Assumed Identity Page 27

  Because New Orleans and Miami were the two cities most associated with covert aid to the contras, investigative journalists showed great interest in private firms that sent aircraft to Latin American countries. A plane scheduled to deliver legitimate merchandise to El Salvador, Honduras, or Costa Rica might make an unscheduled, illegal stop in Nicaragua, leaving men instead of equipment. Any journalist who could prove this unauthorized degree of U.S. military involvement would be a candidate for a Pulitzer prize. Thus Buchanan had to be especially careful about establishing his cover. One of his techniques had been to ask his employers to provide him with a wife, a woman who was in business with her husband, who liked to fly and could speak Spanish, who would ideally be Hispanic and who would thus not attract attention if she flew with her husband on his frequent trips to Latin America. Buchanan's intention was to deceive curious journalists into doubting that he had connections with Nicaragua. After all, they might think, who'd be callous enough to fly his wife into a war zone?

  The wife his employers had supplied to him was indeed Hispanic. A spirited, attractive woman named Juana Mendez, she'd been twenty-five. Her parents were Mexicans who'd become U.S. citizens. A sergeant in Army Intelligence, she'd been raised in San Antonio, Texas, a city that Buchanan's persona, Peter Lang, claimed as his home town as well. Buchanan had spent several weeks in San Antonio prior to his assignment in order to familiarize himself with the city, lest someone test his cover story by trying to manipulate him into saying things about San Antonio that weren't accurate. Juana's constant presence with him would make it more difficult for anyone to question him about San Antonio. If he didn't know the answer, if he hesitated, Juana would answer for him.

  Being Peter Lang had been one of Buchanan's longest assignments - four months. During that time, he and Juana had lived together in a small apartment on the second story of a quaint, clapboard building with ornate, wrought-iron railings and a pleasant, flower-filled courtyard on Dumaine Street in the French Quarter. Both he and Juana had known the dangers of becoming emotionally involved with an undercover partner. They had tried to make their public gestures of affection strictly professional. They had done their best not to be affected by their enforced private intimacy, eating together, combining laundry, using the same bathroom, sharing the same sleeping quarters. They didn't have intercourse. They weren't that undisciplined. But they might as well have, for the effect was the same. Sexual activity was only a part. and often a small part. and sometimes no part. of a successful marriage. In their four months together, Buchanan and Juana portrayed their roles so well that they finally admitted awkwardly to each other that they did feel married. In the night, while he'd listened to her softly exhale in sleep, he had felt intoxicated by her smell. It reminded him of cinnamon.

  Shared stress is a powerful bonder. On one occasion, during a firefight with rebels in Nicaragua, Buchanan would never have been able to reach his plane and maneuver it for a take-off from the primitive airstrip in the jungle if Juana hadn't used an assault rifle to give him covering fire. Through the canopy of his slowly turning aircraft, he had watched Juana run from the jungle toward the passenger door he had opened. She had whirled toward bushes, fired her M-16, then raced onward. Bullets from the jungle had torn up dirt ahead of her. She had whirled and fired again. Revving the engines, he had managed to get the plane in position and then had raised his own M-16 to shoot through the open hatch and give her covering fire. Bullets had struck the side of the plane. As she lunged toward the hatch, he'd released the brakes and started across the bumpy clearing. She'd scrambled in, braced herself at the open hatch, and fired repeatedly at the rebels in the jungle. When she'd emptied her weapon, she'd picked up his, emptying it as well. Then grabbing a seatbelt so she wouldn't fall out, she had laughed as the plane bounced twice and rose abruptly, skimming treetops.

  To depend on someone for your life makes you feel close to that person. Buchanan had experienced that emotion in the company of men. But that four-month assignment had been the first time he had felt it with a woman, and in the end, he was a better actor than he wanted to be, for he fell in love with her.

  He shouldn't have. He struggled desperately with himself to repress the feeling. Nonetheless, he failed. Even then, he didn't have sex with her. Despite powerful temptation, they didn't violate their professional ethics by getting physically involved. But they did break another rule, one that warned them not to confuse their roles with reality, although Buchanan didn't believe in that rule. His strength as an imposter was precisely that he did confuse his roles with reality. As long as he was portraying someone, that person was reality.

  One night, while Buchanan was watching television, Juana had come in from buying groceries. The troubled look on her face had made him frown.

  'Are you all right?' Concerned, he'd walked toward her. 'Did something happen while you were out?'

  Apparently oblivious to his question, she'd set down the bag of groceries and begun to unpack. But then he'd realized that she didn't care about the groceries. She was preoccupied by a jazz-concert handout that someone had given her on the street. She removed it from the bag, and when Buchanan saw the small X in the upper right corner, he'd understood why she looked disturbed. The person who'd given her the handout must have been their contact. The small X, made by a felt-tip pen, was their signal to dismantle the operation.

  They were being reassigned.

  At that moment, Buchanan had been terribly conscious of Juana's proximity, of her oval face, of her smooth, dark skin and the firm-looking outline of her breasts beneath her blouse. He'd wanted to hold her, but his discipline had been too strong.

  Juana's usually cheerful voice had sounded tight with stress. 'I guess I knew we'd eventually be reassigned.' She'd swallowed. 'Nothing lasts forever, right?'

  'Right,' he'd answered somberly.

  'So. Do you think we'll be reassigned together?'

  'I don't know.'

  Juana had nodded, pensive.

  'They almost never do.'

  'Yes.' Juana had swallowed again.

  The night before they left New Orleans, they'd taken a stroll through the French Quarter. It was Halloween, and the old part of the city had been more colorful and festive than usual. Revelers wore costumes, a great many of them depicting skeletons. The crowd danced, sang, and drank in the narrow streets. Jazz - some tunes melancholy, others joyous - reverberated through open doors, merging, swelling past the wrought-iron railings above the crowd, echoing toward the reflection of the city's lights in the sky.

  Oh when the saints.

  Buchanan and Juana had ended their walk at Caf‚ du Monde near Jackson Square on Decatur Street. The famous, open-air restaurant specialized in caf‚ au lait as well as beignets, deep-fried French pastries covered with powdered sugar. The place had been extremely crowded, many costumed partygoers wanting caffeine and starch to offset the alcohol they'd consumed before they continued their revels. Regardless, Buchanan and Juana had stood in line. The October night had been balmy with the hint of rain, a pleasant breeze coming in from the Mississippi. Finally a waiter had guided them to a table and taken their order. They'd glanced around at the festive crowd, had felt out of place, uncomfortably subdued, and had finally discussed the subject that they'd been avoiding. Buchanan didn't recall who had raised the topic or how, but the gist had been, Is this the end, or do we continue seeing each other after this? And as Buchanan had faced the question directly, he'd suddenly realized how absurd it was. Tomorrow, Peter Lang wouldn't exist. So how could Peter Lang continue to have a relationship with his wife, who wouldn't exist tomorrow, either?

  Softly, their conversation impossible to overhear in the din of the crowd, Buchanan had told her that their characters were at an end, and Juana had looked at him as if he were speaking gibberish.

  'I'm not interested in who we were,' she had said. 'I'm talking about us.'

  'So am I.'

  'No,' she'd told him. 'Those people don't exist. We do. Tomorrow
, reality starts. The fantasy is over. What are we going to do?'

  'I love you,' he'd said.

  She'd exhaled, trembling slightly. 'I've been waiting for you to say that. Hoping. I don't know how it happened, but I feel the same. I love you.'

  'I want you to know that you'll always be special to me,' Buchanan had said.

  Juana had started to frown.

  'I want you to know,' Buchanan had continued,'that.'

  Their waiter had interrupted, setting down a tray with their steaming coffee and hot, sugar-covered beignets.

  As the aproned man left, Juana had leaned toward Buchanan, her voice low but tense with concern. 'What are you talking about?'

  '. that you'll always be special to me. I'll always feel close to you. If you ever need help, if there's anything I can ever do.'

  'Wait a minute.' Juana had frowned harder, her dark eyes reflecting a light in the ceiling. 'This sounds like goodbye.'

  '. I'll be there. Any time. Any place. All you have to do is ask. There's nothing I wouldn't do for you.'

  'You bastard,' she had said.

  'What?'

  'This isn't fair. I'm good enough to risk my life with you. I'm good enough to be used as a prop. But I'm not good enough for you to see after.'

  'That's not what I meant,' Buchanan had said.

  'Then what does it have to do with? You're in love with me, but you're giving me the brush-off?'

  'I didn't mean to fall in love. I-'

  'There aren't many reasons why a man walks away from a woman he claims he loves. And right now, the only one I can think of is, he doesn't believe she's good enough for him.'

  'Listen to me.'

  'It's because I'm Hispanic.'

  'No. Not at all. That's crazy. Please. Just listen.'

  'You listen. I could be the best thing that ever happened to you. Don't lose me.'

  'But tomorrow I have to.'

  'Have to? Why? Because of the people we work for? To hell with them. They expect me to sign up again. But I'm not planning to.'

  'It's got nothing to do with them,' Buchanan had said. 'This is all about me. It's about what I do. We could never have a relationship after this, because I won't be the same. I'll be a stranger.'

  'What?'

  'I'll be different.'

  She had stared at him, suddenly realizing the implications of what he was saying. 'You'd choose your work instead of-?'

  'My work is all I have.'

  'No,' Juana had said. 'You could have me.'

  Buchanan studied her. Looked down. Looked up. Bit his lip. Slowly shook his head. 'You don't know me. You only know who I pretend to be.'

  She looked shocked.

  'I'll always be your friend,' Buchanan had said. 'Remember that. I swear to you. If you ever need help, if you're ever in trouble, all you have to do is ask, and no matter how long it's been, no matter how far away I am, I'll-'

  Juana had stood, her chair scraping harshly on the concrete floor. People had stared.

  'If I ever need you, I'll send you a Goddamned postcard.'

  Hiding tears, she had hurried from the restaurant.

  And that was the last time he had spoken to her. When he returned to their apartment, she had already packed and left. Hollow, he had stayed awake all night, sitting in the dark, staring at the wall across from the bed they had shared.

  Just as he stared out at the darkness beyond the window of the compartment in the speeding train.

  3

  He had done it again, Buchanan realized.

  He'd become catatonic. Rubbing at the pain in his skull, he had the sense of coming back from far away. The compartment was dark. The night beyond the window was broken only by occasional lights from farms. How long had-?

  He glanced down at the luminous dial on his pilot's watch. Peter Lang's watch, disturbed to see that the time was eight minutes after ten. He'd left Washington shortly before noon. The train would long ago have left Virginia. It would be well into North Carolina by now, perhaps into Georgia. All afternoon and most of the evening? he thought in dismay. What's happening to me?

  His head throbbing, he stood, turned on the lights in the locked compartment, felt exposed by his reflection in the window, and quickly closed the curtains. The reflected haggard face had looked unfamiliar. He opened his travel bag, took three aspirins from his toilet kit, and swallowed them with water from the tiny sink in the compartment's utility washroom. While he urinated, he felt his mind drifting again, going back six years, and he concentrated to pay attention to now.

  He needed to get into character. He had to re-become Peter Lang. But he also had to be functional. He couldn't keep staring off into space. After all, the whole point of going to New Orleans, of finding out why Juana had sent the postcard, was to give himself a purpose, a sense of direction.

  Juana. As much as he needed to focus on re-assuming the character of Peter Lang, he had to focus on Juana. She'd be - what? - thirty-one now. He wondered if she'd kept in shape. She hadn't been tall, and she'd been thin, but her military-trained body had compensated. It had been hard and strong and magnificent. Would her thick, dark hair still be as short as when he'd known her? He had wanted to run his fingers through it, to clutch it, to tug it gently. Would her dark eyes still be fiery? Would her lips still have that sensuous contour? She'd had a habit, when she'd been concentrating, of pursing those lips and sticking them out slightly, and he had wanted to stroke them as much as he'd wanted to touch her hair.

  What was his true motive for going back? he wondered. Was it really just to give himself mobility?

  Or had the postcard awakened something in him? He'd repressed his memories of her, just as he'd repressed so much about himself. And now.

  Maybe I shouldn't have let her go. Maybe I should have.

  No, he thought. The past is a trap. Leave it alone. Obviously it's not doing you any good if it makes you catatonic. What you're feeling is a bush-league mistake. In your former lives, you left plenty of unfinished business, a lot of people whom you liked or at least whom your assumed identities liked. But you've never gone back before. Be careful.

  But I didn't love those other people. Why did she send the postcard? What sort of trouble is she in?

  Your controllers would have a fit if they knew what you were thinking.

  The trouble is, I remember her so vividly.

  Besides, I promised.

  No, a warning voice told him. You didn't promise. Peter Lang did.

  Exactly. And right now, that's who I am.

  I meant what I said. I promised.

  4

  Welcoming the distraction of hunger, relieved to be in motion, Buchanan-Lang unlocked the compartment, checked the swaying corridor, saw no one, and was just about to leave when he decided that the simple lock on the compartment couldn't be trusted. He took his small travel bag - the passport and the handgun in it - with him, secured the compartment, and proceeded toward the dining car.

  It was three cars away, and when he entered it, he discovered that it was almost deserted, a few passengers sipping coffee, waiters clearing dirty dishes from the tables. The overhead lights of the dining car gleamed off the windows and made the area seem extra bright, obscuring whatever was out in the darkness.

  Buchanan rubbed his aching forehead and approached the nearest waiter.

  The weary-looking man anticipated his question. 'Sorry, sir. We're closed. Breakfast starts at six in the morning.'

  'I'm afraid I took a nap and overslept. I'm starved. Isn't there something you can give me so my stomach won't growl all night?' Buchanan discreetly held out a ten-dollar bill.

  'Yes, sir. I understand your problem. I'll see what I can do. Perhaps a couple of cold roast-beef sandwiches to take with you.'

  'Sounds good.'