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