Lost Identity Page 18

  She inclined her head. ‘Henry? The guy who met you in the bar? So you knew him … but why—’

  He raised his hand to restrain further questions. ‘Let me finish dressing this wound, and then … then, I’ll tell you everything.’

  ***

  After they had cleaned themselves up and changed into the new jeans and tee-shirts he had bought, he sat down and told her everything he now knew.

  She stared at him in utter disbelief. ‘So you think this plan to kill the professor and steal his research is true?’

  ‘At first I didn’t believe it, but it’s true that the research Professor Mandelson is due to release to the world is truly revolutionary. It will lead to a cheap and widely available drug which can completely reverse cocaine addiction with just two or three treatments. What he said about the potential effect on the illegal cocaine trade makes perfect sense.’

  ‘But this guy was a colleague at Oxford wasn’t he? Why would he be mixed up in such a horrible scheme?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ admitted Stephen, ‘but I do know that he was ready to shoot me back there. I can’t imagine how he got involved, but somehow they seem to have turned him.’

  ‘So you really believe the professor and Bob Gench are in danger?’

  ‘I’m afraid I do.’ He paused for a second or two, hanging his head before sharing the thought that was torturing him. ‘Carla, if Henry was somehow coerced into taking part in this hideous plan, can I really be so sure that I wasn’t involved too?’

  She placed her hand under his chin, raising his head until his gaze met hers. ‘That’s not you,’ she said ‘… not the man I have come to know.’ She took both of his hands in hers. ‘That is not who you are.’

  ‘But you don’t really know me, Carla. I don’t really even know myself.’

  ‘I know enough to know that you’re a good man, Stephen.’

  He pulled away from her and stood up, pacing the room as he continued. ‘When I woke up in hospital after the attack I couldn’t remember anything. My head was so screwed up – is so screwed up; how can I be sure that the memories which have come back to me are real? Even now there are huge chunks of my life which remain a mystery.’

  ‘Oh, Stephen … what can I do to help you?’

  He didn’t respond to her question. ‘It’s so strange – like trying to recall a dream. You know that feeling? You know it’s there, but somehow it stays tantalisingly just out of reach.’

  ‘Let’s take another look through all that stuff in the briefcase,’ said Carla ‘… maybe there will something that gives us more clues.’

  He nodded, sitting down on the bed as she opened the battered case. But his heart wasn’t in it; they had already scoured the contents of the briefcase, and he couldn’t believe that those papers had any more truth to yield. Carla, however, began picking through them with a fierce intensity.

  ‘Look!’ she cried.

  ‘Huh?’ He was miles away, still trying to probe the deepest recesses of his mind for answers.

  ‘Look here!’ She grabbed his shoulder and shook him until he eventually focused on what she was showing him.

  With all the contents of the case removed, it could be seen that the bottom of the case was coming away. One corner was twisted and raised; there seemed to be a gap below. Carla inserted a couple of fingers into the gap and pulled hard. The entire bottom lining of the case came away. What they found beneath the false bottom of the case reduced them both to a shocked silence.

  Chapter 25

  How on earth had they failed to realise, before this moment, that the internal depth of the case bore little relationship to the substantial external dimension? Now though, the purpose of the hidden compartment became clear.

  There were numerous stacks of banknotes arranged side by side, each bound with a paper sleeve bearing the handwritten inscription ‘$10,000’. They looked at each other, open-mouthed, as Stephen picked up one of the stacks and examined it. ‘Used, hundred-dollar notes,’ he observed.

  ‘How many?’ breathed Carla.

  He counted the stacks of banknotes. ‘Fifteen bundles … so if these labels are right we’re looking at—’

  ‘A hundred and fifty thousand dollars,’ interrupted Carla.

  They sat, staring at each other in disbelieving silence for several long seconds before, eventually, Stephen articulated the troubling thought which he sensed Carla, too, shared. ‘Why on earth would Stephen Lewis, Research Scientist, need to be hiding a hundred and fifty thousand dollars in a secret compartment in the bottom of his case?’

  She looked into his eyes for a moment, as though searching for the truth there, but quickly looked away before taking the remaining stacks of cash from the case. What lay below was even more disturbing: at least a dozen passports, of various nationalities.

  It was with a feeling of growing unease that Stephen picked up the first UK passport he could see. When he opened it, his worst fears were confirmed: there, staring back at him, was his own face. But it was different: the hair was shorter and darker, and the face sported a neatly-trimmed moustache. The name in the passport was Kevin Blake.

  ‘It’s you, isn’t it?’ breathed Carla.

  He nodded, setting the passport aside and taking another from the case – this one also UK. As he turned to the title page, his breath caught in his throat. It was Emma, but her tumbling blonde tresses had been replaced by chestnut brown hair, styled in a bob. The name was Diana Blake.

  The sensation he felt was like a physical blow to his stomach. So it was all true.

  As he worked through all the other passports he found an Australian and a Canadian passport each bearing his photograph – with two more different names. And then there were another nine passports in a variety of nationalities which contained no photograph at all, the plastic film which normally covers the photograph not yet sealed in place: passports customisable, with minimal effort, to suit any purpose.

  The despair which he felt hollowed him out from the inside. It felt like a ghastly nightmare, but one from which he knew he could not wake up.

  He turned to Carla, his voice flat and lifeless. ‘It’s all true. I’m not Stephen Lewis … I don’t know who I am.’

  She laid her hand on his. ‘I … I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘What kind of monster am I, Carla?’

  Tears began to well up in her eyes. ‘You’re not a monster. I don’t know what you have done in the past or what you were planning to do before you lost your memory. I only know you as you are now – and that is a good man.’

  He shook his head. ‘A good man? Carla, I was going to murder people – just for money. I was going to rob the world of a revolutionary new addiction cure – in the process propping up a hideous drugs trade destroying countless people’s lives. It’s just …’ He could no longer find the words.

  ‘Stop it,’ said Carla, grabbing his shoulders and shaking him. ‘What’s done is done – you can’t change it. Don’t let what you were define you; it’s what you do now that matters.’

  Chapter 26

  At the Palm Grove Hotel, guests were arriving for the pre-conference reception.

  ‘Doctor and Mrs Lewis,’ said the other Stephen Lewis, extending his hand to show their invitations.

  The man on the door examined the invitations, ran his finger down the guest list and, evidently satisfied, ushered them over to a side table where his colleague was carrying out bag checks.

  Emma laid her Gucci evening bag on the table: a compact, elegant bag, encrusted with sparkling crystals and set off by a slim, chain-link shoulder strap. There was really only space for the bare essentials in such a small handbag, and when the security guy opened it, he gave it only the most cursory of inspections.

  ‘Stephen’– real name Ethan Peterson – was carrying a larger, black, over-shoulder bag, which he dutifully laid on the table for inspection. When the security guy undid the zip, his brow creased in puzzlement, for the bag was empty.

  ‘I have t
o take some papers back at the end of the presentations,’ said Ethan, by way of explanation.

  The man shrugged and zipped up the bag, handing it back. He indicated, with a sideways nod of his head that they should proceed.

  As they stepped through the door, they were greeted by Bob Gench, the billionaire tech entrepreneur and philanthropist who was sponsoring the conference. Emma recognised him immediately, having studied countless photographs.

  ‘Doctor and Mrs Stephen Lewis,’ said Ethan.

  ‘Ah, Doctor Lewis,’ said Gench, shaking Ethan’s hand. ‘Professor Mandelson has told me all about you.’

  ‘And me about you,’ replied Ethan. ‘Without your unwavering support, this whole thing just wouldn’t have been possible.’

  Gench waved away the compliment without responding directly. ‘Well, pleased to meet you at last … and, of course you, Mrs Lewis.’

  ‘Please … call me Emma,’ said Natasha, proffering her hand to Gench,

  ‘Of course.’ He said, gently shaking her hand. ‘Let me take your wrap, Emma.’

  ‘Emma’ – real name Natasha King – was dressed to kill. Her plan relied on her ability to charm Professor Mandelson into letting down his guard, so she had put a great deal of thought into her clothes and makeup for the evening. She needed to look as alluring as possible, without being too obvious.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, turning her back towards their host to allow him to take her wrap.

  As Bob Gench slipped the faux fur garment from her shoulders, she could almost feel his eyes traversing the expanse of her lightly-tanned back, laid bare by the deeply plunging cut of her deep red cocktail dress, which clung to every curve of her slender figure. As she turned to face him, flashing him a dazzling smile, she was gratified to see his eyes flicker momentarily to the glimpse of cleavage on display before he recovered his composure and quickly focused on her face. Noting, also, the envious glances from two women who were standing nearby, she figured she had got the look just about right.

  ‘I’ll hang it just over there,’ he said, indicating the coat rack alongside the door. He took her wrap, and hung it from one of the coat hooks.

  Ethan waited until he turned back towards them. ‘Can I leave my bag there, too?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Bob Gench.

  Ethan moved over to the rack, unslinging his over-shoulder bag and hanging it on the same hook as Natasha’s wrap.

  ‘Now, Professor Mandelson has not yet arrived,’ said Bob Gench, ‘but please grab yourselves a drink and take the opportunity to mingle with the other guests.’

  Natasha flashed him another winning smile before they moved through into the body of the room. Funny to think the poor bastard would be dead in a couple of hours’ time.

  They each took a glass of champagne, but it was mainly for appearances sake, rather than to actually drink – they needed to stay sober for the task ahead. There were about forty or fifty people in the room; the men mostly wore tuxedos and the women elegant evening dresses. Natasha knew that she looked more glamorous than just about every other woman in the room, but she took no particular personal satisfaction from that fact. She was a professional and, for this particular mission, she needed to be the femme fatale, a look which she could pull off with ease, given her natural beauty, but she could equally well make herself look cheap and slutty, or even plain, when the mission demanded it.

  They didn’t bother to mingle with other guests, but rather stayed, as unobtrusively as possible, close to the entrance, just chatting to each other. When the moment was opportune, Ethan moved unhurriedly over to the coat rack and rearranged their things on the coat hook so that the wrap lay over the top of the bag rendering it invisible to a casual glance.

  Then they waited … and waited. They changed position from time to time, to avoid looking too obvious, but they never strayed far from the entrance to the room.

  When Professor Mandelson finally arrived, he looked a little flustered – red in the face and perspiring heavily. Natasha’s gaze homed in, laser-like, on the laptop bag slung over his shoulder.

  ‘So sorry I’m late,’ he said, as Bob Gench shook his hand, ‘… the traffic was terrible.’

  ‘No problem,’ said Gench. ‘We’ve allowed plenty of time for guests to mingle and chat before the presentations. They won’t start until about eight.’

  Natasha knew that the purpose of the reception was not only to allow invited guests to get to know each other, but also to provide a platform for Professor Mandelson to give a preview of the announcement he was to make at the conference proper on Monday.

  Ethan Peterson – or rather his alter ego, Stephen Lewis – had been invited to join Professor Mandelson at the top table but had successfully managed to wriggle out of this, by claiming his part in the research had been minimal. But Mandelson, Gench, and a couple of others involved in the project would be seated together at the top table for the presentations; this was when Natasha and Ethan would strike. Before this part of the plan could be enacted, however, they had something else important to accomplish.

  Judging their timing to perfection, they wandered past just as Bob Gench was ushering Professor Mandelson through into the main body of the room.

  ‘Stephen,’ called out the professor, ‘hello.’

  Ethan turned at the sound of his voice, feigning surprise. ‘Richard, great to see you.’

  But Professor Mandelson’s eyes were already on Natasha, who smiled back at him.

  ‘And this must be Emma,’ he said, extending his hand.

  ‘Delighted to meet you, Professor,’ she said, tipping her head, coyly.

  ‘And you too,’ he replied. ‘Stephen has told me all about the incident at the party the other day. You must have been terrified when this other guy turned up, claiming to be your husband.’

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘not exactly terrified, just kind of unsettled – it was so weird. After all, why on earth would anyone want to impersonate Stephen?’ She gazed up at her supposed husband, her expression quizzical.

  ‘Certainly beats me,’ said Ethan. ‘I guess the guy must have been unbalanced.’

  ‘Although,’ said Professor Mandelson, hesitating as though unsure whether to continue, ‘having now met you charming wife, I can see why he might want to be you.’ He coloured up slightly, no doubt realising, as the words came out of his mouth, how utterly cringe-worthy they sounded.

  What a shmuck, thought Natasha, as she smiled and put a dainty hand to her mouth, pretending to stifle a giggle. ‘Oh really, Professor … you’re too kind.’ This was almost too easy.

  Her response seemed to quell his embarrassment; his expression relaxed.

  ‘Can I get you a drink?’ said Ethan, turning to the professor.

  ‘Yes … I could certainly use one … might help to settle my nerves. I hate standing up in front of people and giving presentations. I’ve done dozens – no, probably hundreds – of the damned things in my time, but I’m still nervous as hell each time. And this is a really big one.’

  ‘I’m the same,’ said Ethan, ‘but you have nothing to fear this time. Everyone will be blown away by what you are about to tell them.’

  Mandelson smiled, biting his lip.

  ‘Let me get you that drink,’ said Ethan ‘… champagne OK?’

  The professor nodded.

  As Ethan went to get the drink, Natasha lost no time in building upon the impression she had obviously already made on Professor Mandelson, fluttering her eyelashes as she gazed at him. ‘Stephen tells me that your research is absolutely ground-breaking.’

  ‘I … er, well I only hope it will help degrade, and ultimately eliminate, the evil cocaine trade which is destroying so many young lives.’

  She nodded, still gazing into his eyes as she continued to pile on the flattery. ‘Stephen says you are one of the most brilliant researchers he has ever known.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said, the blood rushing to his cheeks, ‘that’s a bit of an exaggeration … I’m just doing my job.�
��

  Ethan returned with the Professor’s champagne. He shifted his laptop bag, awkwardly, as he went to accept the drink.

  The perfect moment, thought Natasha. ‘Oh, here – let me take that for you,’ she said, setting her own glass down on a nearby table so that she had both hands free. ‘You look awfully uncomfortable with it.’

  ‘I … er … I think I’d rather keep it with me – it contains some very important information.’

  ‘Oh, Professor—’

  ‘Please … call me Richard.’

  She smiled, raising a hand to toss a lock of wavy, blonde hair away from her face. ‘Thank you – I will.’

  ‘You see my presentation is on my laptop and all my research findings, too … plus a lot of other important information.’ The professor had laid a protective arm over his bag.

  ‘Oh gosh!’ she breathed, wide-eyed. ‘Then you certainly mustn’t let it out of your sight. It does look awfully heavy and awkward to have over your shoulder all evening, though.’ She paused for a moment, as though deep in thought. ‘Look,’ she said, indicating the coat rack near the door, ‘my wrap is hanging up just there. Why don’t you let me hang your bag right next to it? You’ll be able to keep an eye on it all the time until you need it for your presentation.’

  ‘We-ell … I suppose that might be OK.’

  ‘And the only people Security will let in are invited guests. No-one can sneak in from outside.’

  ‘Well, that’s true I suppose.’

  ‘Here, let me take it,’ she said, smiling and tilting her head as she held out her hands.

  Her persuasive smile did the trick.

  ‘Well, OK then.’ He slid the bag from his shoulder and handed it to her.

  This was the critical part. She had only a few moments, and if the professor should spot what she was doing, the whole plan would be blown.

  Chapter 27

  Stephen and Carla rushed up to the reception desk of the Palm Grove Hotel. The immaculately-groomed woman behind the desk greeted them with a smile, but could hardly disguise her disdain at their cheap, ill-fitting clothing. Carla’s jeans were clearly a size too large, puckering untidily below the waistband where she had cinched them in with her belt. There were even a few spots of blood on the belt, which the receptionist may, or may not, have spotted. Stephen had the opposite problem: his tee-shirt was way too small, his muscular arms threatening to burst the sleeves.