Stolen Identity

by Michael W. Sherer

  “Who’s asking?”

  “Ah.” Her smile broadened. “Shall we dance? I won’t tell you that. Not until I find out why you know this woman. Why did Langley have a signal alert to notify you if her name came up?”

  “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.” He matched her grin. “Seems we’ve gone way past dancing. I’m not sure your husband would approve.”

  She batted her eyelashes. “Why, Richard, how you talk.”

  He held his hands out, palms up, like a magician showing he had nothing to hide.

  “Safiya abd-al-Rashida Masoud is a Syrian national, age indeterminate, but we guess late fifties. A member of the Druze sect, she’s been an outspoken critic of the Assad regime and its persecution of practically any religious groups in Syria that isn’t Alawi, including the Druze community. Hell, you know the situation there is bad.”

  “A lot of people find Assad’s regime deplorable, Richard. Why does that make her of such interest to the CIA?”

  “Beyond the connection she could give us to an anti-Assad group in Syria? The fact is that she appeared on our radar nearly two decades ago because of rumors that she could be involved with Zayn al-Qadir.”

  “The terrorist? I thought he was a myth, made up. A name al-Qaeda could rally around after bin Laden died.”

  He shook his head. “We believe he really exists. We’ve just never been able to pin down who, among the many people we’ve linked to al-Zawahiri and other known al-Qaeda leaders, he might be. We don’t have a face to go with the name, in other words.”

  “But you think Safiya is connected in some way? How?”

  “We think she’s his wife,” Swopes said. “One of them, anyway. We know she had two sons, Hassan and Amir. Both were educated here in the states. Hassan at Lehigh University and Amir at MIT. They’re both bright, apparently. But an unknown patron paid most of the freight. Room and board and tuition that scholarships didn’t cover.”

  An uneasy feeling grew inside her. She didn’t want to believe her onetime friend capable of the atrocities attributed to al-Qadir, but the evidence was too compelling to be mere coincidence. Still, she held out hope. “Go on.”

  “Masoud is in federal prison in Michigan facing charges of terrorism.”

  “Oh,” Abigail said softly, feeling warmth creep up her collar into her neck and face. “Of course. The one who tried to smuggle explosives into Detroit from Canada.”

  “Amir is in the wind,” Swopes went on. “We’re not sure where he is or what he’s up to.”

  She knew he’d press her now for the name, but she needed more time to think it through. “Do you know where the woman is? I’m told she’s in a refugee camp.”

  “We heard that, too. A Syrian camp in Iraqi Kurdistan. She’s been moved. The Kurds know who she is and how valuable she could be to their fight against ISIL.”

  “Good God, Richard, is every faction in the Middle East vying to use this woman for their causes?” She suddenly realized that if Swopes was right, Joe had handed her a bargaining chip that could be used against him. “She stands to have valuable intelligence about al-Qadir and his organization, as well as the situation in Syria. Things we could use against ISIL. Can you find her and help us get her out?”

  “I’m pretty sure we can find her. We’ve got people working on that now. As for getting her out, I don’t know. We’ve tried. We’d like to find out what she knows about al-Qadir. She’s been offered safe passage before and refused it.”

  “Even though her sons are here?”

  He nodded. “She knows she’s more effective against ISIL and the Syrian regime there, on the ground, than here.”

  Swopes leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped, and stared at the antique rug for a moment. When he raised his head to ask the question she knew was coming, she’d made up her mind to tell him.

  “Who is it?” he said softly.

  “Joe Darzi.”

  He absorbed that. “Energon? Very reclusive. You knew him in college, right?”

  “We’ve been friends for a long time, yes.”

  “Why? What’s in this for him?”

  She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Instinctively, she felt badly about betraying a confidence, but nothing about this situation was normal. From the moment she’d sat down at Joe’s table in the Hay-Adams she’d sensed something off, something different about him. He had changed, an intensity burning more fiercely within him than ever before.

  “He said that Safiya is his wife.”

  Swopes sat up and rubbed his chin. She could see his mental gears turning, shifting.

  “I was shocked, too,” she went on. “That’s why I put out some feelers.”

  He peered at her. “You’re sure that’s what he said?” He raised a hand in apology. “Rhetorical. What I’m thinking is impossible on the face of it, yet the more I turn it over, the more sense it makes. And that makes me very nervous.”

  She frowned. “Why? What am I missing?”

  “The raised threat level… Ma’am, two days ago, a man entered the country from Mexico using an alias. In other words, he entered illegally. The alias he used was stolen from someone I happen to know, a grunt I knew back in Vietnam named Zane Keator. I think the man who crossed the border was Zayn al-Qadir.”

  “Darzi.” She played devil’s advocate for a moment, just to be sure. “Do you know how crazy that sounds? He’s the chairman of a huge energy conglomerate. He can come and go as he pleases. Why borrow someone else’s identity to slip across the Mexican border?”

  Swopes wrinkled his nose and scratched behind his ear. “I’m not sure. His position at Energon lets him travel to the Middle East without causing any concern, but maybe he was there when his passport and CBP said he was here. Could be any number of reasons. The point is, he’s the right age, he disappeared from public view for a few years around the time Amir and Hassan were born, and he admitted to you that Safiya’s his wife. Don’t you think that’s enough?”

  She was silent for a moment. Her friend Joe had asked her for help. Even if he was a master terrorist, he’d risked discovery for the sake of a woman he said was his wife. Their friendship might be over, and Joe might soon end up behind bars, or dead. The least she could do was honor his request, as a friend.

  “Will you help me find this woman?” she said.

  “Of course, if it will help us confirm that Darzi is al-Qadir.”

  She swallowed and nodded.

  “Is he still here in town?”

  She nodded. “He’s staying at the Hay-Adams.”

  He rose and shook her hand. “Thank you, Madam Secretary. I’ll be in touch.”

  51

  Jack pulled the phone away and looked at it warily. He wondered what the guy on the other end was selling. Using Rachel’s name like that—her maiden name, even—was a nice touch. It had really thrown him off. For a moment he’d been genuinely concerned something had happened to Rachel. He put the phone back up to his ear.

  “We need to talk, huh?” he said. “What about? I just got approved for a payday loan? I won a trip to the Bahamas? Oh, I know. If I wire a grand to your office in Nigeria, you’ll send me my winning lottery ticket.”

  “No, it’s nothing like that, sir.”

  Sir? The guy called him “sir,” and he didn’t have an Indian accent. “Wait, I’ve got it. You want to offer me a deal on carpet cleaning.”

  He put as much sarcasm into his tone as he possibly could, hoping the guy would take the hint and just hang up.

  “Have you heard from your father-in-law, Mr. Calhoun?”

  Again, Jack was thrown by the unexpected. Then again, given the envelope that lay on the coffee table in front of him, maybe he should have expected it.

  “Uh, no, I haven’t. Why?”

  “Apparently you haven’t seen the news, either,” the man said.

  “Uh, no. I, uh, I’ve been at work.”

  “You and your wife could be in grave danger, Mr. Calhoun. Rachel’s father
is a fugitive, the subject of a state and federal manhunt, and he may be headed your way.”

  “Aw, come on. Who is this, really? Is that you, Richie?”

  “This is no joke,” the man said in a cold voice. “Keator eluded capture early this morning by the FBI and went on the run. Now he’s a suspect in an assault on an Ohio state trooper and a murder in Canton. He’s considered armed and dangerous.”

  “Jesus, you aren’t kidding,” Jack said, thoughts racing. “Well, he hasn’t shown up here. So, what do you want me to do if he does show?”

  “We need to capture him before he hurts anyone else. If he ends up coming to you and your wife, it’s because he trusts you. You’d be in a perfect position to make him stay put until we get people in place to take him in.”

  “You mean like stall him?”

  “Exactly right. I’m about an hour’s drive from you right now. If Keator shows up between now and the time I get there, I want you to keep him occupied, prevent him from leaving. I can call you when I’m a few minutes from where you live and tell you what to do next. Can you do that, Mr. Calhoun?”

  “Well, sure, I guess so.”

  “You have Caller ID on your phone, correct? So you’ll recognize my number when I call again. It’s important that you not give Keator any indication that we know he’s there.”

  “Yeah, I get it. Who are you, anyway?”

  “I’ll introduce myself when I get there. What’s important right now is making sure that Keator doesn’t hurt anyone else, especially you and your wife, Mr. Calhoun. You’re doing a very brave thing given the circumstances. Keator is desperate. So be very careful in what you say. Just keep him at ease and make sure he doesn’t leave. I’m on my way.”

  “Yeah, okay,” Jack said, but the line had already gone dead. “Whatever,” he muttered.

  He stood, and grabbed the arm of the couch for balance as his vision went black and the room spun. Slowly, the dizziness passed, and the room lightened. He made his way to the small, galley kitchen, wishing he could remember what he’d had to drink the night before. He found a single can of beer in the fridge, and downed half of it in a few quick gulps. He took the rest of the can back into the living area and flopped on the couch.

  So, Mr. Holier-Than-You was in serious trouble. No better than anyone else, it turned out. On the lam for murder and assaulting a cop. Allegedly.

  Jack didn’t see why he couldn’t turn this to his advantage, play both sides against the middle. He just had to figure out how. He had something Zane wanted. And once Zane showed up, Jack would have something the guy on the phone wanted. Seemed simple enough. Everything had a price. All he had to do was find out what each was worth, what Zane was willing to pay for a new life, and what the cop or fed was willing to pay for Zane. Was the caller a cop or a fed? He’d never said as much, but what else could he be? The notion bothered Jack for all of three seconds until he realized it made absolutely no difference. Zane was worth something in trade. They always offered up some sort of reward for the capture and conviction of wanted felons, didn’t they?

  His mind made up, Jack hustled to the cramped bedroom in back, stripped off his clothes and took a quick shower. He found some clean jeans in the closet, and an almost clean T-shirt in the hamper. He’d promised Rachel he’d take all the laundry to the laundromat, but somehow had never gotten around to it. One more thing she’d be pissed about when she got home. Then again, after a double shift she might be too tired to care. She’d definitely be too tired for sex. Jack stopped for a moment and tried to remember the last time they’d done the horizontal tango, but couldn’t conjure up an image. Months, at least. He sensed his luck was about to change.

  In the living room, he retrieved the cards and looked around for a safe place to keep them. Hi gaze lit on the cutesy porcelain containers on the kitchen counter labeled “Flour,” “Sugar” and “Coffee.” He’d told Rachel they took up too much room, and it wasn’t like she did a hell of a lot of baking. But she’d insisted, saying they made the place look more homey, making her forget, sort of, that she lived in a trailer. Sure, a trailer, and only a single-wide, but a damn nice one. He looked around. Well, maybe not so nice at the moment, but he’d clean it up eventually.

  He took the cards into the kitchen and stuffed them as far down into the sugar container as he could. No one would think to look there, and they weren’t about to use up enough sugar any time soon to expose the cards. Satisfied, he checked the fridge, hoping he’d overlooked another can of beer. He could really use another one about now. But the sad contents—half empty condiment jars, some moldy cheese, the stale remains of a loaf of bread—mocked him. That was okay. He could be tough when he needed to.

  He turned on the television and sat on the couch to wait.

  52

  The pilot turned and leaned over his armrest to look back into the cabin. “We’re ten minutes out, folks,” he said loudly. “Seatbelts would be a good idea.”

  Roberts glanced up from her laptop and started to shut it down. Machowski stirred in his seat, opened his eyes and closed his mouth. He’d slept most of the way, but his gentle snoring had been drowned out by the throbbing whine of the engines, so it hadn’t disturbed her. She’d been working for the hour or so they’d been in the air. When the screen went black, she closed it and stowed it in a bag that doubled as a purse. She caught Hunt looking at her, and leaned across the narrow aisle.

  “He has a daughter, you know,” she said.

  Hunt stared at her for a moment. “Okay, I’ll bite. So what?”

  “She lives in Virginia. Less than a hundred miles from D.C. Almost a direct line from Canton.”

  “You think he went there.”

  “Makes sense. More sense than somehow knowing where al-Qadir is.”

  “He’s a fugitive. It would make sense to stay as far away from family and KAs as possible.”

  She shrugged. “Desperate times…”

  Hunt stared toward the front of the plane. She wondered what was going through his head. They approached the job so differently that it sometimes surprised her that he tolerated her on his team. Hunt had earned his position based on brilliant hunches and dogged determination. Roberts needed intel before making decisions. She trusted her intuition, but avoided acting on it until she had solid information to back it up. On this mission, her hunches had been right every step of the way. Hunt had gone off half-cocked, and he knew better. She knew he was a good agent and a good team leader. He just hadn’t used good judgment lately. And if he didn’t start soon, he’d be relegated to some backwater and the rest of the team wouldn’t fare well, either. Which is why she’d spent the flight time doing more homework.

  Detroit had been what the boys would call a clusterfuck. In less than twenty-four hours Hunt had managed to piss off an SAC, put a man in the hospital, strain relations with members of his own fly team, and give several of Detroit’s finest SAs and SWAT members reasons not to work with him ever again. Roberts had overheard calls from Roger Beamis, Hunt’s supervisor, who’d reamed his ass for his poor judgment, and Ed Havlicek, the head of the counterterrorism division, to ask what the hell Hunt thought he was doing. She’d tried to keep her gaze averted, but couldn’t miss his red face, his miserable expression, or even the shouting coming through the tiny speaker on Hunt’s phone. She felt sorry for him, but the best way to help him—to help everyone—was to give this mission a happy ending somehow.

  Hunt finally nodded and faced her. “Couldn’t hurt. Okay, since you’ve done the prelim, when we get down, I’ll drive, you navigate.” He raised his voice to be heard above the whine of the engines as the pilot banked into final approach. “Machowski, when you get back, get the Tucson International and Reagan National video feeds from the TIAs. I want to find the man who got on that plane. I want to know where he is in D.C. Maybe Roberts and I will get lucky on this little side trip, and we can put the whole matter to bed tonight. If not, the two of us will be back in a few hours, and I’d like some answers by
then.”

  Machowski grunted and turned his face to the window.

  She watched Hunt think it through.

  “We’ll need to requisition a car at Andrews,” he said.

  “Already done.”

  His eyes widened, and for the first time she didn’t feel like a side of beef as he appraised her. “I better clear it.”

  She shook her head. “If you do that, Beamis will inform the Richmond SAC, and Richmond will assign someone from the resident office in Charlottesville to go knock on the door. That’s if you convince Beamis, of course.”

  She watched it slowly sink in; Hunt’s eyes took on a sly cast.

  “Special Agent Roberts, are you playing fast and loose with agency rules?”

  She kept her expression impassive. “Depends on how you look at it. I did inform the Richmond SAC that we’re heading to Ruckersville, just as a courtesy.”

  Hunt nodded.

  Fifteen minutes later, they got onto the Capitol Beltway headed west from Joint Base Andrews.

  Roberts looked at her watch. “It’s at least six hours or more from Canton to his daughter’s.”

  Hunt glanced at the dashboard and gave the engine a little more gas.

  “You mean if we hustle, we just might beat him,” he said.

  53

  “Damn it, Janice! They wouldn’t leave us alone this morning and now you can’t find one?”

  Doug paced his office like a caged cat. He felt as if he’d been so close to getting Preston back, so close to having him in his grasp.

  “Their office is in kind of an uproar right now,” Janice said. “Roberts and her team left. Flew back to Washington. Leaving Jim Scanlon with a man in the hospital, egg on his face, and short-handed to cover existing assignments.”

  He was about to interrupt, but she held up a finger, stopping him.

  “However,” she went on, “the two TIAs who were assigned to help the fly team are suddenly at loose ends and are on their way over.”