'Will you stop being so defensive? How many times do I have to tell you? I'm on your side. I'm not out to destroy you. I.'

'Let's just say I had training along the line.' Buchanan clutched the steering wheel and continued to stare at the busy highway. 'Being a deep-cover operative isn't just having false documents and a believable cover story. To assume an identity, I have to transmit the absolute conviction that I am who I claim to be. That means believing it absolutely myself. When I spoke to that secretary, I was Ted Riley, and something in me went out to her. Went into her mind. Stroked her into believing in me. Remember we talked about elicitation? It isn't merely asking subtle questions. It's enveloping someone in an attitude and emotionally drawing them toward you.'

'It sounds like hypnotism.'

'That's how I made my mistake with you.' Buchanan's tone changed, becoming bitter.

Holly tensed.

'I stopped concentrating on controlling you,' Buchanan said.

'I still don't understand.'

'I stopped acting,' Buchanan said. 'For a while with you, I had an unusual experience. I stopped impersonating. Without realizing it, I became somebody I'd forgotten about. Myself. I related to you as. me.' He sounded more bitter.

'Maybe that's why I became attracted to you,' Holly said.

Buchanan scoffed. 'I've been plenty of people better than myself. In fact, I'm the only identity I don't like.'

'So now you're avoiding yourself by being. who did you say you once were? Peter Lang?. searching for Juana?'

'No,' Buchanan said. 'Since I met you, Peter Lang has become less and less important. Juana matters to me because. In Key West, I told you I couldn't decide anything about my future until I settled my past.' He finally looked at her. 'I'm not a fool. I know I can't go back six years and God knows how many identities and start up where I left off with her. It's like. For a very long time I've been pretending, acting, switching from role to role, and I've known people I couldn't allow myself to care about in those roles. A lot of those people needed help that I couldn't go back and give them. A lot of those people died, but I couldn't go back and mourn for them. Most of my life's been a series of boxes unrelated to each other. I've got to connect them. I want to become.'

Holly waited.

'A human being,' Buchanan said. 'That's why I'm pissed at you. Because I let my guard down, and you betrayed me.'

'No,' Holly said, touching his right hand on the steering wheel. 'Not anymore. I swear to God - I'm not a threat.'

4.

After the noise and pollution of Mexico City, Cuernavaca's peace and clean air were especially welcome. The sky was clear, the sun bright, making the valley resplendent. In an exclusive subdivision, Buchanan followed the directions he'd been given and found the street he wanted, coming to a high, stone wall within which a large, iron gate provided a glimpse of gardens, shade trees, and a Spanish-style mansion. A roof of red tile glinted in the sun.

Buchanan kept driving.

'But isn't that where we're supposed to go?' Holly asked.

'Yes.'

'Then why.?'

'I haven't decided about a couple of things.'

'Such as?'

'Maybe it's time to cut you loose.'

Holly looked startled.

'Anything might happen. I don't want you involved,' Buchanan said.

'I am involved.'

'Don't you think you're going to extremes to get a story?'

'The only extreme I care about is what I have to do to prove myself to you. Delgado's expecting a female reporter. Without me, you won't get in. Hey, you established a cover. You claim you're my interpreter. Be consistent.'

'Be consistent?' Buchanan tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. 'Yeah. For a change.'

He turned the car around.

An armed guard stood behind the bars of the gate.

Buchanan got out of the car, approached the man, showed Holly's press card, and explained in Spanish that he and Seorita McCoy were expected. With a scowl, the guard stepped into a wooden booth to the right of the gate and spoke into a telephone. Meanwhile, another armed guard watched Buchanan intently. The first guard returned, his expression as surly as before. Buchanan's muscles compacted. He wondered if something had gone wrong. But the guard unlocked the gate, opened it, and motioned for Buchanan to get back in his car.

Buchanan drove along a shady, curved driveway, past trees, gardens, and fountains, toward the three-story mansion. Simultaneously he glanced in his rearview mirror, noting that the guard relocked the gate. He noted as well that other armed guards patrolled the interior of the wall.

'I feel a lot more nervous than when I went on Drummond's yacht,' Holly said. 'Don't you ever feel-?'

'Each time.'

'Then why on earth do you keep doing it?'

'I don't have a choice.'

'In this case, maybe. But other times.'

'No choice,' Buchanan repeated. 'When you're in the military, you follow orders.'

'Not now, you're not. Besides, you didn't have to join the military.'

'Wrong,' Buchanan said, thinking of the need he'd felt to punish himself for killing his brother. He urgently crushed the thought, disturbed that he'd allowed himself to be distracted. Juana. He had to pay attention. Instead of Tommy, he had to keep thinking of Juana.

'In fact, I don't think I've ever felt this nervous,' Holly said.

'Stage fright. Try to relax. This is just a walk-through,' Buchanan said. 'I need to check Delgado's security. Your performance shouldn't be difficult. Just conduct an interview. You're perfectly safe. Which is a hell of a lot more than Delgado will be when I figure out how to get to him.'

Concealing his intensity, Buchanan parked in front of the mansion. When he got out of the car, he noticed other guards, not to mention groundskeepers who seemed more interested in visitors than in their duties. There were closed-circuit television cameras, wires in the panes of the windows, metal boxes among the shrubbery - intrusion detectors.

I might have to find another place, Buchanan thought.

Subduing his emotions, he introduced Holly and himself to a servant, who came out to greet them and escort them into a cool, shadowy, echoing, marble vestibule. They passed a wide, curved staircase and proceeded along a hallway to a mahogany-paneled study that smelled of wax and polish. Furnished in leather, it was filled with hunting trophies as well as numerous rifles and shotguns in glinting, glass cabinets.

Although Buchanan had never met him, Delgado was instantly recognizable as he stood from behind his desk, more hawk-nosed and more arrogant-looking than he appeared on the videotape and in photographs. But he also seemed pale and thinner, his cheeks gaunt as if he might be ill.

'Welcome,' he said.