Buchanan leaned his back against the locked door and massaged the sides of his aching head. So much was wrong, he didn’t know where to start analyzing.
Try starting with why you lied to him about the passport and why you didn’t tell him you had a firearm.
I didn’t want to lose them. I didn’t trust him.
Well, you weren’t wrong on that score. Whatever that conversation was, it sure wasn’t a debriefing. He didn’t ask you to talk about anything that you’d done. And he didn’t give you new ID. He put you on ice. It was more like an interrogation, except he didn’t ask you any questions that weren’t about. .
The postcard.
Buchanan went to the counter in the kitchen and poured more bourbon and water into a glass. He took a long swallow, then felt his cheek muscles harden with tension.
The postcard.
Yeah, the passport wasn’t the only thing you lied about. What’s the big deal? Why didn’t you tell him the truth?
Because he was too damned interested.
Hey, a postcard arrives last week for a man who hasn’t existed, whom you haven’t been, for the past six years. That’s an attention getter. Naturally, they want to know what the hell’s going on. Something from one of your pasts, some threat to the operation, catching up to you. Why didn’t you tell him?
Because I’m not sure. If I did know what was going on, maybe I’d have told him.
Bullshit. The truth is, you’re scared.
No way.
Yes. Confused and scared. You haven’t thought about her in all this time. You’ve made yourself not think about her. And now all of a sudden, bang, she’s back in your head, and you don’t know how to handle it. But this much is sure-you don’t want them to have anything to do with her.
He stared at his glass of bourbon, his emotions powerful.