Assumed Identity (1993) (17 page)

That was one reason - the least important - for his refusal to tell his interrogators what they wanted. The reason, of course, was that to confess would have been a violation of professional conduct. In refusing to talk, Buchanan had three advantages. First, his interrogators were employing clumsy, brutal methods, which were easier to resist than the precise application of electrical shock combined with such inhibition-reducing drugs as sodium amytal. Second, because he was already weakened by the injury to his head and the wound in his shoulder, he had a tendency to pass out quickly while being tortured, his body supplying a kind of natural anesthesia.

And third, he had a script to follow, a role to play, a scenario that gave him a way to behave. The primary rule was that if captured, he could never admit the truth. Oh, he could use portions of the truth to concoct a believable lie. But the whole truth was out of the question. For Buchanan to say that, yes, he'd killed the three Mexicans, but they were drug dealers after all, and besides he was working under cover for a covert branch of the U.S. military would have temporarily saved his life. However, that life would not have been worth much. As an object lesson to the United States for interfering in Mexican affairs, he might have been forced to serve a lengthy sentence in a Mexican prison, and given the severity of Mexican prisons, especially for yanquis, that sentence in all probability would have been the same as a death sentence. Or if Mexico released him to the United States as a gesture of good will (in exchange for favors), his superiors would make his life a nightmare because he had violated his pact with them.

Chapter 5.

'Victor Grant,' an overweight, bearded interrogator with slicked-back dark hair said to Buchanan in a small, plain room that had only a bench upon which the interrogator sat and a chair upon which Buchanan was tied. The round-faced, perspiring interrogator made 'Victor Grant' sound as if the name were a synonym for diarrhea.

'That's right.' Buchanan's throat was so dry that his voice cracked, his body so dehydrated that he'd long ago stopped sweating. One of the tight loops of the rope cut into his stitched, wounded shoulder.

'Speak Spanish, damn you!'

'But I don't know Spanish.' Buchanan breathed. 'At least, not very well.' He tried to swallow. 'Just a few words.' Ignorance about Spanish was one of the characteristics he'd chosen for this persona. That way he could always pretend that he didn't know what he was being asked.

'Cabro'n, you spoke Spanish to the emigration officer at the airport in Merida!'

'Yes. That's true.' Buchanan's head drooped. 'A couple of simple phrases. What I call "survival Spanish".'

'Survival?' a deep-voiced guard asked behind him, then grabbed Buchanan's hair and jerked his head up. 'If you do not want your hair pulled out, you will survive by speaking Spanish.'

'Un poco.' Buchanan exhaled. 'A little. That's all I know.'

'Why did you kill those three men in Cancun?'

'What are you talking about? I didn't kill anyone.'

The overweight interrogator, his uniform stained with sweat, pushed himself up from the bench, his stomach wobbling, and plodded close to Buchanan, then shoved a police sketch in front of his face. The sketch was the same as the one the emigration officer at Merida's airport had noticed beside a fax machine on a desk in the room to which he had taken Buchanan to find out why he was bleeding.

'Does this drawing look familiar to you?' the interrogator growled. 'Ciertamente, it does to me. Dios, si. It reminds me of you. We have a witness, a fellow yanqui in fact, who saw you kill three men in Cancun.'

'I told you I don't know what you're talking about.' Buchanan glared. 'That drawing looks like me and a couple of hundred thousand other Americans.' Buchanan rested his hoarse voice. 'It could be anybody.' He breathed. 'I admit I was in Cancun a couple of days ago.' He licked his dry lips. 'But I don't know anything about any murders.'

'You lie!' The interrogator raised a section of rubber hose and whacked Buchanan across the stomach.

Buchanan groaned but couldn't double over because of the ropes that bound him to the back of the chair. If he hadn't seen the overweight man clumsily start to swing the hose, he wouldn't have been able to harden his stomach enough to minimize the pain. Pretending that the blow had been worse than it was, he snapped his eyes shut and jerked his head back.

'Don't insult me!' the interrogator shouted. 'Admit it! You lie.'

'No,' Buchanan murmured. 'Your witness is lying.' He trembled. 'If there is a witness. How could there be? I didn't kill anybody. I don't know anything about...'

Each time the interrogator struck him, it gave Buchanan a chance to steal opportunities, to wince, to breathe deeply and rest. Because the police had already taken his watch and wallet, he didn't have anything with which to try to bribe them. Not that he thought a bribe would have worked in this case. Indeed, if he did try to bribe them, under the circumstances his gesture would be the same as an admission of guilt. His only course of action was to play his role, to insist indignantly that he was innocent.

The interrogator held up Buchanan's passport, repeating with the same contemptuous tone, 'Victor Grant.'

'Yes.'

'Even your passport photograph resembles this sketch.'

'That sketch is worthless,' Buchanan said. 'It looks like a ten-year-old did it.'

The interrogator tapped the rubber hose against the bandage that covered the wound on Buchanan's shoulder. 'What is your occupation?'

Wincing, Buchanan told him the cover story.

The interrogator tapped harder against the wound. 'And what were you doing in Mexico?'

Wincing more severely, Buchanan gave the name of the client he supposedly had come here to see. He felt his wound swell under the bandage. Every time the interrogator tapped it, the injury's painful pressure increased, as if it might explode.

'Then you claim you were here on business, not pleasure?'

'Hey, it's always a pleasure to be in Mexico, isn't it?' Buchanan squinted toward the rubber hose that the interrogator tapped even harder against his wound. From pain, his consciousness swirled. He would soon pass out again.

'Then why didn't you have a business visa?'

Buchanan tasted stomach acid. 'Because I only found out a couple of days ahead of time that my client wanted me to come down here. Getting a business visa takes time. I got a tourist card instead. It's a whole lot easier.'

The interrogator jammed the tip of the hose beneath Buchanan's chin. 'You entered Mexico illegally.' He stared deeply into Buchanan's eyes, then released the hose so Buchanan could speak.

Buchanan's voice thickened, affected by the swelling in his throat that the hose had caused. 'First you accuse me of killing three men.' Breathing became more difficult. 'Now you blame me for failing to have a business visa. What's next? Are you going to charge me with pissing on your floor? Because that's what I'm going to have to do if I'm not allowed to use a bathroom soon.'

The man behind Buchanan yanked his hair again, forcing tears from Buchanan's eyes. 'You do not seem to believe that this is serious.'

'Not true. Take my word, I think this is very serious.'

'But you do not act afraid.'

'Oh, I'm afraid. In fact, I'm terrified.'

The interrogator glowered with satisfaction.

'But because I haven't done what you claim I did, I'm also furious.' Buchanan forced himself to continue. 'I've had enough of this.' Each word was an effort. 'I want to see a lawyer.'

The interrogator stared in disbelief, then bellowed with laughter, his huge stomach heaving. 'Lawyer?'

The guard behind Buchanan laughed as well.

'Un jurisconsulto?' the interrogator asked with derision. 'Que tu necesitas esta un sacerdote.' He whacked the rubber hose across Buchanan's shins. 'What do you think about that?'

'I told you I hardly know any Spanish.'

'What I said is, you don't need a lawyer, you need a priest. Because all that will help you now, Victor Grant, is prayers.'

'I'm a U.S. citizen. I have a right to.' Buchanan couldn't help it.

His bladder was swollen beyond tolerance. He had to let go.

Urinating in his pants, he felt the hot liquid stream over the seat of the chair and dribble onto the floor.

'Cochino! Pig!' The interrogator whacked Buchanan's wounded shoulder.

Any second now, Buchanan thought. Dear God, let me faint.

The interrogator grabbed Buchanan's shirt and yanked him forward, overturning the chair, toppling him to the floor.

Buchanan's face struck the concrete. He heard the interrogator shout in Spanish to someone about bringing rags, about forcing the gringo to clean up his filth. But Buchanan doubted he'd be conscious by the time the rags arrived. Still, although his vision dimmed, it didn't do so quickly enough to prevent him from seeing with shock that his urine was tinted red. They broke something inside me. I'm pissing blood.

'You know what I think, gringo?' the interrogator asked.

Buchanan wasn't capable of responding.

'I think you are involved with drugs. I think that you and the men you killed had an argument about drug money. I think.'

The interrogator's voice dimmed, echoing. Buchanan fainted.

Chapter 6.

He found himself sitting upright once more, still tied to the chair. It took several moments for his vision to focus, for his mind to become alert. Pain definitely helped him sharpen his consciousness. He had no way of knowing how long he'd been out. The room had no windows. The fat interrogator seemed to be wearing the same sweaty uniform. But Buchanan noticed that the blood-tinted urine had disappeared from the floor. Not even a damp spot. Considerable time must have passed, he concluded. Then he noticed something else - that his pants remained wet. Hell, all they did was move me to a different room. They're trying to screw with my mind.

'We have brought a friend to see you.'

'Good.' Buchanan's voice broke. He fought not to lose his strength. 'My client can vouch for me. We can clear up this mistake.'

'Client? Did I say anything about a client?' The interrogator opened the door.

A man, an American, stood flanked by guards in a dim hallway. The man was tall, with broad shoulders and a bulky chest, his sandy hair in a brushcut. He wore sneakers, jeans, and a too-small, green T-shirt, the same clothes he'd been wearing when he'd come into the restaurant at Club Internacional in Cancun. The clothes were rumpled, and the man looked exhausted, his face still red but less from sun and alcohol than from strain. He hadn't shaved. Big Bob Bailey.

Yeah, I bet you're sorry now that you didn't stay away from me at the restaurant, Buchanan thought.

The interrogator gestured sharply, and the guards nudged Bailey into the room, guiding him with a firm hand on each of his elbows. He walked unsteadily.

Sure, they've been questioning you since they caught you on the beach, Buchanan thought. They've been pumping you for every speck of information they can get, and the pressure they put on you encourages you to stick to your story. If they get what they want, they'll apologize and treat you royally to make certain you don't change your mind.

The guards stopped Bailey directly in front of Buchanan.

The interrogator used the tip of the rubber hose to raise Buchanan's face. 'Is this the man you saw in Cancun?'

Bailey hesitated.

'Answer,' the interrogator said.

'I.' Bailey drew a shaky hand across his brushcut. 'It could be the man.' He stank of cigarettes. His voice was gravelly.

''Could be?' The interrogator scowled and showed him the police sketch. 'When you helped the artist prepare this sketch, I am told that you were definite in your description.'

'Well, yeah, but.'

'But?

Bailey cleared his throat. 'I'd been drinkin'. My judgment might have been clouded.'

'And are you sober now?'

'I wish I wasn't, but yeah, I'm sober,'

'Then your judgment should be improved. Is this the man you saw shoot the three other men on the beach behind the hotel?'

'Wait a minute,' Bailey said. 'I didn't see anybody shoot nobody. What I told the police in Cancun was I saw a friend of mine with three Mexicans. I followed 'em from the restaurant to the beach. It was dark. There were shots. I dove for cover. I don't know who shot who, but my friend survived and ran away.'

'It is logical to assume that the man who survived the shooting is responsible for the deaths of the others.'

'I don't know.' Bailey pawed at the back of his neck. 'An American court might not buy that logic.'

'This is Mexico,' the interrogator said. 'Is this the man you saw run away?'

Bailey squinted toward Buchanan. 'He's wearin' different clothes. His hair's got blood in it. His face is dirty. His lips are scabbed. He hasn't shaved, and he generally looks like shit. But yeah, he looks like my friend.'

'Looks like?' The interrogator scowled. 'Surely you can be more positive, Se\$?or Bailey. After all, the sooner we get this settled, the sooner you can go back to your hotel room.'

'Okay.' Bailey squinted harder. 'Yeah, I think he's my friend.'

'He's wrong,' Buchanan said. 'I never saw this man in my life.'