Assumed Identity

4

Here’s the postcard I never thought I’d send. I hope you meant your promise. The last time and place. Counting on you. PLEASE.

Buchanan read the message several times, then glanced up at the portly man, who now was squinting.

“So?” The man squinted harder.

“It’s a woman who knew me when I was Peter Lang. Someone I needed for window dressing.”

“That’s all?”

Buchanan shrugged.

“Who was she, Buchanan?”

“It’s been so long, I don’t even remember her name.”

“Don’t tell me your famous memory is failing you.”

“I remember what’s essential. She wasn’t.”

“Why didn’t she sign her name?”

“She was a flake. That much, I recall. Maybe she thought it would be cute and mysterious if she sent an unsigned postcard.”

“And yet without a name on the card, a name you claim you can’t remember, you know who sent the message.”

“She used to do this kind of stuff a lot. Unsigned cryptic messages. I’d find them in my bathroom, in my pajamas, in my sock drawer. I told you she was a flake. But she sure was gorgeous, and I never read any handwriting as neat and elegant as this. She was proud of that-her handwriting.”

“But what does it mean?”

“Damned if I know. Maybe she was high on something when she wrote it. Or maybe she tried so hard to make the message cute that she didn’t realize she was being incoherent.”

The portly man squinted even harder. “Just like that, after six years, she decided to write to you.”

“Must be,” Buchanan said. “Because that’s what happened. She didn’t even think to put a return address on it. That’s how spur-of-the-moment she used to act.”

“What’s this ‘last time and place’ business?”

“Beats the hell out of me.”

The portly man didn’t move. He just kept staring at Buchanan as if trying to make him uncomfortable enough to demonstrate a sign of weakness.

Buchanan returned his stare.

After thirty seconds, the portly man sighed and gestured for Buchanan to give back the postcard. He shoved it into the paper bag along with the magazines, catalogs, and circulars, then placed them in his metal briefcase and locked it. “We’ll talk again soon, Buchanan.” He stood.

“Wait a minute.”

“Is something wrong?” the man asked. “Or maybe there’s something you forgot to tell me?”

“Yeah. What about my new ID?”

“New ID?”

“The driver’s license and credit card, all the documents for Don Colton.”

The man frowned. “You must have gotten the wrong impression. You’re not being issued new ID.”

“What?”

“You won’t need any. The rent, the phone, and the other bills are paid through one of our cover organizations by mail. There’s plenty of food here, so you won’t need a checkbook to go to the grocery store, and you won’t need a credit card to go to a restaurant. And since we want you to stay close, you won’t need ID to rent a car.”

“So what about clothes? I need a credit card to replace what I abandoned in Fort Lauderdale. What’s in the closet here is too small.”

“There’s a gray cotton sweat suit on the bedroom shelf. It’s large enough to do for now. When I drive you to the hospital for your CAT scan, I’ll bring you a few more things.”

“That’s it? You’re leaving me without a way to prove my cover?”

“Buchanan, we don’t want you to prove your cover. We don’t want you to be in a position to need to prove your cover. We don’t want Don Colton leaving this apartment. We don’t want him wandering around the building or going to restaurants or to shopping malls and flashing ID. Don Colton’s invisible. He’s been living in this complex for years, and nobody knows him. He travels so much, you see. So as long as you stay in here, no one’ll bother you, and for that matter, we don’t want you bothering anybody, either. Do you get it?”

Buchanan narrowed his eyes. “Yeah, I got it.”

“We don’t want you even sending out for a pizza.”

“I said I got it. Anyway, how could I order a pizza? I’m almost out of money.”

“Good.” The man lifted his briefcase and walked toward the door.

“I’m in limbo?”

The man kept walking. “Until we’ve assessed the damage control on Cancun, Merida, and Fort Lauderdale. A while ago, you told me you’d ask for time off if you thought you needed it. You said nobody turns down R and R.” The man reached the door, unlocked it, and glanced at Buchanan. “Well, now you’ve got some. You’ve been in the field quite a while. Eight years. A very long while. It’s time for a rest.”

“And what if I don’t want a rest?”

The man gripped the doorknob. “It’s a funny thing, Buchanan.”

“What?”

“I was told you were a fanatic about assuming your identities.”

“That’s right.”

“A real Method actor. Invented a detailed history for each of your pseudonyms. Dressed, ate, and sometimes even walked the way you decided a particular character would. Gave each of them a distinct personality.”

“You’re right again. Staying totally in character is what keeps me alive.”

“Sure. The thing is, I was also told that you’d practically bite off the head of any controller who called you by your real name. But I just did, and in fact I’ve been doing it off and on since I came here. You should have been insisting that I call you Don Colton.”

“There’s nothing strange about that. Until I get Don Colton’s ID and background, I can’t become him. I don’t have any personality to assume.”

“Well, in that case, I’d expect you to have insisted that I call you Victor Grant.”

“How could I?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Calling me Victor Grant is impossible. I wouldn’t have responded.”

“Why?”

“Because Victor Grant is dead.” Abruptly Buchanan felt a further chill as he understood the significance of what he’d just said.

The man who called himself Alan understood the significance very well. “As you said, you’re in limbo.” He turned the knob and opened the door. “Stay put. I’ll be in touch.”