Stolen Identity

by Michael W. Sherer

  I asked her a few more questions about the procedures I should follow to make sure I wouldn’t be liable for fraudulent use of the account, and hung up in a daze. I’d been thinking about grabbing a bite to eat somewhere to avoid sitting alone in my lonely kitchen, but now my stomach was in knots and my pocket nearly empty. What I wanted was a drink, so I walked the block or two to the Tap Room, and let the dim interior swallow me up. I found a stool at the bar and ordered a PBR pounder. Pete, the owner, brought it over with a clean glass and set them on the bar in front of me.

  “Why the long face?” he said.

  I sighed. “Been a long day.”

  “You want to talk about it?”

  Pete was a vet like me, and I knew the offer to bend his ear was genuine, not just a ploy for a decent tip.

  I shook my head. “Nah, it’s nothing. One beer, then home for a good night’s sleep. It’ll all look better in the morning.”

  “Your call.”

  “Thanks, man. I really appreciate it.”

  I nursed my beer for a long time, the day’s events turning circles in my head, going nowhere fast. I caught Pete looking over a couple of times, but he didn’t intrude. I finally stopped trying to make sense of what had happened, set a dollar bill on the bar next to the half-finished glass of warm beer, and left.

  11

  Doug looked up from his desk, stretching to relieve the crick in his neck. The play of light and angle of shadows outside his window surprised him, and a glance at his watch confirmed that official office hours had ended some time before. He turned at the sound of a knock. Karin McNichols leaned in the doorway, resting a shoulder on the jamb. Doug waved to a chair, and she stepped all the way in.

  The lead staff attorney on his team, McNichols was bright and aggressive. She’d only been on board since a month or two after Doug had been assigned the Masoud case, and he was happy to have the extra body on staff. But Doug knew she was angling not just for a deputy assistant attorney job like his. She wanted to leapfrog him in the office pecking order. With five major divisions, more than a hundred attorneys and another hundred support staff, the Eastern District of Michigan office was sizable—large enough to handle big cases, but small enough to use as a platform to launch a career in the Justice Department.

  Doug handled cases in the National Security Unit and reported to its chief, Tobias Pratt, along with his immediate boss, Kathleen Haggerty. Toby, in turn, reported to the chief of the Criminal Division, who reported to Elizabeth Miller, the U.S. Attorney for the district. Highly charged and as political as a Beltway fundraiser in D.C., a U.S. Attorney’s Office could make or break careers. Doug saw people fall into one of two camps, those who sought justice and used the power of the office to fight for it, and those who wanted to make a name for themselves. He liked to think he was in the former camp. McNichols, he suspected, fell into the latter.

  She tossed her long chestnut hair as she lowered herself into the chair and crossed her legs. Doug found the affectation irritating, a gesture designed to say, “Look at me!” As if she had a problem getting men to practically drool on themselves at the sight of her sultry, exotic features, flawless complexion, long legs and toned, sensuous body. All in all, a nice package, but not Doug’s type.

  “It’s probably a little late in the game,” she said, “but I wanted to thank you for including me on your team in the Masoud case. I’ve really learned a lot from you.”

  Surprised by the compliment, Doug didn’t know what to say for a moment. “No big deal. It’s your job. A case this big, there’s plenty of work to go around.”

  “I know, but you didn’t have to pick me. You could have sloughed off some other cases on me. I’m grateful you didn’t.”

  Her effusiveness made him self-conscious, and he felt heat rise to his face. “You’ve done good work. No reason why I wouldn’t include you. Is that all you wanted to talk about?”

  “Well, yeah. I guess.” She leaned forward as if to get up and hesitated. “Trial’s only a couple days away. Sure there’s nothing else I can do for you? Help with last minute scheduling…?”

  Doug shook his head. “Nothing I can think of.”

  “Okay. Anyway, I just wanted to check before I head out.”

  Doug cocked his head and thought for a moment, running down a mental list. “Can’t think of anything.” He saw her face fall. “Well, wait a minute. Tell you what; I could use some help going over the opening statement. Maybe if you worked up some bullet points…? We could review them tomorrow.”

  A frown formed on her face but quickly disappeared, and she nodded.

  “Happy to help. Sure there’s nothing else?”

  “Go on. Go home. Or better yet, go out and have a good time.”

  “Oh, you know I will,” she said with mock seriousness.

  He chuckled at the thought of what she considered a good time. She rose and walked to the door. He turned his attention back to his work, but her voice interrupted once more.

  “When’s Masoud being transferred to County?”

  He looked up sharply, but caught himself when he saw her curious expression. It wasn’t her fault he felt stretched in all directions. “Day after tomorrow.”

  She gave a single shake of her head and disappeared from view.

  Remembering he’d promised Sally to get home before the kids went to bed, Doug glanced at his watch to see it was later than he realized. He might not make it. He pulled his papers together and tidied his desk. He grabbed his suit jacket off the back of the chair and shrugged it on, switching his briefcase from one hand to the other as he went out the door.

  Down in the parking garage, he checked the time. If he hurried, he might make it home in time to tuck the kids into bed.

  12

  Al-Qadir scanned the lobby of the Hay-Adams Hotel in Washington, D.C., admiring the walnut wainscoting, large archways and intricately patterned ceiling that looked as if a cake decorator had been set loose on it with a pastry bag full of frosting. Men and women in power suits crisscrossed the plush carpeting purposefully but unhurriedly, confident in their roles. He recognized a senator, two congressmen, an oil industry lobbyist, and the head of a public relations firm who was an influential “fixer” in town. This was where he belonged, here in the seat of the world’s most powerful nation. Instead, fate had taken him down a different road, changed him from salve to irritant, from healer to destroyer. He’d assumed the guise of a tick, a blood-sucking parasite who would infect his host with a deadly disease, bringing it to its knees. He smiled and nodded at a lovely young lady passing by on the arm of a B-list actor who’d gotten lucky and landed a television series. She smiled back, the man at her side oblivious. Al-Qadir turned and stepped up to the counter to check in.

  “So nice to see you again, sir,” the desk clerk said.

  His eyes quickly found a nametag as his gaze rose from the counter to the clerk’s face. He’d been gone too long to remember names, but he recognized the face.

  “Thank you, Jason. It’s nice to be seen.” He handed the desk clerk an AmEx Black Card with the name Joseph Darzi etched into the anodized titanium surface, the name he’d been given at birth.

  The young man behind the counter smiled at the joke as he took the card, not knowing Al-Qadir meant every word. Every day he’d lived out of the country he’d risked being captured or killed, and he’d been abroad too long this time around—Afghanistan, Iran, Iraq, Yemen, Egypt, never in the same bed two nights in a row, never in the same place more than a few days at a time. He’d slept on dirt floors or straw-stuffed cots, the smell of fearful men and animals always close at hand, one eye open, never knowing if one of his own would betray him. It had been the price he’d paid to do what he did, be who he was.

  But he was now thankful to have arrived in more comfortable and familiar surroundings. Setting up the logistics of his return to native soil had taken years of advance planning when coupled with the larger mission. The irony of the identity he’d ultimately stolen for
this—probably his last—trip home was a pleasure that he would savor for a long time, if he lived. It had gotten him across the border from Mexico and onto an airplane east. He doubted he’d have further use for it. Anyone looking for Zane Keator would get no farther than Reagan National airport. And that version of Keator had disappeared the moment he’d slipped into a men’s room to shave off the beard he’d worn the past few weeks, take off the silly, light-haired wig, and remove the cheek implants—little things that made it so easy to fool facial recognition software. The programs had gotten better, but not that good. Many countries insisted that citizens not smile for passport photos. Before leaving the restroom, he’d donned an overcoat and fedora that a confederate had worn upon entering a few moments before and passed to him from an adjoining toilet stall should authorities check video feeds later.

  As far as Customs and Border Protection was concerned, Joseph Darzi had never left the country. A few years before, al-Qadir had slipped out, traveling to Canada on a passport issued to him listing his British mother’s maiden name as his surname, one he’d gotten as a child. He’d retained it, along with his dual citizenship, all this time—from long before the world had any need for the kinds of security measures now seen at airports everywhere. From Canada, he’d flown to London. After that, he’d used his networks to move around Europe and the Middle East. And “Darzi”—a compatriot using his name—had ridden Amtrak that day from New York to D.C. if anyone took the time to check.

  While Jason prepared his registration form, al-Qadir looked around the lobby once more. His appraising eye took in every detail, alert for anyone who might be taking more than a passing interest in him. More than anything, however, he was struck by the opulence, the sheer excess. He’d been born to this lifestyle, but after years in the spare, humble abodes of the men with whom he’d fought, the wealth on display seemed obscene. He felt sullied just looking at it.

  “No bags, sir?” Jason said.

  He turned his attention back to the clerk. “Just the overnight case. I like to travel light.”

  In fact, he’d gotten used to moving around with little more than the clothes on his back. People, especially Americans, became so attached to material things they forgot the important things in this world. Al-Qadir had come to remind them.

  Jason slid a plastic key card in a paper sleeve across the counter. “Enjoy your stay, sir. If we can be of any help while you’re here, please don’t hesitate to call.”

  With a smile that faded as quickly as it appeared, Al-Qadir nodded and turned toward the elevators.

  The suite was large and comfortable. Too comfortable. For a moment, al-Qadir considered spreading blankets on the floor next to the huge bed, but realized he was being stubborn and foolish. Comfort, at his age, was no luxury. He unpacked the few clothes and toiletries he’d brought, and called the concierge to make an appointment with the tailor he used in D.C. They would expect that of Joseph Darzi. He was, after all, chairman and primary stockholder of a major energy conglomerate. As he hung up, a light knock sounded at the door.

  He swung his head, senses on the alert.

  “Room service,” came a muffled voice from the hallway.

  He stood, took two steps toward the door and stopped.

  As if anticipating his hesitation, the voice said, “With the hotel’s compliments, sir.”

  He gave a slight nod, strode to the door and opened it. A uniformed server met his gaze and pushed a trolley into the center of the room.

  “Would you like me to set up for you, sir?” the server said.

  “Thank you, no. I’ll wait a bit.” Al-Qadir took the guest check holder and glanced at the total on the receipt inside. He took some bills from his pocket, slipped them into the holder and handed it back to the server. After walking the server out, he hung out the “Do Not Disturb” sign and locked the door.

  The linen draping the cart hung almost to the floor. Al-Qadir ignored the cloche and place-setting atop the cart. Instead, he lifted a corner of the linen and threw it back over the trolley. He knelt and pulled a box from the shelf below next to the warming cabinet. Opening it quickly, he spilled its contents onto the couch cushions. Just as he’d asked, they’d supplied him with tools necessary for the job at hand—two H&K MP7A1 personal defense weapons, a tailor-made suppressor, several 20-round and 40-round box magazines, and boxes of armor-piercing, high-velocity ammunition. Explosives, he knew, would come later.

  He sat next to the small arms cache and picked up one of the machine pistols, feeling its smooth barrel, the knurled grip, his caress tender, almost loving. He favored the Uzi, or even the Tavor, preferring the irony of using Israeli made weapons. But the H&K was a formidable gun, used by many of the world’s elite fighting forces. He stripped the weapon in his hands, inspected each part, and reassembled it then repeated the process with the second one. Just as he finished, the burner phone in his pocket vibrated. Only calls to a special server located somewhere in Tajikistan were bounced around the world through VOIP to this cell. Retrieving it, he glanced at the display and answered.

  “Yes?”

  “I don’t have an answer for you yet,” a woman’s voice said.

  “Why not?”

  “I tried, but even if he does know the details, he isn’t saying.”

  “He’s in charge of the case.”

  “Yes, but he’s not allowed to handle transfers. That’s a different department.”

  “Does he suspect you?”

  “No, of course not.” She sounded nervous now.

  “Good. Then you will try another way, another time.”

  “What if he doesn’t find out until it’s too late?”

  “Don’t worry. I have a contingency plan in place. He’ll tell you what we want to know.”

  “What kind of contingency?”

  He sensed a note of fear in her voice, and quickly sought to sooth her. “Nothing you have to concern yourself with. You’ve done well so far. A few more days, and your job will be done, with my thanks, praise Allah.”

  “Praise Allah,” she murmured.

  “Be well,” he said, and hung up.

  13

  The radio in the van crackled to life.

  “This is Four,” a male voice said quietly. “Stray a block north of our position. Possible target. Heading your way.”

  “Roger, Four,” Hunt’s voice responded. “Heads up, everyone. Description?”

  The FBI ninja two blocks over went on. “White male. Six feet. Maybe one-sixty, one-seventy. Older. Late fifties, early sixties. Buzz cut.”

  “Copy, Four,” Hunt said. “Everybody get that?”

  Roberts reached for the radio and keyed the mic. “This is Two. Roger that.”

  “Roger, boss,” Machowski said, sardonic tone as clear as if he sat in the van.

  Roberts imagined Hunt’s irritation. A pretty easygoing guy considering his job, Hunt wasn’t a stickler for protocol unless HBOs—high bureau officials—stood close by, or during an op. Roberts was convinced Machowski ignored field rules just to yank Hunt’s chain, but someday it might get someone hurt. She wondered if Hunt planned to have a chat with Machowski later.

  “Whoa,” Four exclaimed softly. “Probability just went up. Subject appears Middle Eastern.”

  “Roger, Four,” Hunt said. “On your toes, people. I don’t want this guy spooked.”

  “Better watch yourself, Peters,” Machowski said. “Someone might accuse you of racial profiling.”

  “Let’s keep it professional,” Hunt’s voice cut in.

  Machowski’s voice grumbled, “I still don’t see why we don’t take him before he gets inside.”

  “We’ve been through this,” Hunt said. “Too risky, both to us and neighbors. I want him nice and comfy. We wait until he’s settled and asleep.”

  “Whatever you say, boss.”

  Roberts stifled a laugh, the choked sound attracting glances from Davis and Brown. She quickly erased her smile and pointed at the control panel.


  “Ears on, boys. Suspect’s close.”

  They quickly turned back to their surveillance gear, Brown now wearing the headphones and monitoring audio, while Davis monitored the video gear. Roberts lifted binoculars to her eyes and peered down the street at the corner. Less than a minute later, a man stepped around the corner, his gait neither fast nor slow. He walked with his head down, not to hide his face, but because he seemed preoccupied, unaware of his surroundings, on auto-pilot. Roberts frowned. It didn’t feel right. Maybe the guy was just out for some fresh air. Maybe he’d had a fight with his wife. As he passed under s streetlamp, she saw that Four’s assessment had been correct. The potential target looked to be of Middle Eastern descent. In this part of the world, though, that didn’t distinguish him as much as it would have elsewhere.

  The man looked up as if to get his bearings and cut at a diagonal off the sidewalk and across the street, out of her view from the van window. She lowered the glasses and peered over Davis’s shoulder at the video monitors, one normal, the other infrared. Her pulse pounded as the man drew closer to the house under watch. The man stepped onto the sidewalk in front of the home, and for a moment she thought—hoped—he would pass it by.

  Suddenly, he turned up the walk, and let himself in the front door.

  14

  The sun’s disappearance had darkened the sky to indigo by the time Doug arrived in Ann Arbor, leaving only a deep purple and yellow bruise on the horizon. He still drove the second-hand Beemer he’d bought for his first job out of college, and he’d managed to keep it road-worthy all these years. Sally had driven a company car, a hot convertible from one of the Detroit automakers, since she was one of the firm’s design engineers. She’d traded it in for an SUV when Preston had arrived in their lives, unwilling to stoop to a minivan that might brand her as a soccer mom.