But as confident as he was of success, Buchanan didn't do it. Because his safety wasn't the point. If all he cared about was his safety, he wouldn't have accepted this mission in the first place. The mission. That was the point. As the laughter of the tourists subsided, as the twins and their bodyguard regained their discipline, as Buchanan and his captors finished passing the bar and reached the murky beach, Buchanan told himself, How would you have explained it to your superiors? I can imagine the expression on their faces if you told them the mission failed because you got so nervous you killed your contacts. Your career would be over. This isn't the first time someone's aimed a pistol at you. You know damned well that on this assignment it would have happened sooner or later. These guys aren't dummies. Plus, they'll never trust you until they learn if you can handle stress. So let them find out. Be cool. Play out the role.
But what would Ed Potter do? Buchanan wondered. Wouldn't a corrupt ex-DEA officer try to escape if he thought the drug distributors from whom he was taking business had decided that killing him was less risky and less trouble than becoming partners with him?
Maybe, Buchanan thought. Ed Potter might try to run. After all, he isn't me. He doesn't have my training. But if I behave the way Ed Potter truly would, there's a good chance I'll get myself killed. I've got to modify the character. Right now, my audience is testing me for weakness.
But by God, they won't find any.
Club International had a sidewalk that ran parallel to the beach. The stars were brilliant, although the moon had not yet risen. A cool breeze came off the ocean out of the darkness. Hearing the distant echo of more laughter from the bar, which was shielded from him by a row of tall shrubs and a waist-high wall, Buchanan paused at the edge of the sidewalk.
'All right,' he said. 'Here's the beach. It's nice. Real nice. Now would you put those guns away and tell me what in God's name this is all about? I haven't done anything to-'
10
'God's name?' the first twin asked and shoved Buchanan off the sidewalk onto the sand. 'Yes, a name. Many names. That's what this is all about. Ed Potter. Jim Crawford.'
Buchanan felt his shoes sink into the sand and spun to face the twins as well as their bodyguard, where they stood slightly above him on the sidewalk. 'Hey, just because some drunk thinks he knows me? Haven't you ever been mistaken for-?'
'The only person I have ever been mistaken for is my brother,' the second twin said. 'I do not believe in coincidence. I do not believe that in the middle of a conversation about my business and my safety, I can ignore anyone - drunk or not - who interrupts to tell me the man I am speaking to is not the man he claims to be.'
'Come on! That drunk admitted he was wrong!' Buchanan insisted.
'But he did not look convinced,' the first twin snapped.
Two murky silhouettes approached along the beach. Buchanan and his antagonists became silent. The Hispanics stiffened, wary. Then the silhouettes walked near enough for Buchanan to see a man and a woman - American, early twenties - holding hands. The couple seemed oblivious to their surroundings, conscious only of each other. They passed and disappeared into the darkness farther along the beach.
'We can't stay here,' the second twin said. 'Other people will come. We're still too close to the hotel, especially to the bar.'
'But I want this matter settled,' the first twin said. 'I want it settled now.'
The bodyguard scanned the beach and pointed. 'Por all¡. Over there.'
Buchanan looked. Near the white-capped waves, he saw, were the distinctive outlines of several palapa sun shelters. Each small structure had a slanted, circular top made from palm fronds and held up by a seven-foot-tall, wooden post. Plastic tables and chairs, as white as the caps on the waves, were distributed among them.
'Yes,' the first twin said. 'Over there.'
The Hispanic stepped from the concrete onto the sand and shoved Buchanan hard enough that Ed Potter could not have resisted the thrust, so Buchanan allowed himself to stumble backward.
'Move! Damn you and your mother, move!' the first twin said.
Continuing to stumble, Buchanan turned toward the deserted shelters. Immediately the Hispanic shoved him again, and Buchanan lurched, concentrating to maintain his balance, his shoes slipping in the sand.
The effect of adrenaline made his stomach seem on fire. He wondered if he'd been right not to defend himself earlier. Things had not yet gotten out of control. But the first twin was working himself into a rage. The insults and shoves were occurring more forcefully, more often, and Buchanan had to ask himself, Is this an act? Or is it for real?
If he's acting, I'll fail the test by ignoring some of those insults. If this guy shoves me any harder, if I don't anticipate and absorb the impact, he'll knock me down. He'll dismiss me as unworthy of respect if I don't make a pretense of resisting.
But how much resistance can I show and still be Ed Potter? And how much resistance is enough to satisfy the twin without truly making him angry?
And-
The question kept nagging at Buchanan.
-what if this is for real?
As Buchanan reached a shelter, the first twin shoved him again, knocking him across a plastic table.
Buchanan straightened and spun. 'Now that's enough! Don't shove me again! If you've got questions, ask them. I'll explain whatever's bothering you. I can settle this misunderstanding! But damn it, keep your hands off me!'
'Keep my hands off you?' The first twin stepped close to Buchanan, grabbed Buchanan's shirt and twisted it with his fist, then raised the shirt so that Buchanan felt suspended by it. 'What I'd like to do is shove my hand down your throat and pull out your guts.'
Buchanan smelled the tequila on his breath.
Abruptly the twin released his grip on Buchanan's shirt.
Buchanan allowed himself to topple, sprawling again across the table, this time on his back instead of his chest. It took all his discipline to restrain himself from retaliating. He kept reminding himself, The mission. You can't jeopardize the mission. You can't fight back until you're certain he intends to kill you. So far all he's done is shove, insult, and threaten you. Those aren't good enough reasons for you to abort the mission by responding with deadly force.
Surrounded by darkness, glimpsing the lights of the hotel beyond the twins and their bodyguard, Buchanan stared up at the first twin, who grabbed him again, jerked him to his feet, and thrust him into a chair. Buchanan's spine banged against the plastic. Waves splashed behind him.
'You promise that you can explain? Then do so. By all means, explain. It will be amusing to hear' - the twin suddenly pressed the muzzle of his Browning 9-millimeter pistol against Buchanan's forehead - 'how you intend to settle what you call this misunder-standing.'
That almost made the difference. Buchanan's pulse quickened. His muscles compacted. Inhaling, he prepared to-