The Identity Thief

by C. Forsyth

Whew! Wasn't sure the Renaissance was a good thing to you folks. Thought maybe the Dark Ages was more up your alley.

  The terrorist leader proudly pointed to a row of six large tomes, set aside from the others on their own shelf. "Those are the ones I've written."

  X examined the titles. Poems for a New Afghanistan was the name of one collection. I Sing of Freedom was another. Thought the identity thief, You have to give the old coot credit for being upbeat.

  The old man took the book from X and thumbed through it until he reached a page bookmarked with a news clipping about a U.N. bombing in Libya. He handed the book back to "Ali Nazeer," gesturing with seeming diffidence that he should read it. The American, who was still more adept at speaking Arabic than reading it, slowly recited:

  "My love for you is like a cloud from Heaven

  That makes the desert bloom. Your fragrance is like

  A mixture of lavender and honey,

  And your touch is as pure as raindrops

  That tap upon my skin."

  It went on in that vein for another 40 stanzas. A love poem, X was startled to realize.

  "Are you familiar with the works of Jalal al-Din Muhammad Balkhi?" his host inquired.

  "Well, I've read a few of his works," the identity thief lied through his teeth.

  "He is my model. Though of course my words are like the scribblings of a child next to such a master."

  "I hope that years in the future, your books will sit on a shelf next to his," X said.

  "You are gracious, but it is only a hobby," the old man said, returning the book to the shelf. "We hold mushha'ra competitions every Tuesday night. You are welcome to participate. You can get pen and ink from my secretary."

  "You are most generous, Chief."

  Great, a poetry jam with a bunch of Islamofascist lunatics, X thought. Well, that should be entertaining. What's Wednesday's activity - Twister?

  The Chief guided him to a small desk in the corner on which a yellow legal pad rested. "This is what I'm working on now. I would be honored if you would take a look at it."

  The simplicity of the language threw X a curve ball. But by the bottom of the first page, it became clear what he was looking at.

  "Is this ... "

  "Yes, a children's book," The Chief said, with some excitement. "My first."

  Skimming the text and the attendant stick-figure illustrations, X quickly gleaned that the villain was a Jewish golem who preyed upon the people of a village and ate them. The children defeat the monster by pelting him with magic stones.

  "It is an allegory," he said.

  "Very perceptive," smiled The Chief, clapping him on the back. "It instructs children about the wickedness of the Zionists at an early age. Forgive my primitive artwork. I will of course hire a professional illustrator."

  Okay, that's just about enough bonding for one day, X felt. Now it's time for the setup.

  "I bring a warning," X told The Chief. "The Americans have used all their means to seize some of my assets in the Caymans. I have had to transfer all that remains to a hiding place."

  The Chief frowned and nodded sympathetically.

  "I am concerned that they may use their cunning to go after the assets of the Warriors of Allah as well," X continued. "The CIA hacked into our computers to locate our funds and could easily do the same to you."

  The Chief chuckled. "You have no reason to worry, my son. These walls are shielded by many feet of rock and we have sophisticated security safeguards and firewalls. Our assets are safe."

  X frowned dubiously. "Well, that is welcome news. But always keep in mind the proverb, 'You cannot store milk in a sieve and complain of bad luck.' "

  The Chief laughed. "This is true, my brother. Very true."

  "It is my suggestion that you convert your funds to gold bullion so that the enemies of Islam cannot seize them with the touch of a button. Hide the gold where the Americans cannot find it. My organization has a facility in Uzbekistan where you could be safely store it."

  The terror boss stroked his beard thoughtfully. "That is one possibility. Tell me, where is it that you have moved your own funds?"

  X shook his head. "I am sorry, my honored friend. Even to you I cannot divulge that information."

  The Chief looked a bit taken aback. Then he nodded. "I understand. Do not fret. You are my brother whom I trust and love." He hugged X.

  After what X found to be an awkwardly long embrace, the old man released him. X pointed to the rock walls.

  "How do you communicate with your followers? With all the shielding and the rocks? Surely cell phones don't work down here."

  The Chief opened what appeared to be a cigar box on his desk and showed him a phone, plugged into a charger.

  "It communicates with a relay box that is hardwired to antennae outside," he explained. "The signal bounces off four satellites so the Americans can't trace it. Or something like that, I'm not sure of the technical details. The point is that it allows me to communicate with my commanders in the field. One of my aides got the idea from a spy novel. Now, I have a surprise for you."

  As noted earlier, X was not fond of surprises. And under these circumstances especially so. What other hobbies did this demented old murderer have? Water colors, perhaps or crochet? Perhaps he was about to be invited to a friendly game of Battleships.

  "Your brother-in-law is here," The Chief said, beaming. "I have heard that the two of you have had many grand adventures together."

  X felt his heart skip a beat.

  "What? In the cave complex?"

  "In the country. He will be here tomorrow."

  "So soon?" X resisted the urge to gulp. "Truly, that is wonderful good news, Chief."

  The pace of their mission would have to be accelerated. A lot.

  * * *

  X and Harry had been given a private room a stone's throw from The Chief's office - a considerable honor, they were given to understand - while Asar bunked in Dormitory Number 3.

  When X told the Israeli spy about the imminent arrival of Ali Nazeer's brother-in- law, Haseem bin Aleel, he became anxious.

  "You need to convince The Chief to transfer those funds," he demanded.

  "You can't push a mark too hard or he'll back off," X pointed out.

  "Mark? Stop thinking like a goddamned thief and start thinking like a spy," Harry fumed.

  "Stop thinking like a spy and start thinking like a thief," X retorted. "Because that's what we're doing. Stealing stuff."

  "So what's your plan?"

  "I'm working on that."

  "And what about the laptop? I need it."

  X took it out of the backpack and held it in front of the Israeli, who sat on one of the two beds.

  "You won't be able to get a signal out of here, so there's no harm you can do," he said.

  "Harm I can do?"

  "Just keep it under the bed," X told him. "I want to be able to check it and keep tabs on you, make sure you're not up to something outside the mission."

  Harry fumed. "Me up to something? I'm not the criminal."

  "You're not getting the laptop till you agree."

  "Fine," snarled "Moammar" and yanked the computer out of X's hands.

  Chapter 20

  IN-LAW TROUBLES

  That evening, he dined with The Chief, Dr. Zawari and two of his top aides. The Chief meandered back and forth between geopolitics, religion and popular culture. He decried as obscene the sensuality of films produced in both Hollywood and Bollywood, finding kissing scenes the most objectionable. Oddly enough, he seemed to have a soft spot in his heart for the actress Reese Witherspoon, whom he referred to reverently as "angelic."

  Dr. Zawari gently interrupted the rambling monologue.

  "Sir, we had scheduled a brainstorming session for tonight," he reminded The Chief.

  "Yes, yes, you are quite right," said the octogenarian terror boss.

  "Fareek, you are up first," Dr. Zawari said, turning to a young aide.

  Fareek had a larg
e hooked nose and oddly sensual lips that reminded X uncomfortably of a vagina.

  He cleared his throat nervously and began, "My idea is that we infect prostitutes in Saudi Arabia, where the Americans have many bases, with the AIDS virus. When the U.S. soldiers sleep with them, they will catch the virus and die."

  The physician sighed. "Anyone have an idea that isn't foolish?"

  Fareek sank back in his chair, demolished.

  Another aide, no more than 25, raised his hand timidly. He was the first terrorist X had encountered who was obese, probably tipping the scales at close to 300 pounds.

  "Hamid?"

  "Well, FAA regulations state that one is not allowed to bring more than four ounces of liquid on board a plane," he started out.

  "Yes, yes, we all know that," Dr. Zawari said impatiently.

  "Okay, so, so, so, s-s-s-s-s-s-s ... " Hamid launched into a bout of stuttering that lasted easily 45 seconds. The others waited patiently for it to end, Fareek politely making notes on a pad. Only Dr. Zawari rolled his eyes.

  When the porky terrorist was finally able to continue, he said, "I apologize. So, my thought is that perhaps what we could do is place 10 men on the plane, each with three ounces of nitroglycerin, or something. Each one goes into the bathroom and pours his vial into the toilet. When the last man flushes ... "

  "Kaboom!" said Dr. Zawari, clapping his hands in delight. "Not bad at all. You are finally learning to think, Hamid. Write that down, Fareek."

  The full-lipped aide hastily jotted down the notion.

  Dr. Zawari continued. "It needs some fine-tuning, of course. Our scientists need to devise the right explosive. Now, I have been working on a little scheme of my own ..."

  The healer opened a folder and handed out copies of a six-page typed document full of diagrams and aerial photographs.

  "Wait, I want to hear what Ali has to say," The Chief said. He hardly seemed to have been listening up to this point. Dr. Zawari looked positively apoplectic as all heads turned to X.

  The identity thief hadn't expected to bring any fiendish grand designs to the table. But while the others ran their ideas up the flagpole, he had hastily gathered his thoughts.

  "We all know that the Americans rely heavily on racial profiling to prevent attacks on airplanes," he said. "What if we begin a program of recruiting and training blond, blue-eyed Muslims from Bosnia to be martyrs?"

  The others murmured in agreement.

  "You are a genius!" cried The Chief.

  Even Dr. Zawari grudgingly admitted that the idea had potential.

  "It would be very expensive, of course, mounting such a recruiting campaign," he said. "But certainly, we should look into it. Now, my idea is - "

  The Chief cut him off, abruptly changing the subject.

  "I want all of you to hear the next speech I plan to make in response to the American president's address at the U.N. condemning so-called terrorism," he said. "I feel his lies must not go unanswered."

  Dr. Zawari opened his mouth to protest.

  X didn't let him get a word in edgewise. "I would be so honored to hear it."

  Dr. Zawari's eyes blazed with fury but he held his tongue. As his chief adviser sulked, the Chief stood up and embarked on his diatribe:

  "Throughout history, America has never differentiated between soldiers and civilians," he pronounced. "Not even between adults and children. It was the United States, remember, who dropped the atomic bomb on Hiroshima. Consider the genocide they perpetrated against the Native Americans. They are the inventors of germ warfare. They used smallpox in blankets to exterminate their Indians.

  "Their president condemns us as terrorists. But it is the Americans who are the true terrorists. They do not grant mercy to civilians. Therefore, nor should we. All of them, men, women, children, are legitimate targets, subject to the fatwa our religious leaders in their wisdom, have issued."

  The aides nodded and raised their glasses in agreement; clearly the old man was preaching to the converted.

  But the whole spiel sounded vaguely familiar. Suddenly X recalled that he'd seen virtually these same words on the screen in the Pink Panther strip club, in The Chief's last video. Has this guy actually forgotten he'd said all this before?

  "What do you think, Ali?" The Chief asked.

  X nodded gravely and said, "It is all well said. We must continue this battle, God permitting, until victory or until we meet God."

  The Chief smiled. "That is very good. I must use that line too, if you don't mind my borrowing it. Make a note of that, Dr. Zawari."

  The bespectacled physician, clearly miffed at being demoted to the role of secretary, looked as if his pen might snap in his hands. But obligingly, he took a small spiral notebook out of his breast pocket and took down X's line.

  Or perhaps "FUCK YOU" in Arabic, X thought.

  "The Russians in Afghanistan are the most wicked of the infidels, and though their might is great, the will of Allah is greater still," The Chief continued. "So decadent, with their vodka and their prostitutes. Their lack of morality will be their downfall."

  X saw The Chief's aides eyeing each other uneasily and he realized that the old man had misspoken. He meant the Americans. Hamid raised a finger as if preparing to correct the aged leader, but Fareek shook his head.

  Surprisingly, The Chief caught himself.

  "I mean the Americans, of course. I am getting old," he conceded. "One day soon the Cause will need a new leader. Someone with courage and charisma. A young man with vigor like you, Ali."

  Dr. Zawari did not look pleased. He was, X surmised, supposed to be next in line.

  "I could never hope to fill your shoes, master," X protested.

  "You will have others to give you guidance on tactics, like my loyal friend Dr. Zawari. You have become a folk hero. You will inspire many to take up arms against the Great Satan."

  "I am but a tool of Allah," X said with a humble bow. "I will serve him in any capacity I am needed."

  "You are much too modest," Dr. Zawari said. But he looked like he wanted to toss acid in X's face.

  The good doctor was doubtless even more perturbed when the leader invited X back to his study for tea. With time growing short, the identity thief tried to turn the discussion back to money. His first few bids failed.

  The Chief was more interested in hearing his thoughts on the newswoman Katie Couric, who, he was quite convinced, should interview him. Getting her to agree to cover her face for the on-camera chat might be a sticking point, The Chief fretted. X assured him that Miss Couric seemed quite reasonable and, after some negotiation, would probably agree to the condition. After all, The Chief was an important world figure whose opinions people around the globe would be anxious to hear.

  Then he took another crack at it.

  "You have built quite a war chest," X said. "We hear that you have $45 billion."

  "Money can build roads in the sea," The Chief said. "It has taken a long time to accumulate those funds - a lot of pleading with those stingy clerics in Jordan and Saudi Arabia. But it will allow us to accomplish a grand goal."

  "My sources say you are close to obtaining a weapon to use against the infidels," X pressed on. "A biological agent?"

  "Much more potent than that, my friend," The Chief said with a mischievous wink Tom Sawyer might have given Huck Finn. "You see, we do not seek to make war, but to make peace."

  X frowned. "They say true peace is possible only after war."

  "For one so young, you are full of wisdom," The Chief said. He gestured for X to sit down on the loveseat and poured him a cup of tea, then settled down beside him, so close their hips were touching.

  "Have you ever heard of Weapon Z?" The Chief asked in a confidential whisper.

  X shook his head. It sounded like something Spiderman might have to defuse.

  "When the Americans developed the original atomic bomb," The Chief began, "before they tested it, the Manhattan Project scientists calculated that there was a one in 100,000 chance t
hat splitting the atom in such a way would spark a chain reaction that would destroy the solar system."

  X nodded attentively. He'd heard some story vaguely along those lines in high school and long ago discounted it as apocryphal.

  "Well, in the 1970s, the Russians developed such a weapon," said The Chief. "It was a sort of doomsday device they could hold over the heads of the Americans as the ultimate deterrent to a nuclear war. And it indeed worked. That is why the world was spared a nuclear holocaust at the peak of the Cold War."

  X could barely repress laughter. The whole thing was ludicrous on its face. Wasn't that doomsday device out of Dr. Strangelove or a Get Smart episode? Some fast-talking arms merchant was about to soak this crazy old goat for $45 billion!

  "Think of it," The Chief said with growing enthusiasm. "With such an instrument in our hands, America will fall to her knees before us. All infidels can be compelled to convert. It is the dream of the Prophet Mohammed, blessed be his name, fulfilled."

  Pax Islamica now? The same old crazy dream: world domination. X was reminded of a saying from the proverb Web site: "The same donkey, but with a new saddle."

  Needless to say, he didn't quote it. But he must have looked unhappy, because The Chief said, "You hesitate to praise the plan. Are you so unable to picture an Islamic America?"

  Paris Hilton in a burqa. Yeah, a wee bit difficult to picture.

  "I wonder if it would not be better to let the Americans continue their own ways, though we don't agree with them," he ventured. "Let them choose the joys of Paradise or the fires of hell."

  The Chief nodded. "Ah, maybe you are thinking of one of the old sayings you are so fond of quoting. 'The mud of one country is the medicine of another.' "

  "Perhaps."

  "My young friend, our call is the one that was revealed to Mohammed. It is a call to all mankind. We have been entrusted with a sacred mission, to follow in the footsteps of the Messenger and to spread his wisdom to all people. It is an invitation that we extend to all the nations to embrace Islam, the religion that calls for justice, mercy and fraternity, not differentiating between race or gender. That is why the West must be converted. Spain will return to Islam, as it was in the 14th century. France, Denmark, England, all of Europe as well."