Assumed Identity

by David R. Morrell

Genres: Action & Adventure; Spy Thrillers; Military Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

From the author of The Covenant of the Flame and The Fifth Profession. Brendan Buchanan is an undercover intelligence operative who has impersonated more than 200 people in the last eight years. But now his multi-personality occupation threatens to destroy him.

Release date: May 1, 2001

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 480

Sample

Prologue
 
MEXICO, 1562

Less than forty years after the Spanish conquerers arrived in the New World, the systematic extermination of the natives was well under way. Much of the genocide required no effort, inasmuch as diseases to which the Europeans had become accustomed—smallpox, measles, mumps, and influenza, for example—did not exist in the New World and hence had a rapid effect on the natives, who had no immunity to them. Those who did not die from disease (perhaps as few as 10 percent of the original population survived) were beaten into submission and forced into slavery. Villages were destroyed, the inhabitants herded into labor camps. Every effort, especially torture, was used to compel the survivors to abandon their culture and convert to that of their European dominators.

In Mexico’s southeastern extreme, the Yucatán Peninsula, a Franciscan missionary whose name was Diego de Landa reacted with shock to the evidence of snake worship and human sacrifice within the Mayan faith. Determined to eradicate these pagan barbarities, Landa organized the destruction of temples, statues, frescoes, any object with religious connotations—and in so doing, he not only separated the Maya from symbols of their beliefs but prevented modern historians from discovering the clues they needed to decipher the remaining hieroglyphs that described the lost ancient ways.

Landa’s greatest triumph of destruction occurred at the village of Maní, where he exposed a secret library of Mayan books. These irreplaceable texts—bound like thin, small accordions and known as codices—“contained nothing in which there was not to be seen superstitions and lies of the devil,” Landa reported to his superiors. “We burned them all.”

We burned them all.

A present day lover of antiquity exhales with despair at the self-righteous, narrow-minded confidence in those words. Book burners throughout time have shared Landa’s purse-lipped, squinty-eyed, jut-jawed, absolute belief in his correctness. But Landa was deceived.

In several ways.

The codices contained historical and philosophical truths in addition to what Landa called lies.

And not all the codices were destroyed. Three of them—salvaged by Spaniards in charge of the burning and smuggled home to Europe as souvenirs—were eventually uncovered in private collections and recognized for their incalculable value.

Known as the Dresden Codex, the Codex Tro-Cortesianus, and the Codex Persianus, they are owned by libraries in Dresden, Madrid, and Paris. A fourth—known as the Grolier Codex and located in Mexico City—has been declared by one expert a fake and is currently under investigation.

But rumors persist that there is a fifth, that it is authentic, that it has more truths than any other, especially one truth, a crucial truth.

A modern observer wonders how Friar de Landa would react if he could be summoned from Hell and made to witness the bloodbath comparable in intensity, if not in magnitude, to the one Landa caused in the 1500s, the bloodbath that could have been avoided if Landa had never begun his inquisition or else if he had been the professional he claimed to be and had actually accomplished his hateful job. Maní, the name of the village where Landa found and destroyed the codices, is the Mayan word for “it is finished.”

But it wasn’t finished at all.

 

 

Chapter One

“Now I realize you all want to hear about human sacrifice,” the professor said, allowing just the right mischievous glint in his eyes, signaling to his students that to study history didn’t mean they had to suppress their sense of humor. Each time he taught this course—and he’d been doing so for thirty years—he always began with the same comment, and he always got the reaction he wanted, a collective chuckle, the students glancing at one another in approval and sitting more comfortably.

“Virgins having their hearts cut out,” the professor continued, “or being thrown off cliffs into wells—that sort of thing.” He gestured dismissively, as if he was so familiar with the details of human sacrifice that the subject bored him. Again his eyes glinted mischievously, and the students chuckled louder. His name was Stephen Mill. He was fifty-eight, short and slender, with receding gray hair, a thin salt-and-pepper mustache, square-framed, wire-rimmed bifocals, and a brown wool suit that gave off the scent of pipe smoke. Liked and respected by both colleagues and students, he was beginning the last seventy minutes of his life, and if it was any consolation, at least he would die doing what he most enjoyed, talking about his life’s obsession.

“Actually, the Maya didn’t have much interest in sacrificing virgins,” Professor Mill added. “Most of the skeletons we’ve retrieved from the sacred wells—they’re called cenotes, by the way; you might as well begin learning the proper terms—belong to males, and most of those had been children.”

The students made faces of disgust.

“The Maya did cut out hearts, of course,” Professor Mill said. “But that’s the most boring part of the ritual.”

Several students frowned and mouthed “boring?” to one another.

“What the Maya would do is capture an enemy, strip him, paint him blue, take him to the top of a pyramid, break his back but not kill him—not yet at least; the temporary objective was to paralyze him—then cut out his heart, and now he’d die, but not before the high priest was able to raise the victim’s pulsing heart for everyone to see. The heart and the blood dripping from it were smeared onto the faces of gods carved into the walls at the top of the temple. It’s been theorized that the high priest may also have consumed the heart. But this much we know for certain: The victim’s corpse was subsequently hurled down the steps of the pyramid. There a priest cut off the victim’s skin and danced in it. Those who’d witnessed the ceremony chopped the corpse into pieces and barbecued it.”

The students swallowed uncomfortably, as if they felt sick.

“But we’ll get to the dull stuff later in the term,” Professor Mill said, and the students laughed again, this time with relief. “As you know, this is a multidiscipline course.” He switched tones with expert ease, deepening his voice, abandoning his guise as an entertainer, becoming a lecturer. “Some of you are here from art history. Others are ethnologists and archaeologists. Our purpose is to examine Mayan hieroglyphics, to learn to read them, and to use the knowledge we obtain to reconstruct Mayan culture. Please turn to page seventy-nine of Charles Gallenkamp’s Maya: The Riddle and Rediscovery of a Lost Civilization.”

The students obeyed and immediately frowned at a bewildering diagram that looked like a totem pole with two descending columns of distorted, grimacing faces flanked by lines, dots, and squiggles. Someone groaned.

“Yes, I realize the challenge is daunting,” Professor Mill said. “You’re telling yourselves that you can’t possibly learn to read that maze of apparently meaningless symbols. But I assure you, you will be able to read it and many others like it. You’ll be able to put sounds to those glyphs, to read them as if they were sentences.” He paused for dramatic effect, then straightened. “To speak the ancient Mayan language.” He shook his head with wonder. “You understand now what I meant. Stories about human sacrifice are dull. This”—he pointed toward the hieroglyphs in Gallenkamp’s book—“this is the true excitement.” He directed a keen gaze toward each of his twenty students. “And since we have to start somewhere, let’s start as we did when we were children, by making lines and dots. You’ll note that many of the columns of glyphs—which depict a date, by the way—look like this.” Grabbing a piece of chalk, Professor Mill drew hurried marks on the blackboard.

  

*   *   *

“Each dot has a value of one. A line—or what we call a bar—signifies five. Thus the first group I drew equals four, the second equals eight, the third is twelve, and the fourth . . . Well, why should I do all the talking?” Professor Mill drew his right index finger down his list of students. “Mr. Hogan, please tell me the value of . . .”

“Sixteen?” a tentative male voice responded.

“Excellent, Mr. Hogan. You see how easy it is? You’re already learning to read Mayan symbols. But if you put all the numbers on those glyphs together, the date they depict wouldn’t make any sense to you. Because the Maya used a different calendar than we do. Their calendar was almost as accurate as our own. It was also considerably more complicated. So, as our first step in understanding Mayan civilization, we’ll have to understand their concept of time. For our next class, read chapters one and two in A Forest of Kings: The Untold Story of the Ancient Maya by Linda Schele and David Friedel. Meanwhile, I’ll summarize what you’ll be reading.”

And so Professor Mill continued, taking obvious delight in his subject matter. With less than twenty minutes remaining in his life, he was enjoying every second. He concluded the class with a joke that he always used at this point in the course, elicited another anticipated chuckle, answered a few questions from students who lingered, then packed his books, notes, syllabus, and list of students into his briefcase.

His office was a five-minute stroll from the classroom building. Professor Mill breathed deeply, with satisfaction, as he walked. It was a bright, clear, pleasant day. All in all, he felt splendid (less than fifteen minutes to live now), and his delight with how he’d performed in class was enhanced by his anticipation of what he would do next, of the appointment he’d made for after class, of the visitor he expected.

The office was in a drab brick building, but the bleak surroundings had no effect on Professor Mill’s sense of well-being and eagerness. Indeed, he felt so full of energy that he passed students at the elevator and walked rapidly up the two flights of stairs to the dimly lit corridor halfway along which he had his office. After unlocking the door (ten minutes to go) and setting his briefcase on his desk, he turned to walk down to the faculty lounge but paused, then smiled when he saw his visitor appear at the open doorway.

“I was just going for some coffee,” Professor Mill said. “Would you care for some?”

“Thanks but no.” The visitor nodded in greeting and entered. “My stomach and coffee don’t get along anymore. I have heartburn all the time. I think I’m developing an ulcer.”

The visitor was a distinguished-looking man in his middle thirties. His neatly trimmed hair, custom-made white shirt, striped silk tie, hand-tailored double-breasted suit, and thin-soled calfskin shoes were in keeping with his occupation as a highly paid corporate executive.

“Ulcers come from stress. You’d better slow down.” Professor Mill shook hands with him.

“Stress and speed are part of my job description. If I start worrying about my health, I’ll find myself out of work.” The visitor sat.

“You need a vacation.”

“Soon. They keep promising me soon.”

“So what have you got for me?” Professor Mill asked.

“More glyphs to be translated.”

“How many?”

The visitor shrugged. “Five pages.” He frowned as a group of students went by in the corridor. “I’d prefer to keep this confidential.”

“Of course.” Professor Mill got up, shut the door, and returned to his desk. “Mayan pages or contemporary pages?”

The visitor looked puzzled, then realized. “Right, I keep forgetting Mayan pages are bigger. No, contemporary pages. Eight-by-ten photographs. I assume the fee we negotiated the last time is still acceptable.”

“Fifty thousand dollars? Very acceptable. As long as I’m not rushed,” Professor Mill said.

“You won’t be. You can have a month, the same as before. The same terms of payment—half now, half when you’re finished. The same conditions pertain. You may not make copies of the pages. You may not reveal what you are doing or discuss your translation with anyone.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t, and I haven’t,” Professor Mill said, “although there’s nothing so interesting in the translation that anybody except you and me and your employer would care. No matter. You pay me so well that I’d be insane to break the terms of the agreement and jeopardize my future relationship with you. I have a sabbatical next year, and the money you’ve generously paid me will allow me to devote the entire year to studying the Hieroglyphic Stairway in the Mayan ruins at Copán in Honduras.”

“It’s too hot down there for me,” the visitor said.

“When I’m at the ruins, I’m too excited to think about the weather. May I see the pages?”

“By all means.” The visitor reached into an alligator-skin briefcase, pulling out a large manila envelope.

With less than a minute to live, Professor Mill took the envelope, opened it, and removed five photographs that showed numerous rows of hieroglyphs. He shifted books to the side of his desk and arranged the photographs so that the rows of glyphs were vertical.

“All part of the same text?”

“I have no idea,” the visitor said. “All I was told was to make the delivery.”

“They appear to be.” Professor Mill picked up a magnifying glass and leaned close to the photographs, studying the details of the glyphs. Sweat beaded on his brow. He shook his head. “I shouldn’t have run up those stairs.”

“Excuse me?” the visitor asked.

“Nothing. Just talking to myself. Does it feel warm in here?”

“A little.”

Professor Mill took off his suit coat and resumed his inspection of the photographs. Fifteen seconds to live. “Well, leave them with me, and . . .”

“Yes?”

“I . . .”

“What?” the visitor asked.

“Don’t feel so good. My hands . . .”

“What about them?”

“Numb,” Professor Mill said. “My . . .”

“What?”

“Face. Hot.”

Professor Mill abruptly gasped, clutched his chest, stiffened, and slumped, sagging backward in his creaky swivel chair, his mouth open, his head drooping. He shivered and stopped moving.

The small office seemed to contract as the visitor stood. “Professor Mill?” He felt for a pulse at a wrist and then the neck. “Professor Mill?” He removed rubber gloves from his briefcase, put them on, then used his right hand to collect the photographs and slide them into the manila envelope, which he held steady with his left hand. Cautiously, he used the left hand to peel off the glove on his right hand, and vice versa, in each case making sure that he didn’t touch any area that had touched the photographs. He dropped the gloves into another manila envelope, sealed it, and put both envelopes into his briefcase.

When the visitor opened the door, none of the students or faculty passing in the corridor paid much attention to him. An amateur might have walked away, but the visitor knew that excitement could prime memories, that someone would eventually remember seeing a well-dressed man come out of the office. He didn’t want to create a mystery. He was well aware that the best deception was a version of the truth. So he walked rapidly to the secretary’s office, entered it in distress, and told the secretary, “Hurry. Phone nine one one. Professor Mill. I was visiting . . . I think he just had a heart attack.”

 

Chapter Two

GUATAMALA CITY

Despite his thirty-six-hour journey and his sixty-four years, Nicholas Petrovich Bartenev fidgeted with energy. He and his wife had flown from Leningrad—

Correction, he thought. St. Petersburg. Now that communism has collapsed, they’ve abolished Lenin.

—to Frankfurt to Dallas to here, by invitation of the new Guatemalan government, and indeed if it hadn’t been for the Cold War’s end, this journey would not have been possible. Guatemala had only recently, after forty years, resumed diplomatic relations with Russia, and the all-important Russian exit visas, which for so long had been impossible to obtain, had been issued with astonishing efficiency. For most of his life, Bartenev had one consuming dream—to travel to Guatemala, not because he was eager to leave Russia but rather because Guatemala obsessed him. But he’d persistently, repeatedly been denied permission, and all of a sudden it was merely a matter of filling out some government forms and coming back a few days later to get the necessary travel papers. Bartenev couldn’t believe his good fortune. He feared that all of this would turn out to be a cruel hoax, that he’d be refused permission to enter Guatemala, that he’d be deported back to Russia.

The jet—a stretch 727 owned by American Airlines . . . American! For a Russian citizen to be a passenger on a jet labeled American would have been unthinkable not many years ago—descended through clouds, past mountains, toward a city sprawled in a valley. The time was 8:15 in the evening. Sunset cast a crimson glow across the valley. Guatemala City’s lights gleamed. Bartenev gazed spellbound out his window, his heart pounding with the eagerness of a child.

Beside him, his wife clasped his hand. He turned to study her beautiful wrinkled face, and she didn’t need to say anything to communicate the pleasure she felt because he would soon fulfill his dream. From the age of eighteen, from the first time he’d seen photographs of the Mayan ruins at Tikal in Guatemala, he had felt an eerie identification with the now-almost-vanished people who had built them. He felt as if he had been there, as if he had been one of the Maya, as if his strength and sweat had helped erect the great pyramids and temples. And he had become fascinated with the hieroglyphs.

All these years later, without ever having set foot on a Mayan ruin, without ever having climbed a pyramid, without ever having stared face-to-face at the hook-nosed, high-cheeked, slope-browed visages of the Maya in the hieroglyphs, he was one of the top five Mayan epigraphers in the world (perhaps the top of the top, if he believed his wife’s flattery), and soon—not tonight, of course, but tomorrow perhaps or certainly the day after—he’d have managed yet another flight, this one to a primitive airstrip, and have accomplished the difficult journey through the jungle to Tikal, to his life’s preoccupation, to the center of his world, to the ruins.

To the hieroglyphs.

His heartbeat increased as the jet touched down. The sun was lower behind the western mountains. The darkness thickened, pierced by the glint of lights from the airport’s terminal. Nervous with anticipation, Bartenev unbuckled his seat belt, picked up his briefcase, and followed his wife and other passengers along the aisle. A frustrating minute seemed to take much longer before the aircraft’s hatch was opened. He squinted past the passengers ahead of him and saw the murky silhouettes of buildings. As he and his wife descended stairs to the airport’s tarmac, he breathed the thin, dry, cool mountain air and felt his body tense with excitement.

The moment he entered the terminal, however, he saw several uniformed government officials waiting for him, and he knew that something was wrong. They were somber, pensive, brooding. Bartenev feared that his premonition had been justified, that he was about to be refused permission to enter the country.

Instead, a flustered, thin-lipped man in a dark suit stepped away from them, nervously approaching. “Professor Bartenev?”

“Yes.”

They spoke in Spanish. Bartenev’s compulsive interest in Guatemala and the Mayan ruins throughout Mesoamerica had prompted him to acquire a facility in the local language, since much of the scholarship being done on the hieroglyphs was published in Spanish.

“My name is Hector Gonzales. From the National Archaeological Museum here.”

“Yes, I’ve received your letters.” As they shook hands, Bartenev couldn’t help noticing how Gonzales guided him toward the government officials. “This is my wife, Elana.”

“I’m very pleased to meet you, Mrs. Bartenev. If you’ll please come through this door. . . .”

Abruptly Bartenev noticed stern soldiers holding automatic rifles. He cringed, reminded of Leningrad during the worst of the Cold War. “Is something wrong? Is there something you haven’t told me, something I should know?”

“Nothing,” Gonzales said too quickly. “A problem with your accommodations. A scheduling difficulty. Nothing serious. Come this way. Through this door and down this hallway. Hurry, or we’ll be late.”

“Late?” Bartenev shook his head as he and his wife were rushed along the corridor. “Late for what? And our luggage? What about—?”

“It’s being taken care of. Your luggage will be brought to your hotel. You don’t need to go through immigration and customs.”

They passed through another door, into the night, onto a parking lot, where a Jeep filled with armed soldiers waited in front of a black limousine, behind which there was another Jeep filled with armed soldiers.

“I demand to know what is going on,” Bartenev said. “In your letters, you claimed that I would feel welcome here. Instead, I feel like a prisoner.”

“Professor Bartenev, you must understand that Guatemala is a troubled country. There is always much political uneasiness here. These soldiers are for your protection.”

“Why would I need—?”

“Please get in the car, and we can discuss it.”

The moment an escort shut the door on Bartenev, his wife, Gonzales, and two government officials, Bartenev again demanded, “Why would I need protection?”

The limousine, flanked by the Jeeps, sped away.

“As I told you, politics. For many years, Guatemala has been ruled by right-wing extremists.” Gonzales glanced uneasily at the government officials, as if he suspected that they would not approve of his vocabulary. “Recently, moderates have come into power. The new government is the reason that your country now is permitted to have diplomatic relations with ours. It also explains why you were invited here. A visit from a Russian academician emphasizes the goodwill that the Guatemalan government wants with your country. You were an ideal man to invite because you are not a politician and because your expertise relates to Guatemalan history.”

“The way you speak . . .” Bartenev hesitated. “It makes me think you work less for the National Archaeological Museum than you do for the government. What is the name of the dynasty that ruled Tikal?”

Gonzales didn’t answer.

“In what century did Tikal reach its zenith of power?”

Gonzales didn’t answer.

Bartenev scoffed.

“You are in danger,” Gonzales said.

“What?”

“The right-wing extremists strongly disapprove of your visit,” Gonzales explained tensely. “Despite the collapse of communism in Russia, these extremists see your visit as the beginning of a corrupting influence that will make this country Marxist. The previous government used death squads to enforce its rule. Those death squads are still in existence. There have been threats against your life.”

Bartenev stared, despair spreading through him. His wife asked what Gonzales was saying to him. Grateful that she didn’t understand Spanish, Bartenev told her that someone had forgotten to make a reservation for them at the hotel, that their host was embarrassed about the oversight, and that the mistake was being corrected.

He scowled at Gonzales. “What are you saying to me? That I have to leave? I refuse. Oh, I will send my wife to safety. But I did not come all this way only to leave before I see my dream. I’m too old. I will probably not have this chance again. And I’m too close. I will go the rest of the way.”

“You are not being asked to leave,” Gonzales said. “That would be almost as ruinous a political act as if someone attempted to kill you.”

Bartenev felt blood drain from his face.

Gonzales said, “But we must be extremely careful. Cautious. We are asking you not to go out in public in the city. Your hotel will be guarded. We will transport you to Tikal as quickly as possible. And then we request that after a prudent length of time—a day, or at the most two—you feign illness and return to your home.”

“A day?” Bartenev had difficulty breathing. “Perhaps two? So little time after so many years of waiting for . . .”

“Professor Bartenev, we have to deal with political realities.”

Politics, Bartenev thought, and wanted to curse. But like Gonzales, he was accustomed to dealing with such obscene realities, and he analyzed the problem with desperate speed. He was out of Russia, free to go anywhere—that was the important factor. There were numerous other major Mayan ruins. Palenque in Mexico, for example. He’d always been fond of photographs of it. It wasn’t Tikal. It didn’t have the emotional and professional attraction that Tikal had for him, but it was accessible. His wife could accompany him there. They would be safe there. If the Guatemalan government refused to pay for further expenses, that wouldn’t matter—because Bartenev had a secret source of funds about which he hadn’t told even his wife.

Indeed, secrecy had been part of the business arrangement when the well-dressed, fair-haired American had arrived at Bartenev’s office at St. Petersburg State University. The American had shown him several photographs of Mayan glyphs. He had asked in perfect Russian how much Bartenev would charge to translate the glyphs and keep the assignment confidential. “If the glyphs are interesting, I won’t charge anything,” Bartenev had answered, impressed by the foreigner’s command of the language. But the American had insisted on paying. In fact, his fee had been astonishingly generous: fifty thousand dollars. “To ensure your silence,” the American had said. “I’ve converted some of it to rubles.” He gave Bartenev the equivalent of ten thousand dollars in Russian currency. The remainder, he explained, would be placed in a Swiss bank account. Perhaps one day Bartenev would be free to travel, in which case the money could easily be obtained. Failing that, couriers could be arranged to transport prudent amounts into St. Petersburg for him, amounts that wouldn’t be so large that the authorities would ask questions about their source.