Jack leaned back and considered the options. For the first time since he’d met Rachel, he had something he might be able to use as leverage with her old man. For once in the years they’d known each other he might just have the upper hand. Maybe Zane wouldn’t be quite so high and mighty with Jack literally holding the cards. But what Jack couldn’t figure out was why Zane could possibly need fake ID. The guy was a model citizen. Blue-collar, card-carrying union member, hard-working middle-class American. Christ, might as well wrap the guy up in red, white and blue, sing “The Star-Spangled Banner” and give him a medal for best representing the American Dream. Son of an immigrant. Veteran. The guy had spent most of his life building cars in Detroit, for chrissakes. And not little nip or kraut cars, either. Big-ass American cars. You couldn’t get more American than that. It was a wonder that Springsteen hadn’t written a song about him yet.
But what Jack held in his hands hinted at something dark in Zane’s life. Maybe a touch of larceny? Trouble, for sure. And Jack intended to take full advantage of whatever it was.
48
Amir tapped out an email—Rabbit still running east—and filed it as a draft in the email account, then pinged the phone number he knew by heart with a text containing no message. Within moments another email was saved as a draft.
What’s he after?
Amir typed back: Don’t know, but know where he’s going. Daughter lives in VA.
Again, the response came after a short wait. He’s getting too close.
Amir’s fingers flew over the keys, spurred by his own anger and frustration. I won’t let him get any farther. You should have just let me kill him in the first place.
We needed him to take attention away from my entry.
I will deal with him.
If he causes you problems, tell him I have his grandson.
Amir’s eyes widened in surprise as he read the words. He knew not to let it bother him. Al-Qadir rarely shared all of his plans with anyone. But the long night, a day on the road that included a man dead at his hand, had worn him thin, and it was only sheer will that kept him going. His anger bubbled and rose.
Something else you did not tell me.
A contingency in case our contact in the DA’s office is not persuasive enough. We need more information if we’re to succeed in freeing Hassan.
Of course. You’re right, as always.
If I am ever wrong, it will likely mean our deaths.
Amir typed even faster. I’m not afraid to die.
No. But you should be afraid to leave things unfinished.
Amir had no reply. Still furious, he closed out of the email account and shut the laptop. When he looked up, he saw Fahrouk glancing at him curiously. But Fahrouk turned his attention back to the road without comment, and drove for several more minutes in silence.
Eventually, Fahrouk said, “We’re almost there.”
The narrow, two-lane highway began a gradual descent with trees on either side. A ways ahead, Amir saw a cluster of buildings that signaled the edge of a small town. Houses began to pop up on both sides of the highway, and soon the houses gave way to two-story wood and brick commercial buildings lining the highway through town. Though old—historic, even—all seemed in good repair. Just as suddenly, three or four blocks later the buildings stopped, the highway climbed a bridge over a railroad track and kept gradually climbing until they found themselves over a river at least a hundred yards wide. From over Amir’s right shoulder the sun lit the autumn trees on the far bank in brilliant hues of yellow, orange and red. Then the bridge descended through the trees to wooded farmland on the other side.
“Well, that’s it,” Fahrouk said, looking for a place to turn around. “Where to?”
Amir pointed to a side road. “Turn there.”
Fahrouk swung the wheel and slowly cruised down the winding lane. They passed a driveway on the right, a house visible through the trees a hundred feet away. A little farther down, a campground appeared with a large central building housing showers and restrooms. Past that, a track to the left led to several parking spots with RV hook-ups. This late in the season, only two slots were occupied. The pavement came to an end with a loop below the RV spots, and closer to the river Amir saw several barbecues marking spots for tents. Fahrouk guided the car to a gentle stop. Off to Amir’s right, across a clear space between the trees, a dirt track curved away and followed the bend in the river.
Amir pointed toward the track. “Take us down there, closer to the river.”
Fahrouk opened his mouth to object, then shrugged and complied, shaking his head. The track led past the house, a continuation of the driveway, and followed the edge of a large pasture or fallow field. Trees lined the riverbank, and after a hundred yards or so, the track narrowed between a stand of trees along the field’s edge and those on the bank. Again, with no place to go, Fahrouk brought the car to a stop and took it out of gear.
“Okay, what now?” he said.
“Shh. I need to think.” Amir looked out the window at the river. “It’s peaceful here.”
“Seriously?” Fahrouk stared at him. “You have no fucking clue where to go, do you?”
“Fahrouk! I warned you about your blaspheming mouth.”
Fahrouk laughed, a high-pitched, nervous giggle with no humor in it. “You’re lecturing me? After blowing a man’s head off? After the day we’ve had? I can’t believe in all this fucking time on the road you haven’t figured out where the girl lives.”
“There’s no Rachel Keator anywhere in Virginia!” Amir shouted.
Exhaustion was allowing his emotions to breach their walls. He felt tired and frustrated, and his rage at Fahrouk was equaled only by his anger with himself for failing to do his job.
Fahrouk sat open-mouthed. “You’re more stupid than I thought. In fact, you’re a fucking moron. I don’t know what I’m doing here with you. I don’t know how I let you talk me into this. My life is fucked. I can’t ever go home again. There’s no Rachel Keator in Virginia because she’s using her married name, you fucking idiot!”
His voice had risen to a shout, and Amir’s anger rose with it. He would finish this job the way he should have started it—by himself. Gripping the pistol on the seat next to him, he raised it and shoved the barrel into Fahrouk’s chest. Fahrouk’s eyes widened in fear, and Amir again felt power course through his veins, the power of holding a man’s life in his hands.
“You are an infidel,” he snarled. “I never should have tried to recruit you. You’re a spoiled American brat, and cursed by Allah.”
“Come on, Amir,” Fahrouk whined. “Don’t get crazy on m—”
Amir pulled the trigger. The blast in the small space deafened him, but his insides warmed with satisfaction as he saw the light in Fahrouk’s eyes fade and vanish as his breath rasped and stopped, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.
Amir quickly got out of the car, walked a few paces behind it and stopped to listen and see if the gunshot had attracted any attention from the campground or the farmhouse. He saw no movement and no alarm sounded. But someone could be calling the police. Working quickly, he opened the driver’s door and dragged Fahrouk’s body out by the armpits. Glancing over his shoulder, he stumbled backward and continued to drag the dead weight to the riverbank. He found a break between the trees and rolled Fahrouk’s body over the edge and into the water a foot or two below with barely a splash. The current quickly took the body downstream as it sank.
As Amir walked briskly back to the car, he kicked fallen leaves across the path the body had cleared. He climbed into the driver’s seat, put the car into reverse and backed up until he had enough room to swing the wheel and turn around. He drove slowly, forcing himself to remain calm, trying not to attract attention. The sky was still bright, but the lengthening shadows helped mask the dark car’s movement, and within moments he’d cut back across the clearing into the campground, and slowly drove out the way they’d come in.
At the highway, he turned
right and went back over the bridge into town. He pulled into the first gas station he saw and parked at one of the pumps. After paying inside, he stood next to the Mustang pumping gas, listening for sirens and watching for any other indication someone had seen what had happened by the river. Finished gassing up, he got back in the car and drove to the edge of town and pulled into an empty gravel lot by the train tracks. He had been stupid, and had no other excuse but fatigue.
Opening his laptop, he piggybacked on a wireless network close by and got onto the Internet. He knew where Rachel Keator had grown up and the approximate year she’d graduated from high school. In less than ten minutes, he’d set up a social media account under a fake name and had “friended” several people who had graduated from her hometown’s school about the same time. He posted a query asking if anyone knew what had happened to Rachel Keator. Then he sent an email request to an editor of her hometown newspaper to search the paper’s archives for a wedding announcement. He watched his email and the social media page on tenterhooks, tapping the edges of the laptop while he waited.
A post popped up on his thread on the social media site.
JoanneB26: I thought Rachel went to college in upstate New York somewhere.
GalleyGrrl: She didn’t go. She wasn’t able to get enough scholarship money. She ended up at Wayne County Community College and got a nursing degree.
GorgeousGeorge: She broke my heart when she moved to Virginia to work in a clinic.
GalleyGrrl: AmeriCorps or something like that, wasn’t it?
JoanneB26: What’s wrong with volunteering?
GorgeousGeorge: It wasn’t her volunteer work that broke my heart. She met some guy there and they ended up getting married.
GalleyGrrl: Jack.
GalleyGrrl: Jack C... Carson. Carlson.
GorgeousGeorge: Calhoun.
Amir quickly closed out of the site and did a directory search for Jack Calhoun in Virginia. He got two hits in Ruckersville, a Jack R. Calhoun, 67, and a Jack S. Calhoun, 31. Ruckersville! The old black man had pulled a fast one on him after all. He typed the number for the latter into his cell phone, and dialed, excitement growing once more.
After two rings, a male voice answered.
“Jack Calhoun?” Amir said.
“Yeah, who’s this?”
“Are you Rachel Keator’s husband?”
“Did something happen to Rachel? Is she okay?”
“I’m sure she’s fine, Mr. Calhoun,” Amir said calmly. “But we need to talk.”
49
Doug looked up from his work and saw Janice outside in the hall. He immediately jumped up and rounded his desk, calling after her. She stopped and turned back.
“Come in, please,” Doug murmured.
She complied with a quizzical look, brow furrowing even more when Doug stepped around her, stuck his head through the doorway, and glanced up and down the hall. He turned and paced back inside, faced her and perched on the front edge of his desk.
“When you were here earlier, I forgot to mention something that’s bugging me,” he said. He looked down at the floor, feeling flushed with discomfiture. “I’m not sure how to put this. Let me ask you, what do you think of Karin?”
Janice seemed surprised. “I guess I hadn’t given it much thought. She seems capable, hard-working. Bright. I haven’t dealt with her that much, I guess, other than our team meetings on the Masoud case. Why? What’s bothering you?”
Doug nodded. “I just… I don’t know. I can’t put my finger on it. She’s good, but it’s almost as if she’s too vested in this case, too…interested.”
Janice mulled it over. “This is the first big case she’s worked on, right? She’s definitely eager for the experience. Maybe she just wants to stay on top of all the details so she feels she’s really part of the team.”
“I’m not knocking the work she’s done on the case. Lord knows, she’s gotten mostly grunt work, but she’s handled it competently and thoroughly. It’s just that…”
Doug stopped in mid-sentence, convinced he was hearing things—Preston’s voice. But from the expression on Janice’s face, she’d heard it, too. He looked around as Preston called, “Dad!” His laptop. He practically leaped over the desk in his haste to see the screen.
“Preston? My, god! Preston?” His heart ached to the point of breaking, and he wanted to jump through the computer screen and kill the men who had taken his son. What kind of animal would take a six-year-old hostage? For Preston’s sake, he had to pretend everything was normal.
His son’s face smiled from the screen. “There you are! Dad, guess what? Look where I am! In Washington, D.C. I won! I won the contest.”
Doug was beside himself with relief that Preston appeared unharmed, but he forced himself to remain calm. His mind raced furiously as he considered what to do.
“I’m so happy for you, Preston, and I’m glad to see you’re all right. I want you to hang on just a second, okay? I was right in the middle of something. Let me finish so I can talk to you.”
Without waiting for Preston’s reply, Doug stepped out of camera range and looked at Janice. She was already out of her chair.
“I’ll get the FBI on the line,” she murmured before he could voice his request. She’d read his mind.
He composed himself, and before moving in front of the camera again, he pushed an app on FaceTime that started recording the conversation.
“Man, am I glad to see you, Pres,” he said. “Your mom and I were really worried this morning when you left school without telling anyone.”
“Mr. Samara wanted to show me the limousine. Dad, Dad! I rode in a jet airplane! All the way to Washington. It’s so cool. See? The Washington Monument is behind me. Well, not behind me, but it was. We stopped there on the way here.”
“Where’s ‘here,’ Pres?” Doug said gently. “We’d really like to know how to get in touch with you, and Mr. Samara.”
He had to assume that the fictitious Mr. Samara or someone else was just out of camera range listening in.
“I told you, we’re in Washington. D.C. I have my own room, and my own bathroom. It’s not as nice as home, but it’s okay. And I have a tiny TV in my room.”
“But you’re okay? Nobody’s tried to hurt you, have they?” He shuddered inwardly at a momentary thought of some of the child-molestation cases that had come through the office. He swore he’d hunt down anyone who laid a hand on Preston.
Preston wrinkled his nose. “I’m okay, Dad. Mr. Samara’s been really nice. Really.”
Preston turned his head to look at something, then faced Doug again through the magic of video messaging. “He says I have to go now because he needs to get the things on my list.”
“What list?”
“My list. The list of stuff I didn’t get to bring. You know, stuff like pajamas, and a toothbrush.”
A lump rose in Doug’s throat, and he blinked several times. “I’m so proud of you, Pres. Say, can I talk to Mr. Samara?”
Preston looked away from the camera, and repeated the question. When he faced Doug again, he shook his head. “Nuh-uh. Maybe some other time, he says. Gotta go.”
He started to walk off camera. Doug wondered what the hell was taking the FBI so long, and tried to bring Preston back.
“Wait! Preston, hang on a second!”
Preston paused and looked toward Doug’s image. Doug realized the video camera recording his son might not be the laptop camera. Preston appeared to look at something much lower.
“What do we always do when we might not see each other for a while?” Doug said.
“Love you,” Preston said simply.
“I love you, too,” Doug said, reaching out to his son. His fingers touched a blank screen.
50
From her office on the fifth floor of the Harry S. Truman Building, Abigail could almost see the Ellipse on the mall. It brought back memories of the National Christmas Tree lighting ceremonies she’d witnessed there with her family. She sighed, wo
ndering how the time had flown so quickly, the boys now grown and gone. A buzz from her intercom interrupted her reveries. She turned to answer.
“Deputy Director Swopes is here,” her assistant Carson’s voice said.
“Thanks,” she replied.
Standing up, she smoothed her skirt and rounded the desk as Carson opened the door for a tall, gaunt, owlish man with round, wire-rimmed glasses. Thin gray hair looked as if it was about to fly away from his widow’s peak as he strode briskly into the office. He exuded an aura of casual, even careless attention to both his personal appearance and his surroundings, as if his mind constantly roved somewhere other than where his physical body happened to be. Abigail knew better. His shrewd, ice-blue eyes missed nothing under eyebrows gone bushy with age. She extended a hand as he approached, and he took it warmly between both of his.
“Richard, what a pleasant surprise,” she said, indicating an empty chair.
“Likewise,” he said, waiting until she’d seated herself to lower himself into the chair.
“I have to say that when I asked Jeffrey to reach out to Langley for information I didn’t expect the response to come from the CIA’s deputy director.”
“Well, besides the fact that it’s always a pleasure to visit with you, Madam Secretary, when the request came in, I was told about it because we may have a mutual interest here. I thought I should discuss it with you personally.”
“In other words, this woman’s name is on your radar for some reason. Why?”
Stolen Identity Page 21