him along a path toward the muted lights of an outdoor bar at the edge of the beach.

The bar had a sloping thatched roof supported by wooden pillars. There weren’t any walls. Bamboo tables and chairs surrounded the oval counter, giving several groups of drinkers a view of white-capped waves in the darkness. Sections of the hotel bordered the gardens, so that the only way for Buchanan and his captors to get to the beach was to pass near the bar.

“Do not expect those people to help you,” the first twin murmured on Buchanan’s right as they neared the bar. “If you make a commotion, we will shoot you in front of them. They do not matter to us.”

“They are drunk, and we are in shadows. As witnesses, they are useless,” the second twin added on Buchanan’s left.

“And they cannot see my pistol. I have covered it with my jacket. But be assured I am aiming it at your spine,” the bodyguard said behind Buchanan.

“Hey, let’s lighten up, okay? I’m missing something here. Why all this talk about shooting?” Buchanan asked. “I wish the three of you would relax and tell me what’s going on. I came to you in good faith. I wasn’t armed. I’m not a threat to you. But all of a sudden, you-”

“Shut up while we pass the people in the bar,” the first twin murmured in Spanish.

“Or the next words you speak will be your last,” the second twin said. “Entiende? Understand?”

“Your logic is overwhelming,” Buchanan said.

A few tourists glanced up from their margaritas as Buchanan and the others walked by. Then one of the tourists finished telling a joke, and everybody at that table laughed.

The nearby outburst in reaction to the joke was so loud and unexpected that it made the twins flinch and jerk their heads toward the noise. Presumably, the bodyguard was also surprised. There wasn’t any way for Buchanan to know for certain. Still, the odds were in his favor. He could have done it then. He could have taken advantage of the distraction, smashed the side of his hands against the larynx of each twin, kicked backward with his left foot angled sideways to break the bodyguard’s knee, and spun to snap the wrist that held the Beretta. He could have done all that in less than two seconds. The light from the bar made him able to see clearly enough that he wouldn’t have had to worry about the accuracy of his blows. The agonizing damage to the throats of the twins would have prevented them from breathing. In their panic to fill their lungs with air, they would not have had time to think about shooting Buchanan, not before he’d finished the bodyguard and swung back to finish them. That would have taken another second or two. All told, four seconds, max, and Buchanan would have been safe.

But as confident as he was of success, Buchanan didn’t do it. Because his safety wasn’t the point. If all he cared about was his safety, he wouldn’t have accepted this mission in the first place. The mission. That was the point. As the laughter of the tourists subsided, as the twins and their bodyguard regained their discipline, as Buchanan and his captors finished passing the bar and reached the murky beach, Buchanan told himself, How would you have explained it to your superiors? I can imagine the expression on their faces if you told them the mission failed because you got so nervous you killed your contacts. Your career would be over. This isn’t the first time someone’s aimed a pistol at you. You know damned well that on this assignment it would have happened sooner or later. These guys aren’t dummies. Plus, they’ll never trust you until they learn if you can handle stress. So let them find out. Be cool. Play out the role.

But what would Ed Potter do? Buchanan wondered. Wouldn’t a corrupt ex-DEA officer try to escape if he thought the drug distributors from whom he was taking business had decided that killing him was less risky and less trouble than becoming partners with him?

Maybe, Buchanan thought. Ed Potter might try to run. After all, he isn’t me. He doesn’t have my training. But if I behave the way Ed Potter truly would, there’s a good chance I’ll get myself killed. I’ve got to modify the character. Right now, my audience is testing me for weakness.

But by God, they won’t find any.

Club Internacional had a sidewalk that ran parallel to the beach. The stars were brilliant, although the moon had not yet risen. A cool breeze came off the ocean out of the darkness. Hearing the distant echo of more laughter from the bar, which was shielded from him by a row of tall shrubs and a waist-high wall, Buchanan paused at the edge of the sidewalk.

“All right,” he said. “Here’s the beach. It’s nice. Real nice. Now would you put those guns away and tell me what in God’s name this is all about? I haven’t done anything to-”