Stolen Identity

by Michael W. Sherer

  But he’d gotten friendly with an older deputy marshal in judicial security. Assigned mostly to Judge Steinberg’s courtroom, George Fuller was close to retirement. Fuller had lost a son in Iraq, and had told Doug that Doug reminded him of his boy. Doug had been flattered, and had felt sorry for the man, so he’d done him small favors—bought him coffee, brought him brownies or a slice of pie that Sally had baked. Now George was the only person Doug could think of who might be able to help.

  He shuffled his feet impatiently as he waited for an elevator. By the time he got off, his dress shirt was stuck to his skin with sweat, his heart thumped loudly and he felt light-headed. He couldn’t go barging into a courtroom like this. He had to get a grip. He forced himself to breathe deeply as he rushed down the hallway to Steinberg’s courtroom, hoping Fuller was on the schedule for the day. He stopped in front of the closed doors, smoothed his hair and straightened his tie. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door, stepped inside, and pulled the door closed silently. A few people glanced his way, but with court in session, most eyes remained on the proceedings. Doug scanned the room until he spotted Fuller. He waited a moment, and when he finally caught Fuller’s eye, he crooked a finger and motioned him over. George frowned, but came.

  “Doug, what’s wrong?”

  “Can I talk to you?” Doug murmured. “Out in the hall?”

  “Sure.” George put a hand on his shoulder and steered him toward the door.

  In the hallway, Fuller motioned to another deputy who hurried over. “Watch my courtroom,” he murmured. The other deputy nodded and disappeared inside, and George faced Doug. “What’s going on? You look terrible.”

  “I need a radio, George,” Doug said. He tried to keep his voice as calm as possible. “I know you guys use a special frequency for judicial security, a different one than the other divisions in the service. I need one that will let me listen in on prisoner transport.”

  George’s brow furrowed. “Same radio can get both frequencies if you have an NAC. But you know I can’t do that, Doug, unless you’ve got written permission from Marshal Perkins. If you did, you wouldn’t be asking me. What’s the deal?”

  “They’re transporting Masoud in about an hour. I’m nervous as hell, George. I need to know it’s going as planned. There’ve been threats…”

  None of it a lie, but not exactly the truth. Doug swallowed hard, trying not to throw up.

  Fuller’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of threats?”

  Sweat trickled down Doug’s temple. “About jail breaks across the country. I told Scanlon. He heard the same thing. Said he was going to talk to Perkins. I just want to listen in.”

  “Boy, you really are shook up about this. You’ve had tough cases before.”

  Doug shook his head. “Not like this. And along with what happened to Preston…”

  Fuller smacked his forehead lightly with the palm of his hand. “Right. I heard about that. I can’t tell you how sorry I am, Doug.” He looked up and down the hallway as if looking for someone to advise him, then seemed to make a decision. “You wait here, and I’ll see what I can do. I’ll be right back.”

  Fuller left him there, and Doug paced in front of the courtroom door, staving off panic. Sweat beaded on his forehead and upper lip and rolled down his face, eliciting curious stares from passersby. Suddenly, he spotted a defense attorney he used to have drinks with when he was just starting out. Doug dropped his gaze and turned away—too late.

  “Doug! I thought that was you.”

  Doug forced himself to smile as he wracked his brain for the guy’s name. He had one of those forgettable faces to go with the name Doug struggled to recall, and Doug had avoided his phone calls until they’d finally stopped.

  “Dave,” Doug said, pulling the name from thin air. “How are you?”

  “I’m good.” The short, bespectacled attorney leaned toward Doug over a paunch that had seen too many maple bars, a look of concern on his face. “You look like shit.”

  “Yeah,” Doug sighed. “Think I’m coming down with something.” He couldn’t believe the little pecker hadn’t heard about Preston. It was just as well; the last thing Doug wanted was more pity, especially from someone he didn’t even like.

  Dave pulled back and blinked. “Guess it’s going around. What are you doing here?”

  For a panicky moment, Doug was sure Dave suspected something.

  “I work here, Dave,” Doug said while he thought up a plausible lie.

  “Well, yeah, but—”

  “I needed to see Steinberg’s clerk about a scheduling issue,” Doug said.

  The smaller man raised his hands, palm out. “Sure, whatever. Hey, anyway, give me a call when you’re feeling better. We should do drinks.”

  “Right.” Doug waved. “I’ll do that.”

  “Good.” Dave peered at him. “You should go home and get some sleep.”

  Doug nodded as Dave moved on. He forced himself to sit on a bench against the wall so he wouldn’t attract so much attention. He couldn’t remember when he’d felt this bad. There had to be a way to screw these bastards over. They’d taken his son, damn it. He wanted them all to fry in hell, but he was afraid if he didn’t do what they wanted they’d kill Preston. If only he knew whether his father could even get to Preston in time….

  If he’s not already dead himself.

  Doug groaned audibly. Who was he fooling? What good would his father do even if he found Preston? He was one old man up against terrorists.

  George finally returned carrying a paper sack. Doug leaped to his feet as George approached and handed the sack to him.

  “Bring it back before end of day,” George said quietly, glancing up and down the hall.

  Doug hesitated, torn. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to live with himself after helping these people, but he was positive he couldn’t if he let anything happen to Preston.

  “Take it,” George said. “I told them mine was acting funny, so I put it on a charger. Just get it back to me, okay?”

  Doug took the sack, sweat pouring down his face. “Thanks, George. I won’t forget this.”

  George gave him a pat on the shoulder and went back inside the courtroom. Doug glanced at his watch and hurried for the elevator.

  76

  The traditionally appointed offices in the Truman Building were still dimly lit when Abigail got off the elevator. Early morning was the only time she had for productive thinking. Once her staff arrived, her days often quickly devolved into a whirlwind of appointments, phone calls, meetings and briefings. That was when she wasn’t making appearances, attending state functions, responding to White House requests or crises, or traveling.

  “Madam Secretary.”

  Startled, Abigail turned toward the sound, a feeling of dread filling her. She recognized the voice, and it confirmed her worst fears. The speaker had been hidden in a large wing chair in the reception area, but now he rose with a slight nod of his head.

  “Richard. What are you doing here so early?”

  He shook his head. “I didn’t have an appointment, but I know your penchant for getting in early. Can we talk? I need your help.”

  The admission, and his candor, took her by surprise. Since when did CIA need State’s help?

  But then, she knew why, and recovered quickly. “Of course. Come in. Coffee?”

  “No thanks.” Swopes followed her into her office. He stepped behind her and grasped the collar of her coat as she pulled one arm out of its sleeve.

  “Thank you,” she said, letting him take her coat and drape it neatly over the back of a chair. She’d have Carson hang it up when he got in if she didn’t beat him to it. She waved Richard to the couch and took a seat in the chair.

  Swopes perched on the edge of the seat and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped, twisted his fingers.

  “I have a confession,” he said. “I went by the Hay-Adams after we spoke yesterday.”

  Her brows lifted. “You went to see Joe? And?”


  “He wasn’t there. He wasn’t just out to dinner. He was gone. He hasn’t checked out, but he’s not staying in the hotel.”

  Abigail softly tapped a perfectly manicured nail against her cheek. “I guess we both want absolution. I called the hotel several times last night. They rang his room, but he never answered.” She sighed. “I didn’t want to believe it. The atrocities al-Qadir is suspected of committing are so far removed from the man I knew…”

  “I’m sorry. You must have been close.”

  She glanced away for a moment, as if looking for a memory. “Do you know what happened to the man who shot Darzi’s father?”

  Swopes’ eyebrows knit.

  She continued without waiting for an answer. “He was caught and convicted. Rather easily, in fact. But a good defense attorney convinced a jury that he’d been drunk and distraught over losing his job when he stumbled on Joe’s father. So out of his mind with fear and worry about what would happen to his wife and kids that he went into a rage and shot the elder Darzi instead of simply confronting him. A ‘crime of passion’ with no premeditation. He was sentenced to just fifteen years in prison.

  “About a year after the trial, he was killed in a prison fight. Stabbed with a shank by another inmate fifteen times.” She paused, then murmured, “I always wondered.”

  She saw comprehension in Swopes’ expression, but he remained silent for a moment.

  “Abby, do you think you still know him well enough to talk to him? Talk him down from whatever madness he’s planned?”

  “You have no way of finding him?”

  He sighed and looked away for a moment. “Amir Masoud was killed last night about a hundred miles from here. He’d taken a hostage to exchange for the man whose identity al-Qadir stole. The body was positively identified.”

  Abigail’s hand went to her mouth. “Oh, my God, Richard. If Joe finds out, who knows what he’ll do?”

  He shook his head. “That information hasn’t been released yet. If it is, it will certainly fuel his determination to go through with his plans. A lot of people could die today.”

  “Can’t you do anything?”

  He looked at the floor, then drew himself up. “Don’t you think I want to stop this? You know how badly they want me out at Langley. I know too many secrets, and I’ve pissed off too many people. There was a time I thought I’d end my career as director. It’s my own fault.”

  Abigail had never seen Swopes so uncertain, so unsure of himself. Despite the way he’d operated over the years, the careers he’d run roughshod over, she didn’t think he was a bad person. In fact, he was one of the most patriotic and dedicated men she knew in D.C.

  “There must be something,” she said quietly.

  He nodded. “There is. As we speak, the FBI is informing every JTTF across the country of the potential threat, and they’re scrambling to identify the most likely targets. Reluctantly, of course. And it wasn’t my doing. They’re not entirely convinced, but their Eastern Michigan SAC got on board late last night and made a lot of noise. Detroit already knows that al-Qadir’s main objective is freeing the other brother, Hassan. But with Darzi still out there, we don’t know what he plans to do here in Washington.”

  “I’m sorry, Richard. If I’d known…”

  He leaned forward again. “I have one final option in play, a wild card.”

  “What’s that?”

  He wagged his head. “Can’t tell you. Deniability, Madam Secretary. All I can ask you to do is call an old friend and talk to him. You have a way to get in touch?”

  She felt a twinge of guilt. She’d tried reaching Joe at his hotel, but maybe she hadn’t tried hard enough. Maybe she hadn’t really wanted to know.

  She tipped her head. “He gave me a cell phone number. In case I had news about his wife.”

  “Call him. And pray.”

  77

  As soon as Swopes left her office, Abigail got on the phone, but not to Joe. She wasn’t ready to talk to Joe yet. He’d been a fierce debater in college. She doubted that had changed. She’d need a clear head and arguments ready when she called him.

  An assistant answered the number she called at FBI headquarters.

  “Abigail Cartwright for the director,” she said.

  She listened to sappy, tinny-sounding music while she was on hold. Finally, a gruff male voice spoke into her ear.

  “Bartlett.”

  “Bill, it’s Abigail Cartwright. Richard Swopes just left my office. I’d like to know why you aren’t taking his intelligence seriously.”

  “All due respect, ma’am, how I do my job isn’t in your purview. And—again, with respect—Dickie Swopes has no intelligence or integrity left. I wouldn’t trust a damn thing that comes out of that man’s mouth. I don’t know what wild tales he’s been filling your head with—”

  “Stop! I can confirm what he’s been telling you. Joe Darzi is the man you both know as al-Qadir, and he’s somewhere in D.C.”

  She was met with a wall of silence, and wondered if he’d hung up on her.

  “We know,” he said quietly. “Well, we suspected. We’ve had one of our fly teams on this for the past few days after several years of investigation.”

  “What about his plan?”

  “The increased chatter about attacks around the country is being addressed as we speak, ma’am. JTTF’s are mobilizing teams of agents and SWAT forces to stop as many of the attacks as we can before they start.”

  “What about the rest of it?”

  “What? You mean Dickie’s crazy idea about jailbreaks?”

  “Not just his, apparently.”

  Bartlett’s sigh came over the line. “We’re looking into it. We’ve alerted DOC personnel at every prison housing al Qaeda members, Islamists who may or may not belong to ISIS, and all known sympathizers. And we’ve added additional security outside all those facilities.”

  She mulled it over. “It sounds like you have the situation covered.”

  “As well as can be expected, ma’am. Depends on how well organized and how well armed these attackers are. If they exist.”

  “Why didn’t you tell Swopes all this?”

  “I think you know why, ma’am. Personally, I like Dickie. I’d go have a drink with him anytime. But he screwed the pooch once too often. I figured I’d let him stew.”

  She thought for a moment. “And al-Qadir? Do you know where he is? What his plans are?”

  “No, ma’am, we don’t. But we’re working on it. Anything else on your mind?”

  “Thanks, Bill. Nothing else. Guess that’s all we can do.”

  She hung up and sat back to think about her next call.

  78

  Joe patiently waited while Preston finished checking his backpack and put it on. Then he and Mr. Samara led Preston downstairs, Joe in front, Mr. Samara in the rear. Sounds of conversation grew louder as they descended. When they reached the big room with the racks of shelving and rows of worktables, Preston was surprised to see a half-dozen men all dressed in uniforms similar to the one Joe wore, but these were all black. The men stopped talking and turned their heads in Preston’s direction, which made Preston nervous until he realized that while all of them had glanced at him, Joe held their attention. Several of them held black rifles. Preston reached out, tugged on Joe’s belt, and stopped. Joe turned around.

  “Are you really a policeman?” Preston said, peering up at Joe. “Are these your men?”

  Joe smiled. “Yes, today I am. And yes, these are my men.”

  “You’re all going to the museum with me?”

  “Yes, and no. Fayad and I will take you to the museum. These men will come separately and patrol areas around the museum.”

  “Why do you have so many men?”

  Joe said, “Don’t you think you’re important enough to be escorted by all these men? You’re special, Preston.”

  Preston wondered if Joe had been talking with his dad, and knew that he wasn’t “normal” like other kids, or if Jo
e meant he was special because he had won the contest. Maybe it didn’t make any difference. He looked at the other men warily. They were policemen, there to protect people from bad guys. But the sight of all those men with their hardened stares and assault rifles made Preston nervous for some reason. Joe remained patient, which reassured Preston.

  “Why isn’t Mr. Samara wearing a uniform? Isn’t he a policeman like you?”

  Joe shook his head, but his smile remained. “You ask too many questions, little one.”

  He ruffled Preston’s hair, and Preston’s hands immediately flew up to smooth it down.

  Joe’s smile faded. “Fayad is our driver. He doesn’t need a uniform.” He paused. “Okay now?”

  Preston nodded, and followed as Joe turned and led the way through the warehouse past the men and outside. Gray clouds blanketed the blue sky, and Joe was right; it was cold. Preston pushed the button on the control in his vest until the light turned green.

  * * * * *

  Ten minutes later, Mr. Samara pulled up to the curb in front of a building that Preston recognized from pictures and dropped them off. Joe got out of the front passenger seat, donned his peaked cap, and helped Preston down from the SUV. The other men had taken another SUV, and Preston didn’t see it anywhere close by. The wide stone steps drew Preston’s gaze to the columned façade and the frieze that read, “archives of the united states of america.” But instead of taking the stairs, Joe led Preston to a side door at ground level where a long line of people milled about waiting to get inside.

  “Follow me,” Joe said. “Stay close.”

  Joe shouldered his way around a knot of people and headed straight for the door. Excusing himself, Joe squeezed past several crowded near the doorframe and stepped inside the building. Preston stayed right with him and heard several people muttering about “cutting in line” as he passed them until they saw Joe’s uniform. Inside the door, a heavyset black man in a different uniform said hello to Joe as he came in, but took a step to the side when he saw Preston and blocked his way.