But the twin hasn't cocked the pistol, Buchanan noticed, and the Browning doesn't have a sound-suppressor. If he intends to kill me, isn't it more likely that he'd want to avoid causing a commotion? He'd use the bodyguard's Beretta, which does have a sound-suppressor, so he wouldn't attract a crowd from the bar.
It's still possible that this is an act.
Sweating, mustering resolve, Buchanan watched the second twin approach.
The man stopped beside his brother and peered down. Even in the gloom, his eyes were vividly hawklike. 'Listen carefully,' he told Buchanan. 'We are going to talk about names. But not the name that the drunken American called you in the restaurant. Not Jim Crawford, or at least not only Jim Crawford. And not just Ed Potter. Other names. Many other names. In fact, so many that I find it impossible to remember them all.' He pulled a folded piece of paper from his suit coat. 'You gave us a list of names of our associates whom you claim betrayed us. Well, I have a different list, one with other names.' He unfolded the paper and aimed a penlight at it so he could read. 'John Block. Richard Davis. Paul Higgins. Andrew Macintosh. Henry Davenport. Walter Newton. Michael Galer. William Hanover. Stuart Malik.'
Oh, shit, Buchanan thought.
The second twin stopped reading, scowled at the sheet of paper, shook his head, and sighed. 'There are several other names. But those will do for purposes of illustration.' He refolded the piece of paper, returned it to his suit-coat pocket, and at once thrust the penlight close to Buchanan's face, aiming it into Buchanan's right eye.
Buchanan jerked his face away to avoid the light.
But the bodyguard had shifted behind Buchanan and abruptly slammed his hands against the sides of Buchanan's head, making Buchanan's ears ring. The sudden, stunning pressure of the hands was like a vice. Buchanan tried, but he couldn't turn his face away. He couldn't avoid the blinding glare of the slender beam of light aimed into his eye. He reached up to grab the bodyguard's smallest fingers and snap them in order to make the bodyguard release his grip.
But Buchanan froze in mid-gesture as the first twin cocked the Browning, the muzzle of which was now pressed against Buchanan's left temple. Christ, Buchanan thought, he just might do it.
'Bueno. Muy bueno,' the first twin said. 'Don't make trouble.'
The penlight kept glaring at Buchanan's eye. He blinked repeatedly, then scrunched his eyelid shut, but could still see the light through the eyelid's thin skin. He scrunched the eyelid shut tighter. A rough hand grabbed the side of his face, clawing at the eyelid, forcing it up. The light again glared. Buchanan's eyeball suddenly felt hot, dry, and swollen. The light felt like a bright, hot needle that threatened to lance his eyeball as if it were a festering boil. Buchanan needed all his self-control not to struggle, not to attempt to break away from the hands that bound him - because he knew without doubt that if he struggled again, the first twin would blow his brains out.
'Bueno,' the first twin repeated. 'Muy bueno. Excelente. Now, if you wish to live, you will tell us what all of those names that my brother read to you have in common. Think well before you answer.' He nudged the muzzle of the Browning harder against Buchanan's temple. 'I cannot respect, do business with, or tolerate a liar. The names. What is their secret?'
Buchanan swallowed. His voice was hoarse. 'They're all me.'
11
Except for the splash of the waves and the pounding of Buchanan's heart, the night became silent. Then, in the distance, laughter echoing from the hotel's outside bar broke the quiet. The twins and the bodyguard seemed frozen. At once they moved, the first twin lowering his pistol, the second twin releasing his grip on Buchanan's right eyelid, then shutting off the penlight, the bodyguard removing his vice-like hands from the sides of Buchanan's head.
The first twin studied Buchanan. 'I did not expect the truth.' He sat on a chair near Buchanan, placing his Browning on the table so its muzzle was pointed at Buchanan, leaving his hand on the weapon. 'I asked you earlier. I'll ask you again. Who are you?'
'Ed Potter.' Buchanan closed his right eyelid, massaging it, still seeing the painful glare from the penlight.
'And not John Block? Or Richard Davis? Or Paul Higgins?' the first twin asked.
'Or Jim Crawford?' the second twin insisted.
'I never heard of Jim Crawford,' Buchanan said. 'I don't know what the hell that drunk in the restaurant was talking about. But as far as John Block, Richard Davis, and Paul Higgins are concerned, they're. How did you find out about my aliases?'
'You do not have the right to ask questions.' The first twin tapped the barrel of his pistol on the table. 'Why did you assume those names?'
'I'm not a fool,' Buchanan said. His right eye watered. He kept it closed and squinted at his captors with his remaining functional eye.
'You expect me to come to Mexico, start smuggling drugs north and weapons south, and use my real name? I'd use a false name if I were dealing drugs in the United States. Here in Mexico, where a yanqui is conspicuous, I had all the more reason to use a false name.'
The second twin turned his penlight on and off as if in warning. 'A false name is understandable.'
'But so many false names?' The first twin persisted in tapping the side of his pistol on the table.
'Look, I told you I was doing business in more places than Cancun,' Buchanan said. 'I have bases in Merida, Acapulco, Puerto Vallarta, several resorts I haven't mentioned.'
'But you will,' the second twin said. 'You will.' His voice thickened with emotion. 'The names. I want to hear about these names.'
Buchanan slowly opened his right eye. The glare from the penlight was still seared upon his vision. If his gambit didn't work, they would try to kill him. There'd be a fight (if he was lucky and had the opportunity to try to defend himself), but he didn't have much chance of surviving a struggle against three men while his vision was impaired.
'Answer!' the second twin barked.
'I take it as a given that when an American does illegal business in a foreign country, natives of that country have to be recruited,' Buchanan said. 'Those natives can go places and do things that the American wouldn't dare to without the risk of being conspicuous. The local authorities have to be bribed. The drugs need to be picked up from the suppliers. The weapons need to be delivered to those suppliers. There's no way I'm going to try to bribe the Mexican police. Even as bribable as they are, they might decide to make an example of a gringo and stick me in jail for a hundred years. I'd just as soon someone else took the risk of picking up the drugs and delivering the weapons, especially when it comes to dealing with those crazy bastards in the Medell¡n cartel. Let's face it - Mexico's so poor there are plenty of young men who are glad to risk their lives if I pay them what they think is a fortune but what to me is nothing. Of course, I need recruits in every resort where I do business, and while I'm in those resorts, I need a cover story to account for my presence. A tourist attracts attention if he comes back every three weeks. But a businessman doesn't, and one of the most commonplace American businessmen at Mexican resorts is a timeshare condominium salesman. American tourists don't trust Mexican salesmen to lease them real estate. But they'll trust an American. Under assumed names in all the resorts where I have a base, I've convinced the authorities that I'm legitimate. Naturally I use a different name in each resort, and I have false documents in that name. But here's the trick. If my Mexican recruits in each resort get picked up by the police or questioned by suppliers who have turned against me, my recruits don't know the assumed name I'm using. They don't know where I live or where I do business. Except on terms of my own choosing, they have no way to get in touch with me or to lead the police or a drug supplier to me. The name by which each recruit knows me is also assumed, but of course I don't need identification papers for those other names.'