Assumed Identity (1993) (41 page)

Then he realized.

His skin prickled.

What's happening to me?

The moment the nurse disappeared into the hospital, he stood. The reason he hadn't wanted to be brought down in a wheelchair was that he didn't want to leave the hospital before he had a chance to get to a pay phone.

Managing not to waver, he re-entered the lobby and crossed toward a bank of telephones. His hand shook as he put coins in a slot. Thirty seconds later, he was talking to a contact officer.

'Where have you been?' the gruff voice demanded.

Keeping his own voice low, relieved that the phone on either side of him wasn't being used, taking care that he wouldn't be overheard, Buchanan answered, 'I've been in a hospital.'

'What?

'A guy tried to mug me,' he lied. 'I didn't see him coming. I got stabbed from behind.'

'Good God. When you didn't show up at the various rendezvous points this morning, we got worried. We've had a team waiting in case you're in trouble.'

'I got lucky. The wound isn't serious. Mostly they kept me in the hospital for observation. With so many nurses coming in and out, I didn't want to risk phoning this number, especially since the hospital would automatically have a record of the number. This is the first chance I've had to call in.'

'You had us sweating, buddy.'

'The emergency's over. If you had people at the rendezvous sites, that means you had something you wanted me to know about. What is it?'

'About the woman reporter you met on the train. Is your phone secure?'

'Yes.'

'Then this is the message. Continue your furlough. Don't worry about the reporter. We're taking steps to guarantee that she's discouraged.'

Buchanan's grip tightened on the phone.

'Check in at the rendezvous sites on schedule. We'll let you know if anything else develops.'

'Roger,' Buchanan said. Swallowing dryly, he set down the phone.

But he didn't turn away. He just kept staring at the phone.

Taking steps to guarantee that she's discouraged? What the hell did that mean?

It wasn't considered professional for him to ask to have a deliberately vague term clarified. His superiors never said more or less than they intended to. Their use of language, even when vague, was precise. 'Discouraged' could mean anything from seeing that Holly lost her job. to attempting to bribe her. to discrediting her research. to trying to scare her off, or.

Buchanan didn't want to consider the possibility that Holly might be the target of ultimate discouragement.

No, he thought. They wouldn't assassinate a reporter, especially one from The Washington Post. That would enflame the story rather than smother it.

But reporters have been assassinated from time to time, he thought.

And it wouldn't look like an assassination.

As he turned from the phone, he touched the bandage on his right side, the stitches under it.

Holly - wearing a brown, paisley dress that enhanced the red of her hair and the green of her eyes - was in a chair twenty feet away.

Buchanan didn't show his surprise.

She came over. 'Checking in with your superiors?'

'Calling another friend.'

'Why don't I believe you?'

'Listen, I want you to stay away from me,' Buchanan said.

'And end a beautiful relationship? Now you're trying to hurt my feelings.'

'I'm serious. You don't want to be around me. You don't want to attract attention.'

'What are you talking about?'

Buchanan crossed the lobby, heading toward the hospital's gift shop.

'Hey, you're not going to get rid of me that easily.' Her high heels made muffled sounds on the lobby's carpet.

'I'm trying to do you a favor,' Buchanan said. 'Take the strong hint. Stay clear of me.'

In the gift shop, he paid for a box of super-strength Tylenol. His head wouldn't stop aching. He'd been tempted to ask the doctor to give him a prescription for something to stop the pain, but he'd known that the doctor would have been troubled enough as a consequence to want to keep him in the hospital longer. The only consolation was that the headache distracted Buchanan from the pain in his side.

Holly followed him from the gift shop. 'I've got a few things to show you.'

'Not interested.' He stopped at a water fountain, swallowed three Tylenol, wiped water from his mouth, and headed toward the exit. 'What does interest me is getting my belongings back.'

'Not a chance.'

'Holly.' He pivoted sharply toward her. 'Let's pretend I am the kind of person you think I am. What do you suppose would happen to you if I told the people I work for that you had a false passport with my picture in it? How long do you think you'd get to walk around with it?'

Her emerald eyes became more intense. 'Then you didn't tell them.'

'What do you mean?'

'I wondered if you would. I doubted it. You don't want your superiors knowing you had that passport - and lost it. What did you want it for in the first place?'

'Isn't it obvious? So I'd be able to leave the country.'

'Is there something wrong with using your own passport?'

'Yeah.' Buchanan scanned the people near the exit. 'I don't have one. I've never been issued one.'

They reached the noisy street. Again the glare of the sun stabbed his eyes. 'Where's your friend? Ted. The guy on the train. It's my guess you don't go anywhere without him.'

'He's nearby, looking out for my welfare.'

'Using a two-way radio? I won't keep talking with you unless you prove to me this conversation isn't being recorded.'

She opened her purse. 'See? No radio.'

'And my belongings aren't in there, either. Where'd you put them?'

'They're safe.'

In front of the hospital, a man and a woman got out of a taxi. Buchanan hurried to get in after they walked toward the lobby.

Holly scrambled in after him.

'This isn't a good idea,' Buchanan said.

'Where to?' the driver asked.

'Holiday Inn-Crowne Plaza.'

As the taxi pulled from the curb, Buchanan turned to Holly. 'This is not the game you seem to think it is. I want my belongings returned to me. Give me the key to your room. I'll get what's mine, pack your things, and check you out.'

'What makes you think I want to leave the hotel?'

Buchanan leaned close. 'Because you do not want to be seen near me. Don't ask me to be more explicit. This is as plain as I can make it.'

'You're trying to scare me again.'

'You bet, and lady, I hope I'm succeeding.'

Chapter 6.

'Close enough,' Buchanan told the driver.

'But we got another two blocks, suh.'

'This is fine. Take the lady for a drive. Be back on this corner in thirty minutes.' Buchanan stared at Holly. 'The key to your room.' He held out his hand.

'You're really serious.'

'The key.'

Holly gave it to him. 'Lighten up. Your belongings, as you call them, aren't in my room anyhow.'

'Where are they? In Ted's room?'

She didn't answer.

'I mean it, Holly. Neither you nor your friend wants to be found with my things in their possession. It wouldn't be healthy for you.'

Her face changed color slightly, paling, as if he were finally getting his message across. 'What do I get in return?'

'Peace of mind.'

'Not good enough,' Holly said.

'What do you want?'

'The chance to keep talking with you.'

'I told you I'll be back in half an hour.'

Holly studied him. 'Yes. All right. They're in Ted's room.'

'I don't suppose you have a key to it.'

'As a matter of fact.' She handed it to him. 'In case I needed to get your belongings and Ted wasn't around.'

'You just did a very smart thing.' Buchanan got out of the taxi. 'Be careful when you pack my underwear. They're expensive. I don't want the lace torn.' Buchanan stared at her and shut the door.

Chapter 7.

The two blocks felt like two miles. Along the way, Buchanan unwrapped the bandage from around his skull and shoved it into a trash can. By the time he reached the Crowne Plaza, he felt lightheaded, his brow filmed with sweat. His only consolation was that as he entered the softly lit lobby, escaping the hammer force of the sun, his headache felt slightly less severe.

Rather than go directly up to Ted's room and then Holly's, he decided he'd first better learn if he had any messages. He checked the lobby to see if anybody showed any interest in him.

There. In the corner on the right next to the entrance. A man, late twenties, in a blue seersucker suit. Sitting in a lounge chair. Reading a newspaper.

The well-built man was in a perfect position to see people coming into the lobby before they had a chance to notice him. The man's glance in Buchanan's direction was ever so brief but ever so intense. And like a good operative, the man gave no sign that he recognized Buchanan.

So they staked out the hotel, Buchanan thought.

But it isn't me they're looking for.

No. The person they're looking for is Holly.

Showing no indication that the man in the corner interested him, Buchanan went over to the front desk, waited while a clerk took care of a guest, and then stepped forward.

'Yes, sir?'

'Are there any messages for me? My room number's.'

The clerk smiled, waiting.

'My room number's.'

'Yes?'

'. Damn.' Buchanan's pulse raced. 'I can't remember what it is. I left my key here at the desk when I went out, so I'm afraid I can't tell you the number on it.'

'No problem, sir. All you have to do is give me your name. The computer will match the name with your room number.'

'Victor Grant,' Buchanan said automatically.

The clerk tapped some letters on a computer keyboard, hummed, and studied the screen. He began to frown. 'Sorry, sir. No one by that name is registered here.'

'Victor Grant. There must be.'

'No, sir.'

Jesus, Buchanan suddenly realized. 'Brendan Buchanan. I gave you the wrong name.'

'Wrong name? What do you mean, sir?'

'I'm an actor. We're making a movie in town. My character's name is Victor Grant. I'm so used to responding to that name I. If I'm into my character that much, I ought to win an Oscar.'

'What kind of movie is it, sir?'

'Did you ever see The Big Easy?'

'Of course, sir. I see all the films made in New Orleans.'

'Well, this is the sequel.'

'I have it now, sir. Brendan Buchanan. Room twelve-fourteen. And no, there aren't any messages.'

'Could I have my key, please?'

The clerk complied. 'What other movies have you been in?'

'None. Until now, I've worked on the stage. This is my big break. Thanks.'

Buchanan walked toward the elevator. He pressed the button and gazed straight ahead, waiting for the doors to open, certain that the clerk was staring toward him. Don't look back. Don't look back.

Victor Grant? You're losing it, buddy. When you left the hospital, you made the same mistake. You told the nurse you were.

No. That was a different mistake. You told the nurse you were Peter Lang. Now you say you're.

You can't even keep the names consistent.

His head ached. It wouldn't stop aching.

The doors at last opened. Inside, alone, as the elevator rose, Buchanan sagged against a wall, wiping sweat from his forehead, wondering if he were going to be sick.

Can't. I have to keep moving.

He had no intention of going to his room. The only reason he'd lied and told the clerk that he'd left his key at the desk before going out was that he needed an explanation for his not being able to say what his room number was. What had really happened to his key was that it had fallen out of his jacket while it was being removed from him after he was wounded. He was so preoccupied that he truly couldn't recall the number of his room. The lapse scared him.

Two floors above his own, he got off the elevator and used the key that Holly had given him to open Ted's door. It took him less than five minutes to find the gun and Victor Grant's passport where Ted had hidden them under the mattress.

Victor Grant. Buchanan stared at the photograph in the passport. He was tempted to tear the document to pieces and burn it in the sink. That would solve one problem. There'd be one less piece of evidence linking him to a past identity. But what he'd told Holly was true. He'd hung on to the passport in case he needed to get out of the country. And the way things were developing, he might still have a need to do that.

Victor Grant.

Peter Lang.

Brendan Buchanan.

Pick one, damn it. Be consistent.

What are you here for?

Juana.

Where was she last night? Why did somebody stab me? Was somebody trying to stop me from helping.?