Assumed Identity

7

Buchanan frowned.

“Relax,” Doyle said. “This is a business, remember. And to tell the truth, I could use some business.”

The phone rang again. Doyle picked it up, said, “Bon Voyage, Inc.,” then frowned as Buchanan had.

He placed his hand across the mouthpiece and told Buchanan, “I was wrong. It’s that guy again asking to speak to you. What do you want me to say?”

“Better let me say it. I’m curious who he is.” Uneasy, Buchanan took the phone. “Victor Grant here.”

The deep, crusty voice was instantly recognizable. “Your name ain’t Victor Grant.”

Heart pounding, Buchanan repressed his alarm and tried to sound puzzled. “What? Who is this? My boss said somebody wanted to speak to. . Wait a minute. Is this. .? Are you the guy in Mexico who. .?”

“Bailey. Big Bob Bailey. Damn it, Crawford, don’t get on my nerves. You’d still be in jail if I hadn’t called the American embassy. The least you can do is be grateful.”

“Grateful? I wouldn’t have been in jail if you hadn’t misidentified me. How many times do I have to say it? My name isn’t Crawford. It’s Victor Grant.”

“Sure, just like it was Ed Potter. I don’t know what kind of scam you’re runnin’, but it looks to me like you got more names than the phone book, and if you want to keep usin’ them, you’re gonna have to pay a subscriber fee.”

“Subscriber fee? What are you talking about?”

“After what happened in Kuwait, I’m not crazy about workin’ in the Mideast oil fields anymore,” Bailey said. “Stateside, the big companies are shuttin’ down wells instead of drillin’. I’m too old to be a wildcatter. So I guess I’ll have to rely on my buddies. Like you, Crawford. For the sake of when we were prisoners together, can you spare a hundred thousand dollars?”

“A hundred. .? Have you been drinking?”

“You betcha.”

“You’re out of your mind. One last time, and listen carefully. My name isn’t Crawford. My name isn’t Potter. My name’s Victor Grant, and I don’t know what you’re talking about. Get lost.”

Buchanan broke the connection.