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Barker’s tension had heightened visibly with his question, like a spring coiled too tight, and Ryan couldn’t help wondering why his sudden cure from five years of amnesia would place his usually ice-cool commanding officer in such an apprehensive state.
The colonel leaned forward, seeming to hold his breath for Ryan’s answer.
“No, sir, not everything. I can’t remember the last few days before the bombing.”
“Damn!” Barker slammed his fist on his desk.
Since threats hadn’t gained him the response he wanted, Ryan decided on a new tack. Politeness.
“May I use an embassy phone, sir? When I told Prince Asim my memory had returned, he refused to let me place a call and demanded I report to you first. I have to call my fiancée.”
Barker shook his head. “Sorry, Trace, you’ll have to be debriefed before you can contact anyone.”
“But Catherine—”
“No calls. That’s final.”
Ryan slumped in his chair in exasperation. Earlier, when his memory had returned, his first thought had been of Catherine Erickson, his beautiful and endearing Cat, his Kalila with eyes the color of Montana’s big sky, hair the hue of aspen leaves in autumn and contagious laughter that made his heart sing. He’d had no contact with her since before the bombing, and he couldn’t wait to hear her voice again.
Abandoned at birth, shifted from one stranger’s home to another throughout his childhood, Ryan had never felt he truly belonged anywhere—until he fell in love with Cat. Her acceptance of him with all his flaws, her unfailing ability to make him laugh, the dreams and goals they had shared together made him realize that wherever Cat was, was home.
At this minute, he’d never been so homesick in his life.
“If she’s waited five years,” the colonel said gruffly, “she can wait a few more hours.”
“If she’s waited?” Ryan glanced sharply at the officer. “Doesn’t Cat know I’m alive?”
Baxter leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers across his barrel chest. “You’re not going to like what I have to say, but if you’ll hear me out, you’ll understand.”
A premonition shivered down Ryan’s backbone. He’d already suffered one severe shock this morning, learning he wasn’t the man he’d thought he’d been for the past five years. What if something had happened to Cat?
“Cat’s okay, isn’t she?”
“As far as we know,” Barker replied, “but we’ll get to her later. First, tell me exactly how much you remember from before the bombing.”
Ryan sat back in his chair, took a deep breath and forced himself to relax. Among his recovered memories was his awareness that Colonel Barker had his own way of operating. Ryan would have to allow events to unfold at his commanding officer’s pace. As much as he wanted to know about Cat, to place that call and hear her voice, to reassure himself that she was all right, he’d have to answer Barker’s questions first.
Ryan closed his eyes and tried to remember. “My last clear memory before the bombing was the day you met with Marc Erickson and me to alert us to a possible terrorist attack. You feared someone inside the embassy was in league with the terrorists and you wanted us to identify them.”
“As it turned out, I was right. The attack was an inside job.” Barker rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “That meeting was about ten days prior to the bombing. You don’t remember anything after that?”
“There’s a huge gap, sir. My next memories are of hospitals and doctors. But Marc can tell you everything about those missing days before the attack. You know how closely we worked together.”
Barker grew ominously still. “I’m afraid Marc can’t help us.”
A sudden foreboding filled Ryan with dread. “Why not?”
“Erickson’s dead.”
Pierced with grief for his friend, Ryan sank deeper in his chair and closed his eyes, but he couldn’t block out the pain. He forced himself to meet Barker’s sympathetic gaze. “Killed in the bombing?”
Barker shook his head. “Assassinated.”
“What?” The officer’s response took Ryan by surprise, and he jerked upright.
The colonel rose from his chair with obvious effort, as if the world lay heavily on his shoulders. He circled his desk and perched on its edge in front of Ryan. “The day of the bombing Erickson was in the bazaar. He called on his cell phone to alert me to clear the building. Said he’d fill me in on the details later.”
His expression grim, Barker stared past Ryan toward the windows that overlooked the desert. “We began the evacuation instantly, but we didn’t have enough time to get everyone out before the bomb, already planted in the embassy, blew. It undoubtedly was an inside job. Those closest to the ambassador’s office suffered the highest casualties.”
Ryan nodded. He couldn’t remember the event, but he’d read the news reports. Ninety-eight people had died that day, and scores had been seriously wounded.
“In the chaos that followed,” Barker continued, “I temporarily forgot about Erickson, but three Marines who’d been off duty when the bomb exploded stumbled across him as they were rushing to the embassy. He was lying in a deserted alley, and he’d been shot in the back.”
“So he never had a chance to tell you what he’d learned about the terrorists or how he knew about the bomb?”
“He spoke briefly to the men who found him before he lost consciousness.” Barker fixed Ryan with a probing stare. “His last words were, ‘Ask Ryan. He knows who did this.’”
Ryan fought to speak past the lump in his throat. “He never regained consciousness?”
“He slipped into a coma, and even though he hung on for over a year, he was never able to tell us anything more.”
“And I’d lost my memory and couldn’t name the traitor, either.”
Barker nodded. “That’s why we forged you a new identity as Trace Gallagher. Prince Asim gave you a home and a job as a bodyguard in the palace. We wanted to keep you safe until your memory returned.”
“But that’s crazy,” Ryan said with a laugh. “I’ve been living openly in Bahira and wandering freely throughout the city ever since my rehabilitation from my injuries. Anyone from the embassy would recognize me immediately.”
Barker’s keen eyes filled with sadness. “Have you looked in the mirror since your memory returned?”
Ryan shook his head. “I haven’t had time to do anything since I told Asim I’d remembered. His bodyguards rushed me here.”
Barker pointed to a door off his office. “There’s a mirror in the bathroom. You’d better take a look.”
With trepidation, Ryan shoved to his feet and entered the bathroom. Bracing himself for an appearance maimed from injuries, he faced the mirror head-on.
A stranger stared back at him.
Not a horribly disfigured stranger as he’d feared, but definitely not the face of Ryan Christopher.
This man’s cheekbones were higher and more pronounced, almost as if he had Native American ancestry. His once-broken nose had lost its characteristic bump and was straight and movie star perfect. The cleft in his chin had disappeared. Even his hair, once short and wavy, had grown out straight, fine and thick. The only familiar feature in the face was his eyes, the same greenish-brown that he remembered.
The face gazing back at him didn’t belong to Ryan Christopher. It was Trace Gallagher’s, the man he’d thought he was the last five years.
Shaken, he stepped into Barker’s office. “What the hell happened to me?”
“Sit down.” Barker’s usual rough tone was filled with compassion. “You’ve had quite a shock.”
Gratefully, Ryan sank into the chair he’d occupied earlier and ran his hands over his unfamiliar face as if searching for his old self. “Was this change on purpose?”
“Not exactly.”
Ryan raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
Barker sighed and scrubbed a rough hand over his short-cropped hair. “Immediately after the bombing, the triage team had given you up for dead. That’s when Prince Asim stepped in and took over.”
“Asim? Why?”
“You saved his life. He said if you hadn’t rushed him and the ambassador from the office and closed those heavy doors behind you, he would have been killed. You were between the prince and the blast, and your body took the brunt of the explosion that otherwise would have struck Asim.”
As hard as Ryan tried, he couldn’t remember any of what Barker described.
“Within minutes after the bombing,” the colonel continued, “the prince’s driver rushed you to the trauma unit at the local hospital. Asim refused to accept the opinion of the trauma team there that you were beyond help. He flew you, attended by his personal physician, in his private jet to the best hospital in Cairo, where a crack team of emergency doctors managed to stabilize you.”
“That still doesn’t explain my face.”
“The force of the explosion smashed you facedown onto the marble floor. To put it bluntly, the bones of your skull cracked like the shell of an egg thrown onto a sidewalk.”
Ryan winced. “I don’t recall the Egyptian hospital.”
“You wouldn’t. You were in and out of consciousness and pumped full of painkillers. Once your condition improved, Asim had you moved to Switzerland.”
Ryan grunted with remembered discomfort. “Switzerland I remember all too well.”
“Asim hired the best reconstructive surgeons in the world to rebuild your face.”
Ryan’s frustration flared. “If they were such experts, why don’t I look like myself?”
“With a few more operations, you can have your old face back. But once we realized your memories were gone, we decided to leave you with a different appearance and new identity for your own protection. You’re probably not aware of it, but even your voice is different, caused when your vocal cords were seared by the heat of the blast.”
“We decided to give me a new identity?” Ryan said. “Who’s we?”
“The head of counterterrorism at the Pentagon. He wants to nail the traitor and his terrorist friends responsible for the bombing. You’re our best hope.”
Ryan felt a sudden icy chill. “What did you tell Catherine Erickson?”
As if reluctant to face him, Barker walked to the window and stood gazing at the desert glare with his hands clasped behind his back. “We told her you were dead.”
Ryan leaped to his feet. “You had no right to do that!”
Barker pivoted to face him, gray eyes flashing. “If she hadn’t believed you dead, she would have been in terrible danger. The terrorists could have tried to trace you through her. Then they would have killed her, fearful you’d told her their identities.”
Ryan’s already shattered world broke again. For five years, Cat had believed him dead. Had she gone on mourning, or had she managed to pick up the pieces and go on with her life? For all he knew she was married now, had children.
With someone else.
His anger at the terrorists blossomed and swelled. Losing his identity had been one thing. Losing Marc had been a horrible tragedy. Losing Cat, as well, was too high a price.
The colonel’s expression softened. “I’m sorry, Trace. Telling her you died in the blast was the only way to keep both of you safe.”
“Why do you keep calling me Trace? My name’s Ryan.”
“Ryan Christopher’s a dead man.”
“But I’m not—” Barker’s implication suddenly hit him. “You think the terrorists are still looking for me?”
Barker shook his head. “Ryan Christopher’s death was officially reported. He received several honors and commendations posthumously. There’s no reason for anyone to doubt that Ryan Christopher’s dead—as long as you remain Trace Gallagher.”
Stunned, Ryan said nothing.
“As Trace Gallagher with Ryan Christopher’s memories,” Barker added, “you can be of tremendous service to your country.”
“How’s that, sir?”
“I’ve said too much already.” Barker reached for his phone. “I’m booking you a seat on the next transport back to the States. There’s someone at the Pentagon who wants to talk to you.”
DERRICK HUTTON gazed at the crowded intersection in New York City’s Little Italy, but he saw nothing of the traffic and crowds bustling below and ignored the delicious aromas of tomatoes, olive oil and cheeses drifting from the pizzerias and the street vendors. The wheels spinning in his brain took all his attention as he tried to put the pieces of the latest puzzle together. His contact in the American Embassy in Bahira had just called with an interesting and possibly disturbing tidbit of information.
Trace Gallagher, an American who’d worked for years as Prince Asim’s bodyguard, who’d also been injured in the successful embassy bombing five years ago, a man Hutton had never heard of during his tenure in the embassy, had been secreted out of the country on a military transport yesterday headed for Washington, D.C.
This morning, Hutton had received a call from his Pentagon informant. Trace had been taken directly to the Pentagon upon arrival in Washington and was undergoing a series of tests and debriefings. The informant had promised to call back when he had more details.
Questions nagged at Hutton like an itch he couldn’t scratch. Why the sudden Pentagon interest in a civilian like Gallagher? Was it coincidence that the man had been in the embassy when the bomb, intended to kill the prince, had detonated? According to local gossip, the prince had spared no expense to keep the man alive.
What was so special about one bodyguard out of dozens?
Why the sudden rush to return Gallagher to the States?
Hutton didn’t have the answers, and not knowing placed him at loose ends.
He hated loose ends.
Odds were Gallagher’s return had nothing to do with the Pentagon’s ongoing attempt to locate Hutton’s terrorist cell, but Hutton couldn’t afford to be careless. Diligence and attention to seemingly unimportant or unrelated details had kept him alive so far. He couldn’t slip up now, not with plans for the next attack almost ready for fruition.
When his informant reported in again, Hutton would learn all he could about Gallagher. If the man was a threat, Hutton would simply have him eliminated.
He allowed himself a rare smile. Death was always the best way to tie up loose ends.
THREE WEEKS after Snake Larson’s unwelcome visit, Catherine Erickson gazed across the empty desks of her classroom to the windows that framed the towering Cabinet Mountains. Snow still crowned their peaks, but carpets of wild daisies edged the roadsides, and on the lower mountain slopes choke cherries, serviceberries and huckleberries were beginning to ripen.
June would be arriving in a few days. June, the time for brides and weddings, the month she would have married Ryan if he’d lived. In the last few years, summer had become a season she struggled to get through, fighting anew the pain of loss. Only her adorable Megan, Ryan’s child, helped her to survive her grief.
Remembering, she glanced to the back row by the window. The old wooden desk she’d occupied as a student, where she had carved her initials with Ryan’s and circled them with a heart, had been replaced a few years ago with more modern furniture with unyielding mica surfaces, but Cat felt the same ache, the same undeniable longing she’d experienced as a sixteen-year-old with her first crush.
No matter how hard she tried to convince herself, she couldn’t come to grips with Ryan’s death. Losing her brother had devastated her, but at least with Marc she’d had some closure.
God, how she hated that word.
After nursing Marc for nearly a year, watching him waste away in a coma, she’d been almost relieved when he’d died, freed of his suffering. When he’d regained consciousness briefly before his death, she’d been thankful for the opportunity she’d had to tell him she loved him, to show him baby Megan, to say goodbye.
