Assumed Identity

'Oh.'

'And if you don't happen to have a toothbrush, you can use mine.'

'On second thoughts.'

'You bet.' Buchanan unlocked and opened the door. 'Good night, Holly.'

'Good night.'

9

'How did she know my real name? How did she know so many of my pseudonyms? How did she know where to find me? I asked her those questions several times.' Buchanan was in a phone booth on Loyola Avenue not far from Union Passenger Terminal in New Orleans. The street was noisy. The October sky was hazy blue. The weather was warm and humid. But all Buchanan cared about was what he heard on the phone and whether he was being followed.

'We'll find out,' his deep-voiced contact officer said. 'Do whatever you were going to do. Don't change your plans. We'll get back to you. But if anything new develops, call us immediately. Just remember, the evidence she claims to have - the photographs - they aren't conclusive.'

'But she's not supposed to have those photographs at all. What happened in Fort Lauderdale after I left?' Buchanan demanded. 'This problem was supposed to have been taken care of.'

'We thought the woman was merely a hired hand. Nobody guessed she'd be a reporter. When she didn't resurface, she didn't seem important.'

'For all I know, Bailey's involved in this, too.'

'No,' the voice said firmly. 'He isn't. Just stay calm. Enjoy your furlough. At the moment, the woman can't prove anything.'

'Tell the colonel he was in one of the photographs she showed me.'

'Don't worry. I'll be sure to tell him. Meanwhile, in case we need to get in touch with you, stick around your hotel room between six and eight tonight. After that, check the possible rendezvous sites we agreed on before you left.'

Tense, Buchanan hung up the phone, picked up his travel bag, opened the booth's door, and stepped out.

A redheaded woman and her male companion appeared from behind trees in a nearby park.

God, Buchanan thought.

He stalked toward them. 'Enough is enough. You're not going to ruin my furlough by following me.'

Holly McCoy looked disappointed that she'd been spotted. 'Who were you phoning? Your superior officers to tell them you'd been exposed?'

'An old friend who moved down here. Not that it's any of your business.'

'Prove it. Let's go visit him.'

'His girlfriend told me he had to go to Houston for an emergency sales conference.'

'Convenient.What's his name?'

'Lady, I'm annoyed that I won't get to see him, and you're not making things any better by-'

'Holly. Please, call me Holly. I mean, since we nearly spent the night together, we might as well use each other's first name.'

Buchanan turned to her male companion. 'Whatever you're being paid, it isn't enough. After listening to her all the time, don't you just want to put a noose around your neck and put an end to it all?'

He walked away toward the entrance to the nearby post office.

'Brendan!' Holly called.

Buchanan didn't respond.

'Bren!' she called.

Buchanan kept walking.

'Hey!' she called. 'What hotel are you using?'

It had been so long since anyone had used Buchanan's first name and his nickname that he didn't identify them with himself. Slowly they registered on him. He turned. 'Why should I make things easy for you? Damn it, find out for yourself.'

In front of the post office, a man got out of a taxi. Buchanan ducked in and gave directions to the driver. As the taxi sped into traffic, the last thing he heard Holly shout was, 'Hey!'

10

Brendan. Bren. As his first name and his nickname echoed in his consciousness, Buchanan became more aware of how long it had been since he had portrayed himself.

But this was different. Now he found himself confronted by the most complex assumption of identity that he had ever attempted. Not one identity but two. Simultaneously. Brendan Buchanan and Peter Lang. Not schizophrenia, for in that case, one identity would alternate with the other. No, these identities had to be multilayered, coexisting. Compatible, yet separate. Balanced within the same instant.

To fulfill his purpose for coming to New Orleans, to find out why Juana had sent the postcard, to learn the trouble she was in, he had to reconstruct Peter Lang. After all, Peter Lang had made the promise to help her. Peter Lang had been in love with her. Desperate not to be himself, Buchanan wanted very much to be Peter Lang.

But Peter Lang wasn't being followed by Holly McCoy. Peter Lang hadn't worked for the Intelligence Support Activity. He wasn't now assigned to Scotch and Soda. Oh, Peter Lang had worked for a clandestine branch of Special Operations. That was true. But not these particular ones. Peter Lang wasn't under investigation by The Washington Post. Brendan Buchanan was, and it was Brendan Buchanan who would have to deceive and discourage Holly McCoy.

Thus Peter Lang would pretend to be Brendan Buchanan. And Brendan Buchanan. Well, he had to do something while he was in New Orleans. He couldn't just sit in his hotel room and show Holly that she'd made him nervous. As a consequence, he would pretend to be Peter Lang and revisit the spots he had so admired when he'd lived here six years ago.

Peter Lang would have stayed at a place he knew in the French Quarter, but in theory, Brendan Buchanan had never been to New Orleans. He didn't know the secret good places. He would choose an easier-to-book, less quaint, but first-rate hotel, something near the French Quarter but also near the Riverwalk mall and the other downtown attractions. The Holiday Inn-Crowne Plaza, tall and gleaming, seemed ideal. Having made a reservation for Brendan Buchanan, he checked in, was shown to his twelfth-floor room, waited until the bellhop had left, then locked the door, and transferred his handgun and Victor Grant's passport from his travel bag to his clothes. After all, the room might be searched. The passport fit within his lightweight, gray sport coat. The gun fit underneath the sportcoat, behind his belt, at his spine. He didn't bother to check the view.

Two minutes after having been shown to his room, he left it, taking the fire stairs to the lobby. He scanned it to make sure that Holly McCoy wasn't in sight, then walked outside, and got in the taxi whose driver he had told to wait for him.

'Where you gwin to now, suh?' the elderly, silver-haired, resonant-voiced, black man asked.

'Metairie Cemetery.'

'Somebody die, suh?'

'All the time.'

'Ain't that the truth, suh.'

Buchanan's contact officer had told him to stay at the hotel from six to eight this evening in case he had to be given a message. But that was three hours from now, and Buchanan wanted to keep moving. More important, he wanted to do what Peter Lang would do. So he leaned back in the taxi, pretending to admire the sights as the driver headed down Tchoupitoulas Street, got on the 90 expressway, and merged with rushing traffic, speeding toward Metairie Road.