Assumed Identity

2

Buchanan’s appointment was for 9:30, but he took care to arrive ten minutes early in order to survey the meeting place and verify that nothing about the site had changed that might jeopardize the rendezvous. For the past three evenings, he’d visited this hotel exactly at this time, and on each occasion he’d satisfied himself that the location was perfect.

The problem was that this night wasn’t those other nights. A plan that existed perfectly on paper had to match the “real world,” and the real world had a dangerous habit of changing from day to day. A fire might have damaged the building. Or the site might be so unusually crowded that a discreet, nonetheless damning, conversation could be easily overheard. An exit might be blocked. There were too many variables. If anything disturbed him, Buchanan would disguise his concern and drift back into the night. Then by prior agreement, when his contact arrived at 9:30 and didn’t see Buchanan, the contact would know that the circumstance wasn’t ideal, a euphemism for “get your ass out of here,” that the meeting had been postponed until eight tomorrow morning at breakfast at another hotel, and of course Buchanan had arranged a further backup plan in case that second meeting, too, was postponed. Because Buchanan had to assure his contact that every precaution was being considered, that the safety of the contact was Buchanan’s primary consideration.

So Buchanan strolled past the two Mexican porters at the entrance to Club Internacional. Inside the lobby, he eased beyond a group of jovial American tourists on their way to Cancun’s Hard Rock Cafe and tried not to breathe the perfumed, acrid odor of insecticide that the hotel periodically sprayed along its corridors to discourage the area’s considerable population of cockroaches. Buchanan wondered which the guests hated more-the offending spray or the ubiquitous insects that after a while seemed as commonplace as the area’s numerous lizards. While a maid unobtrusively swept up dead insects, Buchanan hesitated at the rear of the lobby just long enough to notice a Japanese guest coming through a door beside the gift shop on the left. That door, Buchanan knew, led to balconies, rooms, and stairwells to the beach. One of many exits. In working order. So far so good.

To his right, he proceeded along a short hallway and came to steps that went down to a restaurant. As on previous nights, the restaurant was moderately busy, just enough for Buchanan and his contact to be inconspicuous but not so busy that they’d be surrounded by potential eavesdroppers.

Again, so far so good. Perhaps I’m wrong, Buchanan thought. Perhaps everything’s going to be fine.

Don’t kid yourself, a warning voice insisted.

Hey, I’m not about to cancel a meeting just because I’ve got a case of nerves.

He felt briefly reassured when a Mexican waiter came over and agreed to sit him at the table he requested. That table was ideally situated in the far right corner, away from the other diners, near the exit to the hotel’s gardens. Buchanan chose a chair that put his back to the wall and gave him a view of the stairs leading down to the restaurant. The air conditioning cooled his sweat. He glanced at his watch: 9:25. His contact would be here in five minutes. Pretending to study a menu, he tried to seem calm.

At once, pulse increasing, he noticed two men appear at the top of the stairs that led to the restaurant.

But Buchanan had expected to meet only one man.

Both were Hispanic. Both wore beige linen suits that were stylishly wrinkled, their yellow silk shirts open to their breast-bones. Each had a gold Rolex watch, as well as several gold neck chains and bracelets. Each was thin, in his thirties, with chiseled, narrow, severe features and thick, dark, slicked-back hair gathered in a ponytail. Their hooded eyes were as dark as their hair, and like their hair, their eyes glinted. Predator’s eyes. Hawk’s eyes. Merciless eyes. The men were gemelos, twins, and as they descended toward the restaurant, they braced their shoulders, puffed out their chests, and exuded confidence, the world at their command.

Buchanan tried to look relaxed while he intensified his awareness. The men immediately headed in his direction. Their foot soldiers would have given them his description, Buchanan knew. More, there would have been surreptitious photographs taken of him. He dreaded being photographed.

As the twins reached his table, Buchanan stood to shake hands with them. He deliberately hadn’t worn a jacket, wanting them to see that he wasn’t armed. They would note that his navy shirt was tucked under his belt rather than hanging loose and possibly concealing a pistol. They would also note that his shirt was somewhat tight, sufficiently so that if he were hiding a tape recorder or a transmitting device, the outline would be obvious. Of course, state-of-the-art transmitters were so miniaturized that one could easily be disguised as a button on his shirt, just as a small handgun could be secured above his ankle, beneath his pants. Not that Buchanan would need a handgun at this proximity. The ballpoint pen in his shirt pocket could be equally lethal. Nonetheless, Buchanan knew that these hawk-eyed men would appreciate his gesture of apparent openness. At the same time, he took for granted that, despite their display of confidence, they would maintain the wariness that had kept them alive this long.

They greeted him in English.

Buchanan replied in Spanish, “Thank you for meeting me.” He used ustedes, the formal word for “you.”

“De nada,” the first man said, and gestured for Buchanan to sit.

Both glanced around the restaurant, seemed satisfied by the meeting place, and sat as well. No doubt, Buchanan thought, they’d ordered subordinates to check the restaurant’s suitability before they’d arrived. Presumably, they also had stationed guards inconspicuously outside the hotel and in the corridor that led to the restaurant. As a further precaution, they took napkins from the table, spread them on their laps, and made a smooth, practiced motion with their right hands that told Buchanan they’d slid a pistol beneath each napkin.

Finally settled, they studied him.

“You have cojones,” the first twin said.

“Gracias.”

“And the luck of a fool,” the second twin said. “We could have dealt with you permanently at any time.”

“Claro que si,” Buchanan said. “Of course. But I hoped that you would listen to reason. I have confidence in the business opportunity I came to offer you.”

“Our business is already satisfying,” the first twin said.

“So what makes you think that you can make our business even more satisfying?” The second twin squinted.

Buchanan spoke softly. “Because you know how satisfying my own business has become. I take for granted that I’m reasoning with disciplined businessmen. Professionals. The proof is that you didn’t respond to my efforts by. . as you put it. . dealing with me permanently. You saw how. .”

Buchanan coughed discreetly in warning and cocked his head to the left.

Their waiter approached and gave them menus. He compared his two Hispanic guests to the solitary norteamericano and obviously decided that since Cancun was Mexico’s most popular resort for Americans, he would give Buchanan the most attention. “Would you like a drink, senores?”

“Tequila for me. Y para mis compadres?” Buchanan turned to them.

“The same,” the first twin said. “Bring lime and salt.”

“Make it doubles for everyone,” the second twin said.

As the waiter departed, the first twin scowled, leaned over the table, almost touching Buchanan, and whispered hoarsely, “No more bullshit, Senor Potter”-the first time he’d used Buchanan’s pseudonym. “What do you want from us? This is your one and only chance.” He reached toward the napkin that covered his lap and patted his pistol. “Give us a reason not to kill you.”