Assumed Identity

9

“How did she know my real name? How did she know so many of my pseudonyms? How did she know where to find me? I asked her those questions several times.” Buchanan was in a phone booth on Loyola Avenue, not far from Union Passenger Terminal in New Orleans. The street was noisy. The October sky was hazy blue. The weather was warm and humid. But all Buchanan cared about was what he heard on the phone and whether he was being followed.

“We’ll find out,” his deep-voiced contact officer said. “Do whatever you were going to do. Don’t change your plans. We’ll get back to you. But if anything new develops, call us immediately. Just remember, the evidence she claims to have-the photographs-they aren’t conclusive.”

“But she’s not supposed to have those photographs at all. What happened in Fort Lauderdale after I left?” Buchanan demanded. “This problem was supposed to have been taken care of.”

“We thought the woman was merely a hired hand. Nobody guessed she’d be a reporter. When she didn’t resurface, she didn’t seem important.”

“For all I know, Bailey’s involved in this, too.”

“No,” the voice said firmly. “He isn’t. Just stay calm. Enjoy your furlough. At the moment, the woman can’t prove anything.”

“Tell the colonel he was in one of the photographs she showed me.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll be sure to tell him. Meanwhile, in case we need to get in touch with you, stick around your hotel room between six and eight tonight. After that, check the possible rendezvous sites we agreed on before you left.”

Tense, Buchanan hung up the phone, picked up his travel bag, opened the booth’s door, and stepped out.

A redheaded woman and her male companion appeared from behind trees in a nearby park.

God, Buchanan thought.

He stalked toward them. “Enough is enough. You’re not going to ruin my furlough by following me.”

Holly McCoy looked disappointed that she’d been spotted.

“Who were you phoning? Your superior officers to tell them you’d been exposed?”

“An old friend who moved down here. Not that it’s any of your business.”

“Prove it. Let’s go visit him.”

“His girlfriend told me he had to go to Houston for an emergency sales conference.”

“Convenient. What’s his name?”

“Lady, I’m annoyed that I won’t get to see him, and you’re not making things any better by-”

“Holly. Please, call me Holly. I mean, since we nearly spent the night together, we might as well use each other’s first name.”

Buchanan turned to her male companion. “Whatever you’re being paid, it isn’t enough. After listening to her all the time, don’t you just want to put a noose around your neck and put an end to it all?”

He walked away toward the entrance to the nearby post office.

“Brendan!” Holly called.

Buchanan didn’t respond.

“Bren!” she called.

Buchanan kept walking.

“Hey!” she called. “What hotel are you using?”

It had been so long since anyone had used Buchanan’s first name and his nickname that he didn’t identify them with himself. Slowly, they registered on him. He turned. “Why should I make things easy for you? Damn it, find out for yourself.”

In front of the post office, a man got out of a taxi. Buchanan ducked in and gave directions to the driver. As the taxi sped into traffic, the last thing he heard Holly shout was, “Hey!”