seen. Now or never. Summoning some long forgotten reservoir of courage, he strode out of the room as if he were the normal staff doctor moving on to his next patient. He turned left, the red exit sign clearly visible just twenty paces away.
Reaching the door, Matt looked back up the dimly lit hallway. The guard must have returned to his desk, probably for a few moments of sleep. He reached for the door handle but his hand froze just above the knob. The sign shimmered in the shadows. “Door locked and alarmed at all times. For staff use only.”
Matt swallowed hard. His heart pounded. Sober or not, I’m in deep shit! Reaching into the lab coat, he produced Dr. Weissman’s keys. One was obviously a VW key, the logo prominently embossed on the top. Several others looked like house keys. One stood out as plain and unmarked, like the key to an office or business. Matt slowly inserted the key into the lock. It fit, but when he gently tried to turn it, it wouldn’t move. Then he remembered that this was a new wing. Perhaps the locks and keys weren’t well worn yet. He applied more force. The key turned. He pushed the door open, revealing the brightly lit parking lot. The VW Passat sat only three spaces from the door.
Here goes nothing. Half wishing he was in a drunken stupor Matt moved swiftly to the car. His hands shook as he climbed in and shut the door. A moment later a battered Ford Taurus pulled into the lot and parked just opposite. Matt ducked down onto the passenger seat, fighting the urge to throw up. He breathed deeply, trying desperately to calm his nerves and stomach. The drugs he had been given were still very much in control of his system. He closed his eyes to keep from blacking out. A car door slammed. He heard the crunch of footsteps on gravel.
After what felt like a year, Matt sat up. He scanned the parking lot then noticed the clock on the dash. 4:45 am. They would soon discover Dr. Weissman. He reached up to adjust the rear view mirror.
“Oh God.” A strange face stared back at him. “How long will it take to get used to this new face?” He reached up to feel the prominent nose and strong square chin. It was a handsome face, refined yet rugged. He had read medical journals about patients whose entire personalities changed after getting major facial surgery. Maybe that was a good thing for him. So far his life had been a failure. But the face of a wanted international assassin wasn’t cause for celebration.
Pulling the green surgeon cap down as far as possible, Matt slowly drove the car towards the front gate, barely controlling his urge to jam down the accelerator and flee this evil place. Slowing down, he lowered the window, raised his arm and waved.
“Leaving early, Dr. Weissman?” The guard reached inside to push the button for the gate. Matt rolled up the window, keeping his head down, as if looking for something. The gate slowly swung open. He accelerated briskly, narrowly missing one side of the gate. To his right was a large ornate sign: Blue Ridge Substance Abuse Clinic and Private Hospital, Admittance by Appointment Only.
“Or kidnapping,” he muttered, heading down the road towards what he hoped would be the main highway.
Safe, but for how long? About a mile down the asphalt lane he came to the Blue Ridge Parkway which wound along the backbone of the Blue Ridge Mountains, running nearly 460 miles, all the way from Shenandoah National Park in northern Virginia to Great Smoky Mountains National Park in North Carolina.
“Before I go much further, I’d better look at these documents and see who the hell I am,” he said, listening to his voice. It sounded disembodied in the car’s confines. “At least I still sound like me.” Pulling into a turnout overlooking the lowlands of Virginia, Matt stopped the car and reached for the carry-on bag. The clothes, he was relieved to discover, were nearly his size, though the man was definitely more muscular. He tried on a shirt-a little loose, but it would do for the time being. The pants needed to be tightened with a belt. He dressed in the darkened car then turned on the overhead light. Taking out the wallet first he noticed it was fine-grain calfskin Pierre Cardin. Not a pauper.
The wallet contained a valid Maryland driver’s license in the name of William Stubbs, age forty-seven. Matt didn’t recognize the address, but it was his new face staring back from the plastic card. There were also several Visa cards and an American Express Platinum Card, all in the name of William Stubbs, and all current. Nestled in the wallet lay a large number of hundred-dollar bills and some tens and twenties. He gripped the money tight, his new lifeline. His mind raced. How to stay alive? Who to talk to? Matt reached into the bag again.
What he found next shocked him-twelve valid passports from various countries, all with different names. Two were U.S. passports, one in the name of Stubbs and the other Scott. Each carried the same photo but a separate selection of credit cards, driver’s licenses and identity cards. The other nationalities included France, Germany, England, Russia, and Switzerland, as well as Brazil, South Africa, Egypt, Morocco and Lebanon. At the bottom of the bag, in a bulging zippered wallet, a small fortune in currency matching each of the countries.
Matt sat back. Bile rose up, sour in his throat. His new face belonged to a hired assassin who was no doubt known by nearly every major government. A perfect target.
Blue lights flashed behind him. Gravel crunched under tires coming to an abrupt halt. Matt froze, realizing a Virginia state trooper vehicle had came to a stop directly behind him. Quickly he shoved the documents back into the leather valise, threw it on the floor, and opened the car door.
“Stay in the vehicle, sir,” a voice boomed over a loudspeaker. “Please have your driving license ready for inspection.”
The passenger door of the police car opened and a large black man emerged in a round-brimmed felt hat. Keeping his right hand on his pistol holster, he walked up to the white VW.
Matt’s hand was shaking as he jabbed at the button which operated the window. “You woke me up, officer. I was trying to catch a few winks before continuing my drive.”
“That’s sensible of you. May I see your license, sir?” The trooper seemed relieved, if still somewhat suspicious. Every police officer in the country knew of incidents where policemen had been killed during routine traffic stops by lunatics or junkies.
“Stubbs, officer. William Stubbs. I’m coming home from a business meeting at the Greenbriar Hotel. Wanted to get home before my kids went off to school.” Matt dug into the wallet and handed the license through the window to the officer. “Don’t think I’ll make it though. I just had to stop and rest.” His hands shook.
Shining his large flashlight first on the license, then on Matt’s face, he stepped back and signaled to his partner that everything was okay. The other officer started up the police vehicle. Routinely passing his flashlight into the driver’s compartment and then over the back seat, the officer seemed satisfied. “Rest as long as you need to, Mr. Stubbs. And have a safe journey home.”
In a few moments the police cruiser pulled out of the overlook and headed back up the mountain. Matt slumped over the steering wheel while his entire body shook. Will the rest of my life be filled with lies? Racked with a fear he’d never experienced before, he turned on the ignition and jammed the accelerator to the floor. Tires squealing, he spun across the gravel and shot back onto the dark highway.
“Get a grip, Matthew – William,” he said to himself, trying to regulate his breathing. Over the next several minutes he forcefully willed himself to calm down. The speedometer fell from nearly 90 miles an hour down to just below the speed limit. The added oxygen relieved his anxiety and soon he was back in control. He settled in for the three-hour drive to Sweet Briar College.
As his brain cleared, it occurred to him that his captors probably decided to keep his disappearance quiet. They couldn’t risk exposure. Instead, whoever they were would probably come after him. And they had a huge advantage-they knew his face while he had no idea who they were. At least he had a head start.
Baltimore-Washington International Airport
Faint streaks of orange and gold exploded across the eastern horizon, chasing away the blackness but not the bitter cold. The silver Jaguar XJS slid into an empty space in the four-level parking garage in front of the Baltimore-Washington-International main terminal. The airport, built in 1950 and first named Friendship International, was modernized and enlarged in the 1970s to serve Washington, D.C., to the south and Baltimore to the north. As on any weekday morning, the parking complex was alive with business travelers scrambling out of their vehicles and heading for flights in the early morning darkness. No one would notice two men talking inside a car in the parking lot, especially since the entire level was now full. The long line of incoming cars kept climbing up the ramp to the levels above.
