Lost Identity Read online

  ‘Oh,’ she whispered, ‘I understand.’

  They sat in silence for several seconds before Carla continued. ‘Look, you’re going to see her very soon now. You won’t need that photo – you’re going to be together again … and get your life back on track.’

  He sighed. ‘I guess you’re right.’

  ‘Anyway’ she said, lightening her tone, ‘come on, let’s count this money – since you were down to your last fifteen dollars it hasn’t come a moment too soon.’

  He smiled, shaking himself free of the emotion which had engulfed him.

  They organised the banknotes into neat piles according to denomination and counted them carefully. Carla announced the result. ‘Twelve thousand, three hundred and seventy bucks.’ She gave a low whistle. ‘Now you can afford to buy your own wedding ring back,’ she said, a small smile creasing her pretty face.

  She reached into her handbag and withdrew the ring, passing it to Stephen. He smiled, counting out six thousand dollars and offering it to Carla.

  She pushed his hand away. ‘I don’t need that much. Three thousand is enough to get my false papers.’

  ‘Take it,’ he insisted. ‘You’ll need transport, living expenses … enough to get settled and make a new life somewhere.’

  She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Thank you – I’ll never forget you, you know.’

  He hugged her to him. ‘Nor me.’

  ***

  Emma had arranged to meet Stephen at Loews Hotel in the South Beach area. Carla parked her battered car in a dark corner of the parking garage across the street and they approached the hotel on foot.

  The impressive building, like many in Miami Beach, was built in the Art Deco style, its most notable feature a circular turret running all the way up one corner, topped with a terraced spire. As Stephen and Carla approached the main entrance, flanked by manicured lawns and sparkling fountains, they looked at each other and, as if Carla had read Stephen’s mind, she vocalised just what he was thinking.

  Looking Stephen up and down, she said, ‘We’re not exactly dressed for an upmarket joint like this, are we?’

  It was true that their clothes, which they had had no chance to change since the chaotic events of the previous day, were looking somewhat the worse for wear. It was strange, thought Stephen, how such an insignificant thing – in the overall scheme of things – was bothering both of them.

  ‘I suppose not,’ he said, doing his best to smooth down the creases in the front of his shirt with the palm of his hand. ‘I guess we just need to look confident and front it out. After all, a lot of rich folk deliberately dress scruffy.’

  She laughed – for the first time since the tragic events of the previous day. ‘OK … let’s go for it.’

  They strode up to the main entrance and stepped inside. Bar Collins – the place where he was supposed to meet Emma – was centrally located within the hotel, and easy to find. They paused before entering the bar as Carla checked her watch: 12.04 p.m.

  ‘We’re about twenty-five minutes early,’ she said. ‘Do you want to wait a while before we go in?’

  Stephen shook his head. ‘No … and, actually, I could use a drink to steady my nerves.’

  ‘Me too,’ she agreed.

  ‘I thought you said you don’t drink?’

  ‘I don’t, usually, but today, I’ll make an exception. I need something to settle my nerves.’

  The lounge – already quite busy – was furnished in a modern, minimalist style. The bar itself was a central island, with tables arranged all around it. They took a slow stroll to check out all corners of the lounge; there was no sign of Emma yet. They went up to the bar and ordered drinks; Stephen had a double bourbon and Carla a bottled beer.

  They took their drinks over to a table near the entrance to the bar and sat down. Carla downed about half of her beer in just a couple of deep swallows.

  ‘Wow!’ said Stephen. ‘For a non-drinker, you’re making a pretty good job of demolishing that beer.’

  She barely even smiled. ‘I told you, I’m feeling nervous as hell.’

  ‘Me too,’ he said, taking a sip of his own drink, pausing for a moment to swirl the fiery liquid around his mouth, before letting it course down his throat.

  ‘So this is it then,’ said Carla. ‘This is when you find out what’s happening, and you get your wife back.’

  He locked eyes with Carla. ‘Yes it is … and I hope to Christ that it’s the beginning of the end of this damned nightmare.’

  She nodded, placing her hand on his as he set his drink down.

  ‘I should go,’ she said.

  ‘Go? But—’

  She cut him off. ‘It’s best if I’m not here when Emma arrives. You may not have that much time to talk, and my presence here would just be an unnecessary … complication.’

  Stephen cast his eyes downward, gazing at Carla’s hand still resting on his. After a couple of seconds he looked up. ‘I guess you’re right.’

  ‘I’m glad you’ve finally got your life back … now I need to get on with mine.’ She sniffed and wiped her eyes – now glistening with a film of tears – with a napkin she took from the table. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘I won’t actually leave until I know that Emma’s arrived. I’ll just go and sit at a table over at the far side of the bar where I can still see you, but once Emma has sat down with you, I’ll slip away.’

  Stephen, too, felt the powerful emotion of the moment, fighting back the tears which threatened to erupt. He clasped her hand between both of his and gently squeezed. ‘Thank you, Carla … for everything. Maybe sometime, when we have both got our lives back on track we could …’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ she sniffed. ‘Good luck and … goodbye.’

  With that, she pulled her hand away, picked up her beer, and hurried over to the far side of the bar.

  The next fifteen minutes felt like an eternity. Stephen finished his drink and ordered another. He looked up at the clock: 12.26 p.m. She should be here any moment. But what if her captors had found out about her plan? They could have stopped her coming … or worse. With every second that passed, he became more and more convinced that something was wrong. He drained his glass and checked the clock again: 12.37 p.m. She was late now. What should he do? He looked across to the other side of the bar. Carla was still there, and for a moment their eyes met; her anxiety was plain to see. He was about to get up and go over to her when he heard a familiar voice.

  ‘Stephen, thank God I’ve found you at last.’

  But it wasn’t Emma’s voice – in fact, it wasn’t even a woman’s voice at all.

  ‘Henry? What are you doing here?’ gasped Stephen.

  Chapter 22

  Stephen was astonished to see his Oxford colleague and good friend, Doctor Henry Parker, looking down at him, his face a picture of concern. Henry was a round-faced, kindly-looking man with abundant swathes of dense, grey hair either side of his shining bald pate. He and Stephen had been friends for years.

  ‘How did you find me?’ said Stephen, standing up to shake his friend’s hand.

  ‘I picked up your phone messages, but when I tried to return the calls there was no answer. Eventually I managed to get in touch with Emma, who told me that you were both in big trouble. Naturally, I got the first flight out here that I could.’

  ‘But how did you know you could find me here?’

  ‘I spoke to Emma on the phone. She told me she had arranged to meet you here.’

  Stephen looked all around. ‘So where is she?’

  ‘Apparently she couldn’t make it – she says she has people watching her every move.’

  ‘Damn!’ hissed Stephen, slamming his hand down on the table, evoking curious glances from some of those on the adjoining tables.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Henry, ‘she says she should be able to get away later this afternoon. I’ve given her details of the hotel where I’m staying. If you come with me, we can wait for her there.’

  ‘
But did she explain what’s happening to her?’

  ‘No … I got the impression that she was being watched and didn’t have time to talk.’

  ‘Oh God, Henry … this situation is such a bloody mess. There’s someone claiming to be me, my wife’s been kidnapped, and I have no fucking idea what it’s all about. People have been murdered for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘My God … it sounds utterly horrific. Come on, let’s get out of here. Maybe when Emma arrives at my hotel room we can make some sense of what’s happening.’

  ***

  Carla was mystified. She had no idea who the man talking to Stephen actually was, but she didn’t have a good feeling about it.

  And now she had another problem to contend with: an overweight, middle-aged man with slicked-back hair and a grey business suit had invited himself to sit at her table.

  ‘Now what’s a good-looking girl like you doing all on your own like this – you looking for some company?’ In spite of the early hour, his breath smelled strongly of alcohol and his speech was slightly slurred.

  ‘Actually,’ she said, ‘I’m waiting for someone.’

  He was now blocking her view of what was happening at Stephen’s table; she shuffled sideways a little so as to be able to see past him.

  ‘Someone like me?’ he drooled, leaning forward so as to block her view again.

  She shifted position again for a better view. ‘No,’ she bristled, ‘no-one at all like you.’

  ‘Aw, c’mon honey … I’ve always had a bit of a thing for Latina girls.’ He reached across the table and laid his hand on her arm.

  As she craned her neck to see past him, she realised that Stephen was following the man who had met with him through the exit door. She needed to get rid of this creep right now. With her free hand she knocked the remains of her beer over, carefully directing it so that most of it landed in the man’s lap.

  ‘What the fuck?’ he yelled, jumping to his feet and frantically pawing at his saturated crotch area.

  ‘Oh, my God … I’m so sorry,’ said Carla. ‘Here’ – she passed him a few paper napkins from the pile in the centre of the table – ‘maybe these will help.’

  ‘Clumsy bitch,’ he hissed. ‘I’m going to the men’s room to try to sort this out.’

  ‘Oh, I’ll wait here for you then.’ She flashed him her sweetest smile.

  As soon as he was gone she hurried towards the door. Stepping out into the lobby, she could see no sign of Stephen or the stranger he had been talking to. She sprinted across the lobby towards the main entrance, attracting curious glances from staff and guests alike. As she burst through the doors, she was momentarily blinded by the intense sunshine. Blinking furiously, and shading her eyes with her hand, she scanned the street. Nothing. Maybe they hadn’t actually left the hotel at all. She was about to step back inside when she spotted them – right across the other side of the street, heading for the parking garage where she had left her own car. Breathing a sigh of relief, she set off after them.

  Keeping a discreet distance, she followed them as they approached a large, black van. As the stranger opened the passenger door for Stephen to step inside, the back door of the van opened and another man stepped out. To her horror, she realised it was one of the men who had attacked them in Sylvia’s apartment – the one they had subdued with the syringe. Now he was, once again, holding a hypodermic syringe. He crept up behind Stephen, clamped a hand over his mouth, and plunged the syringe into his neck. Stephen struggled for a few seconds but it was obvious that his strength was fading fast; it wasn’t long before the briefcase slipped from his hand and fell to the ground. Seconds later, his knees crumpled and he collapsed.

  The bald guy stepped forward and prodded Stephen’s limp form with his toe, apparently ensuring he was completely unconscious … or dead. Once satisfied that Stephen could not fight back, he nodded to his accomplice.

  With some difficulty, the two men picked up Stephen’s limp body and shoved it into the back of the van. The bald guy then climbed into the driver’s seat while the other man picked up the briefcase and climbed into the back of the van alongside Stephen’s body.

  It had all happened so fast; Carla hadn’t had time to process what was happening or decide what on earth she should do. And now it was too late.

  ***

  Everything was black; his head was pounding furiously. He felt strong hands dragging him … and then a moment’s weightlessness, followed by an agonising blow to his hip. His cheek was pressed against a hard, rough surface and his hand was trapped beneath his body. When he tried to moisten his lips, his tongue became coated with dry, earthy, foul-tasting grains of something.

  ‘Get up!’ commanded a harsh voice.

  He wasn’t sure that he actually could, but the vicious blow to his kidney that followed certainly concentrated his attention.

  ‘Get up!’ repeated the voice.

  With some difficulty, he forced his eyes open and lifted his head. He realised he was lying on the ground behind the black van which Henry had been driving.

  ‘Get up, you sonofabitch!’ goaded his tormentor, this time with an additional edge of malice to his voice.

  Then, a much softer, friendlier voice intervened. ‘I suggest you do as he says if you want to avoid further pain.’

  ‘Henry?’ he croaked.

  ‘Come on Stephen – you can get up now,’ coaxed the familiar voice of Doctor Henry Parker.

  With a considerable effort he staggered to his feet. Everything hurt – his head, his hip, his lower back – everything.

  The first thing he registered was the muzzle of a gun, pointing right at his face. Wielding it, one-handed, was the man Stephen had struggled with in Sylvia’s apartment. In his other hand the man held Stephen’s briefcase. Looking around, Stephen could see scaffolding, piles of bricks, a stack of steel girders, and bags of cement. A building site … they had brought him to a building site. But they were up high – it was a multi-storey car park which was under construction, and they were on one of the higher levels. But today, the entire site was deserted.

  ‘I’m sorry it has come to this,’ came the voice of Henry Parker, from behind him.

  He whirled around. ‘Henry … why? What’s going on?’

  ‘We really tried, you know,’ Henry replied, ‘but it just didn’t work out.’

  ‘What do you mean? Why are you helping these bastards?’

  ‘We thought there was a chance, but I’m afraid you’re just too far gone.’

  ‘Too far gone? What do you mean?’

  ‘You have to be removed from the picture and let Stephen Lewis do what he came here to do.’

  ‘That other guy? You know that he’s not the real Stephen Lewis.’

  ‘Of course he isn’t,’ said Henry, a pitying tone in his voice, ‘but then neither are you.’ He paused for a moment, sighing deeply. ‘Stephen Lewis doesn’t exist.’

  Chapter 23

  Henry’s words hit him like a pile driver. ‘Wh-what do you mean … “doesn’t exist”? You’ve known me for years. We’ve worked together for years. It’s that other guy who’s the imposter.’

  Henry shook his head, his expression pained. ‘You really do believe it, don’t you?’

  ‘Believe what? Henry, you’re not making sense.’

  ‘My name’s not Henry, and we don’t work together at Oxford.’

  This was crazy. ‘What are you talking about? You’re my oldest friend.’

  ‘And your name is not Stephen Lewis.’

  Stephen pressed the palms of his hands against his temples, as though that would somehow coax some sense out of what he was hearing. It didn’t help.

  ‘Look, I know my head’s been totally screwed up, but now I’ve found my passport. I know who I am now.’

  ‘No … you really don’t.’

  ‘Well if my name’s not Stephen Lewis, what is it?’ he challenged.

  ‘It really doesn’t matter now.’

  ‘Of course it matters,’ he
yelled. ‘I need to know who I am … what I am.’

  ‘Ah, what you are … yes, I can help you with that. You are a professional assassin’.

  Now Stephen doubted that his ears were even sending the correct signals to his brain. ‘An assassin? Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘How do you think you were able to pick up an unfamiliar handgun – even one hampered by the fitment of a silencer – and hit my associate with your first shot, from a range of around a hundred yards?’

  ‘Your associate? Henry, what the hell are you talking about?’

  ‘I told you, I am not Henry Parker … not a research scientist … and not your friend.’

  ‘But, I googled you. It’s all there on the internet – your profile, your field of research – everything.’

  He shrugged. ‘These things are not difficult to fake, if you have the right resources. And the organisation I work for has considerable resources.’

  ‘Organisation? What organisation?’ said Stephen, uncomprehending.

  ‘We run a network of professional assassins, available for hire by anyone who can afford our fees – which are very expensive, by the way. We employ only the very best … and that’s what you are … or were. You really were one of the best.’

  ‘No,’ insisted Stephen. ‘I don’t know why you’re telling me this, but I know it’s not true. When I managed to talk to Emma yesterday she confirmed it – she said she was being held against her will. Are they forcing you to help them as well?’

  ‘Her name is not Emma, and she’s not your wife.’

  ‘Not my wife? Don’t be absurd.’

  ‘She’s a professional assassin too. She’s your partner on your current mission … or was, until you stupidly tried to help that Latina bitch and almost got yourself killed in the process.’

  By now, Stephen’s head was fit to explode. ‘No … as my memory has started to come back I’ve remembered our wedding day, the photographs, the rings … everything.’

  ‘We coached you both for well over a year for this mission, until you were both word perfect on your supposed lives together. We took the photographs, provided the rings, the I.D.s … everything. You were the perfect couple for the job: you, with your previous medical training to win the confidence of Professor Mandelson and her, with her looks and charm, to persuade him to let down his guard.’