'You listen. I could be the best thing that ever happened to you. Don't lose me.'

'But tomorrow I have to.'

'Have to? Why? Because of the people we work for? To hell with them. They expect me to sign up again. But I'm not planning to.'

'It's got nothing to do with them,' Buchanan had said. 'This is all about me. It's about what I do. We could never have a relationship after this, because I won't be the same. I'll be a stranger.'

'What?'

'I'll be different.'

She had stared at him, suddenly realizing the implications of what he was saying. 'You'd choose your work instead of-?'

'My work is all I have.'

'No,' Juana had said. 'You could have me.'

Buchanan studied her. Looked down. Looked up. Bit his lip. Slowly shook his head. 'You don't know me. You only know who I pretend to be.'

She looked shocked.

'I'll always be your friend,' Buchanan had said. 'Remember that. I swear to you. If you ever need help, if you're ever in trouble, all you have to do is ask, and no matter how long it's been, no matter how far away I am, I'll-'

Juana had stood, her chair scraping harshly on the concrete floor. People had stared.

'If I ever need you, I'll send you a Goddamned postcard.'

Hiding tears, she had hurried from the restaurant.

And that was the last time he had spoken to her. When he returned to their apartment, she had already packed and left. Hollow, he had stayed awake all night, sitting in the dark, staring at the wall across from the bed they had shared.

Just as he stared out at the darkness beyond the window of the compartment in the speeding train.

3.

He had done it again, Buchanan realized.

He'd become catatonic. Rubbing at the pain in his skull, he had the sense of coming back from far away. The compartment was dark. The night beyond the window was broken only by occasional lights from farms. How long had-?

He glanced down at the luminous dial on his pilot's watch. Peter Lang's watch, disturbed to see that the time was eight minutes after ten. He'd left Washington shortly before noon. The train would long ago have left Virginia. It would be well into North Carolina by now, perhaps into Georgia. All afternoon and most of the evening? he thought in dismay. What's happening to me?

His head throbbing, he stood, turned on the lights in the locked compartment, felt exposed by his reflection in the window, and quickly closed the curtains. The reflected haggard face had looked unfamiliar. He opened his travel bag, took three aspirins from his toilet kit, and swallowed them with water from the tiny sink in the compartment's utility washroom. While he urinated, he felt his mind drifting again, going back six years, and he concentrated to pay attention to now.

He needed to get into character. He had to re-become Peter Lang. But he also had to be functional. He couldn't keep staring off into space. After all, the whole point of going to New Orleans, of finding out why Juana had sent the postcard, was to give himself a purpose, a sense of direction.

Juana. As much as he needed to focus on re-assuming the character of Peter Lang, he had to focus on Juana. She'd be - what? - thirty-one now. He wondered if she'd kept in shape. She hadn't been tall, and she'd been thin, but her military-trained body had compensated. It had been hard and strong and magnificent. Would her thick, dark hair still be as short as when he'd known her? He had wanted to run his fingers through it, to clutch it, to tug it gently. Would her dark eyes still be fiery? Would her lips still have that sensuous contour? She'd had a habit, when she'd been concentrating, of pursing those lips and sticking them out slightly, and he had wanted to stroke them as much as he'd wanted to touch her hair.

What was his true motive for going back? he wondered. Was it really just to give himself mobility?

Or had the postcard awakened something in him? He'd repressed his memories of her, just as he'd repressed so much about himself. And now.

Maybe I shouldn't have let her go. Maybe I should have.

No, he thought. The past is a trap. Leave it alone. Obviously it's not doing you any good if it makes you catatonic. What you're feeling is a bush-league mistake. In your former lives, you left plenty of unfinished business, a lot of people whom you liked or at least whom your assumed identities liked. But you've never gone back before. Be careful.

But I didn't love those other people. Why did she send the postcard? What sort of trouble is she in?

Your controllers would have a fit if they knew what you were thinking.

The trouble is, I remember her so vividly.

Besides, I promised.

No, a warning voice told him. You didn't promise. Peter Lang did.

Exactly. And right now, that's who I am.

I meant what I said. I promised.

4.

Welcoming the distraction of hunger, relieved to be in motion, Buchanan-Lang unlocked the compartment, checked the swaying corridor, saw no one, and was just about to leave when he decided that the simple lock on the compartment couldn't be trusted. He took his small travel bag - the passport and the handgun in it - with him, secured the compartment, and proceeded toward the dining car.

It was three cars away, and when he entered it, he discovered that it was almost deserted, a few passengers sipping coffee, waiters clearing dirty dishes from the tables. The overhead lights of the dining car gleamed off the windows and made the area seem extra bright, obscuring whatever was out in the darkness.

Buchanan rubbed his aching forehead and approached the nearest waiter.

The weary-looking man anticipated his question. 'Sorry, sir. We're closed. Breakfast starts at six in the morning.'

'I'm afraid I took a nap and overslept. I'm starved. Isn't there something you can give me so my stomach won't growl all night?' Buchanan discreetly held out a ten-dollar bill.

'Yes, sir. I understand your problem. I'll see what I can do. Perhaps a couple of cold roast-beef sandwiches to take with you.'

'Sounds good.'

'And maybe a soda.'

'A beer would be better.'

'Well,' a voice said behind Buchanan, 'I don't have the beer. But just in case, I did plan ahead and arranged for some sandwiches.'

Refusing to show that he was surprised, Buchanan made himself wait a moment before he slowly turned to face the woman whose voice he had heard. When he saw her, he was even more careful not to show his surprise. Because he definitely was surprised.

The woman had long, dramatic, flame-red hair. She was tall. In her late twenties. Athletic figure. Strong forehead. Excellent cheekbones. Fashion-model features.