The interrogator grabbed Buchanan's shirt and yanked him forward, overturning the chair, toppling him to the floor.

Buchanan's face struck the concrete. He heard the interrogator shout in Spanish to someone about bringing rags, about forcing the gringo to clean up his filth. But Buchanan doubted he'd be conscious by the time the rags arrived. Still, although his vision dimmed, it didn't do so quickly enough to prevent him from seeing with shock that his urine was tinted red. They broke something inside me. I'm pissing blood.

'You know what I think, gringo?' the interrogator asked.

Buchanan wasn't capable of responding.

'I think you are involved with drugs. I think that you and the men you killed had an argument about drug money. I think.'

The interrogator's voice dimmed, echoing. Buchanan fainted.

6.

He found himself sitting upright once more, still tied to the chair. It took several moments for his vision to focus, for his mind to become alert. Pain definitely helped him sharpen his consciousness. He had no way of knowing how long he'd been out. The room had no windows. The fat interrogator seemed to be wearing the same sweaty uniform. But Buchanan noticed that the blood-tinted urine had disappeared from the floor. Not even a damp spot. Considerable time must have passed, he concluded. Then he noticed something else - that his pants remained wet. Hell, all they did was move me to a different room. They're trying to screw with my mind.

'We have brought a friend to see you.'

'Good.' Buchanan's voice broke. He fought not to lose his strength. 'My client can vouch for me. We can clear up this mistake.'

'Client? Did I say anything about a client?' The interrogator opened the door.

A man, an American, stood flanked by guards in a dim hallway. The man was tall, with broad shoulders and a bulky chest, his sandy hair in a brushcut. He wore sneakers, jeans, and a too-small, green T-shirt, the same clothes he'd been wearing when he'd come into the restaurant at Club Internacional in Cancun. The clothes were rumpled, and the man looked exhausted, his face still red but less from sun and alcohol than from strain. He hadn't shaved. Big Bob Bailey.

Yeah, I bet you're sorry now that you didn't stay away from me at the restaurant, Buchanan thought.

The interrogator gestured sharply, and the guards nudged Bailey into the room, guiding him with a firm hand on each of his elbows. He walked unsteadily.

Sure, they've been questioning you since they caught you on the beach, Buchanan thought. They've been pumping you for every speck of information they can get, and the pressure they put on you encourages you to stick to your story. If they get what they want, they'll apologize and treat you royally to make certain you don't change your mind.

The guards stopped Bailey directly in front of Buchanan.

The interrogator used the tip of the rubber hose to raise Buchanan's face. 'Is this the man you saw in Cancun?'

Bailey hesitated.

'Answer,' the interrogator said.

'I.' Bailey drew a shaky hand across his brushcut. 'It could be the man.' He stank of cigarettes. His voice was gravelly.

''Could be?' The interrogator scowled and showed him the police sketch. 'When you helped the artist prepare this sketch, I am told that you were definite in your description.'

'Well, yeah, but.'

'But?

Bailey cleared his throat. 'I'd been drinkin'. My judgment might have been clouded.'

'And are you sober now?'

'I wish I wasn't, but yeah, I'm sober,'

'Then your judgment should be improved. Is this the man you saw shoot the three other men on the beach behind the hotel?'

'Wait a minute,' Bailey said. 'I didn't see anybody shoot nobody. What I told the police in Cancun was I saw a friend of mine with three Mexicans. I followed 'em from the restaurant to the beach. It was dark. There were shots. I dove for cover. I don't know who shot who, but my friend survived and ran away.'

'It is logical to assume that the man who survived the shooting is responsible for the deaths of the others.'

'I don't know.' Bailey pawed at the back of his neck. 'An American court might not buy that logic.'

'This is Mexico,' the interrogator said. 'Is this the man you saw run away?'

Bailey squinted toward Buchanan. 'He's wearin' different clothes. His hair's got blood in it. His face is dirty. His lips are scabbed. He hasn't shaved, and he generally looks like shit. But yeah, he looks like my friend.'

'Looks like?' The interrogator scowled. 'Surely you can be more positive, Seor Bailey. After all, the sooner we get this settled, the sooner you can go back to your hotel room.'

'Okay.' Bailey squinted harder. 'Yeah, I think he's my friend.'

'He's wrong,' Buchanan said. 'I never saw this man in my life.'

'He claims he knew you in Kuwait and Iraq,' the interrogator said. 'During the Gulf War.'

'Oh, sure. Yeah, right.' The pain in Buchanan's abdomen worsened. He bit his lip, then struggled to continue. 'And then he just happened to bump into me in Cancun. Hey, I was never in Kuwait or Iraq, and I can prove it. All you have to do is look at the stamps on my passport. I bet this guy doesn't even know my name.'

'Jim Crawford,' Bailey said with sudden anger. 'Except you lied to me. You told me your name was Ed Potter.'

'Jim Crawford?' Buchanan grimaced at the interrogator. 'Ed Potter? Get real. Does this guy know my name's Victor Grant? Show him my passport. From the sound of things - he admitted as much - he was so drunk I'm surprised he doesn't claim he saw Elvis Presley. I'm not whoever he thinks I am, and I don't know anything about three men who were murdered.'

'In Cancun,' the interrogator said, 'my brothers on the police force are investigating Ed Potter. Assuming that you did not lie when you gave Seor Bailey that name, you will have left some evidence in the area. You had to stay somewhere. You had to store your clothes. You had to sleep. We will find that place. There will be people who saw you at that place. We will bring those people here, and they will identify you as Ed Potter, proving that Seor Bailey is right.' The interrogator shook the piece of rubber hose in front of Buchanan's face. 'And then you will explain not only why you shot those three men but why you carry a passport with a different name, why you use so many names.'

'Yeah. Like Jim Crawford,' Bailey said. 'In Kuwait.'

The interrogator looked extremely satisfied now that Bailey was cooperating again.

Throughout, Buchanan showed no reaction except pain-aggravated anger. But his thoughts, despite his excruciating headache, were urgent. He worked to calculate how protected he was. He'd used the mail to negotiate for and to pay the rent on his office. The only times he'd spoken to the landlord had been on the telephone. The same methods had been employed with regard to his apartment in downtown Cancun. Recommended tradecraft. So far so good. It was also to Buchanan's advantage that the police would take quite a while to contact every hotel manager and landlord in Cancun. Still, eventually they would, and although Buchanan's landlords couldn't describe him, they would tell the police that they recognized the name

'Ed Potter,' and the police would question people who frequented the area where Ed Potter worked and lived. Eventually someone would be brought here who would agree with Big Bob Bailey's claim that the man who called himself Victor Grant looked very much like Ed Potter, and things would get very sticky after that.

'Let them,' Buchanan said. 'They can waste all the time they want investigating Ed Potter, whoever he is. I'm not worried. Because I'm not that man.' Pain gnawed at his abdomen. He had to relieve his bladder once more, and he feared that his urine would be an even darker red. 'The trouble is, while they're wasting their time, I'm getting the hell beat out of me.' He shuddered. 'And it's not going to stop - because I swear to God I won't confess to something I didn't do.' He glared at the beefy, nervous Texan. 'What did this cop say your name is? Bailey? Is that what-?'

Bailey looked exasperated. 'Crawford, you known damned well my name's-'

'Stop calling me "Crawford". Stop calling me "Potter". You've made a terrible mistake, and if you don't get your memory straight.'

Buchanan couldn't restrain his bladder any longer. Indeed he didn't want to. He'd suddenly decided on a new tactic. He released his abdominal muscles, urine dribbling onto the floor, and he didn't need to look down to know that the liquid was bloody.

Because Bailey turned pale, raised a hand to his mouth, and mumbled, 'Holy. Look at. He's. It's...'