Her face split into a smile when she spotted him from across the restaurant, and as she made her way to his table, he saw that both time and experience had added crows’ feet at the corners of her eyes and some lines between her brows and at the corners of her mouth. Other than a simple base, light coat of a pale lip gloss, and a touch of mascara that highlighted bright blue eyes, she hadn’t done anything to hide them. Her security detail, having split up and walked a quick tour of the dining room, now stood unobtrusively on either side of the entrance, relaxed yet alert. As she approached, he stood and pulled a chair away from the table for her.
“Madam Secretary,” he said, “how nice to see you. Thank you for coming on such short notice, and at such an early hour for lunch.”
She leaned in, putting a hand on his arm, and bussed his cheek before taking her seat.
“My, my, so formal. Joseph, you’re the only man for whom I’d drop everything and rearrange my entire schedule. Besides the president, that is.” She laughed.
He smiled. “Surely there are times when you might do the same for your husband.”
She shook her head, eyes twinkling in amusement. “He knows better than to ask.”
“How is Daniel, anyway?” he said as he sat down.
“The same as always. Buried in some research project. Doing well.”
“And your boys? Still doing well in school?”
“Oh, my, it has been a long time. Jared finished up at Georgetown a few years ago and is getting an MBA at University of Chicago. And Peter graduated from Amherst last spring, and is now teaching English in South Korea.”
He nodded toward the two men at the front. “Security for them must give the director fits.”
Her smile turned rueful. “Perhaps, but it likely won’t be much longer. Election cycles.” She shrugged. “Anyway, enough about my family. Where have you been? It’s been years.”
“You know me, Abigail. I’m not that fond of the limelight. Been keeping my head down, nose to the grindstone. All that.”
“Ah, the engine of capitalism.”
She looked up as a waiter approached to take their order. When he left, she leaned forward.
“It’s very good to see you, but I’m sure you didn’t ask me here to catch up on old news. What can I do for you?”
“I’d like you to find someone for me.”
Her smile remained, but there was no warmth in it now. “A missing person? Shouldn’t you go to the police?”
“Perhaps, under ordinary circumstances. I wouldn’t waste your time if this was an ordinary situation. No, the person I want to find is in one of the Syrian refugee camps.”
“Why do I have the feeling this suddenly got very complicated? This person isn’t someplace we can get to easily, is that right?”
He nodded. “You’re quick, Madam Secretary. She is in a camp in Iraqi Kurdistan. I don’t know which one.”
She tapped a clear-painted nail against her water glass. “And while that might not normally have been a problem, with the tug of war for territory between the Kurds and so-called Islamic State, it could be difficult finding out which one.”
“Just so, and it could even have moved by this time if ISIL forces got too close.”
While she stared into space for a moment, thinking, the waiter returned with salade Niçoise for both of them. When they’d been served, she took a bite and chewed slowly before taking up the conversation again.
“Surely your company has resources that could help you find this person. Why come to me?”
He shook his head. “I don’t have the might of the U.S. government behind me.” He was fairly certain which camp the woman was in, and could, with either his company’s vast intelligence network or his own labyrinth of contacts within al Qaeda and other terrorist organizations, locate her precisely and extract her. But he’d told the truth—he needed what Abigail Cartwright’s office could give him.
She peered at him intently. “This is more than a personal favor. So, I call in some chips of my own and we find this woman. What then?”
“I want you to grant her political asylum and bring her here to the states.”
Her eyes widened. “Why on Earth would I do that?”
He picked at his salad with his fork for a moment. “Abigail, I don’t have to remind you of the support I’ve given you over the years. Instead, I’ll remind you that we’re talking about a woman, a single female refugee in a part of the world where women are treated like chattel or worse. A civilian in an area torn by warfare and violence. A Syrian forced out of her own country by a bloody regime that kills its own citizenry. This is not only the right thing to do, it’s a terrific PR move for you and the State Department.”
Her forehead creased. “I’m not sure I see how getting one person out of a camp in Iraq helps the cause of the millions of other refugees over there. You know I sympathize with her as a woman. You also know I have a soft spot for women’s rights in the Middle East. But a personal favor…? That could be seen in the wrong light.”
“If the reasons I’ve offered aren’t enough to convince you, then how about this? She’s a Druze. If women’s rights don’t provide you the ammunition you need, what about religious persecution? The Druze population in Syria is being squeezed between Assad’s regime and the Islamist insurgence. ISIL is trying to eradicate the entire sect. It’s genocide, and what has happened to this woman is symbolic of events over there.”
She mused in silence for a moment. “The Administration could use a good news boost in the polls about now.” Absent-mindedly tapping her glass again, she said, “Let me think about it. I’ll need more information, of course. Anything you can get me on this woman’s life story. Personal history, how she’s been persecuted, how she ended up in the refugee camp…”
“Of course,” he said quickly. “I can messenger a dossier over to your office immediately.”
The Secretary took another bite of her salad and chewed thoughtfully. “This woman is special, obviously. Who is she?”
“Safiya abd-al-Rashida Masoud Qadir,” he said. “My wife.”
36
Canton was flat, its topography unremarkable, trees bearing autumn colors the only break in the monotony of streets and buildings. With thirty percent fewer people than its peak population in the 1950s, the city looked desolate, barren, despite signs of rejuvenation in the small downtown core. Most of the buildings of size—mid-rise offices, a hotel or two—congregated along a main street, separated, however, by blocks of empty space, almost as if an F5 tornado had skipped haphazardly through town, picking up buildings like pieces on a checkerboard. Pro Football Hall of Fame or not, Amir was not impressed.
The pass through town took hardly any time at all. Amir directed Fahrouk around the block and back the way they came. He consulted his GPS and before they reached the highway through town, he told Fahrouk to turn left on a parallel street. In less than a minute they’d left any semblance of big city behind, the road leading past small, older houses on decent size lots, separated at bigger intersections by the occasional body shop, beauty salon or mom-and-pop convenience market. In less than five minutes, they’d nearly reached the edge of town.
“Slow down,” he said, peering out the windshield. Ahead, the street he wanted popped into view. “Turn right up here.”
“What are we doing here, man?” Fahrouk said.
“I told you. This is where we’ll find Keator.”
“What if he’s not here?”
“Then we’ll think of something else,” Amir snapped.
“We? You keep saying we, but I’m not part of this, man. This is your show, not mine.”
“Just shut up.” Amir waved him away and turned to look out the window. “Go up another block and find a place to park.”
Fahrouk’s jaw tightened, but he followed Amir’s instructions. He pulled over onto the grassy shoulder, shoved the shifter into Park and shut off the engine.
“Now what?” Fahrouk said. “I’m hungry, man. I h
aven’t eaten since last night.”
“Now you stay here while I go check things out.”
Amir opened his door, stretched a leg outside, grabbed the top of the doorframe and pulled himself upright. He leaned back inside the car and rummaged through the pack on the floor. He found a piece of jerky and tossed it across the seat at Fahrouk.
“You should always keep a couple of bottles of water and something to eat in your car,” he said. “You never know when you might need it.”
“Thanks,” Fahrouk mumbled, tearing the jerky wrapper open.
Amir straightened and closed the door. Without being too obvious, he slowly took in the entire street. Weekday jobs had emptied the neighborhood of people for the most part. Bright sunlight filtered through the flame-colored leaves on the big trees, and those that had fallen crunched under his shoes. He moved slowly but purposefully up the block, eyes searching for the Crown Vic and noting house numbers as he passed. His neck felt tense, and he rolled his head on his shoulders to loosen it, wondering if Fahrouk would prove a liability.
The house numbers suggested that the one he wanted was in the next block. The tension spread from his neck down into his back and legs, but he continued on as if he lived there. Eyes darting left and right, he checked cross traffic at the corner as well as signs of Keator’s car. The few vehicles in sight were parked in driveways. The street was empty, which made him glad that he’d made Fahrouk park a couple of blocks away.
As he walked to the other side of the cross street he checked his watch. He and Fahrouk had stayed on the interstate the whole way, driving about five miles per hour over the speed limit. If Keator had taken back roads to avoid cops, as Amir suspected, he was probably ten minutes or more behind them, maybe as much as thirty. Amir hoped it was more, but he’d have to make use of whatever time he had. He hurried his pace.
A lone house stood on the west side of the block, and the street dead-ended a hundred yards past it. A rushing sound like ocean waves floated on the breeze, and through a stand of trees past the dead-end, Amir saw high-speed traffic zipping by on the four-lane highway in the distance. A driveway at the end of the street led to another lone house set back on the east side of the street.
Amir stopped to look at the house on the left. The number matched the address he’d found for a Parker Jackson, an address that was linked to the phone number Keator had called. A cracked, weedy sidewalk wandered fifteen feet on either side of a black mailbox on a white post. Concrete steps led from the sidewalk up a short rise to another cement path to the house. Four wooden stairs climbed up to a small covered porch inhabited by a small round, wooden table and a single chair. Behind them, a large window on one side and a smaller one on the other flanked the front door. White paint peeled away from the sunburned façade in flaky strips, leaving a checkerboard pattern of bare gray wood. An old, red and white pick-up parked on the grass next to the north side of the house. Yellowed shades covered the insides of the windows.
He needed to get inside, find out what Jackson knew. Keator had called in reinforcements damn fast. From what Amir had seen in the past few days, the old man hardly had a friend to his name. Yet already he’d called on a couple of old army buddies, one of whom, apparently, had been CIA. Maybe still was. He couldn’t worry about that now. Now he had to get inside. And he didn’t think walking up and knocking on the door was going to do it. Too much bias against anyone who looked Middle Eastern after 9/11.
He surveyed the house once more, turned and walked back to the car. Fahrouk sat slumped in the driver’s seat, tapping a thumb on the wheel in time to some rap music that drifted out the open window. Inwardly, Amir cringed at the lewd lyrics and blasphemous swear words, but he walked past with his face hardened to stone. Fahrouk straightened quickly at the sight of him and craned his neck as Amir popped the hatch. He rifled through the duffel he’d brought from the van and pulled out the cable company uniform he’d worn the day before. He slammed the hatch closed and slid into the passenger seat, already stripping off his shirt. The smell of sweat was sharp in his nose. He needed a shower—they both did—but he had work to do first.
“What’s going on?” Fahrouk said as Amir dressed.
“I need to get inside the house.”
“You found it? It’s the right one?”
“You’re coming with me,” Amir said, ignoring Fahrouk’s questions.
Fahrouk’s mouth dropped open. “I don’t have a uniform.”
Amir got out of the car and cinched his belt. “Come on. I’ll tell you what to do.”
He opened the hatch again and rummaged through some of the boxes he’d brought, getting out his tool belt and a length of cable. He wound the cable into a loop and hung it on his belt. Finding the uniform cap, he pulled it down low over his eyes. After quickly checking the street to see if they’d attracted any attention, the last item he pulled out was a Glock 19. He tucked it his waistband, shrugged on a windbreaker and zipped it halfway to conceal the gun, then closed the trunk lid and started walking up the street. Fahrouk fell in step beside him.
“So, what do I do?” he said, a little out of breath.
“Stay behind me and back me up. Just do whatever I tell you.”
Amir walked straight up to the house this time and motioned Fahrouk to stay at the bottom of the porch steps out of sight of the front door. Then he knocked loudly and waited. After a minute or two, he banged on it with the heel of his fist, and put his ear up next to the door. He heard a muffled whir of machinery, and the boards under his feet vibrated. His hand nervously went to the bulge at his waist. From the other side of the door came a squeaking noise like a rusted wheel, and a voice shouted, “Hang on, I’m coming!”
A moment later the inner door swung open. Amir peered through the screen into the gloom and grew alarmed when he didn’t see anything for a moment.
A voice came out of nowhere. “Yeah? Whaddya want?”
Amir dropped his gaze to the source of the voice and picked out a diminutive black man in a wheelchair. Parker “Dinky” Jackson, he assumed.
He put a wearied expression on his face, not much of a stretch. “Hey, sorry to bother you. Working on a repair job a couple of blocks over, and I’m having trouble backtracking the source. I think there’s a break in the line somewhere. I’m checking the neighborhood. Mind if I come in and check your signal?”
Jackson squinted at him. He wheeled the chair so he sat sideways, closer to the door, the rubber wheel squeaking on the worn hardwood floor. His close-cropped hair and the five-day growth of stubble on his face were salted with gray. Thin, wiry limbs stuck out of short sleeves like pipe cleaners on a shirt that looked a few sizes too big.
“You’re not with my cable company.” Jackson said.
Amir rolled his eyes. “Are you kidding me? Don’t you know? We all piggyback on each other these days.” He shrugged. “Suit yourself. Could be whatever I find is about to be your problem, too. But I’ll be long gone and you’ll be waiting for the guy from your company.”
Jackson’s face soured. “Oh, hell. Fine, come on in. But be quick.”
He leaned over the arm of the chair and unlatched the screen door, then wheeled the chair backward out of the way.
Amir pulled the door open and stepped over the threshold. He motioned Fahrouk up the steps behind him, then stood still, letting his eyes adjust. A slice of white cabinets, laminate countertops and yellowed linoleum on the floor was visible through an open door to the right. The living room was straight ahead, décor marked by bare floors and empty space. Only an easy chair and a side table on one wall and a television on a cabinet on the other populated the room.
“Well, you gonna check the signal or not?” Jackson said, frowning.
Amir heard Fahrouk step in and close the door behind him and saw Jackson’s eyes widen. The old man tried to stand, but Amir took a step toward him, put his fingers on his thin chest and gave him a gentle push back into the chair.
“You can walk?” Amir said. He point
ed at the chair. “Is that a joke?”
“No joke,” Jackson said. “I got MS. Back before the steel mills all went broke. But now they say they can’t afford to pay for my healthcare. Thirty years on the job. But I’ll damn well try to walk, though, when a couple of punks break into my place.”
“You invited us in,” Amir said. “I just have a few questions, and we’ll be on our way.”
Jackson glared at him. “Who the hell are you?”
Amir waved impatiently. “It’s of no consequence.” He unhooked the coil of cable from his tool belt and handed it to Fahrouk. “Tie him up.”
“Look at him,” Fahrouk said. “He’s an old geezer in a wheelchair. He’s not going to give us any trouble. Are you?”
He turned and looked at Jackson and got a shake of the head.
“Tie him up, Fahrouk,” Amir said softly. “It’ll save us time when we leave. You don’t want him calling the cops the second we’re out the door, do you?”
Fahrouk hesitated then did as he was told, pulling Jackson’s arms behind the back of the chair and looping cable around his wrists.
“What do you want?” Jackson grunted, still glaring at Amir.
“Your friend, Keator. What’s his plan?”
“Zany?” Jackson looked surprised. “Shit, I don’t know, man. The guy called me out of the blue this morning. Said he might stop by. I don’t know what for.”
He pulled against the cable and twisted his head toward Fahrouk. “You gotta make that so tight? Gonna cut off my circulation.”
Stolen Identity Page 15