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white collar black wolf: Thanks for your your review my friend.

Unknown's POV

"Nature favored you in this regard; no altering was either possible or required."

He questioned, "Required for what?"

Washburn continued gently, "For changing your appearance. Very professionally, I'd say. Visas, passport, driver's licenses—switched at will. Hair: brown, blond, auburn. Eyes—can't tamper with the eyes—green, gray, blue? The possibilities are far-ranging, wouldn't you say? All within that recognizable category in which the faces are blurred with repetition."

The man got out of the chair with difficulty, pushing himself up with his arms, holding his breath as he rose. "It's also possible that you're reaching. You could be way out of line."

"The traces are there, the markings. That's evidence."

"Interpreted by you, with a heavy dose of cynicism thrown in. Suppose I had an accident and was patched up? That would explain the surgery."

Washburn countered, "Not the kind you had. Dyed hair and the removal of clefts and moles aren't part of a restoration process."

"You don't know that!" said the unknown man angrily. "There are different kinds of accidents, different procedures. You weren't there; you can't be certain."

Washburn snapped, "Good! Get furious with me. You don't do it half often enough. And while you're mad, think. What were you? What are you?"

"A salesman … an executive with an international company, specializing in the Far East. That could be it. Or a teacher … of languages. In a university somewhere. That's possible, too."

Washburn countered, "Fine. Choose one. Now!"

"I … I can't." The man's eyes were on the edge of helplessness.

"Because you don't believe either one," came the gentle querie.

The man shook his head. "No. Do you?"

"No," said Washburn. "For a specific reason. Those occupations are relatively sedentary and you have the body of a man who's been subjected to physical stress. Oh, I don't mean a trained athlete or anything like that; you're no jock, as they say. But your muscle tone's firm, your arms and hands used to strain and quite strong. Under other circumstances, I might judge you to be a laborer, accustomed to carrying heavy objects, or a fisherman, conditioned by hauling in nets all day long. But your range of knowledge, I daresay your intellect, rules out such things."

Now he was curious, "Why do I get the idea that you're leading up to something? Something else."

"Because we've worked together, closely and under pressure, for several weeks now. You spot a pattern."

"I'm right then?"

"Yes. I had to see how you'd accept what I've just told you. The previous surgery, the hair, the contact lenses."

"Did I pass?"

"With infuriating equilibrium. It's time now; there's no point in putting it off any longer. Frankly, I haven't the patience. Come with me." Washburn preceded the man through the living room to the door in the rear wall that led to the dispensary. Inside, he went to the corner and picked up an antiquated projector, the shell of its thick round lens rusted and cracked.

"I had this brought in with the supplies from Marseilles," he said, placing it on the small desk and inserting the plug into the wall socket.
"It's hardly the best equipment, but it serves the purpose. Pull the blinds, will you?"

The man with no name or memory went to the window and lowered the blind; the room was dark. Washburn snapped on the projector's light; a bright square appeared on the white wall. He then inserted a small piece of celluloid behind the lens. The square was abruptly filled with magnified letters.

GEMEINSCHAFT BANK BAHNHOFSTRASSE. ZURICH. ZERO—SEVEN—SEVENTEEN—TWELVE—ZERO—FOURTEEN—TWENTY-SIX—ZERO

What in the world? The numbers rang familiar in the back of his mind but he couldn't place it.

"What is it?" asked the nameless man. "Look at it. Study it. Think." "It's a bank account of some kind."

"Exactly. The printed letterhead and address is the bank, the handwritten numbers take the place of a name, but insofar as they are written out, they constitute the signature of the account holder. Standard procedure."

He questioned curious, "Where did you get it?"

"From you," the questioning look was enough to get the other to elaborate, "This is a very small negative, my guess would be half the size of a thirty-five millimeter film. It was implanted—surgically implanted—beneath the skin above your right hip. The numbers are in your handwriting; it's your signature. With it you can open a vault in Zurich."

Come again? An account in Zurich? That would mean he would have to make his way there.

He flinched when words came to mind, "You need an emergency source of money. If things go south I need to know you can survive. David... please for my sake."

A colder version of his own voice replied, "Okay, Gordon. Only for you though."

He blinked in surprised. David? Was that his first name?

Washburn asked his interest peaked immediately, "Did you have a flashback? What did you remember?"

He answered still feeling the confusion, "Two names. I think one of them is mine as I answered to it. Gordon was the other speaker he said ' You need an emergency source of money. If things go south I need to know you can survive. David... please for my sake.' I think my name is David."

Washburn smiled as he replied, "It's good to meet you then David. Now we have a starting pointing."