The Identity Thief

by C. Forsyth

  He produced his passport and a forged platinum MasterCard.

  X had learned not to stare at a clerk who was perusing personal documents - to do so might give the impression that he had some doubt about whether their authenticity would be accepted. He babbled small talk in Arabic to his henchmen.

  Always a stickler for detail, he had boned up on his Arabic and had, for the occasion, perfected a Kuwaiti accent with the help of language CDs.

  "Hold on one moment," said the clerk, whose hair was in such a tight bun that her skin was pulled back like a Beverly Hills housewife after plastic surgery. She picked up the phone and whispered into it. She nodded, said "Yes, yes, yes," and then hung up. She smiled pleasantly at the faux Arab playboy and there was an awkward silence as she evidently waited for someone to emerge from the back office.

  X became aware that a trickle of perspiration was running down his forehead. Whether he was sweating because this was the biggest score he'd ever pursued or simply because he was unused to wearing a turban, he wasn't sure.

  A door swung open and a manager scurried out, a skinny fellow with a wispy yellow comb-over and bifocals.

  "Mr. Nazeer, I want to personally extend my welcome on behalf of the entire staff of the Giza," the man gushed. "If there is anything at all that you need, I am at your complete disposal. The concierge will be more than happy to assist you in finding entertainment around town. And if there is anything special you desire, please do not hesitate to call me directly."

  "You are most gracious," X said, with a bow, while thinking, I guess I'll be shelling out more in tips than I bargained for.

  The upper floors of the hotel were accessed via "inclinators." Since the pyramid's outside walls were all at a 39-degree angle, at each of the four corners there was a slanted shaft that carried an elevator car up and down. X, as noted earlier, had more than a trace of claustrophobia - and the fact that the car traveled at such a peculiar angle didn't help much. Again, small beads of sweat rolled down his forehead. A blue-haired lady was staring at him, he noted.

  "Are you okay?" his bodyguard Bahador whispered in English. X nodded.

  There was a young couple crowded in beside him. The dad held a squirming toddler of about two years of age in his arms. The child gazed at the turbaned man with open fascination. X, never very fond of children, nevertheless gave what he deemed to be an avuncular smile. To his dismay, the little boy reached and took firm hold of his beard.

  X grabbed the boy's hand and tried to wrest it away, but found to his horror that the tyke had a death grip on the costume-shop whiskers. The beard was supposed to be immune to water and wind, but it wouldn't take much force to yank it off and that was just what was about to happen.

  Babak pushed toward him in the crowded elevator, raising an arm as if he intended to bat the toddler away.

  "Taylor!" the father shouted in dismay and quickly dislodged the boy's fingers.

  "I am so sorry," the young man said, obviously mortified.

  "Think nothing of it, my son," X said, in as beneficent a tone he could muster. He gave a little chuckle and tickled the tot under the chin, prompting the little boy to begin bawling like a banshee.

  * * *

  The Pharaoh Suite was advertised as soundproof and as promised, when the door slammed shut, the racket from the casino fell silent. The suite more than lived up to its name - in fact, the Sultan Suite might have been more apt, for the accommodations would suit an Oriental despot.

  The 1,500-square-foot suite (for which a non-high-roller would pay a hefty $5,000 per night) featured Egyptian-style wardrobes decorated with hieroglyphics beside a 120-inch-screen plasma TV. The headboard of the king-size bed sported a cartouche of Cleopatra, and a replica fresco depicting the discovery of King Tut's tomb hung on the wall. The spa tub could accommodate up to 12 people. (A certain rap impresario and his groupies had indulged in an orgy therein, according to a tabloid report). Even the commode was luxurious; the seat was gold-encrusted and decorated with gemstones.

  Not necessarily practical, though certainly impressive, X thought. This is going to be a truly epic gig.

  The window wall, which looked out on the Strip, sloped inward. It offered a spectacular view of Sin City's famed boulevard and X opened the window, admitting a rush of dry desert air.

  A change in city policy had taken place six months or so before the Giza went up. Before then, per fire department regulations, windows in Las Vegas could open only a few inches. Apparently, there'd been a period when people threw themselves from Las Vegas hotel room windows after betting the farm and losing it. Others had taken the chicken's way out after being filled with guilt in the wake of an adulterous indiscretion. However the "What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas" campaign must have sufficiently reduced the problem to put visitors at ease and the law had been changed.

  The first order of business was to establish credit with the casino, which was comparatively easy, and X did so in the business office. All it entailed was a personalized check, his international driver's license and his credit card, along with his very impressive banking references. The casino was all too eager to enable him to gamble. He was, in the parlance of the industry, a "whale" - a hugely rich, big-time loser.

  With a $100,000 credit line, he promptly plunked down 10 grand on the roulette wheel and lost. The casino bosses were no doubt pleased.

  Ordinarily, when attempting to rip off a casino, he would work with a partner who countered X's losing bets with winning ones - betting on black if he bet on red, etc. After a few days of this, they would skip town with his partner's winnings and stiff the casino bank on the debt owed - by someone whose identity they'd stolen. It was a risky gambit since casino security was always on the lookout for that scam.

  But now, since they were bent on draining Al Nazeer's account rather than ripping off the casino, there was no need for a counterbalancing partner (sometimes called a "blow"). This time, the hustle was simple, elegant really, X thought proudly. As Nazeer, he would be seen gambling and losing big. He would require a transfer from his bank. He would wire $2 million to the casino's business office, which X would then promptly wire to his own offshore account.

  X did not like gambling. Chance was something he detested. Whether he lost money - which he dreaded - or gained it, he preferred that it be the result of his own ingenuity.

  Yet, as distasteful as games of chance were to X, he had to put on a convincing show. He spent a brief but busy time on the gaming floor because he knew that multiple cameras would be watching him. Heavily disguised though he was, he was leery about having his image captured. He played several losing hands of blackjack at a table with a $1,000 limit. But no game afforded him an opportunity to lose bigger, quicker than roulette, so he played that until he'd lost another 20 grand. After four hours of laboring on the casino floor, he retired to the Pharaoh Suite.

  X soaked in the hot tub, smoking a Cuban. X appreciated such fine things. The warmth of water swirling about the tub was making him horny. He picked up his cell phone and called Samantha, with vague aspirations of phone sex.

  "Where are you?" she demanded.

  Even without seeing her, he could tell she was pouting. She definitely deserved a vacation but letting the blonde tag along would surely have raised a few red flags.

  "I'm in the Jacuzzi, Honey Hips. Naked," he said.

  "Have a great time jerking off."

  "No, I think I'll have a couple of hookers sent up. I've got Ali's reputation to maintain, remember. Would five be overkill?"

  "You better not, if you want to keep your balls."

  "Party pooper."

  "I've got access to garden shears, remember."

  "Well, how about a full body massage?"

  "Only if she's over 80."

  "How about a man?"

  "Maybe."

  "Okay. I'll ask for a male masseur, Scout's honor."

  This was, in fact, a white lie - a concept that, you might not be surprised to learn, X interpreted br
oadly. He had no intention whatsoever of having a male masseur. The thought of a man's hands on his naked body was enough to make him puke. Even a manly clap on the back made him uneasy. No, he would certainly express a preference for a female masseuse. X had no hidden, libidinous agenda. He simply knew Samantha too well to be perfectly candid. She would fret all day and call on the hour.

  A short time later he called downstairs to schedule a massage and after being put on hold for a surprisingly long time, he was told, apologetically, that one would not be available until the following evening. He was only slightly disappointed.

  * * *

  The next day he gambled equally badly and by mid-afternoon, $90,000 blown, he was ready to make his move.

  X sat in the casino bank, located within the lobby, listening patiently as the manager spoke on the phone with a party at Al Nazeer's bank in London.

  "He wishes to make a wire transfer in the amount of $2 million," the manager was saying.

  There was a pause as someone spoke on the other line.

  X glanced around the bank at customers of all races and virtually every nationality on Earth - a United Nations of suckers who refused to believe the house always wins. A young man with orange hair, seated behind a desk, appeared to be staring at him. As soon as they made eye contact, the redhead looked quickly down at a stack of papers on his desk. X felt a wave of paranoia wash over him.

  "The funds will be available in 24 hours, sir."

  X had hoped the transfer could be expedited. But he said, "That's quite all right."

  He got up, took a quick look at the red-haired man, who now seemed oblivious to his presence, and left.

  Chapter 5

  THE GAME

  That evening, at the invitation of a Texas agribusiness tycoon, he played a few hands of poker with four other high-rollers in a chamber called the Nefertiti Room set aside for such private gatherings. Mahogany paneled, with a 19th century map of Egypt lining the wall, it resembled a meeting room of the Royal Geological Society in the Jules Verne era. X had almost begged out, but knew that it would be in his egotistical alter ego's character to accept the challenge.

  In time the conversation turned to politics and X was asked to offer an opinion about the current crisis in the Mideast. X waved his hand dismissively, flashing three diamond rings purchased on one of Nazeer's credit cards for a total of $18,000.

  "I leave those problems to the royal family - that's their headache," he said. "Politics bore me."

  "Here, here," the Texan agreed. "As long as the candidates I bankroll do right by farmers."

  Farmers. The guy doesn't look like he knew what part of a cow to milk, X thought.

  A plump man with a full white beard that made him look for all the world like Father Christmas was not content to leave it at that. The player, who had identified himself as Mr. Jones, a Wall Street financier, lowered his cards and leaned forward.

  "So, when you hear that a busload of your countrymen have been blown up by terrorists, it doesn't bother you?" Mr. Jones said, taking a puffing on a pipe.

  X didn't take the bait.

  "I am neutral," he said. "As you Texans say, I do not have a dog in that fight. And as we say in the Middle East, I do not have a camel in that race."

  That earned him a round of laughs. Thankfully, another player changed the topic.

  "Hey, do they still allow you to have as many wives as you please over there?"

  X nodded. "The Holy Koran says we may have four."

  "How many do you have?" the oilman inquired.

  "I have only three: Jasmine, Akilah and Malika," rattling off real names he'd committed to memory, foreseeing just such an eventuality. He felt as if he were being tested in some way. The thought flashed through his mind that if he were to get up from the table and make a dash for the door, the quartet of players would be able to tackle him.

  But this time, the pipe-smoker came to the rescue.

  "My hat's off to you. I don't know how you do it," Mr. Jones said. "I have just the one and she drives me to drink."

  "They do bicker about everything," X conceded.

  "That's why I'll never marry again," the Texan said with a chuckle.

  X's full house was beaten by Mr. Jones's four of a kind.

  "Luck is not with me tonight," he said, flinging cards on the table. He reminded himself not to sound so much like Omar Sharif in Lawrence of Arabia.

  Chapter 6

  NO HAPPY ENDING?

  When X got back to his suite, he was drenched in sweat, his clothes were rank with cigar smoke and his neck muscles were tense from playing the role for an hour. His massage appointment couldn't have come at a better time.

  The "bodyguards," who'd accompanied him everywhere up to this point, had been given the night off. When the doorbell rang, he donned the lush white robe provided by the hotel and opened the door himself.

  The masseuse strode in, a leggy, light-skinned African-American in a tight miniskirt that put her high, round rump on spectacular display. She looked about 25 and stood taller than him, thanks in part to stiletto heels that gave her an extra two inches. She would have been out of his league had he not been a wealthy Arab playboy. Now she was most definitely in his league, a thought X found tantalizing.

  An aroma wafted in with her - but it was merely soap, he realized. She'd showered recently and, unbidden, the image of her stark naked and scrubbing down entered his mind.

  "My name is Stacy." She stuck out her hand in an incongruently professional manner and X took it.

  "Come right in," X said, so taken by the shapely miss that his accent didn't kick in right away.

  "What kind of massage are you interested in, Mr. Nazeer? We offer Swedish, Shiatsu, deep tissue, full body."

  "What is full body?" he asked, although he knew the answer perfectly well.

  "That is a very sensual message that reaches all areas of the body."

  "That sounds ... quite appealing."

  "We can use the bed."

  He led her through the luxurious suite to the bedroom, with its emperor-size mattress large enough to accommodate four people.

  "I'm going to step into the next room," she said. "Please, undress completely and lie facedown. Here's a towel."

  X stripped except for his turban, neatly folded his clothes and placed them over a chair, then lay face down on the table, the warm towel covering his hindquarters.

  He was going to miss being Nazeer, he realized. The thought of returning to his old existence - holed up in that apartment in New York - suddenly seemed dismal. Of course, with the money they earned from this endeavor, he could live like a prince anywhere in the world.

  X lay prone as the lithe young thing oiled his shoulders and worked her way to his lower back.

  It wasn't the most expert massage he'd ever had; X was something of an aficionado. But her hands were soft and surprisingly strong. The stress X always felt when called upon to pretend to be someone he was not for extended periods began to ebb. She had lit some scented candles and placed a CD of New Age music in the room's player.

  "Where are you from?" she asked him in a breathy little voice.

  "A place you have probably never heard of. Al Jahra, in Kuwait."

  "Is that in South America?" she leaned into him, kneading one buttock at a time.

  American high schools are getting worse and worse, he thought. You'd have thought the gigantic turban would be a clue.

  "It is in the Middle East."

  "Oh. What kind of work do you do?"

  "I'm in business. I invest," he said.

  "Cool, cool," she remarked, now massaging his inner thighs.

  X felt something stirring. Her fingers, working his abductor muscles, would come tantalizingly close to his genitals, and then dance away.

  "My daddy is in business. He owns a garage," Stacy said.

  X wished she would just shut up. Although lying was second nature to him, the effort of having to speak was something he could do without right now.<
br />
  "Where are you from, young lady?" he inquired, trying to get his mind off his rising manhood.

  "I'm from Georgia. It gets mighty hot there too."

  He was drifting off to sleep, lulled by the bland conversation, hypnotic music and cloying scent that acted as yet another sedative.

  It then occurred to him that her accent was not authentically Georgian. Why was she talking with a phony southern accent? An ordinary solid citizen might not be too concerned by this - after all, how many showgirls in Las Vegas recreated themselves, leaving behind pasts as runaways or battered wives? There were perhaps a thousand reasons why she would be something other than what she claimed to be. But X could not afford to take any such chances.

  He listened more closely as she rambled on.

  No, the dialect was all wrong. It was definitely from the West Coast. Though she threw in some southern expressions like "y'all" from time to time, she sounded as if she'd picked up bits and pieces of redneck patois from reruns of Hee Haw.

  She's an undercover cop. The sting that he had been dreading for years was actually taking place.

  "Now I'm going to leave you for a few minutes. Just go on ahead and keep your eyes closed and relax, sweetie."

  Yeah, right! She was supposed to lull him to sleep, so that her partners could slip in and arrest him, naked and half-asleep, with no threat of resistance. X knew he had to do something quick.

  He rolled over and caught her wrist. He pointed to the bulge under the towel.

  "What about, how do you say, 'a happy ending?' "

  The girl's eyes betrayed her - was that a flash of panic? Obviously, respectable massage therapists did not stoop to hand jobs, but they were accustomed to such requests and knew how to field them.

  "I'm sorry, sweetie. We don't do that." And she blushed.

  He laughed like a man whose whims are never refused. "Oh come now, do not be shy. Name your price. Shall we say $5,000?"