The Identity Thief

by C. Forsyth

Just how long had he been watching us? X suddenly wondered. Spying on us.

  Chapter 18

  PARANOIA

  They continued through the canyon on donkeys. X, fortuitously, had learned to ride while impersonating a polo-playing Andover graduate for a scam. He'd taken riding lessons in New York's Van Cortland Park. Not quite the stable of Arabian stallions he'd told Asar about in prison, but good enough that he was at no risk of tumbling off.

  Hooves echoed between the rocks around them as they made their way through the pass in single file. Asar was right; it would have been difficult to negotiate the narrowing ravine in the truck.

  "How much farther?" Harry asked.

  "Half a day's ride, no more," said the teen. "We are home-free."

  A voice came over a bullhorn, echoing through the canyon a half dozen times: "Stop. Put up your hands."

  This is getting old, X thought, sighing. The identity thief looked up. Guns were trained down on them from atop the ridges on either side. About 14 men. They wore the uniform of the ISI - the notoriously corrupt and brutal Pakistani security force.

  Well, I suppose the good news is we've crossed into Pakistan.

  Asar began to go for his rifle, but X grabbed his arm.

  "There are too many of them, my young friend," he warned the teen.

  "I am not afraid."

  X shook his head. "Bravery without wisdom is not bravery."

  The travelers tossed their rifles to the ground and held up their hands. A moment later, several of the Pakistanis had scrambled down the slopes and surrounded them. A few remained atop the ridge, still training weapons at them, with sweaty fingers on triggers. They seemed rather jittery to X and it was easy to imagine one of the barely legal young soldiers firing by accident.

  Harry told the ISI troopers they were merchants returning from Afghanistan, having sold their wares, and once again the cover story fell flat.

  The officer in charge, who identified himself as Captain Hesbani, raised his eyebrows with skepticism and ordered them searched. The Pakistani troopers didn't make the same mistake as the bandits. As well as frisking the men they brusquely searched Traci. She protested, to no avail, when Captain Hesbani personally slid his hand between her thighs.

  "Aha!" he exclaimed as he produced the little handgun. "Is this for hunting mountain goats?"

  "We're with the Warriors of Allah," Asar volunteered, proudly puffing up his chest. "Our weapons are for fighting the enemies of Islam."

  Captain Hesbani expectorated noisily, just as the bandit boss had done.

  "My brother was murdered by you fanatics," the officer informed them. He turned to his men. "Chain up these pieces of crap and take them down the road to the trucks."

  His men jumped to obey.

  "Wait. We're American intelligence officers," X said in perfect English.

  Traci turned to him. "Shut up!"

  "I'm going to personally kill you," Harry exclaimed.

  "It's the only way, Traci," X said. She gasped at his use of her name.

  Captain Hesbani raised his eyebrows.

  "I suppose you have identification papers to prove this."

  "Don't be ridiculous. Suppose we were searched?" X explained.

  Traci spoke in Urdu, the national language of Pakistan: "Don't listen to him. He's gone mad from a fever."

  "Traci, talk in English," X said. "The game's over." He winked at her.

  Traci hesitated. They had nothing to lose at this point. "The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain," she said in an exasperated voice.

  "That was very good," said Captain Hesbani. "It might have fooled another man, but I happen to watch a good number of American DVDs. And I can tell that your very well practiced American accents are phony."

  "That was the worst American accent I've ever heard," an underling concurred.

  Another piped up, "Mine is better than that. Listen: 'Are you talking to me? Are you talking to me? Well, then, who are you talking to?' "

  Another contributed a freakishly high-pitched impression of Chris Tucker in Rush Hour: "Can you hear the words that are coming out of my mouth?"

  "That's more than enough," Captain Hesbani said, wearily running his hand through his hair.

  "Wait a minute," said X, stepping forward. "Let me speak to you alone for a minute."

  Captain Hesbani frowned, then gestured for his men to keep a close eye on the others. He walked with X a few yards from the soldiers, till the two were just out of earshot.

  "Okay, you have outwitted us," X said. "We're not CIA. We're with the Jihadist Brotherhood and the Warriors of Allah, which as you must know are in close alliance. If you let us go free, we have a little gift for you."

  "Go on."

  "Over that hill, in a cave about two kilometers away, we've stashed five kilos of opium. Enough to get a few platoons high. Worth more than $500,000."

  Captain Hesbani frowned dubiously. It was well known that the insurgents trafficked in opium to finance their operations, while vehemently condemning the use of drugs and alcohol as an offense to Allah.

  "Take me there."

  "Promise you'll set us free. All of us."

  "Done. Let's go."

  "Let my friends go first. "

  Captain Hesbani laughed. "I don't think so. First the drugs."

  "If I'm lying you can shoot me."

  "What makes you think that I won't shoot you when I have the drugs?"

  "You have an honest face."

  Captain Hesbani smirked and they returned to the group. He announced that the others would be allowed to ride off on their donkeys, but X would remain.

  "We're not leaving without him," Asar protested.

  "Shut up and get lost before I change my mind and have you shot."

  Harry whispered something in the teen's ear that convinced him it would be all right. X watched as the others, who'd been given back their weapons, mounted the donkeys. The captain gave Traci's horse a slap on the rump that conveyed an admixture of lechery and contempt.

  The two men watched as the animals trotted down the road, past his men. X didn't trust the Pakistani officer as far as he could throw him. It was certainly possible he'd order his men to track his companions down and round them up in a few moments. All he could hope for was to give the others a decent headstart.

  Captain Hesbani told his men to stay put. Then he ordered X into the back of his Jeep, nestled around the bend. A driver hopped in and they drove in the direction from which the travelers had come.

  "So this is how The Chief and his cronies fund their glorious Jihad, selling opium, eh?" the Pakistani officer snickered. "This man of God is a filthy drug dealer."

  "Be careful of how you speak of The Chief," X warned.

  "I'll be careful of nothing, Mr. Nobody and Mr. Everybody," said the captain.

  In 10 minutes' time they had reached the bandits' cave. X and Captain Hesbani climbed the steep slope, leaving the driver in the Jeep. X got to the opening first and reached to help the Pakistani up. They descended into the cavern.

  "A bit Spartan," Captain Hesbani remarked with a sneer, at the sight of the cots and makeshift furniture. Egg crates served as chairs. A rickety wooden bookshelf did double duty as a pantry and grenade rack.

  "Creature comforts mean little to me now," said X. "I've found a cause to live for. You should do the same."

  The officer grinned unpleasantly. "When you have the gun, I'll take advice from you." He gestured toward the crates with his pistol. "Where are the drugs?"

  X knelt before one of the crates and, with some effort, pried it open. Captain Hesbani looked at the stash, his black eyes glistening like pearls.

  "I didn't believe you," he said, marveling, as he held up a bag of opium.

  "You should have greater faith in your fellow man," replied X.

  "I must thank you for making me a very rich man." Captain Hesbani pointed the pistol at the American's head. "Since I know you are a religious man, I will let you say a prayer. You have one m
inute."

  "You promised you would let me live."

  "Your minute is flying by."

  X dropped to his knees and feverishly began to utter a Muslim prayer. The scam artist had memorized a "stalling verse" for just such an eventuality - the longest he could find in the Koran. While he rambled on, the Pakistani lit a cigarette and stood calmly savoring it by the cave entrance.

  "I've always wanted to retire to Venice," the officer said, his eyes growing misty. "To see all that magnificent artwork. I studied to be a painter, you know. But my father insisted that I drop out and take a 'real' job in his brother's factory. It's only by accident that I found myself in the military."

  When X finished the first prayer, he segued quickly to another, continuing to improvise and embellish as long as he could.

  "And may Allah watch over my children and my mother and my nephews and my nieces ... "

  Captain Hesbani had finished his cigarette and emerged from his reverie. "Wrap it up," the officer said. He ground the cigarette into the dirt with the heel of his boot.

  "I'm not finished," X protested.

  "In fact you are," said the Pakistani.

  "Look, wait, wait," X said. He stumbled to his feet. "I really am an American. Not CIA. DEA. Drug Enforcement Agency, working undercover. My name is Jeremy Blinkhoff."

  "It really doesn't matter to me if you are an American secret agent, a drug smuggler, a jihadist warrior or the King of Siam," Captain Hesbani said. "You've given me what I want and you have nothing to bargain with."

  He pointed the gun at X's left eye.

  "That's where you are mistaken, my friend," X pressed on. "There is more, much more opium than this nearby. Five drop-off points along a trail extending from here to Kabul. We're talking in the neighborhood of $15 million. I can take you to them one by one."

  Captain Hesbani shook his head. "Tut. Tut. Tut. You should have let your last words been a prayer, not a lie."

  X closed his eyes and a deafening gunshot echoed off the walls.

  When he opened his eyes, he was relieved to find himself alive and the Pakistani officer lying dead on the cavern floor. A bullet hole bisected his brow. Harry stepped into the light, a wisp of smoke trailing from the .45 in his hand.

  I didn't know you cared," X said.

  "Don't get any ideas," said Harry. "You're key to this mission."

  "How did you get back here?"

  He pointed up.

  "I came on horseback along the ridge. The others are waiting for us up ahead."

  "What about the driver?"

  "I've already taken care of him."

  "Well, I owe you one, sport."

  "Whatever. I'm sure you wouldn't have pulled that stunt if you weren't pretty sure I'd come for you. Let's get out of here before those goons come looking for their commanding officer."

  X stepped over Captain Hesbani's body and headed to the cave entrance.

  Looks like you'll ncver see Venice, he thought.

  * * *

  Back on the donkeys, the party continued down canyon.

  Asar, riding beside X, remarked, "For what it is worth, I think your American accent was very good. It was worth a try."

  X punched him in the shoulder with good humor.

  "It's no compliment to say I've mastered the Great Satan's tongue," he said. "Let us pray that the day will soon come when English is no longer spoken in the Persian Gulf."

  * * *

  By late morning they had emerged from the canyon and vistas beyond the walls of the pass soon came into view. Snow-capped peaks soared beyond rolling hills. Below the trail there was a narrow strip of green surrounding a river that meandered through the rocks into a sprawling valley. The rich green stood in stark contrast to the shades of brown they'd left behind. In the middle of the valley stood a small town.

  "The town of Jafuzi," Asar told the others. "The people here are friends of the Cause."

  They rode down the winding path toward the village. As they approached the town, they saw young men on horseback playing Buzkashi, popular among the tribes on both sides of the border. Similar to polo, it's played by horsemen each trying to grab a goat carcass and use it to score a goal.

  When the men saw the four strangers approach, they continued to play, but one veered off and raced toward the village. He returned a moment later with a man who was, presumably, a village elder. The somber-looking fellow wore a black turban adorned with gold. When he recognized Asar, a broad smile spread across his face. The two men dismounted and embraced.

  "Young warrior, I did not think I would ever see your face again," the elder said.

  "It is good to see you again, noble Fawad," the teen replied. "I will never forget that it was you who recruited me into the Jihad."

  Asar introduced the others, paying special attention to X.

  "Fawad, this is the man responsible for my escape, with the help of Allah. Ali Nazeer."

  The tribal chief shook Ali's hand vigorously.

  "I have heard all about you," he said. "The CIA tried to suppress the news of your escape - how you made fools of the Americans. But it is all over Al Jazeera."

  X bowed humbly. "It is you who fight unobserved who are the engine of the Jihad," he said. False humility seemed to work wonders with these folks; Fawad beamed with pride.

  "Come, follow me to my house," he said. "You will be my personal guests tonight."

  * * *

  Though the exterior was as humble as all the rest in the village, Fawad's house was well appointed. Vases lined the shelves; Oriental rugs that would go for 10,000 bucks in the U.S. adorned the floors. There was, much to X's delight, even a toilet, albeit in another small building apart from the main dwelling.

  They sat around a table, dining on traditional foods. On the menu was paloa, a rice dish given a rich brown color by caramelized sugar, nadroo, an onion-based stew with yogurt, roots, dolma, stuffed grape leaves and londi, a kind of spiced jerky.

  X had difficulty stomaching the londi, and barely managed to avoid puking, but dutifully complimented Fawad's wife. Traci eagerly asked for recipes and the burqa-shrouded woman was clearly ecstatic about the attention.

  The discussion turned from food to politics, a topic X would have preferred to avoid. Mr. Jones had briefed him on the intricate relationships between the governments of Pakistan and Afghanistan, and he'd pretended to listen, but those kinds of details always bored him. He had consistently received C's in social studies in high school.

  Fawad was intrigued by "Ali Nazeer's" background of wealth and privilege.

  "Your family is so close to the royal family of Kuwait," he observed. "Do they approve of your involvement in the Brotherhood?"

  X shook his head. He did recall that Mr. Jones had briefed him on the bitter feud between the real Nazeer and his brothers.

  "They have pressured me to cease my efforts," he explained. "Their companies did a lot of business with the royal family, but because of my activities, the king has cut them off. They sent me my uncles, my nieces, even my mother a dozen times asking me to stop and return to Kuwait and make an agreement that would keep me a free man."

  "You could be living like a king," Fawad marveled. "Enjoying fast cars, yachts, all the trappings of wealth. Instead you choose to fight alongside us in these mountains, like bin Laden himself. You are truly like a martyr of old."

  "Hopefully not a martyr anytime soon," X joked.

  His host laughed. "Agreed."

  Then, more solemnly X went on. "How can I enjoy luxuries when my brothers are oppressed by the Americans, the Zionists and their lapdogs?"

  Harry stood up. "Speaking of luxuries, I think I'll take advantage of the modern plumbing."

  Slinging the knapsack bearing his laptop over his shoulder, he slipped out of the room.

  They continued talking about politics for a moment, Fawad railing about the latest outrages of the Israelis in what he called "occupied Palestine."

  After enduring the tirade for a few moments, X excu
sed himself, quietly beckoning Traci to follow him.

  X reached the little building that housed the toilet, looked around to make sure no villagers were watching, then grabbed the door and wrenched it open. Harry sat on the john, his trousers around his ankles and his laptop on his knees. He looked up in shock at X.

  "What is wrong with you?" he demanded, falling into English. "Can't you see I'm taking a dump?"

  X grabbed his feet and dragged him off the commode.

  "What the fuck?! Are you insane?" Harry shouted.

  When he saw Traci standing there, he tried to cover his privates with one hand, while clutching the laptop with the other. "Can't a man have some privacy when he surfs for porn?"

  X yanked the laptop from him. "Nice try, Harry, but you're not a hard enough man to pull that one off."

  He handed the laptop to Traci and pointed to an outgoing email. She couldn't make out the words, which appeared to be in code, but the names of the villages they'd passed through were there, along with a map.

  "He's been updating them on our location every step of the way," X said triumphantly.

  Traci stood back and stared, stunned, at Harry, who was hastily pulling up his pants.

  "Christ," she gasped. "He's a triple agent."

  "That's ridiculous!" Harry sputtered. "A triple agent? Why not a quadruple agent - that would make me back on your side, wouldn't it? Honestly, you're being paranoid."

  "Paranoid?" Traci shot back. "There's an agency so secret the President doesn't even know about it, and we're working for it - at least I'm working for it. So paranoid makes a whole lot of sense right now."

  "I've had enough of this," Harry said. He reached for the laptop and tried to touch the power button.

  "Touch that computer and I'll put a bullet through your brain," Traci said, pulling her Beretta and pointing at him. "Keep your hands where I can see them."

  "For God's sake, woman, they could come around that corner any minute," Harry said, holding out his hands palm up and to his sides. "Stop pointing that thing at me." He added, "I know an FBI agent isn't going to shoot me in the head."

  She lowered the gun.

  "A bullet in your testicles, then."