Assumed Identity

4

Welcoming the distraction of hunger, relieved to be in motion, Buchanan-Lang unlocked the compartment, checked the swaying corridor, saw no one, and was just about to leave when he decided that the simple lock on the compartment couldn’t be trusted. He took his small travel bag-the passport and the handgun in it-with him, secured the compartment, and proceeded toward the dining car.

It was three cars away, and when he entered it, he discovered that it was almost deserted, a few passengers sipping coffee, waiters clearing dirty dishes from the tables. The overhead lights of the dining car gleamed off the windows and made the area seem extra bright, obscuring whatever was out in the darkness.

Buchanan rubbed his aching forehead and approached the nearest waiter.

The weary-looking man anticipated his question. “Sorry, sir. We’re closed. Breakfast starts at six in the morning.”

“I’m afraid I took a nap and overslept. I’m starved. Isn’t there something you can give me so my stomach won’t growl all night?” Buchanan discreetly held out a ten-dollar bill.

“Yes, sir. I understand your problem. I’ll see what I can do. Perhaps a couple of cold roast beef sandwiches to take with you.”

“Sounds good.”

“And maybe a soda.”

“A beer would be better.”

“Well,” a voice said behind Buchanan, “I don’t have the beer. But just in case, I did plan ahead and arranged for some sandwiches.”

Refusing to show that he was surprised, Buchanan made himself wait a moment before he slowly turned to face the woman whose voice he had heard. When he saw her, he was even more careful not to show his surprise. Because he definitely was surprised.

The woman had long, dramatic flame-red hair. She was tall. In her late twenties. Athletic figure. Strong forehead. Excellent cheekbones. Fashion-model features.

He knew this woman. At least, he’d seen her before. The first time, she’d worn beige slacks and a yellow blouse. That had been in Mexico. She’d been taking photographs of him outside the jail in Merida.

The second time, she’d worn jeans and a denim shirt. That had been near Pier 66 in Fort Lauderdale. She’d been taking photographs of him while he stopped his boat next to Big Bob Bailey in the channel.

This time, she wore brown poplin slacks and a khaki safari jacket, the type with plenty of pockets, several of which had objects in them. She looked like an ad from a Land’s End catalog. A camera bag was slung over her left shoulder. The camera itself dangled from a sling around her neck. The only detail that didn’t fit the Land’s End image was the bulging paper bag in her right hand.

With her left hand, she added ten dollars to the ten that Buchanan had already given the waiter. “Thank you.” She smiled. “I didn’t think my friend would ever show up. I appreciate your patience.”

“No problem, ma’am.” The waiter pocketed the money. “If there’s anything else. .”

“Nothing, thank you.”

As the waiter went back to clearing dirty dishes from a table, the woman redirected her attention toward Buchanan. “I hope your heart wasn’t set on those roast beef sandwiches he mentioned. Mine are chicken salad.”

“I beg your pardon?” Buchanan asked.

“Chicken. .”

“That’s not what. . Do we know each other?”

“You ask that after everything we’ve been through together?” The woman’s emerald eyes twinkled.

“Lady, I’m not in the mood. I’m sure there are plenty of other guys on the train who. .”

“Okay, if you insist, we’ll play. Do we know each other?” She debated with herself. “Yes. In a manner of speaking. You could say we’re acquainted, although of course we’ve never met.” She looked amused.

“I don’t want to be rude.”

“It doesn’t matter to me. I’m used to it.”

“You’ve had too much to drink.”

“Not a drop. But I wish I had been drinking. I’m bored enough from waiting here so long. On second thought. .” She turned to the waiter. “A couple of beers sound good. Do you suppose we could still have them?”

“Certainly, ma’am. Anything else?”

“Make it four beers, and you may as well add those roast beef sandwiches. I have a feeling this is going to be a long night.”

“Then maybe coffee. .?”

“No. The beers will be fine,” she said. As the waiter headed away from them, she turned again toward Buchanan. “Unless you’d prefer coffee.”

“What I’d prefer is to know what the hell you think you’re doing,” Buchanan said.

“Requesting an interview.”

“What?”

“I’m a reporter.”

“Congratulations. What’s that got to do with me?”

“I’ll make you a bet.”

Buchanan shook his head. “This is absurd.” He started to leave.

“No, really. I’ll bet I can guess your name.”

“A bet means you win or lose something. I can’t see what I win or-”

“If I can’t guess your name, I’ll leave you alone.”

Buchanan thought about it. “All right.” He sighed. “Anything to get rid of you. What’s my name?”

“Buchanan.”

“Wrong. It’s Peter Lang.” Again he started to walk away.

“Prove it.”

“I don’t have to prove anything. I’m out of patience.” Buchanan kept walking away.

She followed him. “Look, I was hoping to do this in private, but if you want to make it difficult, that’s up to you. Your name isn’t Peter Lang any more than it’s Jim Crawford, Ed Potter, Victor Grant, and Don Colton. You did use those names, of course. And many others. But your given name is Buchanan. First name: Brendan. Nickname: Bren.”

Muscles cramping, Buchanan stopped at the exit from the dining car. Not showing his tension, he turned, noting with relief that the tables at this end of the car were all empty. He pretended to be innocently exasperated. “What do I have to do to get rid of you?”

“Get rid of me? That’s a figure of speech, I hope.”

“I don’t know what you’re-”

She held up the bulging paper bag. “I’m hungry. I couldn’t find you on the train, so I kept waiting for you to come to the dining car. Then I worried that maybe you’d brought something with you to eat. Every half hour, I had to slip the waiter ten dollars so he’d let me keep my table without ordering. Another ten minutes, the place would have been empty, and he’d have made me leave. Thank God you showed up.”

“Sure,” Buchanan said. “Thank God.” He noticed the waiter come down the aisle toward them.

“Here are the sandwiches and the beer.” The waiter handed her another paper bag.

“Thanks. How much do I owe you?” She paid him, adding a further tip.

Then Buchanan and she were alone again.

“So what do you say?” The woman’s emerald eyes continued to twinkle. “At least you’ll get something to eat. Since I couldn’t find you in the coach seats, I assume you have a compartment. Why don’t we. .?”

“If I really use all the names you claim I do, I must be involved in something very shady.”

“I try not to make judgments.”

“But what am I? In the Mafia? A secret agent? Won’t you be afraid to be alone with me?”

“Who says I’m alone? Surely you don’t think I’d go on this assignment without help.”

“Don’t tell me you’re with those two guys who just finished their coffee at the other end of the car,” Buchanan said. “They’re leaving and not in this direction. It doesn’t look to me like you’re with anybody.”

“Whoever it is wouldn’t let you see him.”

“Yeah, sure, right.”

“Just as I assume that anybody following you wouldn’t be obvious, either.”

“Why would anybody follow me?” Buchanan suddenly wondered if he was being followed. “This is certainly the weirdest. . Okay. I’m hungry. I get the feeling you won’t let me alone. Let’s eat.”

He opened the door from the dining car. The clack-clack-clack of the wheels became louder. “I’m warning you, though.”

“What?” She straightened.

“I’m not easy.”

“What a coincidence.” She followed.