Stolen Identity

by Michael W. Sherer

  Even as she spoke, a young man knocked on the doorframe and poked his head through the opening.

  “Mr. Keator?”

  “That’s me,” Doug said.

  “TIA Brown, sir, FBI,” the man said as he strode across the room with hand outstretched, reaching across the desk to shake Doug’s hand. “Sorry to hear about your son, but I understand he’s been in contact?”

  “He used FaceTime to talk to me. I recorded it.”

  Brown circled the desk to stand next to Doug. He gestured at the computer. “May I?”

  Doug stepped aside as Brown slipped into the chair and pulled himself up to the keyboard.

  “He said he was in D.C.,” Doug said. “He was standing in front of the Washington Monument.”

  Brown typed for a bit, then said, “That wasn’t where this video was shot. See this fuzziness here. And here.”

  He traced his finger on the screen along the outlines of Preston’s clothing. Doug saw the pixelated colors that didn’t quite match the clothing or the background.

  “This was shot against a green screen,” Brown said. “Your son was superimposed on a photo or video still of the monument.”

  “He said he was in Washington,” Doug said firmly.

  Brown shook his head. “This could have been recorded anywhere. I’m trying to trace the feed to see where the server might be located, but I don’t think it’ll work. Looks like whoever uploaded this video knows what they’re doing. This was bounced all over heck and back. Sorry, there’s no way I can find out where this came from.”

  “Look, if Preston said he was there, then I believe him. He said they stopped at the mall first before going wherever they set him up on FaceTime.”

  “And your son was the only person on camera?”

  Doug waved at the computer. “See for yourself. It was just Preston, though you can see him talking to someone off camera.”

  “Okay, maybe we can bump up the audio in that portion and get a voiceprint. Could even get some ambient sounds that might give us a better sense of where he is. Is there anything else you remember that seemed odd or felt off?”

  Doug closed his eyes and recalled the brief conversation. The whole situation felt bizarre. He opened his eyes.

  “He wasn’t afraid. He might not know he should be afraid, but whoever took him doesn’t seem to have abused or threatened him in any way.”

  “That’s good.”

  Doug shifted his weight. “I need to call my wife and let her know Preston’s okay. Do you mind?”

  Brown glanced up. “No, I think I’ve got everything I need. I’ll only be a few more minutes.”

  Doug turned to Janice who still hovered by the door. “Can you stay until he’s done? I’ve gotta call Sally.”

  She nodded and stepped aside. Before Doug got halfway to the door, Toby Pratt stuck his head in, looking somber.

  “The Marshals Service just called,” Pratt said. “I need you in the big conference room now, Doug. The team’s all there.”

  Doug felt torn. “Three minutes, Toby. Please. I have to let Sally know I talked to Preston.”

  “He’s okay?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Three minutes. You knew it might come to this, Doug.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Doug followed Pratt down the hall, dialing Sally on the way. He stopped outside the conference room and taped his foot as he waited for her to pick up.

  “Come on, come on. Sally? He’s okay. I just talked to him.”

  “Oh, God, did they find him?”

  He heard both the relief and anxiety in her voice, and almost couldn’t bring himself to tell her the bad news part. “He’s in D.C., but—”

  “Washington? I don’t understand. The contest…?”

  “No, the kidnappers still have him, but he’s not hurt. Sally, I have to go. They need me in a meeting. I’ll call as soon as I can. He’s okay, Sally. Remember that. He’s brave, and he’ll get through this. We’ll get him back.”

  “We have to get him back.”

  “Gotta go. I love you.”

  He cut off whatever she was going to say and rushed into the conference room. As promised, everyone on the case had already taken a seat, with Elizabeth, the district head, at the head of the table. His boss Kathleen and assistant Karin sat together on the opposite side, and Pratt slid into a chair at the end of the table across from Elizabeth. Doug frowned when he saw Karin, wondering how she’d wangled an invitation. Junior staff normally wasn’t included in a meeting like this. His disquietude nagged at him to say something, but Toby started the meeting by announcing, “Okay, Ross, we’re all here.” Ross Perkins was U.S. Marshal for the Eastern District of Michigan.

  With no time to call Toby’s decision to include Karin into question, Doug quickly eased into the nearest chair. He wasn’t sure what he would have said in any case.

  “About time.” Perkins’ voice emanated from a speakerphone in the middle of the table. “Now that everyone’s around the campfire, my call is to confirm that we’ll take the usual route from FCI Milan.”

  Doug purposely didn’t look at Karin and said in what he hoped was a casual voice, “Are you sure you want to be that predictable?”

  He ignored the reproving looks from his three bosses. It was his case, and he didn’t like the thought of the Marshals Service treating Masoud as a low-security risk. Bad enough that they were holding Masoud in the Federal Correctional Institution outside Milan. The prison had a reputation as a country club for federal felons.

  “Who’s that? Keator?” Perkins said. “Look, I know this case means a lot to you, as it does to all of us. Fact is, son, we have to take Route 23 out of Milan. Don’t have too much choice in the matter, and we like four-lane, limited access highways a lot better than stop-and-go city streets or even two-lane rural highways.

  “From there it’s a straight shot up to Interstate 94, then direct into downtown, and the Chrysler Expressway dumps us onto Macomb a block away from the county lock-up, across the street from the courthouse. What’s not to like? Seventy miles per hour all the way, with several options to call an audible once we’re on the interstate. We can go crosstown on the Lodge Freeway or even the Jeffries Freeway and then up I-75. That unpredictable enough for you?”

  “What’s your timing?” Toby said.

  “That’s the other reason for my call,” Perkins said. “Got some news you’re not going to like, but it’s gotta be done. We’re hearing disturbing information from a CI inside FCI Milan. We’re moving Masoud tomorrow.”

  54

  “Okay, I think I’ve got everything I need,” Brown said, disconnecting an external hard drive from the USB port on Doug’s computer. “Not sure it’s going to be much help, though.”

  He looked so chagrined that Janice felt sorry for him. He was so young. He’d learn quickly that the job was full of disappointments. Life, too. She hoped it wouldn’t jade him.

  “Thanks for your help,” she said. “I’ll tell Douglas. Do you expect that the resident SAC will get in touch?”

  “That would be Jensen, ma’am. Since I’m here in the Detroit office, and he’s Ann Arbor, I couldn’t say, but I’d guess so. I’ll give him my report, but I’m sure he’ll want to follow up.”

  She nodded as he wished her a good day and left. Taking a last look around, she was about to do the same when Doug’s phone rang. She waited a moment to see if his assistant would pick up for him, but it continued to ring. Personally, she wasn’t fond of voicemail, so she impulsively snatched up the receiver before the call went to Doug’s voicemail box.

  “Douglas Keator’s office,” she said briskly.

  “Is he there by any chance?” a male voice said.

  “I’m sorry, he’s in a meeting. Can I take a message?”

  “Are you his secretary?”

  “No, actually. I’m Janice Foster, an intelligence analyst here. I work with Mr. Keator. Who am I speaking to?”

  Janice listened to silenc
e, as if the caller couldn’t decide whether to tell her his name.

  “Ms. Foster, are you good at what you do?”

  Janice bristled. “Extremely. Who is this?”

  “This is Richard Swopes.”

  Janice couldn’t help letting a tiny gasp escape.

  “You know who I am.”

  “Of course,” Janice said.

  “Good. Then you’ll understand my dilemma. I’ve come across information that makes me believe a terrorist attack in Detroit may be imminent. It’s connected with the case that Mr. Keator is about to prosecute.”

  Janice felt her stomach knot. “The Masoud case. Have you told the FBI?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Why tell us first?

  “I wanted to convince Mr. Keator. The problem is that this is based on information, not evidence. The FBI wouldn’t consider it credible.”

  Her thoughts raced as she ran through the snippets of intel she’d read earlier. “The threat level has been raised in several places. What makes you think Detroit is a target?”

  “You’re an analyst. Hypothetically speaking, if you had information that suggested Masoud was the son of one of the most wanted terrorists in the world, and if his father had sworn an oath to free all jailed jihadis, and if you had information that this man had recently entered this country, what would you surmise?”

  Janet thought a moment and spoke slowly. “My conclusion would be that this man likely intends to break his son out of jail.” She paused. “What makes you think this person is here?”

  “He stole an identity to get into the country.”

  Again, Janice sucked in a breath. “I wasn’t sure he was telling the truth,” she murmured.

  “Zane? You know AUSA Keator’s father?”

  Janice blushed, as if Swopes could read her mind. “Yes, we’re friends.”

  “We were, too, in another life,” Swopes said. “He’s been in touch, I take it.”

  “He called. Said he needed my help in figuring out why the FBI raided his home.” She had more questions, but other thoughts intruded, and a chill ran through her. “Your hypothetical is worse than you thought, sir.”

  “Richard, please. In what way?”

  “If this man really did steal Zane’s identity to get into the country, then he plans to make good on his promise. Here’s my supposition—based on information, not evidence. There will be attacks in all the places where the threat level has been raised. They’re all diversions to keep the attention away from the real intent. He’s going to break all those people out of prison.”

  “So, you find my theory credible?”

  “Of course.” She paused. “Oh, you might not be aware that Douglas’s son was kidnapped from school this morning.”

  “Yes, Zane told me.” His tone sounded grave. “It reinforces what we’re thinking.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Find a way to make people believe you, Janice. Tell them what’s going to happen.”

  “I don’t understand, sir. Surely your opinion carries weight. You’re CIA deputy director.”

  A sigh came over the line. “I’m an old spook, Janice. No one trusts an old spy. I’ve cried wolf once too often. I’ll make some calls, but it’s up to you. Your AUSA is on the local JTTF?”

  “Of course.”

  “Talk to him. Convince him. Make him sound the alarm. I don’t think you have much time.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good luck.”

  55

  Fading daylight didn’t make Ruckersville any more attractive. It may have once charmed travelers with a small-town main street. Now it had a few strip malls, some standalone fast food restaurants and a Walmart strung along a busy highway like trinkets on a charm bracelet. I picked a fast food joint and pulled into the parking lot. Inside, I ordered coffee. Blood thrummed in my ears and my hands shook as I lifted the cup to my lips. But not from the ten-plus hours on the road with a vehicle strapped to my ass, not from the lack of sleep, and not even from the constant worry of dodging cops.

  I hadn’t come back from Vietnam all fucked up like a lot of kids. That’s what we’d been—kids. Tens of thousands of us had seen the horrors of that place up close and personal. From what I saw, those of us who fought in that war had reacted in one of four ways. Some had checked out, found refuge from the war in drugs. Some had been turned by the relentless savagery into savages themselves, raping and killing whole villages full of innocent women and children. A few—mostly career soldiers—had relished the action and adventure. Most of us had kept our heads down, our mouths shut, completed our tours honorably and gotten the fuck out. I hadn’t come back a heroin junkie, or a psychotic killer, or a catatonic vegetable. I hadn’t been a victim of PTSD or Agent Orange. Like the vast majority of soldiers who came back from any war, I’d returned sadder, wiser and determined to put it behind me and get on with my life.

  Not until getting home had I realized the extent of the anti-war movement—and the reasons for it, the extent to which our own government had lied to us. We’d been told that if South Vietnam fell to the Communists, then the rest of Southeast Asia would fall like a house of cards, creating an even bigger threat to our way of life. We’d been told that not only were these poor people being subjugated by socialism, but that slant-eyed, dark-skinned—yellow or brown, didn’t matter—short people were relics from the Stone Age who ate rats and dogs off dirt floors and didn’t deserve to live unless they accepted our Western, democratic ways. Ingrained in our training was the assumption that we were superior; they were little more than animals.

  The early ’70s hadn’t been much different than the late ’60s here at home, even though the revolution had started. Niggers were still niggers, Huey Newton or not, and my coloring and background had still made me out as a camel jockey to many. Sonny and I had protected the very people who denigrated us by killing other people of color. I almost thought Sonny had been lucky not to come back to the ridicule and shame from the revolutionaries who claimed to fight for our equality. The bleakness of the hypocrisy on all sides had first depressed me, then angered me, not to the point of self-destruction, but the destruction of my family. Until I’d finally remembered my desire to move on.

  Now, my coffee rippled and sloshed in the cup as I thought about the damage I’d caused. I hadn’t seen Rachel since her wedding, and my presence had been physical only, a nod to convention. The father-of-the-bride traditionally gives the bride away. When she made the decision to marry Jack Calhoun, I didn’t just give her away; I washed my hands of her. Now I wondered if she would forgive me, or even talk to me.

  I had an old phone number, obviously unused for a number of years. With some trepidation, I dialed. I was so taken aback when a man answered that it took me a moment to find my voice.

  “Jack?” I frowned. “What are you doing with Rachel’s phone?”

  “Who the hell is this?”

  “Zane. Your father-in-law.”

  “You really are a heartless bastard. All this time you avoid us, and when you finally do call first thing you want to know is why I have Rachel’s phone? I dropped mine and broke it, okay?”

  That was so like him. Instead of fixing it or buying a new one, he mooched off someone else, usually my daughter.

  “Is she there?” I said.

  “No. She’s at work.” He paused. “What do you want?”

  I didn’t know the answer to that question just then. “I want to see her.”

  “You’re in town?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t know. She’s coming off a double shift. She’ll be dead-dog tired. And I’m of a mind that she don’t want to see you.”

  “You can’t stop me from seeing my daughter, Jack,” I said quietly.

  “I know that. Just offering a little friendly advice, that’s all. Tell you what, why don’t you and me spend some time getting reacquainted till Rachel gets home. I’ll call her from wherever we’re at and ease her into the idea,
get her comfortable.”

  I sighed. “Sure. I guess that’ll work. I’m at a fast food joint out on the highway.”

  I told him which one, and he said he’d be there in fifteen or twenty minutes. While I waited, I ordered something to eat, but shoved it aside after two bites that tasted like regret.

  True to his word, Jack walked in about twenty minutes later. Despite his relative youth, the years showed on him. Beer had added the beginnings of a tire around his middle. Dark bags under his eyes pulled his lids down, turning his once boyish charm to the look of a sad coon dog. He came over to the table without a nod or wave, looking around as if someone might be watching. I didn’t bother standing or extending a hand. After plunking into a chair, he eyed the barely touched food.

  “You mind?” he said, already reaching for the fries.

  I waved permission, and watched him shovel the food in his mouth.

  “Haven’t eaten today,” he said between mouthfuls, one cheek pouched with food.

  “Working?” I raised my eyebrows.

  He gave his shaggy head a shake, eyes on the food. “Nah, hung over.”

  The sour taste in my mouth spread to the back of my throat. I swallowed hard, but it seemed to stick halfway down.

  I forced a smile. “Celebrating?”

  His laugh came out more like a bark. “Yeah, the end of another shitty job.”

  His eyes met my gaze finally, and his expression asked me what I was going to do about it.

  “You’ll find another.”

  I shrugged, but he understood my meaning. His defiance faltered for an instant, then reappeared even stronger.

  “So, you’re here to see Rachel. Maybe kiss and make up?”

  “I don’t expect forgiveness. As much as I dislike you, I shouldn’t have taken it out on her.”

  “If you hate me so much, why’d you let her marry me? Why didn’t you tell her to leave?”

  “I walked out on her—well, her mother, but it amounted to the same thing. I didn’t think I was in a position to say what she could or couldn’t do. It was her choice. But if you had a daughter, you’d know how I feel.” I appraised him. “Then again, maybe you wouldn’t.”