Stolen Identity

by Michael W. Sherer

  “You’re kidding. Why should—?”

  “Just do it!” Amir yelled into the phone. “It’s time!”

  He disconnected, threw the phone on the dash and ran his fingers through his hair as he pressed harder on the accelerator. He had no idea if Fahrouk would step up and be a man. One of the students that Amir had been courting, Fahrouk had talked a good game in front of his more radical friends, but Amir wasn’t sure if he’d come through or not. The many universities in the area were fertile territory for recruiting, but it was the disaffected, those from poor backgrounds, that offered the most promise. The ones from privileged families, especially those who had lived here for a long time, were harder to convert. Of all the potential disciples Amir had thought to call, however, Fahrouk was closest and could get there fastest. And as one of the privileged, he had money and his own car. Amir hoped the kid was ready to participate. If not, he’d make it work somehow. The van would be conspicuous, but he would make it work.

  He didn’t have to. Seven minutes later, he stood next to the van’s rear fender as headlights came around the corner and caught him in their beams. Fahrouk’s Mustang slowed and pulled to the curb behind the van. Amir turned and yanked open the van’s double doors and reached inside for a box. A car door slammed behind him and Fahrouk came up next to him.

  “Grab that other box,” Amir said. “You can put it in the back seat.”

  “What the hell are you doing?” Fahrouk said.

  “Taking your car.”

  “Why? What’s wrong with your van?”

  “Nothing’s wrong with the van. I just need something different.”

  “Well, you’re not taking my car. My parents would kill me.”

  “You parents? Can you not think and do for yourself? I need your help. You either believe or you don’t. If you are a believer, then you know jihad is the only way.”

  “Fine. You want the car, I’ll give you the car. But I’m driving.”

  “We don’t have time for this.” Amir sighed. “Okay, get in. I need a few more things from the van, and then you can drive around the corner to get gas.”

  Without waiting, Amir whirled and stalked back to the van to retrieve the last box of equipment he needed, and locked the doors. When he got into Fahrouk’s car, he lifted the box over the seat and put it in back then directed Fahrouk to the service station around the corner. There, he tried once more to talk Fahrouk out of coming along, all the while keeping an eye out for the old man and his watchers. His knees trembled with nerves and excitement, not fear. He tensed and willed the tremors to stop. And soon, within minutes, the old man walked into the service station. Amir kept his eyes averted and forced himself to stay calm and not reveal the exultation he felt at being right, at having read this man so well. Better, even, than the F. B. of I., those incompetents who had surrounded the man’s house and still had let him slip through their grasp. Fahrouk, however, not only insisted on coming since it was his car; he also argued about who should pay for the gas as the old man walked past. Amir was furious, and even as he let himself get sucked into petty bickering, he regretted choosing Fahrouk.

  Now, from the corner of his eye, Amir watched the old man through the plate glass window as he stopped to speak to the clerk behind the counter. Amir topped off the gas tank, but left the nozzle inserted for a moment to see what the old man would do next.

  “Are you ready to drive now?” he asked Fahrouk.

  Fahrouk shrugged. “Sure. So, I get to come along on this mysterious mission of yours?”

  “If you do exactly as I say, yes.”

  “Sure. Fine, whatever.”

  “Then get in and let’s go,” Amir said as he watched the old man walk around the back of the service station with a set of keys in his hand.

  With some sharp instructions now and then from Amir, Fahrouk proved adept at following from a distance. They drove ten or twelve miles, from city streets to highway to interstate and back to city streets. The old man led them into another sleepy suburb of Detroit, and Amir cautioned Fahrouk not to follow too closely. He needn’t have worried. Fahrouk had watched enough decadent, sexualized crime shows on American television to know how to tail another car without attracting the attention of the other driver. Four chase cars, or even six, in teams of two were best, but the old man wasn’t a pro. Even if he suspected a tail, he’d more likely look for the stakeout vehicles that had been outside his house.

  Several blocks up, the old man’s taillights disappeared around a corner. By the time they turned to follow, the car ahead was nowhere in sight.

  “Crap, man,” Fahrouk said. “We lost him.”

  “Shut up,” Amir said. “Just drive like you live here. I’ll look.” He sat up straight, eyes scanning for garage doors closing, lights, any clue.

  “Why are we following this guy anyway? What’s he done?”

  “Nothing. He’s done nothing.”

  “I don’t get it,” Fahrouk said. “What’s the point?”

  “The point is that he could do something. Now be quiet and let me look.”

  Finally, Amir spotted the Crown Vic a half-block ahead, parked at the curb.

  “Got it,” he said. “Don’t slow down. Keep going. Drive normally.”

  Amir kept his face forward as they passed the old man’s car, but in his peripheral vision he could see it was still occupied. Some of the tension drained from his shoulders.

  “How far do you want me to go?” Fahrouk said.

  His tone turned Amir’s head, and he saw from the set of Fahrouk’s jaw and the way he slouched in his seat that Fahrouk was miffed. Amir again regretted not just taking the car and leaving Fahrouk behind. He didn’t have time to babysit, and Fahrouk hadn’t yet earned his trust.

  He sighed. “A couple blocks. Any sooner and he might suspect something. That stop sign—take a right up there and circle around behind him.”

  Amir shifted in his seat and craned his neck to look through the rear window. The old man hadn’t gotten out. He was just sitting there, waiting. For what?

  Fahrouk circled back, but before he turned onto the street where the Crown Vic had parked Amir made him pull over.

  “Stay here,” he said as he got out. “I’ll see what he’s up to and be right back.”

  He opened the rear door, rummaged through one of the boxes of electronics, found what he wanted, and shut the door quietly. As nonchalantly as his racing heart would allow, he sauntered around the corner as if he lived there. Halfway down the block, he could see that the Crown Vic stood empty. He stopped and scanned both sides of the street. Still early, black windows reflected light from the street, but none glowed yellow. Except for the occasional porch light, houses remained dark. He saw no sign of the old man.

  He approached the Crown Vic slowly and quietly, worried that Keator may have lain down in the car to take a nap. A dozen yards away he bent low, ran behind the car and crouched by the rear bumper. Slowly, he raised his head above the trunk and looked through the rear window. Still no sign of life. Ducking down, he crept around the side of the car until he reached the rear door. Steadying himself with one hand on the car, he straightened until he could peer through the window. No one was inside. He breathed a sigh of relief and tried to slow his heart rate.

  After he checked the street again, he worked quickly, kneeling next to the rear wheel. Feeling behind the wheel well with his fingers, he found a smooth spot on the metal and attached a magnetic radio transmitter that would let him track the car. He had two other transmitters with microphones that would let him eavesdrop on whatever was said inside the car. One was designed to stick on the outside of one of the windows and picked up sound wave vibrations through the glass. It would do in a pinch, but the sound quality wasn’t all that great. He’d have to get inside the car to plant the other one.

  Somewhere nearby, a dog started barking, making him nervous. He circled around to the passenger side of the car and tried the door. Locked. Disappointed, he hurried to the driver’s d
oor and pulled on the handle. The door popped open. He slid into the seat and leaned over, feeling in the dark for a good hiding place under the dash where the transmitter would attach securely. All his fingers encountered were plastic surfaces.

  Frustrated, he sat up for a moment and surveyed the dash. The barking grew louder and more frenzied, distracting him. He tried to ignore it and focus. Once more he leaned over and explored underneath the dash with his fingers. Finally, he found a spot he thought would work and pushed the transmitter into place. It held.

  As he straightened up, he saw Keator run out of a yard up the street. Amir ducked, his heart nearly leaping out of his chest. The old man carried a bulky package that seemed to slow him somewhat, but Amir had mere seconds before he was discovered. Keeping his head down, he slid out of the car and crouched on the pavement. He carefully shut the door, and when it came in contact with the frame, he leaned in, put his shoulder to the door and shoved to latch it. He scrabbled backward, desperately trying to gain traction. Keator’s pounding footsteps drew closer, and the dog continued to bark. Lights snapped on in the closest house.

  Amir turned and dived behind the car and tried to make himself as small as possible. He heard the sound of the car door opening, and felt the car rock on its suspension as Keator got in. Amir prayed he hadn’t been seen. An instant later the slam of the car door answered his prayers, and the engine roared to life. Amir nearly choked on the exhaust fumes. He held his breath, knowing he wasn’t out of the woods yet. As soon as the car pulled away he would be exposed. He got up on one knee like a runner in the blocks, and as soon as he felt the car move, he sprinted in the opposite direction and the cover of a large maple tree. Behind him, the car roared off without stopping.

  24

  Roberts drove slowly, eyes scanning the street in front of them from side to side. Beside her Hunt leaned forward, yanked the mic off the clip on the dash and keyed it.

  “Anybody got anything?” Hunt waited a moment, but got only silence for an answer. “Come on, people. He didn’t just vanish. Give me something.”

  Teams checked in one by one with muttered apologies. They’d been cruising the neighborhood for half an hour with bupkis to show for it. He sighed, drawing a glance from Roberts.

  “We’ll find him,” she said quietly. “With an APB out and daylight coming, if we don’t spot him, the cops will.”

  “The last thing I need—to be shown up by the locals.”

  She concentrated on the street. “He’s not our guy, you know.”

  He whipped his head around. “How do you know?”

  She felt his stare, but refused to back down. “Because Jameson would be dead, at the very least. If he’s al-Qadir, why didn’t he have the place booby-trapped? Rigged to blow our guys all to hell? He knew we were coming.”

  “Maybe he didn’t. Maybe he didn’t rig a bomb because he didn’t expect us.”

  Roberts shook her head. “To Jameson, it looked like the guy attacked him. But you know how these things play out. They happen so fast it’s hard to tell who did what. I think maybe the guy was just trying to get out, saw Jameson with a gun and tried to defend himself.”

  “Why are you taking this guy’s side?” He had an angry expression, but he softened his tone. “You starting to go soft on me, Roberts?”

  She kept her eyes on the road. She wasn’t going soft. She didn’t think she’d ever been soft. That hadn’t played well in her family. She’d had to be as tough as the boys. And when it came to terrorists, she played hardball as well as anyone. But this guy they looked for didn’t feel right to her. And she worried that Hunt was taking it too far.

  “Even if he’s not our guy, he’s someone,” Hunt continued. “Good enough to avoid getting taken down by nine of us! Shit, Roberts, you don’t think this’ll make us the laughingstock of the agency? Our careers are shot if we don’t fix this. You want to end up in Fargo? Or Sitka? Not my idea of a good time. Besides, whoever the bastard is, he put Jameson in the hospital. Just about killed him. We can’t let that go.”

  Roberts hesitated. “You don’t think defending himself is justified?”

  “He attacked a federal agent. Outside, I might add. Not like he was defending his castle. Hard to justify going on the offensive like that.”

  “Hey, I’m not saying what happened to Jameson was okay,” Roberts said quickly.

  “Good,” Hunt said. “Because I want this guy. And not just for assaulting Jameson. We need to talk to him, find out what’s up with those donations. As far as I’m concerned, he’s still a suspect. Evidence says he’s a terrorist.”

  “Evidence says he supports terrorism,” Roberts murmured. “That’s all. And evidence can be manufactured.”

  Hunt clenched his jaw. “Let’s catch the bastard first, then decide.”

  “If we haven’t caught him yet, we’re not going to any time soon. We need to come at this fresh. Let the locals keep looking.”

  “Fine, I’m calling it.” He keyed his mic again. “All teams, we’re done for the night. Go get some sleep, but I want everyone downtown by 9:00 a.m. sharp.”

  One by one, the teams confirmed the new plans.

  Roberts turned at the next corner and headed for the interstate. “It’s the right call, skipper. We all need some rest. The three of us have been pushing pretty hard the past few weeks.”

  “Yeah, you’re right.” He blew out a breath. “But I don’t think sleep is going to help on this one. I hate to admit it, but we fucked up. Big time.”

  25

  I didn’t stop shaking until I hit the Ohio state line nearly thirty minutes after I ran from my ex-wife’s place. I’d been convinced that damn dog was going to wake up the whole neighborhood, or that Mary would see me, or that a nosy neighbor would call the cops. So far, though, luck had run in my favor. I couldn’t count on it for long. Eventually, the Crown Vic would get reported stolen, and an APB would go out with my name and face on it.

  On the far side of Toledo, I got off the interstate and pulled into an all-night drug store where I bought a throwaway cell phone and a card with minutes on it. I knew I’d need a few more, but didn’t want to attract attention by buying several, so I drove a few miles farther into town to find another one.

  Back on the highway, I wracked my brain to think of who might be able to help me find answers to all the questions the past twelve hours had delivered. One name kept popping up in my head like bubbles from the muck at the bottom of a pond….

  * * * * *

  Kandal Province, Cambodia, 1969

  A spec ops corporal with the unlikely name of Leslie took point. Other than that nod to tradition, nothing about our FORECON team fit convention. Carefully treading in the point man’s footsteps with eyes always looking the opposite direction was our assistant team leader, a spec ops sergeant named Reilly. Our two radio operators, Minh and Trúc, ARVN regulars that could have been mistaken for twins, navigated the overgrown jungle path as if taking a walk in Central Park. As the slack man, I brought up the rear, covering the ass of our team leader, who took up the middle position in our formation. He walked a few paces ahead with a relaxed gait, head swinging lazily from side to side as if taking in the sights. I knew better.

  Dickie Swopes was CIA, and the reason I was on this recon team. Hell, Dickie was the reason I was still alive. I hadn’t gone into the tunnels since Sonny had been killed. It wasn’t just the fear. If you’d asked any of us rats we would have admitted to being afraid. Most of us had done it anyway. But I’d committed the most egregious offense, and it wasn’t killing a friend and fellow soldier. In fact, when they brought Sonny’s body out of the tunnel, gutted like a pig by the VC’s spear, everyone in my company including my CO gave me a pass. What no one who worked the tunnels could forgive was that I’d fired all six rounds in my pistol. If there’d been other VC in the tunnel that day, I’d likely have suffered the same fate as Sonny, and so might the engineers. No team could count on me anymore not to empty my gun at shadows.

&n
bsp; I’d been able to save face, though. I’d simply grown too big to fit into the tunnels. A growth spurt between the time I’d joined the army and Sonny’s death had added more than six inches to my height. Already close to the max height for working the tunnels when I’d first volunteered, as I’d sprouted they’d gotten harder and harder to negotiate. Since my CO knew I wouldn’t submit to a psych eval, and it wouldn’t get me a Section 8 anyway, he’d been trying to figure out what to do with me when Dickie Swopes had come along.

  Dickie had heard of me and Sonny, had heard about the two-hundred-plus kills between us—well, us and the explosives we’d set once we’d cleared the tunnels. Dickie had been organizing forays into Cambodia for years to disrupt the flow of arms and materiel on the Sihanouk Trail. Intel provided by his team had convinced Nixon to launch Operation Menu, a secret campaign to bomb bases in Cambodia, about the same time we met. While MACSOG—the Military Assistance Command Special Operations Group (or Studies and Observations Group, as it was renamed)—had concentrated on sending recon teams into Laos to fight the flow of VC and arms along the Ho Chi Minh Trail, Dickie’d had other ideas. And he’d convinced me that “green ops”—reconnaissance missions—were a hell of a lot safer than “black ops.”

  I’d gone on three missions with this team. This was our fourth. Somehow—maybe with the help of the ARVN twins—Dickie had gotten us transport on the South Vietnamese 219th Helicopter Squadron’s H-34 Kingbees. They’d ferried us over the border, dropped us deep in the jungle of Kandal Province between the Mekong and Tonle Bassac Rivers, and had picked us up about a week later each time, after Dickie had gotten the intel he wanted. We were, in other words, support staff for Dickie. I hadn’t known what we were supposed to have been looking for, and I hadn’t cared. All I’d wanted was to do my job of keeping Dickie and the others alive, hoping that they’d do the same for me.

  I hadn’t understood Dickie’s reasoning for putting this particular team together. He’d sweet-talked me into finishing my tour with him by telling me he’d hand-picked me as well as the rest of the team members. But it hadn’t taken me long to figure out that the spec ops sergeant Reilly hated taking orders from a spook; the ARVN radio operators could have been transmitting our objectives and locations to the VC since they spoke gook and none of us did; Leslie was cut from the same cloth as Reilly; and I was odd man out. We’d encountered only one company of hostiles on those first three recons, and since Dickie had made it clear that were not to engage unless absolutely necessary, we’d hidden in the bush until they’d passed. I’d started to think I shouldn’t look Dickie’s gift horse in the mouth.