Stolen Identity

by Michael W. Sherer

  Preston.

  Preston was the diversion. Both she and Douglas should have seen it from the beginning. They hadn’t seen the forest for the trees, and she felt more foolish than she ever had in her life. There was no target in Detroit. The target was wherever Preston had been taken, and Preston had convinced Douglas that he was in Washington, D.C. What better place to create a diversion? If Hassan Masoud really was al-Qadir’s son, then al-Qadir intended to draw attention far away from Detroit. Of all the jihadis al-Qadir intended to break out of jail, his son would be the most important, the one person he’d want to free more than any other. And hitting something in the capital would make a huge statement—like flying a plane into the Pentagon had in 2001.

  She sat up and opened her eyes, and quickly gathered up her papers. She needed to catch Douglas before he left for the day. Just as she reached the door, her phone rang. She hesitated, but its insistence drew her back to the desk. She snatched up the receiver and answered.

  “Janice, are you out of your mind?” her friend Carol said. “You want me to show this to Scanlon? And all the other JTTF members?”

  “I don’t have time, Carol. And neither do you. The marshals are moving Masoud tomorrow. Do you want to take a chance? I don’t know about you, but if this is true and we don’t say something, I’ll regret it for the rest of my life. I was just on my way to Douglas Keator’s office to present it to him.”

  “I can’t do it. It could mean my job.”

  “If you came across all this information on your own, wouldn’t you feel compelled to tell someone? That is your job, Carol. That’s what we do. We analyze intelligence and report our findings.” She paused. “I can’t tell you what to do, but I’m begging you to help me with this. This is why Douglas’s son was kidnapped this morning. I don’t have time to explain. I have to go, Carol.”

  “But—”

  Janice hung up on her and rushed out, hoping she still had time to catch Douglas. He was putting on his coat when she reached his office. She rapped on the open door and stepped inside.

  “I need a minute.”

  He glanced at her, then started putting file folders in his briefcase. “I have to get home, Janice. Sally needs me. She hasn’t even seen the video of Preston yet. And she’s frantic with worry. Can it wait?”

  She shook her head. “I’m sorry, but no. This concerns Preston.”

  His head jerked up. “What about him?”

  “He’s a diversion. His kidnapping is meant to distract you—all of us, FBI included—from the purpose.”

  “What purpose? Whose purpose? What are you talking about, Janice?” He closed his briefcase and stepped around his desk.

  Janice stood her ground and held out the sheaf of paper in her hand. “I’ve been analyzing the data. Near every location where the threat level has been raised due to rumors of an attack a terrorist is jailed. I’m convinced that on top of the real threat of attacks they intend a series of jailbreaks.”

  Douglas frowned. “I don’t understand. Attacks would have a greater impact. Why bother trying to break people out of jail? It’s too difficult.”

  “Masoud will already be out of jail. The others are part of the boast.”

  “Zawahiri?” Doug waved. “Old news. And never going to happen.”

  “No, al-Qadir. And there’s every indication that he has the resources to make it happen.” She tapped the stack of paper in her hand. “Please, Douglas, just read this. If you aren’t convinced, fine. But they’re moving Masoud tomorrow. By then it might be too late.”

  “I really have to go.”

  He pushed past her into the hallway, and Janice’s heart sank. Before he’d taken three steps he stopped and turned.

  “What were you saying about Preston?”

  “They took him to deflect your attention away from Masoud.”

  Doug passed his hand in front of his face as if swatting a fly. “Masoud’s taken care of. The marshals will make sure he gets to county lockup safely. I’m not worried about that.”

  “You should be.”

  He started at the vehemence in her tone, his eyes searching her face.

  “They’re going to use him against you.” She shoved the report at him. His gaze moved down to the report and back up to her face. After what seemed like an eternity, he reached out and took the papers from her hand.

  “Fine,” he said softly. “I’ll read this at home tonight.”

  She opened her mouth to protest that by then it would be too late, but he’d already turned for the elevators. She pressed her lips together and considered what she should do next. The other JTTF members in the office would be even less likely to take her seriously. But she had to do something.

  Zane.

  Zane was out there somewhere. He would believe her.

  Janice rushed back to her office and found his home phone number. She dialed almost frantically, her usual calm gone out the window as the enormity of what could happen weighed on her. After four rings, the call went to his answering machine, and she cursed under her breath before starting her message.

  58

  Deaf and blind from the blast, face on fire from the gunshot residue, I pushed forward, using my weight as I twisted the knife and shoved the blade up into Amir’s heart. He tried to bring his gun to bear on me, but I grabbed his wrist with my free hand and held his arm away, feeling his strength ebb. His eyes held more fear than hatred now as the knife carving up his insides finally registered in his brain. I drove him back through the doorway into the trailer, and faintly heard the sound of screaming through the ringing in my ears.

  He sagged onto the fist that gripped the knife handle, light fading from his eyes. I yanked the blade out, letting him fall to the floor. So much for a martyr’s painless death. Something told me that no virgins awaited him in Paradise, either.

  Rachel stopped screaming and stared at me, tear-streaked face blank. Jack had dragged himself across the carpet to the couch where he sat on the floor, legs outstretched, back against the edge of the cushions. He had one hand clamped over the shoulder wound. He raised his eyes from the body on the floor and blinked at me.

  “Shit, you’re bleeding all over,” he said.

  I looked down at the knife in my hand. My hand was red and sticky. I swiped the blade of the knife on my pants, sheathed it, and clenched my fingers a few times. Nothing wrong there. Then I realized that blood was dripping down the side of my face. I reached up and felt the gash on my head where Amir had hit me. It was tender and already swollen into a knot.

  “Rachel,” I said.

  She stared into some middle distance and didn’t respond. I walked up to her, grabbed her shoulders and shook her gently.

  “Rachel, I need your help. I don’t have much time. Come on, sweetie. Snap out of it.”

  Her eyes slowly focused on my face and she swallowed hard as the nurse in her took over. Her head bobbed to let me know she was back.

  “I need your car, Rachel. I’ll leave you the van I’ve been driving. Maybe the cops won’t take it when they get here. But I need a way out of here. Get me the keys to your car. And then wrap some ice in a dishtowel and bring that to me, too. Okay? Hurry!”

  I turned to Jack as she went to find her purse.

  “Get up, Jack. I need that ID. Now!”

  He tried to lift his arm to wave and winced. “I’m shot, man. Get it yourself. It’s in the sugar container on the counter.”

  I hurried into the kitchen, shoved my clean hand into the sugar jar and fished around until I came up with three or four cards. I saw a driver’s license, so I didn’t worry about the rest. I moved to the sink and rinsed the sugar off the card and the blood off my hand, then wet a handful of paper towels and did my best to clean the blood off my face. By the time I finished, Rachel stood beside me with car keys in one hand and an icepack in the other. I took them both gratefully.

  “I’m sorry about all this,” I said. “There’s so much I’m sorry for, Rachel, but I can’t talk now
. I have to go before the cops get here.”

  Her eyes searched my face. “Where? Why?”

  “You heard that asshole. They took Preston. They took your nephew. I don’t have time to explain. I’m going to get him back. I don’t know how. But I swear I’ll get him back.”

  I turned for the door.

  “What about me?” Jack said plaintively.

  I looked at him pityingly. I had a feeling that Rachel wouldn’t keep him around for long after this. Not once she learned the whole story.

  “Now’s your chance to be a hero, Jack,” I said. “Tell the cops you stopped a terrorist. He shot you and you defended your wife, your home.”

  He blinked a few times as he thought about it. I grabbed the pistols from the floor and hurried out into the night.

  As I started up Rachel’s car, I heard sirens.

  59

  They hadn’t spoken for more than an hour. On the other side of the glass, the wooded Virginia countryside rolled by in the dark, an occasional pair of oncoming headlights or glow in the sky signaling a town ahead the only signs of civilization. The center stripe on their side of the divided four-lane blinked on and off in the glare of their lights, and the sounds of the engine and wind rush droned monotonously. But Roberts had no difficulty keeping her eyes open.

  Hunt stifled a yawn and Roberts glanced over to make sure he wasn’t nodding out at the wheel. She wondered if he regretted becoming so obsessed with al-Qadir. He’d been with the agency more than fifteen years. Most agents would have married and started families by now, some even looking for managerial or desk jobs to reduce their time in the field. Roberts didn’t think Hunt had even dated during his time with the Bureau. At least not seriously.

  She was no stranger to obsession. She suspected that what drove Hunt was pretty similar to what drove her—the desire, the need to prove himself smarter, better than his peers and especially his quarry. She hadn’t done much better in the relationship department, either, but at least she had a lie outside the agency. Despite the demands of the job, she’d formed friendships with a few people through her interest in tennis. And she tried to visit her family whenever she could. Sibling rivalry notwithstanding, she adored her brothers, loved hanging out with her mother, and had even earned her father’s grudging respect.

  Reflections on her family, in fact, had led her to some insights about both of the men they were chasing, thoughts now fully formed enough to share with Hunt.

  She stretched, then took a sip of water from a bottle she produced from the bag she carried that also served as briefcase and purse.

  She held the bottle out. “Want some?”

  Hunt eyed it warily.

  She gave a little snort of laughter. “You won’t catch anything.”

  “That’s okay. I’m good.”

  “Suit yourself.” She screwed the top on the plastic bottle and stuck it in a cup holder. “So, I’ve been thinking.”

  “Yeah, I guessed that.”

  She ignored him. “Let’s assume for a minute that Keator’s stolen identity and the kidnapping are connected. We’re convinced al-Qadir is making his move, right? So what is it? What’s his move?”

  Hunt drove in silence for a moment. “Could be any number of things. Threat level is up in a bunch of places, and JTTFs are hearing rumblings about attacks on half a dozen sites at least.”

  “Okay, but what’s the one thing he wants most?”

  “To bring this country to its knees.”

  She stared at him until he squirmed under her inquisitive glare. “You’ve been after this guy so long you only see the terrorist. You don’t see the man anymore.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying ideology isn’t the only motivator. Al-Qadir made a promise—to free every jihadi in prison in this country. When I asked AUSA Keator if any of his cases might give someone a reason to kidnap his son, the answer was staring me right in the face. He’s prosecuting Masoud, Terry. If you wanted to break Masoud loose, seems like holding the prosecutor’s son would give you a whole lot of leverage.”

  “Turn the AUSA to get information? Like court schedule, and best times and places to break Masoud loose?”

  She remained silent, letting him explore the possibilities.

  “That could play,” he said finally. “We need a way to confirm it. Something—anything…. The question is where did they take the kid? Did we leave Detroit too soon?”

  Roberts turned her face away without answering, and looked out the side window again. She turned back. “Better question is, does the AUSA know? We need to call him.”

  She saw the doubt etched on Hunt’s face in the light from the dash. She’d never seen him doubt himself.

  “Your dad was a cop, right?” he said softly.

  She nodded slowly. “Yeah, chief of police.” She wondered where he was going with this, if he’d read her earlier thoughts.

  “How’d you do it? How’d you drum up the courage, the moxie to become an agent?”

  “Because I knew I could never be a cop.”

  He looked confused.

  She tried to find the words to explain. “I never wanted to be anything else. But I had three older brothers, all of whom followed in the old man’s footsteps. Not all on the same force, but still. I knew I couldn’t compete with that. So I took a different route. They joined the Marines; I went Army. They became cops; I joined the Bureau. Same thing, different path. Wasn’t easy.”

  “I haven’t made it any easier, have I? Guess I’ve been pretty much a dick.”

  “Well, not all of the time.”

  He snorted, the closest thing to a laugh she’d heard from him in a long while.

  “And no, we didn’t leave Detroit too soon,” she said. “Your instincts were right.”

  After a beat, he said, “I appreciate your saying so. Guess we’ll see soon enough.”

  Roberts sat straighter as a reduced speed zone sign suddenly appeared in the headlights. “We’re close.”

  She pulled out her phone, the glow of the small screen soon lighting the car’s interior. “There’s a big intersection about a mile up. Take a left there.”

  As soon as they came over a small rise, she saw the traffic light ahead. Hunt followed her directions, and she indicated a right turn less than a quarter-mile after that. Both of them leaned forward as flashing blue light filled the car.

  “Damn,” Hunt said. “Too late.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  He sighed. “You’re right. Let’s see what the hell happened.”

  Two county sheriff’s cars and a rescue squad wagon straddled the street outside the address they sought. Hunt pulled onto the shoulder partway down the block so the car wouldn’t be in the way. Roberts got out and when he joined her they walked up to the scene together. Some neighbors stood on their stoops and silently watched. Flickering light in the windows of others suggested that either they didn’t want to get involved or whatever was on television was more important than the drama playing out at the end of their block. A sheriff’s deputy stood at the edge of the street outside a mobile home, closing off their access.

  “Sorry, folks,” the deputy said. “You can’t come any farther. This is a crime scene.”

  The agents both pulled out their IDs and held them up.

  “Special Agents Hunt and Roberts, FBI,” Hunt said.

  “You got here fast,” the deputy said. “They just called you folks, like, ten minutes ago.”

  They looked at each other. Roberts was glad she’d made the call to Richmond. It could save them some embarrassment.

  “We’re from D.C., actually,” Hunt said. “You must have called the resident office in Charlottesville. They’ll probably be here soon. Who’s in charge of the scene?”

  “That would be Sergeant Marquette,” the deputy said. “Josh Marquette. He’s inside. We’re waiting on an evidence tech from CID. And a medical examiner.”

  “Someone’s dead?” Roberts said. “Who’s the
victim?”

  He shrugged. “Not sure. They haven’t told me a lot out here yet.”

  “We better take a look,” Hunt said. He held up a hand as the deputy opened his mouth. “We’ll be careful. We’ve been around a few crime scenes, deputy.”

  “Just doing my job, sir.”

  “Don’t mind him,” Roberts said as they stepped around him. “He gets cranky when he hasn’t had enough sleep.”

  They walked up to the door in silence. Roberts figured Hunt was just as concerned as she that their only lead in this mess was dead inside this mobile home. As if reading each other’s minds, both of them pulled latex gloves on before they reached the door. Hunt knocked loudly, opened the door without waiting for an answer and entered. Roberts squeezed in and stopped beside him.

  The growing crowd inside the small space made it seem even smaller, especially when three of the six bodies in the living room belonged to large sheriff’s deputies, and two more wore EMT uniforms. All of them had turned toward the door in surprise except for the dead guy on the floor practically at Hunt’s feet. The EMTs quickly turned their attention back to the man leaning against the couch, but all three cops continued to eye the newcomers. She let Hunt take the lead. He sought out the deputy wearing sergeant’s stripes on his sleeve.

  “You must be Marquette,” Hunt said. “We’re FBI. I’m Hunt and this is Roberts. Can you brief us?”

  While Hunt spoke, Roberts took in the rest of the scene, noting more details—the woman in the kitchen with a deputy, the age and features of the victim, the shoulder wound of the man by the couch. One of the deputies had been snapping photos. He returned to his work, documenting the scene. The sergeant skirted the body by as large a margin as he could and met them at the door.

  “You made good time from Charlottesville.” Marquette’s gaze shifted from Roberts to Hunt.

  Hunt shook his head. “We’re from D.C. We were on our way down on another matter.”

  Marquette looked at him questioningly.