Assumed Identity

'You actually believe her?'

'Yes. I told her I'd kill her if she ever wrote the story. I believe her because I know she believed me.'

The room became silent.

'She's out of it,' Buchanan said.

The major and the captain looked at each other.

Come on, Buchanan thought. Take the bait.

'We'd want all the photographs and the negatives.' Alan shifted his weight on the bed.

The major and the captain turned in his direction, as if they hadn't been aware of him until now, surprised that he'd spoken.

'That's not a problem,' Buchanan said. 'She's already agreed to give them to me. As a gesture of good faith' - he pulled some photographs from an inside pocket of his jacket -'these are the ones she had on her.'

'You honestly think she'll stick to her bargain?' the major asked.

'She's too afraid not to.'

'You certainly must have been convincing.'

'That's my specialty. Being convincing.'

But have I convinced you? Buchanan thought.

'She could make copies of the photographs and create new negatives,' the major said.

'Or hold some back,' the captain added. 'The only way to be sure is to get rid of her.'

Alan squirmed again, then stood from the bed. 'I don't know.' He shook his head, troubled. 'Would that really solve anything? Even if she were terminated, we'd still have to worry that she had copies of her research hidden with friends. There'd be no guarantee that we could find it all. Fear can be an effective motivator. If Buchanan thinks he managed to neutralize the situation without the need for violence, maybe we ought to go along with his suggestion. After all, no matter how much we made her death seem like an accident, there would still be repercussions. Suspicions. Killing her might cause more problems than it solves.'

Inwardly Buchanan sighed. I've got him. He's agreeing. Now all I have to do is.

The major frowned. 'I'll have to talk with the colonel.'

'Of course,' Alan said sarcastically. 'The colonel has the final word. The Agency doesn't count in this. Only you people.'

The major responded flatly, 'We have as much authority as you. The colonel has to be consulted.'

Shit, Buchanan thought. I only got a postponement.

He quickly tried another approach.

'I have something else for you to tell the colonel.'

'Oh?'

'. I'm resigning.'

They stared.

'You were already planning to take me out of operations and use me as an instructor. Why do things halfway? Accept my resignation. If I'm out of the military, I won't be a threat to you.'

'Threat? What do you mean?' the major asked.

'I think that's obvious enough. The real problem here is me.'

The room seemed to shrink.

'I repeat, Captain. What do you mean?' the major asked.

'We wouldn't be in this situation if it hadn't been for what happened to me in Cancun and then in Fort Lauderdale. The operation wouldn't be threatened if I were out of the way. That wasn't a mugger who stabbed me last night. It was someone working for you.'

'That's absurd,' the captain said.

'Using a street weapon so it wouldn't look like a professional hit. Because of the knife, I didn't figure it out right away. No reputable assassin would ever use a blade. Compared to a bullet, it's too uncertain. For that matter, too risky, because you have to get right next to your target. But then I realized that what looked like an amateur killing would be a perfect cover for a professional one. Bailey, the Doyles, me. We'd all be dead. A suspicious coincidence, yes. But each of the deaths would be explainable without any need to drag in a conspiracy theory. And if the reporter had a car accident.'

Everyone became very still.

'All because of the photographs,' Buchanan said. 'The ones that showed you, Major, and you, Captain, and more important, the colonel with me on the yacht in Fort Lauderdale. For me to be exposed wasn't a problem. You knew I'd never implicate anyone. But for you two to have your photograph on the front page of The Washington Post, and in particular for the colonel to be on the front page, that's a different matter. That would lead to the exposure of all sorts of things. You don't have to worry about any of that now. The reporter isn't going to write her story. And even if I hadn't scared her off, the photograph of me with the two of you and the colonel doesn't mean anything if I can't be linked to Scotch and Soda. You don't need to go to the trouble of killing me. I'll do you all a favor and disappear.'

The group seemed frozen.

Finally the major cleared his throat, then looked awkwardly at the woman and finally Alan.

'Come on,' Buchanan said. 'We've got a problem. Let's discuss it.'

'Captain, do you realize what you sound like?' the major asked, uneasy.

'Direct.'

'Try "paranoid".'

'Fine,' Buchanan said. 'Nobody ordered my termination. We'll pretend it was the random act of violence you wanted it to resemble. However you want to play this. It makes no difference to me. Just so you get the point. I'll disappear. That way you've got double protection. Holly McCoy won't write her story. I won't be around to be questioned.'

'To hear you talk like this.' The major frowned. 'I'm glad we did decide to observe you. You've definitely been undercover too long.'

'I think you'd better get some rest,' Alan said. 'You've just been released from the hospital. You've got to be tired.'

The woman added, 'Being stabbed. Injuring your head again. In your place, I'd-'

'How'd you know I hurt my head again? I didn't mention it to anybody.'

'I just assumed.'

'Or you heard it from the man you sent to kill me.'

'Captain, you're obviously distressed. I want you - in fact, I order you - to stay in this room, to try to relax and get some sleep. We'll be back here at nine hundred hours tomorrow morning to continue this conversation. Hopefully, you'll feel less disturbed by then.'

'I honestly don't blame you for trying to protect the mission,' Buchanan said. 'But let's not talk around the problem. Get it out in the open. Now that I've given you a better solution, you don't have to kill me.'

Alan studied Buchanan with concern, then followed the major and the captain somberly out the door.

12

Buchanan's legs felt unsteady as he crossed the room and secured the lock. The strain of the conversation had intensified his headache. He shoved three Tylenol caplets into his mouth and went into the bathroom to drink a glass of water. His mouth was so dry that he drank a second glass. His reflection in the mirror showed dark patches under his eyes. I'm losing it, he thought.

In the bedroom, he awkwardly closed the draperies. His side hurt when he stretched out on the bed. The darkness was soothing.

But his mind wouldn't stop working.

Did I pull it off?

Were they convinced?