Lost Identity Read online

  ‘B-but I can remember so much about my time with her … even …’ His words tailed off as a fleeting vision of their lovemaking flashed through his mind. ‘I know that Emma is my wife.’

  ‘I have to admit it is remarkable,’ said Henry. ‘It seems that you learned your script so well that, after the blow to your head, you have come to completely believe your own legend. Your brain seems to have filled in all the gaps between the bits you remembered to create a whole alternative life. Remarkable,’ he repeated, shaking his head.

  ‘That’s … impossible,’ breathed Stephen.

  ‘I’d have thought so, too … and yet here we are. Why, you’ve even accepted me, your handler, as your fictitious colleague at Oxford.’

  No, this was all too much. ‘Why are you lying to me about all this? It doesn’t make any sense.’

  Henry ignored the question. ‘We tried very hard to get you back; we thought perhaps that, with careful coaching, you could be brought back to reality. After all, we have invested huge amounts of time and money in training you and preparing you for this particular mission. But, unfortunately, it seems that you have gone well beyond the point where that would be possible. I’m sure it would make a fascinating case study for certain scientists, but unfortunately that won’t be possible now.’

  ‘What is this “mission” you are talking about?’

  ‘Oh, you and your partner were to steal Professor Mandelson’s research and then kill him, as well as his sponsor – that do-gooder, Bob Gench – and everyone else who was involved with his research.’

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ cried Stephen. ‘Emma could never do such a thing … and neither could I. Why are you lying to me?’

  Henry shrugged. ‘Believe me or not … it really doesn’t matter anymore.’

  ‘In any case,’ continued Stephen, ignoring Henry’s last remark, ‘why would anyone want to kill an eminent scientist and a world-renowned philanthropist?’

  ‘Because they are about to release to the world a revolutionary cure for cocaine addiction.’

  Stephen was utterly uncomprehending. ‘But … but that can only be good.’

  ‘Not for our client.’

  ‘Your client?’

  ‘A very large and influential Colombian drug cartel. Cocaine is a multi-billion dollar business. Imagine the impact on that business if a fast and effective cure for addiction was readily available – it would be devastating. Conversely, imagine the leverage the cartel would have if they controlled access to such a cure. It’s not difficult to see why they are willing to pay a very great deal to get their hands on the research and make sure that Mandelson and Gench do not recreate it.’

  The first seeds of doubt began to germinate into insidious tendrils, snaking through Stephen’s brain. Could any of this actually be true? There was, after all, a chilling logic in what Henry had told him. Even if some of it were true, there was no way he could accept the parts which he and Emma were alleged to have played in such a diabolical plot.

  ‘I could never have agreed to take part in such a scheme,’ gasped Stephen, ‘and neither could Emma. It’s … evil.’

  Henry shrugged. ‘Perhaps,’ he said, ‘but we make a point of not making value judgements about our clients’ motives or morality. As long as they can pay our fee, then we adhere to the old adage, “The customer is always right”.’ He smiled as he delivered this casual assessment of the situation.

  Stephen’s head was spinning as he tried to sift fact from fiction. There was still so much that didn’t make sense. Like why they would lie about his own involvement in such a monstrous conspiracy and … yes … the biggest question of all …

  ‘Who is this other guy posing as Stephen Lewis?’ he demanded. ‘What’s his part in all this?’

  ‘Well,’ replied Henry, ‘this mission is very important to us. It has been well over a year in the planning, and we couldn’t afford the possibility that one or other of the assassination team might be unable to complete the project, for whatever reason. So we prepared a reserve operative for each of you, ready to stand in if there were any problems.’ He paused, pursing his lips and frowning. ‘And I’m afraid you have now become a very big problem.’

  Stephen still didn’t believe what he and Emma were accused of, but one thing, at least, now seemed certain: incredible as it first seemed, Henry was involved in this thing right up to his neck. How, or why, he couldn’t fathom, but now he had a more immediate problem. He realised, with a chilling certainty, what Henry’s last sentence had meant … and he could see no possible means of escape.

  ‘Oh, by the way,’ continued Henry, ‘we are most indebted to you for providing us with the missing briefcase. That was a worrying loose end which could have caused us all sorts of problems if the police had found it.’

  ‘What are you going to do with me?’ said Stephen, knowing full well the answer to the question, but desperately playing for time.

  ‘We’ll make it look like the result of a clash between rival gangs; the cops are dealing with this kind of thing every day. There’ll be no I.D. on you, and you’ll have a recently-fired gun alongside you. With a stash of cocaine in your pocket, you’ll be just another unidentified John Doe – another sad bastard killed in the course of Miami’s ongoing gang warfare.’

  Stephen desperately ran through his options. Make a run for it? The nearest cover was about twenty yards away – plenty of time for the guy with the gun to drop him as he ran. Try to rush the guy with the gun? No, he was too far away – he would be dead before he had covered half the distance. Try to rush Henry? He was a bit closer; maybe, just maybe, he could reach him in time and turn him to use as a human shield. It was a very long shot, but what other chance did he have?

  ‘I’m truly sorry it’s turned out this way,’ continued Henry. You were one of our very best operatives but … well, needs must.’ He turned and nodded to the guy with the gun. It was now or never.

  The man began to raise his gun, his mouth curling in an unpleasant smile. Time seemed to slow to an unnatural crawl as Stephen planned his move. He measured the distance in his mind. Maybe ten feet – two or three quick strides should do it, but even so he didn’t rate his chances. But with no other option, he tensed for action.

  Chapter 24

  Just as the man levelled his gun, Stephen detected a sudden change in his expression: his eyes – which had been locked onto Stephen’s – flickered to the side. The cruel smile evaporated as he dropped to a crouch and swung the gun away from Stephen, and towards something behind him. And then he heard a squeal of tyres. He spun around to see Carla’s battered car accelerating towards them.

  The man fired three shots in quick succession, three holes appearing in the windshield of the car. The spider’s web of radial cracks radiating from each bullet hole rendered the glass more or less opaque, but as he saw the tight grouping of the bullet holes right around where Carla’s head would be, Stephen’s heart sank.

  The car, however, raced relentlessly forward.

  The man managed to loose one more shot, which glanced off the roof of the car, leaving a deep gouge just above the windshield, before the car ploughed into him. He was lifted clean off his feet and slammed against the side of the van. His eyes bulged in terror in that split second before his body was crushed and copious gouts of blood sprang from his mouth.

  After the noise and fury of the last few seconds, it was suddenly eerily quiet: no movement, no sound, no sign of life. Stephen was rendered inanimate – rooted to the spot as he tried to process what had happened. But then he caught sight of movement off to the side – Henry had gathered his wits and was reaching inside his jacket pocket. By the time Stephen registered what was happening, Henry was already withdrawing a gun from his pocket.

  There was no time to think – Stephen launched himself forward, covering the ground between them in two huge strides, before grabbing Henry’s wrist, forcing the gun up and away. A shot rang out, but it went harmlessly skyward. That round, kindly face was
now twisted into an expression of pure fury. The man fought back with surprising vigour, but for all his ferocity, his strength was no match for Stephen’s. As they struggled, he was forced back, step by step but, even so, Stephen could not wrest the gun from his stubborn grip.

  Suddenly, Henry’s eyes widened, and the gun spun from his grasp. He toppled backwards, breaking through the flimsy red-and-white-striped plastic ribbon which marked the edge of the concrete floor slab and warned of the forty-foot drop beyond. Stephen tried to grab hold of him, but he had passed the point of no return. As he disappeared from view he let out an anguished scream, cut short a second or so later by a sickening thud. His heart thumping, Stephen stepped forward and looked over the edge. The man’s body was spread-eagled like a stranded starfish, impaled on the upturned prongs of the bucket of an excavator. The expression frozen on his lifeless face seemed to be one of surprise rather than fear or pain. Stephen gazed, mesmerised, at the gruesome spectacle laid out below him.

  But what about Carla? He turned away and began moving towards her wrecked car. With each step, his sense of trepidation grew. He could not see her sitting at the wheel. As he drew nearer, he registered two bullet holes in the driver’s headrest. He felt the air sucked from his lungs in a suffocating rush as he crept forward the last few yards and looked through the remains of the shattered driver’s door window. She was lying sideways, motionless, her head on the passenger seat, one arm trapped beneath her and the other draped in the floor well.

  ‘Carla!’ he cried. There was no response from the prone body.

  He wrenched at the door handle, but it wouldn’t budge – the crumpled bodywork would not allow the latch to release. ‘Shit!’ he hissed, thumping his fist on the roof of the car in frustration. He rushed around to the other side of the car, which seemed to have sustained a little less damage. As he looked through the window frame, which still hung on to a few fragments of shattered glass, a leaden boulder descended in his gut. It had not been visible from the other side of the car, but now, the slowly spreading pool of blood on the seat beneath Carla’s head was plain to see.

  He grabbed the door handle and pulled hard; with a screech of torn metal, the door grudgingly submitted and opened. He reached inside and gently lifted Carla’s head. The side of her face was smeared with so much blood that it was impossible to determine its source.

  ‘Carla … Carla … can you hear me?’

  No response. Was she still alive?

  With trembling fingers he gently probed her blood-streaked neck, feeling for a pulse.

  There it was – strong and regular. His heart leapt. All of a sudden the medical training which Henry had referred to came flooding back – not that he knew when or where he had received such training. He needed to see where she had been hit if he was to know if she could be saved. His gaze settled on the glove box, which had sprung open in the crash. Inside was a pack of tissues. He grabbed a handful and began cleaning the blood away from her face, searching for the wound.

  And then he found it – on her temple. But it wasn’t a bullet wound – instead, a jagged gash which, although bleeding freely, didn’t appear to be all that deep. She must have hit her head on something when the car crashed. The wave of relief which swept through him was almost overwhelming

  As he continued cleaning around the wound, her eyelids flickered.

  ‘Carla … are you OK?’

  Her eyes opened and, with a groan, she propped herself up on one elbow. ‘Wh-what happened?’ she murmured. ‘I … was driving straight at him, and then … I don’t remember.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ he whispered. ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘Did I get him then?’ she gasped.

  ‘You did. You crushed him against the van.’

  ‘But what about the other guy?’

  ‘I struggled with him and he went over the edge. He’s dead too.’ Stephen helped her to sit up and gave her some seconds to settle her breathing before continuing. ‘It’s a miracle that you weren’t hit. That guy’s aim was right on target.’

  ‘When I saw him taking aim, I knew I wouldn’t be able to get him before he fired, so I just let go of the wheel and threw myself across the seats. I heard the shots and saw them crash through the windshield but I guess he was aiming at where I was a moment earlier. I must have hit him before he had a chance to readjust his aim.’

  ‘Thank God,’ breathed Stephen.

  ‘What about you?’ she said. ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Yes … but we need to get out of here fast. If anyone saw or heard the commotion, the police are sure to be here soon.’ He grabbed a fresh wad of tissues. ‘Here … keep these pressed against that head wound. It’s still bleeding quite a bit, but it doesn’t look too deep. Can you stand up?’

  ‘I think so.’

  She wriggled across to the passenger side and placed her feet on the ground. Stephen took her arm and helped her to her feet.

  ‘OK?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, I think so but … wait.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘My handbag … all that money.’

  Stephen stuck his head inside the car. Her handbag was on the floor in the passenger-side foot well.

  ‘Here,’ he said, handing her the bag. ‘And I need to get my briefcase.’

  He scanned the chaotic scene but, at first, could not locate the briefcase.

  ‘The guy with the gun had it,’ said Carla. ‘I think he dropped it when he saw me coming at him.’

  Stephen stepped over to where their erstwhile assailant’s body was draped over the bonnet of Carla’s car, his face frozen in a grotesque death grimace, blood still streaming from his nose and mouth. There was the briefcase, on the ground, partly underneath the car.

  The case was now very much the worse for wear: the once-luxurious leather cladding was scuffed and torn, and the underlying frame badly twisted. It had burst open, spilling some of its contents on the ground. Stephen hurriedly gathered everything up and stuffed it all back in the case, closing it up as best he could.

  ‘OK … let’s get out of here,’ he said.

  ***

  The cab driver had looked a little reluctant to give them a ride – hardly surprising, given their dishevelled state and the amount of blood on Carla’s clothing. When Stephen produced a hundred-dollar bill, however, he quickly relented. They needed somewhere to stop, gather their thoughts, and take stock. For want of anywhere better, they headed back, once more, towards the motel, El Refugio.

  ‘Stop the car,’ said Stephen.

  ‘But it’s another couple of miles yet,’ replied the driver.

  ‘Stop … over there … by that QVC store,’ insisted Stephen.

  The driver shrugged and pulled over.

  ‘OK,’ said Stephen, producing another fifty-dollar bill – which the driver snatched without hesitation – ‘wait here. I won’t be long.’ He turned to Carla. ‘We need some new clothes – what size are you?’

  ‘Er … well, 6 on a bad day, 4 on a good day.’ She even managed a small smile.

  ‘OK – back soon,’ he said, stepping out of the car.

  Ten minutes later, he was back, clutching a bag full of fresh clothes.

  The proprietor in ‘El Refugio’ took a pace backward when he saw them walk through the door. ‘Hey, you guys again? You look … er, well … like you’ve had a bit of a rough time.’

  ‘We have,’ said Stephen, without elaborating. ‘We need a room.’

  ‘I, er … well, I don’t know,’ he said, eyeing Carla’s bloodstained shirt. ‘You sure you don’t need a doctor or something?’

  Carla stepped right up to the counter – the man visibly recoiled. ‘Listen … we just need a room. Now, you got one or not?’

  ‘I … I just need to check,’ he said, making a great show as he stared intently at his computer screen and tapped away at his keyboard.

  ‘Will this help?’ said Stephen, laying a hundred-dollar bill on the counter.

  The man looked up, smiling nervously as
he laid his hand on the banknote and started sliding it towards himself. Stephen clamped his own hand over the other man’s before he could pocket the money, fixing him with an icy stare.

  ‘Er … w-well, as it happens,’ stammered the fat man, ‘I do have two rooms left.’ Stephen released his hand. ‘Now … about the sleeping arrangements …?’

  ‘That’s it,’ hissed Carla, jabbing the air with her forefinger, ‘I’ve just about had enough of this shithead. One more word out of his mouth and I’ll—’

  Stephen laid a restraining hand on her arm. ‘We’ll take whatever you have,’ he said, in the calmest voice he could muster.

  When they arrived in their room Stephen said, ‘OK, let’s take a look at that head wound of yours.’ He tipped the contents of the QVC bag onto the bed, selecting a bottle of antiseptic spray, a pack of wound-closure strips, and a pack of Band-Aids. ‘Come through to the bathroom.’

  She sat on the edge of the bath as Stephen tenderly cleaned the wound with the antiseptic liquid. ‘What exactly happened back there?’ she said, looking into his eyes.

  ‘It’s not as bad as it looked,’ he said, dodging the question. ‘There was a lot of blood but it’s not too deep.’

  She placed her hand on his wrist. ‘Stephen … what happened?’

  ‘Well, you know what happened – you rammed the guy with the gun and—’

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘I mean what happened about … you? You’ve been sort of … different since then. I know it’s not just the shock of the whole thing – you’ve learned something new about yourself, haven’t you?’

  He dipped his head, shaking it from side to side before, again, making eye contact with her. ‘Before you turned up, Henry told me the most incredible and disturbing story.’