Assumed Identity (1993) (21 page)

Delgado's aide had continued speaking.

'What?' Delgado demanded.

'I asked you, if we find her or if Drummond's men lead us to her, what do you want us to do?'

'I'll decide that when the moment comes.'

Delgado set down the phone. No matter how thoroughly his estate had been checked for hidden microphones and how well his telephone system had been examined for taps, he wasn't about to say anything more on this topic in this fashion. The conversation had not been incriminating, but it would certainly raise questions if the wrong people heard a recording of it. Delgado didn't want to raise even more questions and indeed supply the answers by providing the full instructions that his aide requested. For Delgado had forcefully decided what needed to be done. By all means. To soothe his ulcerated stomach. To dispel his nightmares and allow him to sleep.

If his men located the woman, he wanted them to kill her.

And then kill Drummond.

*

PART FIVE

Chapter 1.

Miami, Florida.

The man's voice echoed metallically from the airport's public-address system. 'Mr Victor Grant. Mr Victor Grant. Please go to a courtesy telephone.'

Buchanan had just arrived at Miami International, and as he blended with the Aeromexico passengers leaving the immigration-customs area, he wondered if Woodfield had gotten the message through to Maxwell and how the rendezvous would be arranged. Amid the noise and congestion of the terminal, he barely heard the announcement and waited for it to be repeated, making sure before he walked across to a white phone marked AIRPORT mounted on a wall near a row of pay phones. There wasn't any way to dial. When he picked it up, he heard a buzz, then another as a phone rang at another station. A woman answered, and when he explained that he was Victor Grant, she told him that his party would be waiting for him at the information counter.

Buchanan thanked her and replaced the phone, then analyzed the rendezvous tactic. A surveillance team is watching the courtesy telephones, he concluded. After Victor Grant's name was called, they waited for a man to go to one of the phones. The team has either studied a photograph of me or been given a description. In any case, now they've identified me, and they'll hang back to see if anyone is following me while I go to the information counter.

But as pleased as Buchanan was about the care of the rendezvous procedure and as delighted as he was to have escaped the authorities in Mexico, to be back in the United States, he was also troubled. His controllers obviously thought that the situation remained delicate. Otherwise, they wouldn't have involved so many operatives in making contact with him.

At a modest pace, giving the surveillance team ample chance to watch the crowd (besides, he was in too much pain to walk any faster), Buchanan pulled his suitcase and proceeded toward the information counter.

A pleasant, athletic-looking, casually dressed man in his thirties emerged from the commotion of passengers. He held out his hand, smiled, and said, 'Hello, Vic. It's good to see you. How are you feeling? How was the flight?'

Buchanan shook hands with him. 'Fine.'

'Great. The van's right this way. Here, I'll take your bag.'

The man, who had brown hair, blue eyes, and sun-leathered skin, touched Buchanan's elbow and guided him toward an exit. Buchanan went along, although he didn't feel comfortable since he hadn't received some kind of identification code. When the man said, 'By the way, both Charles Maxwell and Wade want us to phone and let them know you're okay,' Buchanan relaxed. Several people knew about his claimed relationship with Charles Maxwell, but only his controllers knew that Buchanan's case officer in Cancun had used the pseudonym of Wade.

Across from the terminal, in the airport's crowded parking ramp, the man unlocked a gray van, the side of which was stenciled with white: BON VOYAGE INC., PLEASURE CRAFTS REFITTED, REMODELED. Until then, they'd been making small talk, but now Buchanan became silent, waiting for the man to give him directions, to let him know if it was safe to speak candidly and to tell him what scenario he was supposed to follow.

As the man drove from the parking ramp, he pressed a button on what looked like a portable radio mounted under the dash. 'Okay. The jammer's on. It's safe to talk. I'll give you the quick version and fill in the fine points later. I'm Jack Doyle. Used to be a SEAL. Took a hit in Panama, had to resign, and started a business, outfitting pleasure boats in Fort Lauderdale. All of that's true. Now this is where you come in. From time to time, I do favors for people I used to work for. In this case, they've asked me to give you a cover. You're supposed to be an employee of mine. Your controllers supplied all the necessary background documentation, social security, taxes, that sort of thing. As Victor Grant, you used to be in the SEALS as well, so it was natural that I'd treat you like more than just a hired hand. You live in an apartment above my office. You're a loner. You travel around a lot, doing jobs for me. If my neighbors get asked about you, it won't be surprising that they're not familiar with you. Any questions?'

'How long have you employed me?'

'Three months.'

'How much do I earn?'

'Thirty thousand a year.'

'In that case, I'd like a raise.'

Doyle laughed. 'Good. A sense of humor. We'll get along.'

'Sure,' Buchanan said. 'But we'll get along even better if you stop at that gas station up ahead.'

'Oh?'

'Otherwise I'll be pissing blood inside your van.'

'Jesus.'

Doyle quickly turned off the freeway toward a gas station. When Buchanan came out of the men's room, Doyle was leaving a pay phone. 'I called one of our team who's acting as communications relay at the airport. He's positive no one followed you.'

Buchanan slumped against the van, his face cold with sweat. 'You'd better get me to a.'

Chapter 2.

The doctor stood beside Buchanan's bed, read Buchanan's chart, listened to his heart and respiration, checked his intravenous bottle, then took off his bifocals and scratched his salt-and-pepper beard. 'You have an amazing constitution, Mr Grant. Normally I don't see anybody as banged up as you unless they've been in a serious car accident.' He paused. 'Or.'

He never finished his statement, but Buchanan was certain that what the doctor meant to add was 'combat' just as Buchanan was certain that Doyle would never have brought him here unless the small hospital had affiliations with his controllers. In all likelihood, the doctor had once been a military physician.

'I have the results of your X-rays and other tests,' the doctor continued. 'Your wound is infected, as you guessed. But now that I've redressed and resutured it and started you on antibiotics, it ought to heal with reasonable speed and without complication. Your temperature is already coming down.'

'Which means - given how serious you look - the bad news is my internal bleeding,' Buchanan said.

The doctor hesitated. 'Actually that bleeding seems more serious than it is. No doubt, it must have been quite a shock when you discovered blood in your urine. I'm sure you've been worried about a ruptured organ. The reassuring truth is that the bleeding is caused by a small, broken blood vessel in your bladder. Surgery isn't necessary. If you rest, if you don't indulge in strenuous activity, the bleeding will stop and the vessel will heal fairly soon. It sometimes occurs among obsessive joggers, for example. If they take a few weeks off, they're able to jog again.'

'Then what is it?' The doctor's somber expression made Buchanan more uneasy. 'What's wrong?'

'The injury to your skull, Mr Grant. And the periodic tremors in your right hand.'

Buchanan's chest felt icy. 'I thought the tremors were caused by shock to the nerves because of the wound in my shoulder. When the wound heals, I assumed.'

The doctor squinted, concerned. 'Shock. Nerves. You're partially correct. The problem does involve the nerves. But not in the way you imagine. Mr Grant, to repeat, you have an amazing constitution. Your skull has been fractured. You've suffered a concussion. That accounts for your dizziness and blurred vision. Frankly, given the bruise I saw on the CAT-scan of your brain, I'm amazed that you were able to stay on your feet, let alone think on your feet. You must have remarkable endurance, not to mention determination.'

'It's called adrenaline, Doctor.' Buchanan's voice dropped. 'You're telling me I have neurologic damage?'

'That's my opinion.'

'Then what happens now? An operation?'

'Not without a second opinion,' the doctor said. 'I'd have to consult with a specialist.'

Restraining an inward tremor, appalled by the notion of willingly being rendered unconscious, Buchanan said, 'I'm asking for your opinion, Doctor.'

'Have you been sleeping for an unusual amount of time?'

'Sleeping?' Buchanan almost laughed but resisted the impulse because he knew that the laugh would sound hysterical. 'I've been too busy to sleep.'

'Have you vomited?'

'No.'

'Have you experienced any unusual physical aberrations, apart from the dizziness, blurred vision, and tremors in your right hand?'

'No.'

'Your answers are encouraging. I'd like to consult with a specialist in neurology. It may be that surgery isn't required.'

'And if it isn't?' Buchanan asked rigidly. 'What's my risk?'

'I try not to deal with an hypothesis. First we'll watch you carefully, wait until tomorrow morning, do another CAT-scan, and see if the bruise on your brain has reduced in size.'

'Best case,' Buchanan said. 'Suppose the bruise shrinks. Suppose I don't need an operation.'

'The best case is the worst case,' the doctor said. "Damaged brain cells do not regenerate. I'd make very certain that I was never struck on my skull again.'

Chapter 3.

The one-story house was in a suburb of Fort Lauderdale called Plantation, its plain design disguised by abundant shrubs and flowers.

Someone obviously took loving care of the property. Buchanan wondered if Doyle made a hobby of landscaping. Their conversation during the drive from the hospital to Doyle's home indicated that the recession had affected Doyle's business and he was hardly in a position to afford a gardener. But after Doyle parked in a carport and led Buchanan through the side screen door into the house, it quickly became obvious who was taking care of the grounds.

Doyle had a wife. Buchanan hadn't been sure inasmuch as Doyle didn't wear a wedding ring, and Buchanan seldom asked personal questions. But now he faced an energetic, pixyish woman a little younger than Doyle, maybe thirty. She had happy eyes, cheerleader freckles, and an engaging, spontaneous smile. Buchanan couldn't tell what color her hair was because she had it wrapped in a black-and-red-checkered handkerchief. She wore a white, cotton apron, and her hands were covered with flour from a ball of dough that she was kneading on a butcher-board counter.

'Oh, my,' she said with a pleasant Southern accent (Louisiana, Buchanan thought), 'I didn't think you'd be here this soon.' Appealingly flustered, she touched her face and left a flour print on her freckles. 'The house is a mess. I haven't had time to-'

'The house looks fine, Cindy. Really,' Doyle said. 'Traffic wasn't as bad as I figured. That's why we're early. Sorry.'

Cindy chuckled. 'Might as well look on the bright side. Now I don't have to wear myself out, rushing to clean the house.'

Her smile was infectious. Buchanan returned it.

Doyle gestured toward him. 'Cindy, this is my friend I told you about. Vic Grant. I used to know him in the service. He's been working for me the past three months.'

'Pleased to meet you.' Cindy held out her hand. Then she remembered the flour on it, blushed, and started to retract the hand.

'No, that's okay,' Buchanan said. 'I like the feel of flour.' He shook hands with her.

'Classy guy,' she told her husband.

'Hey, all my friends are classy.'

'Tell me another one.' She studied Buchanan, pointing at the thick bandage around his skull. 'I've got another black-and-red handkerchief that'll sure look better than that.'

Buchanan grinned. 'I'm not supposed to take this off for a while. It doesn't do much good. It's not like a cast or anything. But it reminds me to be careful of my head.'

'Fractured skull, Jack told me.'

Buchanan nodded, his head still aching.

He expected her to ask him how he'd injured it. That would be a natural, logical next statement, and he was preparing to repeat his lie about falling off a boat, but she surprised him, suddenly switching topics, gesturing toward the dough on the counter. 'I'm making you a pie. I hope you like Key lime.'

He hid his puzzlement and told her, 'I seldom taste homemade pie. I'm sure anything you cook would be wonderful.'

'Jack, I like this guy better and better.'

'I'll show you to the guest room,' Doyle said.

'Anything you need, just ask,' Cindy added.

'Hey, I bet everything is fine,' Buchanan said. 'I really appreciate your taking me in like this. I don't have a family or anything, and the doctor thought it would be better if.'

'Shush,' Cindy said. 'For the next few days, we're your family.'

As Doyle led Buchanan from the kitchen toward a sunlit hallway, Buchanan glanced back toward Cindy, still puzzled about why she hadn't asked him the obvious question about what had happened to his skull.