Assumed Identity

11

Six P.M.

Back in his hotel room, he obeyed instructions and waited in case his superiors needed to contact him. He thought about ordering a meal from room service, but his appetite was gone. He thought about watching CNN, but he had no interest. Juana. He kept anticipating his reunion with her. He kept reliving their last night together six years ago. He kept regretting his failed opportunity.

He sat in a chair, and suddenly the room was in blackness. He’d left the draperies open to appreciate the sunset. A moment ago, it seemed, the sky had been crimson. Now abruptly it and the room were dark. Confused, uneasy, he glanced at the luminous dial on his watch.

Nine-sixteen?

No. That wasn’t possible. The shadows must be playing tricks on him. He wasn’t seeing the dial correctly. Leaning toward a table, he turned on a light and studied his watch, disturbed to discover that the time was indeed 9:16, that three hours and sixteen minutes had passed without his being aware of them.

Dear God, he thought, that’s the third time in the last three days. No. I’m wrong. It’s the fourth. Jesus. Am I so preoccupied that I’m blotting out my surroundings?

He stood, went to the bathroom, then came back and paced, trying to regain his sense of motion. As he passed the telephone on the bureau near the closet, he was startled to notice that the tiny red message light was flashing.

But I didn’t hear the phone ring.

Worried that his contact officer had tried to relay emergency instructions, he quickly picked up the phone and pressed zero.

After three buzzes, a woman answered. “Hotel operator.”

He tried to sound calm. “This is room twelve fourteen. My message light is flashing.”

“Just a moment, sir, while I. . Yes.”

Buchanan’s heart pounded.

The operator said, “Holly McCoy left a message at five-forty-five. It says, ‘We’re staying in the same hotel. Why don’t we get together later?’ I can call her room if you like, sir.”

“No, thank you. It won’t be necessary.”

Buchanan set down the phone.

His emotions were mixed. He felt relieved that he hadn’t missed an urgent message that his superiors had tried to give him. He felt equally relieved that the message he did receive had been logged at 5:45. Before he’d returned to his room. Before he’d sat down and lost over three hours. At least he wasn’t losing touch so deeply that a phone call had failed to rouse him.

But he also felt disturbed that Holly McCoy had managed to track him to this hotel. It wasn’t just her annoying persistence that troubled him, her relentless pressure. It was something further. How had she found him? Was she so determined that she’d telephoned every one of the hundreds of hotels in the area and asked for. .?

When I made the reservation, I should have used a different name.

Hey, using different names is what got you into this. If Holly McCoy found out that you used an alias to register, then she’d really be suspicious. Besides, if you’d used an unauthorized false name to register, your superiors would have wondered what on earth you thought you were doing? You’re supposed to be on R and R, not on a mission.

But that’s exactly what Buchanan was on, a mission, and the rendezvous time was almost upon him. He had to get to Cafe du Monde by eleven o’clock. That was when he and Juana had arrived there six years ago.

Tonight. After making sure that his pistol was covered by his gray sport coat and securely braced behind his belt, at his spine, he opened the door, checked the hallway, locked his room, and went quickly down the fire stairs.