Assumed Identity

'But-'

'No,' the colonel repeated. 'He's my operative, and I know how he'd react if you used drug therapy to question him. He'd feel threatened, insulted, betrayed. Then we would have a problem. The fastest way to make a man disloyal is by treating him as if he's disloyal.'

'Then I insist on at least keeping him under surveillance,' Alan said. 'There's something about him that bothers me. And I'm still bugged about that postcard.'

'Keeping him under surveillance?' The colonel shrugged and turned toward the television monitors, watching the black-and-white image of Buchanan slumped on the sofa, his eyes scrunched shut as if he had a headache, the glass of bourbon against his brow. 'I don't have a problem with that. After all, that's what we're already doing.'

8

Caught in limbo but not realizing it, Buchanan hadn't been conscious of being called by his real name when the portly man in the brown-checkered sport coat questioned him the previous night. But as soon as the man had drawn attention to what he'd been doing, as soon as Buchanan realized that he was suspended between identities, he became extremely self-conscious about his name. He was so thorough an impersonator that seldom in the past eight years had he thought of himself as Buchanan. To do so would have been incompatible with his various assumed identities. He didn't just pretend to be those people. He was those people. He had to be. The slightest weakness in his characterization could get him killed. For the most part, he'd so thoroughly expunged the name Buchanan from his awareness that if someone had attempted to test him by unexpectedly calling his name from behind him, he wouldn't have turned. Habit would not have controlled him. The name would have belonged to a stranger.

But now as the portly man who called himself Alan drove him to get his CAT-scan, Buchanan inwardly squirmed whenever his escort called him by his true name, something the escort did often, apparently by intention. Buchanan felt as he had the first time he'd asked a girl to dance or the first time he'd heard his voice on a tape recorder or the first time he'd made love. The doubt and wonder of those experiences had been positive, however, whereas the self-consciousness he endured at being called 'Buchanan' produced the negativity of fear. He felt exposed, vulnerable, threatened. Don't call me that. If certain people find out who I really am, it'll get me killed.

In Fairfax, Virginia, at a private medical clinic presumably overseen by Buchanan's controllers, he was again made nervous, inwardly squirming when the doctor assigned to him persistently called him by his real name.

How are you, Mr Buchanan? Does your head still hurt, Mr Buchanan? I have to do a few tests on you, Mr Buchanan. Excellent responses, Mr Buchanan. My nurse will take you downstairs for your CAT-scan, Mr Buchanan.

Christ, they didn't bother to give me even a minimal assumed identity, Buchanan thought. Not even just a John Doe cover name. I wouldn't have needed supporting documents. An arbitrary alias for purposes of the examination would have been fine. But my real name's on the medical file the doctor's holding. I can understand that they wanted to protect the Don Colton pseudonym. But I didn't have to use it. I could have called myself anything. This way, with my name associated with the CAT-scan, if anyone makes a comparison, I can be linked to Victor Grant's CAT-scan.

The doctor turned from examining the film. 'Good news. The bruise is considerably reduced, Mr Buchanan.'

If he calls me that one more time, I'll-

'And there's no indication of neurological damage. The shaking in your right hand has stopped. I attribute that previous symptom to trauma caused by the wound to your shoulder.'

'What about my headache?'

'After a concussion, a headache can persist for quite some time. It doesn't trouble me.'

'Well, you're not the one with the headache.'

The doctor didn't react to the attempt at humor. 'I can prescribe something for the pain, if you like.'

'Something with a label that says, "Do not drive or use heavy machinery while taking this medication"?'

'That's correct.'

'Thanks, but I'll stick to aspirin,' Buchanan said.

'As you wish. Come back in a week, let's make it November second, and I'll re-examine you. Meanwhile, be careful. Don't bang your head again. If you have any problems, let me know.'

Problems? Buchanan thought. The kind of problems I've got, you can't solve.

9

Here's the postcard I never thought I'd send.

10

'Do you want to tell me what's going on?' Buchanan asked as they drove along the Little River Turnpike from Fairfax back to Alexandria. The day was gray, a late October drizzle speckling the windshield.

The man who called himself Alan glanced at him, then peered forward again, concentrating on traffic. He turned on the windshield wipers. 'I'm not sure what you mean.'

'Why have I been exposed?'

As the drizzle changed to rain, the man turned on the windshield defroster. 'Exposed? What makes you think.?'

Buchanan stared at him. The man turned on the headlights.

'There's not much left,' Buchanan said, 'for you to toy with and avoid the question. What are you going to do next? Turn on the radio and keep switching stations, or pull over and start changing the oil?'

'What are you talking about, Buchanan?'

'That. My name. For the first time in eight years, people are using it openly. I'm deliberately being compromised. Why?'

'I told you last night. It's time for a rest.'

'That doesn't justify violating basic rules.'

'Hey, the doctor has a security clearance.'

'It was a needless violation,' Buchanan said. 'He certainly didn't need to know who I was in order to assess a CAT-scan. And he mentioned the wound in my shoulder, but he didn't get a look at that shoulder, and I didn't tell him about it. What else has he been told that he didn't need to know? How I got the wound?'

'Of course not.'

'Sure. I bet. This isn't just a rest. I'm not just in limbo. I'm being eased out. Am I right?'

The man steered into the passing lane.

'I asked you a question. Am I being eased out?'

'Nothing lasts forever, Buchanan.'

'Stop calling me that.'

'What should I call you? Who the hell do you think you are?'

Buchanan's skull throbbed. He didn't have an answer.

'An operative with your talent and experience could do a lot of good as a trainer,' Alan said.

Buchanan didn't respond.

'Did you expect to work under cover all your life?'

'I never thought about it.'

'Come on,' the man said. 'I fail to believe that.'

'I meant what I said. I literally never thought about it. I never thought beyond who I was during any given assignment. If you start planning your retirement while you're working under cover, you start making mistakes. You forget who you're supposed to be. You fall out of character. That's a great way to insure you don't live long enough for the retirement you're not supposed to be planning.'