The Identity Thief (19 page)

"But Ali, I know what this Fatima bint Kuttab looks like," Asar insisted. "I want to be sure it's her."

Well, that's an unexpected development
, X thought
. Did Jones forgot to do his homework?

"Remove your face piece," Asar ordered the woman.

"I will not," she said, crossing her arms defiantly.

"You will do as a man commands you," he insisted. "A woman's duty is to submit."

"To her husband, not to the whim of every strange boy," she retorted. She appealed to X. "Will you allow this pup to shame me? The Koran says that no woman's face is to be seen except by her husband and closest male relatives."

"I've read it," the identity thief replied.

"She speaks the truth," Harry confirmed. "We can not violate holy law because we are afraid."

With speed X wouldn't have thought him capable of, Asar snatched the Kalashnikov out of the woman's hands and pointed it at her.

"We must make sure," he said, reaching for the veil.

"Don't touch me," the female fighter hissed, stepping back in what appeared to be fear. But X had seen enough kung fu movies in his teenage days to know that she was positioning herself to kick the weapon out of the teen's hand.

Asar pointed the rifle between her eyes.

"Asar, think of what The Chief would tell us," X pleaded. "Do you wish to make a mockery of our fight with the infidels?"

In the periphery of his vision, he could see Harry moving quietly behind Asar. If the woman didn't disarm him, the spy would, X thought. But either way they were screwed because only The Chief's teenage driver knew the way to his lair.

Asar hesitated, sweat pouring down his brow, as he weighed X's words. Then, with lightning speed, he reached and jerked away the veil, revealing the face of Traci Kingsmith.

The teen stepped back and immediately dropped the gun.

"A thousand pardons," he said. "I have never felt such shame."

Traci clapped her hand over her nose and mouth, as a Western woman might shield her breasts. But her face was exposed long enough that X saw what appeared to be odd, vertical scars on both her cheeks.

Asar hastily helped her reattach the face piece. "I am so, so, sorry."

"Come, now," Harry said. "You can offer your apologies later. We're wasting time."

The woman retreated to the far side of the truck and the men hastily dressed. It felt wonderful to be in pants and a shirt again, instead of a hospital gown or orange prison jumpsuit. The Afghani getup he'd seen a million times on CNN felt a bit like a Halloween costume. It wasn't exactly an Armani suit, but X felt that he'd instantly reclaimed a measure of human dignity.

They opened the barn doors and started piling into the vehicle. When Traci reached for the driver's side door, Harry interposed his body.

"I will drive," he said sternly. "You should know that it is forbidden for women to drive a motor vehicle."

Traci bowed and surrendered the keys.
I wonder what page of the Koran says that
? X wondered.
Guess I need to bone up
.

Harry took the wheel, while, X, Traci and Asar piled in the back and slammed the door shut. The truck tore off down the road, kicking up dust.

Asar wore a dejected expression.

"I'm sorry, my friends, but I had to be sure. Forgive me." He looked as if he might weep and Traci put a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

X knew by now that proverbs were the best way to comfort him. "My young friend, your zeal is admirable, but you cannot let your emotions get the better of you," he said. "Remember, it is said, 'The most important holy war is the one fought against your own passions.' "

"It is nothing," Traci assured the teen. "When I was crossing the border from Egypt to Gaza, the Jews had me strip naked and bend over so they could inspect my private parts. It was important for you to know you could trust me. You did not behave wrongly."

That was laying it on a bit thick
, X thought, but he was grateful to have the visual insinuated into his brain.

She began to hand out
naan
, a traditional Afghan bread, and
quroot,
a sort of dried blend of yogurt and cheese.

"So, when did you two meet?" X asked, with as much nonchalance as he could muster. This he
had
to hear.

"We've never met," Asar replied, taking a huge bite out of the bread.

"You said you saw her before."

"I said I knew what she
looked like
," Asar corrected him. "I had been told Fatima bint Kubbat is a black woman, an African from Liberia, with scars on both her cheeks, where assailants marked her. Few know that."

"Scars?"

Asar gestured at the sides of his face.

X glanced quizzically at Traci, and recalled the faint parentheses that now marred her beauty.

"The men who left them have been cut too," she said quietly. "And they'll do no further harm to women."

Both men winced, then nodded soberly.

So Mr. Jones hadn't slipped up. He'd done his homework on the real bint Kubbat. He thought again that the spymaster would have made a dandy identity thief. Presumably even the Committee wouldn't go so far as to slice up the FBI agent, so she must be wearing makeup. Quite convincing too.

I wouldn't be surprised if Mr. Jones shanghaied some Tinseltown makeup artists into service,
X thought
.
Are there Hollywood stars working for the Committee too, and stuntmen? Perhaps Angelina Jolie had a hidden motive for adoption jaunts overseas.

As well as food and water, the back of the truck was stocked with weapons: three more Kalashnikovs, two AK-47s, an M1911 caliber .45, a box of grenades and even a rocket launcher. There was also a spanking new laptop and an ancient boom box type radio. Asar asked for some music and the woman turned it on.

He soon recognized a traditional Afghan song and hummed along with it. X did too, smiling as if he'd heard it a thousand times before. He and Asar exchanged the grin of two high school boys embarking on an excellent adventure.

The music was interrupted by a BBC report.

"U.S. Army Captain Gayle Tofel, a military spokeswoman, confirmed that three prisoners escaped from Abd Al-Rahman Prison - the first escape from any joint U.S.-Afghan detention facility in the country.

"The area around the prison has been cordoned off and roadblocks set up on nearby roads. Photographs of the escaped inmates have been distributed to search teams and local authorities, and landowners near the prison were notified."

The spokesman said that all three were involved in terrorist activity and that they included Ali Nazeer, the notorious playboy-turned-terrorist captured in the U.S. last fall.

An American-accented voice came on. "These men represent a clear and present danger and the military considers their recapture a top priority."

Asar looked a little spooked.

"It sounds like they think we're still on foot," X said. "They don't know we have a vehicle."

The truck screeched to a stop and they were thrown on top of each other. Asar landed atop Traci, his hands, comically, on her breasts, like something that might happen to Leslie Nielson in a
Naked Gun
movie. He rolled off, blushing and aghast.

"So sorry, so sorry," Asar said. "A thousand pardons."

"Something has gone wrong," Traci said.

X heard voices - gruff, distinctly American voices - outside the truck.

"What do we do?" whispered Abu.

"Start screaming," Traci told him. "In pain. Clutch your belly."

"I do not understand," Asar said.

"Do it now," she said.

"I do not take orders from a woman,"

"Do as she says," X barked.

Asar began to shriek in pain - an easy performance because he'd had so much practice feigning illness in the hospital ward.

The back door to the truck was flung open and a pair of GIs stood, one pointing a rifle at them, the other a handgun. One was black, the other white and both were unusually good-looking. Somehow, they reminded X of Sonny and Tubbs in that old show
Miami Vice
. A few yards behind them a third soldier was shoving his automatic rifle in the face of Moammar and gesturing with the weapon for him to lie face-down.

"Get down! Get the fuck down!" the third soldier bellowed.

Harry was gesticulating wildly and jabbering in an obscure Afghan dialect X didn't recognize. "Out of the truck," the black GI ordered them.

"My brother, he is sick," X told them.

"It is true," Traci said. "We are taking him to the hospital."

"Get him off the fucking truck," bellowed the black guy, training the muzzle at X's forehead.

X began to tug the teen out of the back of the truck, but Asar made himself dead weight. Groaning in agony each time, X tried to pull him.

"You must help me," he begged the black soldier.

The GI assessed the situation and reluctantly holstered his weapon. "Cover me. And keep an eye on that bitch - I don't like her eyes," he told his buddy. The white one nodded.

"Get out," Sonny ordered Traci. The woman climbed out of the truck, her hands in the air, palms forward.

"On your knees with your hands on your head," the GI demanded and Traci complied.

As X and Tubbs struggled with Asar's squirming body, he noticed that the confrontation between Harry and the third soldier had escalated, the volume of their voices on the rise. Harry was still standing, though crouching a bit. In another 30 seconds, the soldier would undoubtedly shoot, X realized.

"Get down, get down!" the GI was hollering at the top of his lungs.

Harry got down to one knee, now arguing in what X finally identified as half the Afghan dialect Pashto and half pig-Latin gibberish.

"Just shoot the fucker," the white kid guarding Traci said, turning toward Moammar.

She lunged forward and caught the muzzle of the gun, jerking it into the air. A round discharged. X, who hadn't heard a gunshot in years, jumped at the deafening sound.

Tubbs dropped Asar's feet and leaped out of the truck, drawing his gun like a cowboy, while the GI confronting Harry turned around and aimed at the woman's head.

Before either of them could squeeze off a shot, Harry pulled the .45 from his sleeve. He shot the guy who'd been hectoring him in the back and plugged Tubbs in his chest. The GIs dropped like crows struck by lightning.

Sonny yanked the muzzle of the rifle away from Traci and whirled toward Harry, raising it to fire.

The woman reached under her skirt, pulled a Beretta 92 Compact out of God knows where and pumped six bullets into his back. Blood shot spectacularly from the exit wound in his chest as the guy crumpled to his knees then sprawled face-forward.

Asar scrambled up and looked shell-shocked as he beheld the carnage.

"Oh, that, that, it all happened so quickly," he stammered. Evidently, despite his terrorist credentials, he didn't see bloodshed all that often.

Harry and X hurriedly loaded the bodies into the back of the Army truck, then dispatched Asar to leave the vehicle over a hilltop and cover it with thick bushes. The teen had enthusiastically volunteered to set the truck ablaze, but the others hastily put the kibosh on the idea, warning that the smoke would signal their pursuers.

While they waited for Asar to return, X whistled. "Well, that was rather impressive. How did you manage to get the blood to do that?"

"Squibs, like the kind they use in Hollywood," Harry explained.

F/X people on call, just as I thought,
X marveled. "And you, Traci, you are VERY quick," he said. "A regular Annie Oakley. Where exactly is that holster?"

She smirked. "That's for me to know and you never to find out."

"I never thought I'd envy a gun before."

Harry stepped forward and shoved X in the chest.

"Watch your mouth," he said. "This isn't one of your skanky lap dancers."

X narrowed his eyes and smiled. "I wouldn't do that again if I were you."

"Or what?"

Traci stepped in between them. "I don't need anyone to speak up for me, Harry."

The agent shrugged, sullenly. "Fine. But I thought it was your job to keep him in line."

"Back to business," she said. "It played well, agreed?"

Harry nodded. "I don't think the kid should have any doubts about our loyalty."

"Good. Mr. Jones said those three were the last Committee operatives to help us. We're on our own from here on in."

X laughed. "How are we going to get by? Without all that great aid and comfort he's been giving us so far?"

Harry raised his finger and opened his mouth to scold him.

Traci held up her hand. "Zip it, boys, he's coming back."

Asar was running back over the hill, a wide grin on his face. He came up to them panting. "It is done. It is in a ravine that is difficult to see even by a helicopter."