The Identity Thief

by C. Forsyth

  Harry nodded. "We must be careful to put our tools exactly where we find them."

  "What about the dirt?" Asar asked.

  A good question. From what X remembered from The Great Escape, the POWs brought the dirt out in the cuffs of their trousers and surreptitiously dumped it in the prison garden. But they had no garden, and for that matter, no trousers.

  "Here," said Harry, excitedly. He thumped his hand against a huge barrel. He lifted the lid and showed them that it was half filled with cans of wood stain. "There are four of them and none are full," he said.

  "Excellent my friend. They won't be using those on the floor until the building is finished and by then we'll be long gone."

  The prisoners slid away an empty fuel tank that didn't look as if it had been used in years, and began to chip away at the floor. They worked for five hours that night, agreeing that they couldn't risk staying close to dawn. In that time, they only managed to break through the floor of the store room and dig perhaps two feet into the earth below.

  The slow progress perturbed the usually ebullient Asar.

  "I do not know if when I see The Chief again I will be in as lofty a position," he said morosely. "He must have another driver by now. I will be back to carrying messages, as I did when I was a boy."

  X tousled the teen's corvine hair again. It was a fatherly gesture he remembered seeing on TV. "It is said that it is better to be a free dog than a caged lion," he observed. "First we must get out of this wretched place, then we can worry about our future in the great cause."

  An hour later, they stopped work and dragged the empty fuel tank back to its place on top of the hole. Each tool was returned to its proper place.

  Then, like vampires retreating before the dawn, they returned the way they came, standing on each others' shoulders to reach the airshaft and squirming through it back to the hospital ward.

  * * *

  Every night they worked on the tunnel. During the day, when the doctor and nurse checked in on them, always in hazmat suits, they faked weakness and pain. The antibiotics they received daily would take some time to cure them, but they would survive, the doctor assured them.

  They took turns burrowing in the tunnel, men transformed into moles. The digger passed the dirt back to the others, who placed it in the old barrels.

  To allay the monotony they chatted about their personal lives. For some reason, X did not feel comfortable talking about Ali Nazeer's mythical youth in Kuwait with Harry present. Sharing the fantasy with that naive teen, who listened so avidly in the dark, had been moments which, although he'd be loathe to admit it, he'd found somehow magical.

  Instead, they talked mostly about women.

  Harry bragged about his wife in Riyadh, a strong, devoutly religious woman quite naturally, who maintained strict order in the house. When one of their daughters once brought home a Barbie doll as a gift from a schoolmate, she was severely beaten for accepting the morality-corrupting blond symbol of the West.

  "Here, here," X said.

  Asar nodded in approval.

  Asar told them about the girl to whom he was engaged in an Afghan village near the Khyber Pass. He had never seen her face, or been alone with her, but she had a sweet singing voice and wrote beautiful poetry. They had exchanged many letters before his capture. He was still a virgin, it soon became apparent to X, and was unashamed of it - proud of his purity in the eyes of Allah.

  An American his age would be suicidal, the identity thief thought.

  "On our wedding night, there will be rose petals on the bed and I will play on the sitar for her before we make love for the first time," Asar said.

  The look in his eyes when he spoke of her was priceless. He looks like the kid who played Romeo in the old Zepherelli movie from the '60s, X thought. Or maybe Gidget getting misty-eyed over Moondoggie.

  His idealism was just incredible, X thought as the boy took Harry's place in the tunnel. Admirable in a way if you could get past the terrorism and suicide-bombing bit.

  "What about you?" Harry said. "How are those wives of yours, Jasmine and the short one."

  X chuckled. "Still fussing at each other like cats and addicted to shopping. Took a trip to Paris and came home with a suitcase full of mink coats. Furs, to wear in Kuwait City!"

  The other men laughed.

  At that moment, the tunnel collapsed entombing Asar, and dust shot out of the opening. X and Harry dug frantically with their spades. X was surprised to find himself genuinely frightened, his pulse accelerating. He was not used to worrying about other people. It took several moments to reach the boy and they dragged him out by his heels. He was coughing and covered in dust, but uninjured.

  The collapse cost them two nights work, but they forged ahead.

  It took some doing to keep Asar's spirits up. He had the impatience of most teens and again and again they had to quote from the Koran to keep him going. X was glad that he'd downloaded that collection of Arab proverbs and memorized choice adages on the plane to Las Vegas.

  "It is written that men learn little from success, but much from failure," X told Asar after a second collapse two nights later. Harry seconded that, reminding the despondent boy that "Sunshine without rain makes a desert."

  The spy had, apparently, spent time on the same Internet site.

  When they were, in Harry's estimation, about six feet from the fence - perhaps three night's works - the doctor surprised them with some good news. After carefully examining each of them, he beamed as if he'd just been handed the Nobel Prize for curing cancer and was about to thank the little people.

  "You are making remarkable progress," said the doctor, "given that you were at death's door. The latest blood tests show your white count is back to normal. Today's Wednesday. I would say that by tomorrow morning, I will be able to discharge you."

  Chapter 16

  ON THE ROAD AGAIN

  The moment the nurse turned off the light and the door closed behind her, the men sprang into action. They dug furiously until their hands ached. They didn't care what happened to the dirt now; they cast it in a heap on the floor.

  "Don't give up, my comrades," X urged, when Asar began to show signs of weariness. "We will prevail, with Allah's help."

  In the wee hours of Thursday morning, about 4 a.m. as Harry calculated it, X's fingers breeched the surface. His fingers wiggled in the cold night air.

  "We've done it," he exclaimed, turning back to the others. "Three night's work in one!"

  In another 15 minutes, the tunnel was wide enough for him to wriggle out, like a zombie rising from a grave. X crawled on all fours on the rocky soil. He could kiss the ground, the feeling of freedom was so exhilarating. He reached back and grabbed Asar's arm and helped the teen out. Together they pried Harry out of the hole.

  "We are free men," Harry declared. "We have defeated Satan's minions."

  The three men embraced.

  "Together, the three of us are unstoppable," X said.

  "We're like The Three Musketeers," declared the teen, though perhaps Dumas might roll in his grave. Upbeat as a prisoner, Asar would be insufferably buoyant now, X realized.

  Harry pointed the sky. "We will have the cover of darkness for only a short time, my friends," he said. "We must go."

  They darted into the night.

  "Moammar" had told the others of a safe house less than four miles from the prison. They jogged at a solid clip for a half hour, resting for a few moments every mile. They stopped, panting, at the bombed-out ruins of a barn that was painted a grim tarlike black.

  "We should keep going," Asar said, panting.

  "No, this is it, the secret place," Harry informed him. Asar surveyed the termite-eaten, broken-down structure, which looked as if it would collapse on anyone foolish enough to enter it. Which, X realized, was doubtless the intention: to ward off nosy intruders.

  "It's not the Taj Mahal, my young brother, but it will provide us with a good hiding place," Harry said with a smile. "The Americans mus
t have discovered we're gone by now. Help me with the door, Asar."

  They slid across a wooden bar and pulled the huge doors open.

  "It's stocked with food and weapons," Harry explained.

  "How did you arrange this from the hospital?" Asar asked.

  Harry shook his head. "I had my associates put this in place months ago, well before I was captured," he told the teen. "We learned that Abd Al-Rahman Prison was the most likely place we'd be taken."

  X tapped his temple. "Moammar is as crafty as a tarantula. He is always two steps ahead of the infidels."

  Were tarantulas really crafty? X wasn't sure. He often found himself drawing upon hazily remembered dialog from old movies like Gunga Din.

  Harry went to a large stack of empty crates and started pulling them off. The other men helped him. Behind the heap of junk, a rusty old Russian-built Tara 138 six by six diesel truck was waiting.

  Asar laughed and smacked the side.

  "She's no beauty but I can drive her," he said. "She can go up the side of a mountain like a young goat."

  Click! From behind them came the unmistakable sound of a gun cocking.

  "Do not move," a female voice commanded.

  They turned, and a woman stepped out of a dark corner. She was decked out in a chadaree, a traditional Afghani garment that covered her from head to toe, along with an embroidered face piece. Not a burqa, but by no means a micro mini either. The lady was pointing the business end of a Kalashnikov rifle at them.

  "Who are you?" she demanded.

  "I am Ali Nazeer of the Jihadist Brotherhood," X proclaimed, thumping his chest boastfully. "These are my companions Asar and Moammar. We have just escaped from the American prison, Abd Al-Rahman."

  She lowered the weapon and gave a gasp of admiration.

  "Everyone has heard of the great Ali Nazeer," she said.

  "Who are you?" Harry demanded.

  "I am Fatima bint Kuttab," she said. "I am from the Islamic Freedom Party of Liberia. Once a month I am to stock this place with fresh food and water. I have been sleeping here for the past two days. I was told by an aide to The Chief that if I encounter any brothers in the Cause who have escaped I am to safeguard them and offer them assistance."

  "It is I who made those arrangements," Harry said. "You have done well."

  "Do you have civilian clothes for us?" X asked. The backside-baring hospital gowns would hardly make it easy for them to blend in.

  The woman nodded and retrieved a wicker basket full of clothes from its hiding place behind a stack of hay.

  "There is a set for each of you," she said. To each man she distributed standard Afghan wear: a tombaan, a type of pants, a payraan, an oversize shirt, boots and a pakol, a hat. Then she stepped back and waited. The garments were identical except for color. Harry wore a red shirt, X blue, Asar purple.

  "We cannot dress in the presence of a woman," Harry scolded her. "Go to the other side of the truck. The woman nodded meekly and turned to go. Asar suddenly clutched her arm.

  "Wait," he said. "How do we know this woman is who she claims she is?"

  X stepped in. "My friend, we do not have time for this. The sun is up. The Americans will be coming this way any minute."

  "But Ali, I know what this Fatima bint Kuttab looks like," Asar insisted. "I want to be sure it's her."

  Well, that's an unexpected development, X thought. Did Jones forgot to do his homework?

  "Remove your face piece," Asar ordered the woman.

  "I will not," she said, crossing her arms defiantly.

  "You will do as a man commands you," he insisted. "A woman's duty is to submit."

  "To her husband, not to the whim of every strange boy," she retorted. She appealed to X. "Will you allow this pup to shame me? The Koran says that no woman's face is to be seen except by her husband and closest male relatives."

  "I've read it," the identity thief replied.

  "She speaks the truth," Harry confirmed. "We can not violate holy law because we are afraid."

  With speed X wouldn't have thought him capable of, Asar snatched the Kalashnikov out of the woman's hands and pointed it at her.

  "We must make sure," he said, reaching for the veil.

  "Don't touch me," the female fighter hissed, stepping back in what appeared to be fear. But X had seen enough kung fu movies in his teenage days to know that she was positioning herself to kick the weapon out of the teen's hand.

  Asar pointed the rifle between her eyes.

  "Asar, think of what The Chief would tell us," X pleaded. "Do you wish to make a mockery of our fight with the infidels?"

  In the periphery of his vision, he could see Harry moving quietly behind Asar. If the woman didn't disarm him, the spy would, X thought. But either way they were screwed because only The Chief's teenage driver knew the way to his lair.

  Asar hesitated, sweat pouring down his brow, as he weighed X's words. Then, with lightning speed, he reached and jerked away the veil, revealing the face of Traci Kingsmith.

  The teen stepped back and immediately dropped the gun.

  "A thousand pardons," he said. "I have never felt such shame."

  Traci clapped her hand over her nose and mouth, as a Western woman might shield her breasts. But her face was exposed long enough that X saw what appeared to be odd, vertical scars on both her cheeks.

  Asar hastily helped her reattach the face piece. "I am so, so, sorry."

  "Come, now," Harry said. "You can offer your apologies later. We're wasting time."

  The woman retreated to the far side of the truck and the men hastily dressed. It felt wonderful to be in pants and a shirt again, instead of a hospital gown or orange prison jumpsuit. The Afghani getup he'd seen a million times on CNN felt a bit like a Halloween costume. It wasn't exactly an Armani suit, but X felt that he'd instantly reclaimed a measure of human dignity.

  They opened the barn doors and started piling into the vehicle. When Traci reached for the driver's side door, Harry interposed his body.

  "I will drive," he said sternly. "You should know that it is forbidden for women to drive a motor vehicle."

  Traci bowed and surrendered the keys. I wonder what page of the Koran says that? X wondered. Guess I need to bone up.

  Harry took the wheel, while, X, Traci and Asar piled in the back and slammed the door shut. The truck tore off down the road, kicking up dust.

  Asar wore a dejected expression.

  "I'm sorry, my friends, but I had to be sure. Forgive me." He looked as if he might weep and Traci put a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

  X knew by now that proverbs were the best way to comfort him. "My young friend, your zeal is admirable, but you cannot let your emotions get the better of you," he said. "Remember, it is said, 'The most important holy war is the one fought against your own passions.' "

  "It is nothing," Traci assured the teen. "When I was crossing the border from Egypt to Gaza, the Jews had me strip naked and bend over so they could inspect my private parts. It was important for you to know you could trust me. You did not behave wrongly."

  That was laying it on a bit thick, X thought, but he was grateful to have the visual insinuated into his brain.

  She began to hand out naan, a traditional Afghan bread, and quroot, a sort of dried blend of yogurt and cheese.

  "So, when did you two meet?" X asked, with as much nonchalance as he could muster. This he had to hear.

  "We've never met," Asar replied, taking a huge bite out of the bread.

  "You said you saw her before."

  "I said I knew what she looked like," Asar corrected him. "I had been told Fatima bint Kubbat is a black woman, an African from Liberia, with scars on both her cheeks, where assailants marked her. Few know that."

  "Scars?"

  Asar gestured at the sides of his face.

  X glanced quizzically at Traci, and recalled the faint parentheses that now marred her beauty.

  "The men who left them have been cut too," she said quietly. "And they
'll do no further harm to women."

  Both men winced, then nodded soberly.

  So Mr. Jones hadn't slipped up. He'd done his homework on the real bint Kubbat. He thought again that the spymaster would have made a dandy identity thief. Presumably even the Committee wouldn't go so far as to slice up the FBI agent, so she must be wearing makeup. Quite convincing too.

  I wouldn't be surprised if Mr. Jones shanghaied some Tinseltown makeup artists into service, X thought. Are there Hollywood stars working for the Committee too, and stuntmen? Perhaps Angelina Jolie had a hidden motive for adoption jaunts overseas.

  As well as food and water, the back of the truck was stocked with weapons: three more Kalashnikovs, two AK-47s, an M1911 caliber .45, a box of grenades and even a rocket launcher. There was also a spanking new laptop and an ancient boom box type radio. Asar asked for some music and the woman turned it on.

  He soon recognized a traditional Afghan song and hummed along with it. X did too, smiling as if he'd heard it a thousand times before. He and Asar exchanged the grin of two high school boys embarking on an excellent adventure.

  The music was interrupted by a BBC report.

  "U.S. Army Captain Gayle Tofel, a military spokeswoman, confirmed that three prisoners escaped from Abd Al-Rahman Prison - the first escape from any joint U.S.-Afghan detention facility in the country.

  "The area around the prison has been cordoned off and roadblocks set up on nearby roads. Photographs of the escaped inmates have been distributed to search teams and local authorities, and landowners near the prison were notified."

  The spokesman said that all three were involved in terrorist activity and that they included Ali Nazeer, the notorious playboy-turned-terrorist captured in the U.S. last fall.

  An American-accented voice came on. "These men represent a clear and present danger and the military considers their recapture a top priority."

  Asar looked a little spooked.

  "It sounds like they think we're still on foot," X said. "They don't know we have a vehicle."

  The truck screeched to a stop and they were thrown on top of each other. Asar landed atop Traci, his hands, comically, on her breasts, like something that might happen to Leslie Nielson in a Naked Gun movie. He rolled off, blushing and aghast.