Assumed Identity

5

Pretending not to notice her suspicion when he locked the door, Buchanan lifted the compartment’s small table from the wall and secured its brace. Then he unpacked the paper bags and spread out their contents, making sure he took the roast beef sandwiches, since he didn’t know what she might have put in the chicken salad sandwiches while she waited for him. He twisted off the caps on two bottles of beer.

Throughout, she remained standing. In the narrow compartment, Buchanan felt very aware of being close to her.

He handed her an open bottle of beer, bit into a sandwich, and sat on one side of the table. “You think you know my name. In fact, according to you, I’ve got several of them. What’s yours? ”

She sat across from him, brushing back a strand of red hair. Her lipstick was the same color. “Holly McCoy.”

“And you say you’re a reporter?” Buchanan drank from his beer, noting that she hadn’t touched hers, thinking, Maybe she expects me to drink all four bottles and hopes the beer will make me less careful about what I’m saying. “For what newspaper?”

“The Washington Post.”

“I read that paper a lot. But I don’t think I’ve ever seen your name as a byline.”

“I’m new.”

“Ah.”

“This will be my first major story.”

“Ah.”

“For the Post. Before that, I worked as a feature writer for the L.A. Times.”

“Ah.” Buchanan swallowed part of a sandwich. The roast beef wasn’t bad-a little dry, but the mayonnaise and lettuce compensated. He sipped more of his beer. “I thought you were hungry. You’re not eating.” As she made herself nibble at some chicken salad, he continued. “Now what’s this about an interview? And these names I’m supposed to have. . I told you, I’m Peter Lang.”

Buchanan regretted that. It had been a mistake. When the woman had confronted him in the dining car, he’d responded with the name of the role on which he was concentrating at the moment. His identities had become confused. He had no ID for Peter Lang. He had to correct the problem.

“I have a confession to make,” he said. “I lied. You told me you’d leave me alone if you couldn’t guess my name. So when you called me by my right name, I decided to pretend I was somebody else and hoped you’d go away.”

“I didn’t,” she said.

“Then I might as well be honest.” He set down his bottle of beer and reached in his back pocket, bringing out his wallet showing her his driver’s license. “My name is Buchanan. Brendan. Nickname: Bren. Although no one’s called me Bren in quite a while. How did you know?”

“You’re in the military.”

“Right again. And I repeat, how did you know? Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m a captain with Special Forces. My home base is Fort Bragg. I’m on furlough, heading to New Orleans. Never been there before. So what? You have a thing about soldiers? Is that it?”

She tilted her head, a motion that emphasized her elegant neck. “In a manner of speaking.”

“Well, as long as you’re speaking, why don’t you speak plainly?” Buchanan said. “Enough is enough. You still haven’t told me how you know my name. I’ve been a good sport. What’s this about?”

“Humor me. I’d like to mention some code words to you,” she said.

“Code words? Of all the. .” Buchanan gestured with exasperation.

“Tell me if they mean anything to you. Task Force One Hundred and Sixty. Seaspray. The Intelligence Support Activity. Yellow Fruit.”

Jesus Christ, Buchanan thought, not showing how startled he was. “I’ve never heard of them.”

“Now why don’t I believe you?”

“Look, lady-”

“Relax. Enjoy the sandwiches,” she said. “I’ll tell you a story.”