The wife his employers had supplied to him was indeed Hispanic. A spirited, attractive woman named Juana Mendez, she’d been twenty-five. Her parents were Mexicans who’d become U.S. citizens. A sergeant in Army Intelligence, she’d been raised in San Antonio, Texas, a city that Buchanan’s persona, Peter Lang, claimed as his hometown as well. Buchanan had spent several weeks in San Antonio prior to his assignment in order to familiarize himself with the city, lest someone test his cover story by trying to manipulate him into saying things about San Antonio that weren’t accurate. Juana’s constant presence with him would make it more difficult for anyone to question him about San Antonio. If he didn’t know the answer, if he hesitated, Juana would answer for him.
Being Peter Lang had been one of Buchanan’s longest assignments-four months. During that time, he and Juana had lived together in a small apartment on the second story of a quaint clapboard building with ornate wrought-iron railings and a pleasant flower-filled courtyard on Dumaine Street in the French Quarter. Both he and Juana had known the dangers of becoming emotionally involved with an undercover partner. They had tried to make their public gestures of affection strictly professional. They had done their best not to be affected by their enforced private intimacy, eating together, combining laundry, using the same bathroom, sharing the same sleeping quarters. They didn’t have intercourse. They weren’t that undisciplined. But they might as well have, for the effect was the same. Sexual activity was only a part-and often a small part, and sometimes no part-of a successful marriage. In their four months together, Buchanan and Juana portrayed their roles so well that they finally admitted awkwardly to each other that they did feel married. In the night, while he’d listened to her softly exhale in sleep, he had felt intoxicated by her smell. It reminded him of cinnamon.
Shared stress is a powerful bonder. On one occasion, during a firefight in Nicaragua, Buchanan would never have been able to reach his plane and maneuver it for a takeoff from the primitive airstrip in the jungle if Juana hadn’t used an assault rifle to give him covering fire. Through the canopy of his slowly turning aircraft, he had watched Juana run from the jungle toward the passenger door he had opened. She had whirled toward bushes, fired her M-16, then raced onward. Bullets from the jungle had torn up dirt ahead of her. She had whirled and fired again. Revving the engines, he had managed to get the plane in position and then had raised his own M-16 to shoot through the open hatch and give her covering fire. Bullets had struck the side of the plane. As she lunged toward the hatch, he’d released the brakes and started across the bumpy clearing. She’d scrambled in, braced herself at the open hatch, and fired repeatedly at the jungle. When she emptied her weapon, she’d picked up his, emptying it as well. Then grabbing a seat belt so she wouldn’t fall out, she had laughed as the plane bounced twice and rose abruptly, skimming treetops.
To depend on someone for your life makes you feel close to that person. Buchanan had experienced that emotion in the company of men. But that four-month assignment had been the first time he had felt it with a woman, and in the end, he was a better actor than he wanted to be, for he fell in love with her.
He shouldn’t have. He struggled desperately with himself to repress the feeling. Nonetheless, he failed. Even then, he didn’t have sex with her. Despite powerful temptation, they didn’t violate their professional ethics by getting physically involved. But they did break another rule, one that warned them not to confuse their roles with reality, although Buchanan didn’t believe in that rule. His strength as an imposter was precisely that he did confuse his roles with reality. As long as he was portraying someone, that person was reality.
One night, while Buchanan was watching television, Juana had come in from buying groceries. The troubled look on her face had made him frown.
“Are you all right?” Concerned, he’d walked toward her. “Did something happen while you were out?”
Apparently oblivious to his question, she’d set down the bag of groceries and begun to unpack. But then he’d realized that she didn’t care about the groceries. She was preoccupied by a jazz-concert handout that someone had given her on the street. She removed it from the bag, and when Buchanan saw the small x in the upper-right corner, he’d understood why she looked disturbed. The person who’d given her the handout must have been their contact. The small x, made by a felt-tip pen, was their signal to dismantle the operation.
They were being reassigned.
At that moment, Buchanan had been terribly conscious of Juana’s proximity, of her oval face, of her smooth dark skin and the firm-looking outline of her breasts beneath her blouse. He’d wanted to hold her, but his discipline had been too strong.
Juana’s usually cheerful voice had sounded tight with stress. “I guess I knew we’d eventually be reassigned.” She’d swallowed. “Nothing lasts forever, right?”
“Right,” he’d answered somberly.
“So. . Do you think we’ll be reassigned together?”
“I don’t know.”
Juana had nodded, pensive.
“They almost never do.”
“Yes.” Juana had swallowed again.
The night before they left New Orleans, they’d taken a stroll through the French Quarter. It was Halloween, and the old part of the city had been more colorful and festive than usual. Revelers wore costumes, a great many of them depicting skeletons. The crowd danced, sang, and drank in the narrow streets. Jazz-some tunes melancholy, others joyous-reverberated through open doors, merging, swelling past the wrought-iron railings above the crowd, echoing toward the reflection of the city’s lights in the sky.
Oh, when the saints. .
Buchanan and Juana had ended their walk at Cafe du Monde near Jackson Square on Decatur Street. The famous open-air restaurant specialized in cafe au lait as well as beignets, deep-fried French pastries covered with powdered sugar. The place had been extremely crowded, many costumed partygoers wanting caffeine and starch to offset the alcohol they’d consumed before they continued their revels. Regardless, Buchanan and Juana had stood in line. The October night had been balmy with the hint of rain, a pleasant breeze coming in from the Mississippi. Finally, a waiter had guided them to a table and taken their order. They’d glanced around at the festive crowd, had felt out of place, uncomfortably subdued, and had finally discussed the subject that they’d been avoiding. Buchanan didn’t recall who had raised the topic or how, but the gist had been, Is this the end, or do we continue seeing each other after this? And as Buchanan had faced the question directly, he’d suddenly realized how absurd it was. Tomorrow, Peter Lang wouldn’t exist. So how could Peter Lang continue to have a relationship with his wife, who wouldn’t exist tomorrow, either?
Softly, their conversation impossible to be overheard in the din of the crowd, Buchanan had told her that their characters were at an end, and Juana had looked at him as if he was speaking gibberish.
“I’m not interested in who we were,” she had said. “I’m talking about us.”
“So am I.”
“No,” she’d told him. “Those people don’t exist. We do. Tomorrow, reality starts. The fantasy is over. What are we going to do?”
“I love you,” he’d said.
She’d exhaled, trembling slightly. “I’ve been waiting for you to say that. . Hoping. . I don’t know how it happened, but I feel the same. I love you.”