Assumed Identity (1993) (38 page)

Or Peter Lang does.

But what about Buchanan-Lang? he wondered.

And what about Buchanan?

His skull wouldn't stop throbbing. He massaged his temples, but his headache continued to torture him.

Chapter 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 nine-sixteen, 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 0.

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 had received had been logged at five forty-five. 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 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 Caf, 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.

Chapter 12.

The night was eerily similar to the one six years ago. For example, as Buchanan left the hotel, he noticed that the air was balmy with the hint of rain, a pleasant breeze coming in from the Mississippi. The same as before.

He took care to make sure that Holly McCoy wasn't in sight, but as he walked along Tchoupitoulas Street, restraining his pace so he wouldn't attract attention, another parallel between tonight and six years before became disconcertingly obvious. It was Halloween. Many pedestrians he passed wore costumes, and again similar to six years before, the most popular costume seemed to be a skeleton: a black, tight-fitting garment with the phosphorescent images of bones painted on it and a head mask highlighted with white representing a skull. With so many people resembling each other, he couldn't tell if he was being followed. More, all Holly McCoy needed to do to disguise her conspicuous red hair was to wear a head mask. By contrast, on this night, he looked conspicuous since he was one of the minority who weren't wearing a costume of some sort.

As he crossed Canal Street toward the French Quarter, he began to hear music, faint, then distinct, the increasing throb and wail of jazz. A while ago, he'd read in a newspaper that New Orleans had instituted a noise ordinance, but tonight no one seemed to care. Street bands competed with those in bars. Dixieland, the blues - these and many other styles pulsed along the French Quarter's narrow, crowded streets as costumed revelers danced, sang, and drank in celebration of the night of the dead.

. gone and left me. When the saints.

Buchanan tried to lose himself in the crowd. He had less than an hour before he was supposed to be at Caf, du Monde, and he wanted to use that hour to guarantee that his meeting with Juana would not be observed.

As he headed up Bienville Street and then along Royal Street, then up Conti to Bourbon Street, he felt frustrated by the density of the crowd. It prevented him from moving as fast as he wanted, from taking advantage of opportunities to duck into a courtyard or down a side street. Every time he attempted an evasion tactic, a group would suddenly loom in front of him, and anyone who followed would not have trouble keeping up with him while blending with the festivities. He bought a devil's mask from a sidewalk vendor and immediately found that it restricted his vision so much that he bumped into people, making him feel vulnerable and selfconscious. He took it off, glanced at his watch, and was amazed to discover how much his concentration had compressed the time. It was almost eleven. He had to get to the rendezvous site.

Soon, he thought. Soon he would put his arms around Juana. Soon he'd be able to find out why she needed him. He'd help her. He'd show her how much he loved her. He'd correct the mistake he'd made six years ago.

Who had made?

Coming down Orleans Avenue, he reached the shadows of St Anthony's Garden. From there, he took Pirate's Alley down to Jackson Square. Its huge bronze statue of Andrew Jackson on horseback rose ghostlike from the darkness of the gardens in the locked, deserted park. Using one of the walkways that flanked the wrought-iron fence of the square, he at last reached Decatur Street and paused in the shadows next to the square while he studied his destination.

Where he stood was surprisingly free of the congestion and noise of the rest of the French Quarter. He felt apart from things, more vulnerable. Several glances behind him gave him the assurance of being alone.

And yet he felt threatened. Again he studied his destination. At last he stepped into view, felt as if he re-entered the world, crossed Decatur, and made his approach toward Cafe du Monde.

It was a large, concrete building whose distinctive feature was that its walls were composed of tall, wide archways that made the restaurant open-air. During heavy rains, the interior could be protected by lowering green-and-white striped canvas, but usually -and tonight was no exception - the only thing that separated people on the street from the restaurant's patrons were waist-high, iron railings. Tonight, the same as six years ago, the place was crowded more than usual. Because of the holiday. Because of Halloween. Expectant customers, many of them in costume, stood in a line on the sidewalk, waiting to be admitted.

Buchanan strained to catch a glimpse of Juana, hoping that the crowd would have made her decide to wait outside for him. He and Juana would be able to get away from the noise and confusion. He would lovingly put his arm around her and try to find a quiet place. He would get her to tell him what terrible urgency had made her send the postcard, allowing him a second chance.

There was an addition to the restaurant. Smaller than the main section, it had a green-and-white roof supported by widely separated, slender, white poles that made this part of the restaurant seem even more open-air. He stared past the low, metal railing toward the customers close together around small, circular tables. The place rippled with constant movement. Hundreds of conversations rushed over him.

Juana. He strained harder to see her. He shifted position to view the interior of the restaurant from a different angle. He scanned the line of waiting customers.

What if she's wearing a costume? he thought. What if she's afraid to the point that she put on a disguise? He wouldn't be able to recognize her. And she might not hurry to meet him. She might be so terrified that she had to assess everyone around him before she revealed herself.

Juana. Even if she weren't wearing a costume, how could he be certain he would recognize her? Six years had passed. She might have grown her hair long. She might have.

And what about him? How had his appearance, like his identities, changed in six years? Was his hair dyed the same color? Did he weigh the same? Should he have a mustache? He couldn't remember if Peter Lang had worn a mustache. Did-?

Juana. He brushed past waiting customers and entered the restaurant, determined to find her. She had to be here. The postcard couldn't have had any other meaning. She needed to see him. She wanted his help.

'Hey, buddy, wait your turn,' someone said.

'Sir, you'll have to go to the end of the line,' a waiter told him.

'You don't understand. I'm supposed to meet someone, and-'

'Please, sir. The end of the line.'

Juana. He backed away. His headache intensified as he scanned the crush of customers in the restaurant. Outside on the sidewalk, he rubbed his throbbing head. When a rush of people in costumes swept past him, he whirled to see if Juana might be one of them.

The knife slid into his side. Sharp. Cold. Tingly. Suddenly burning. It felt like a punch. It knocked him off balance. It made him groan. As he felt the wet heat of his gushing blood, someone screamed. People scrambled to get away from him. A man knocked against him. Fighting to stem the flow of his blood, he slipped. The iron railing appeared to rush toward him.

No! he mentally screamed. Not my head! Not again! I can't hurt my-!

*

PART EIGHT

Chapter 1.

Cuernavaca, Mexico.

The black limousine and its escort cars proceeded along Insurgentes Sur freeway, forced to maintain a frustrating, moderate speed as the caravan fought the congestion of holiday traffic heading south from the smog of Mexico City. After thirty-seven miles, the limousine and its escorts reached Cuernavaca, the capital's most popular but at the same time most exclusive retreat. It was easy to understand why the rich and powerful came here each weekend. Sheltered in an attractive, wooded valley, Cuernavaca had space, silence, pleasant weather, and most prized of all, clean air. Aztec rulers had built palaces here. So had Cortes. Emperor Maximilian had been especially fond of the area's gardens. These days, what important visitors from the capital valued were the luxurious hotels and the castlelike mansions.

The limousine proceeded along the stately streets of a quiet neighborhood and stopped at the large, iron gate of one of the mansions. Majestic shade trees projected above the high, stone wall that enclosed the spacious grounds. The uniformed driver stepped out of the limousine and approached an armed guard, who stood beyond the bars of the gate and scowled at the visitor. After a brief conversation in which the driver showed the guard a document, the guard entered a wooden booth beside the gate and picked up a telephone, speaking to someone in the house. Thirty seconds later, he returned to the gate, opened it, and motioned for the driver to bring the limousine into the estate. As the escort cars attempted to follow, the guard raised his left hand to stop them. At the same time, another armed guard stepped into view to close and lock the gate.

The limousine proceeded along a shady, curved driveway, past trees, gardens, and fountains, toward the mansion. As it stopped before the stone steps at the entrance, one of the large double-doors opened, and a mustached, aristocratic-looking man came out. It was a measure of his need to seem respectful that he had not sent a servant to greet this particular visitor. His name was Esteban Delgado, and his surname -which meant 'thin' - was even more appropriate than when he'd met with the director of the National Institute of Archaeology and History in Acapulco a week earlier, for Delgado's body and features were now no longer merely rakishly slender but unhealthily gaunt. His aquiline face was pale, and he would almost have believed the rumors that he was seriously ill if he hadn't been acutely aware of the unbearable tension that he suffered.

At the bottom of the stairs, he forced himself to smile as the limousine's far, rear door opened and a well-dressed, fair-haired, pleasant-looking American in his middle thirties emerged from the car. The man gave the impression of exuding good-nature, but Delgado wasn't fooled, for the man's smile - on the rare occasions when he did smile, and this was not one of them - had no warmth. The man's name was Raymond, and the only time Delgado had seen him smile was during a cockfight.