The Identity Thief (21 page)

Hopefully I'll never have to find my way back out
, he thought.
Where's a ball of yarn when you need one?

When they emerged, about 200 yards away, it was in a modest family home, adorned with intricately woven carpets and pillows, painted chests and ornate candlesticks. Several women in burqas perched on a kind of daybed, knitting quietly, and an 18-month-old in diapers crawled on the floor pushing a toy fire truck. A teenage girl - it was hard to gauge her age in the head-to-toe covering but X guessed 13 - was washing dishes in the sink. Nothing screamed terrorist safe house.

As soon as they entered the living room, two of the women jumped to their feet and gestured for the new arrivals to follow them through a beaded curtain. The smaller woman opened a large wooden chest that looked as if it might store Long John Silver's booty. She held up a garment in front of X - a black burqa.

"Hurry, you must wear these," she said.

Asar shook his head violently. "I will not wear a burqa," he declared.

"It is an abomination," agreed Harry adamantly.

"Our first duty is to the Jihad," X pointed out. "We must stay free so that we can fight for our cause. Allah will forgive us, my friends."

Asar looked at Harry, who stroked his jaw thoughtfully then nodded. The men threw off their hats and began to pull the robes over their heads. Traci took a burqa and retreated to a back room to do the same.

Just five minutes later, a trio of Marines kicked in the door. They barged in, M4 carbine assault rifles at the ready. All they met, of course, were women sitting on the daybed knitting, while three others sat at a table, chopping up onions and garlic.

A couple of the younger women hopped up, shrieking at the sight of the guns.

"Hands in the air," one of the Marines barked. Another repeated the order in Pashto. "Drop those knives."

"Sit your asses down," shouted another soldier. "Sit down before I sit you down!"

One dropped to her seat, while the other remained standing. The soldier grabbed her shoulder and roughly pushed her down.

"Where are they, where are they?" demanded a Marine with sergeant's bars.

One of the women stood up, her status as an elder evident from her hunched posture and the raspy voice in which she began scolding them. A Marine sat her down too. The toddler, who'd been in the lap of one of the women, wrenched himself free and crawled to his fire truck. When his mother reached for him, a soldier pointed his rifle at her.

"Move again and I'm going to pop you," he yelled. The tot began to roll the toy around, oblivious to the tension in the room.

X, one of the ladies on the couch, was finding it a bit difficult to breathe in the burqa. That loose-fitting hospital gown was looking pretty good right about now.

The soldiers pushed through the beaded curtain, kicked in the doors to the bathroom, the bedroom and the nursery in turn, shouting "Clear!" as they ascertained no fighters were present.

Disguising themselves as women was a fairly lame trick, in X's estimation. All that saved them from discovery was that he, Asar and Harry were all of small stature. If one of the trio was a big guy, they'd have been history.

Oh, well, any port in a storm
, X thought.

It was at that moment that he noticed that a spot of blood, fresh and glistening stained the carpet where the fire truck had been. His bandage must have leaked! He glanced around to see if anyone else had noticed it yet. Perhaps the elderly woman had. She met his eyes, then looked away. The soldiers hadn't spotted it yet, but they'd have to be blind not to before they left.

The boy cooed and held up the fire truck and a young Marine crouched down, smiling.

"What's that you've got, little guy? I had one of those."

He was going to see the blood in two seconds.

Suddenly the old woman began to screech in her native tongue, "You filthy cat, aren't you old enough to cover yourself properly when your time has come?" She grabbed the 13-year-old by the forearm and dragged her to the center of the room. "Look!" she screamed, pointing at the spot of blood dramatically. "See how you have disgraced your family in front of these foreigners."

The teen bowed her head in shame, saying, "Grandmother, I am sorry," but the old woman boxed her savagely in the ear.

"Hey, hey, knock that off," said the Marine sergeant, grabbing hold of her. The elder lunged at the cowering teen again, beating her with her fists. It took two of the Americans to restrain her. As the adolescent beat a hasty retreat behind the beaded curtain, the sergeant stuck his sidearm in the grandmother's face.

"Leave her alone, you crazy old bat," he snarled.

"You will be beaten when they are gone," she shouted into the next room.

X smiled behind his veil.
Meryl Streep has nothing on this old crone,
he thought
. She deserves Best Supporting Actress for that little performance.

Finding nothing, the Marines retreated, their frustration evident. One guy tipped over a vase as he left, saying "Ooops!" as it shattered.

Well, that was a bit gratuitous
, X thought. As soon as a peek through the window confirmed that the Americans were gone, the three male fugitives threw off their burqas as if they were on fire - Harry with exaggerated disgust.

Asar fumed, "If only I had an AK-47 to hand when these infidels came in and terrorized these honest Muslim women."

"They are cowards,"' sneered Harry. "They would have run from the bang of one child's pop gun."

X turned to the women saying, "May Allah reward you for the good you have done here today."

The eldest woman bowed. "We do not often get genuine heroes as guests," she said. "We will feed you now. Sit, please."

A
dastarkhan
was prepared for them, a large cloth spread over the floor on which the meal was to be served. The four guests sat about it. The teenager presented an
aftabah was lagan
, a copper basin with a pot filled with water.

The teen tiptoed around the
dastarkahn
to each the guests, pouring water over their hands. A sumptuous meal was then laid before them. One woman brought them a basket filled with breads, relishes and fruits. Another brought a platter of
naan torshi
, pickled peaches with lemons, eggplant, vinegar and spices. Plates of
chalow
came next, a traditional Afghan dish composed of white rice, parboiled and baked with oil, butter and salt, served with
quorma
, a kind of stew.

Some was delicious, some merely palatable and some downright disgusting, but on the whole X found the fare a welcome change from the cold mystery-meat sandwiches and flavorless navy beans that typically passed for a dinner in prison. As they sat, the men hashed out their plans as Traci knelt on a cushion beside them, holding her tongue.

"We will take the Khyber Pass?" Harry asked.

"No, it is better we take an old drug smuggler's trail through a smaller pass known as the Forgotten Way. Almost no knows of it." Asar said.

"I suppose they've forgotten it," X wisecracked.

"That's very funny, Ali," said Harry, though the glowering look he gave the identity thief suggested otherwise.

The leader of the cell, one of the two fighters who'd led them to the safe house distributed phony identification papers.

"I hope these will be helpful to you," he said. "We keep such documents at the ready for those who are in the great struggle."

"Do these belong to real people?" X asked.

"One does," Rahim said. "A carpet merchant named Azmaray who betrayed the Cause and ... Allah saw to it that he suffered an accident."

X looked over the fake travel documents, which as a purist, he felt would not stand close scrutiny. He politely told his benefactors the documents were not up to snuff and asked for access to a computer and a digital camera.

Online, within a few minutes he found another Pakistani carpet merchant named Hussein Kulachi modern enough to have a Facebook account. Mining the home page, he was quickly able to gather information about his family, hobbies and other details. He was fond of British TV, liked cricket and often posted comments about astronomical discoveries.

Although the printer wasn't the most up to date, it was good enough to print out documents X created that were similar to the sample, bearing the names, dates of birth and other salient information about Kulachi and three relatives.

He had each of his fellow travelers pose for a photo, took one of himself and uploaded them. Moments later, Asar watched with admiration as X used a razor blade to cut out pictures he'd printed out and paste them carefully onto the fake travel papers.

"Have you done this before, Ali?" he asked.

"I've seen it done," he said. "Is Akeem back with the laminator?"

"Yes, he got one from the print shop."

"Get it from him will you."

Asar nodded and as he rose, he marveled, "You are a man of many hidden talents."

X grinned. "I may take this up as a second career."

Harry glared at X, who responded with a wink.

* * *

Harry was to pose as Hussein Kulachi, a carpet merchant returning to Pakistan from business in Kabul. The vehicle was already laden with Oriental rugs, lying over the cache of weapons. Traci was his wife Ghazala, X his brother Asan and Asar his nephew Raheem. The cover story was that they were taking the pass to avoid taxes and, with the small bag of diamonds they'd brought for the occasion, were prepared to pay bribes. Their benefactors also gave them $900 U.S., from a stash of petty cash provided to the cell by the Warriors of Allah.

"I will hold the papers," Harry said, taking them out of X's hands.

Traci surrendered hers obediently.

"I should have made myself the husband," X whispered to her. "I have three specific marital duties I'd like you to perform."

"Keep dreaming," Traci hissed back.

Harry then insisted that they rehearse their roles and, like a schoolmarm, quizzed them on details of their fictitious lives garnered from the social networking site.

"What is your occupation?" he asked X.

"A carpet merchant."

"Where were we married?" he asked Traci.

"In Haripur, Pakistan."

What village are you from?" he demanded of Asar.

"I was born in Girishk," Asar said without hesitation.

Harry consulted the documents. "Wrong, you are from Khalabat."

Asar smacked his forehead. "Ach, that is my parents' REAL home. I am sorry. I am not used to lying. Forgive me."

X rubbed his knee affectionately.

"It is an admirable trait that deceit does not come naturally to you," he said. "I have the same problem."

That prompted Traci to launch into a brief coughing fit. X smiled. He knew it wasn't on purpose; the agent didn't appear to have a sense of humor. But it came off like shtick from a sitcom, which he found somehow endearing.

By now, of course, the Americans and the Afghan army had encircled the city. Fortunately, the terrorist cell had constructed a tunnel that ran beneath the city wall big enough to run the truck through. A suicide bombing on the other side of town would, hopefully, provide enough of a diversion for them to get away.

X watched as the plucky suicide bomber - or homicide bomber as Fox News preferred to call such workers - hugged his brethren and set off with a backpack.

"I think we are well prepared," Harry announced. "Let us get some rest. The sun will be setting in a few hours and we'll have the cover of darkness."

X looked out the window at the formidable mountains looming in the distance. It was hard to believe vehicles could scale them.

Two days later, they were high in the Sefid Kow mountain range heading through the so-called Forgotten Way toward Pakistan. The truck was surprisingly hardy, making its way through the tight switchbacks and steep inclines with little difficulty. It took X a while to get used to the bumpy ride - it was like being an old sneaker bounced about a dryer.

The pass constantly twisted and turned, arbitrarily cut through the mountain by nature. The 30-foot cliffs on either side of the pass were seemingly impossible to scale. X thought of the countless other men on secret missions who must have passed this way over the centuries: Persians, Mongols, Tartars, Huns, Turks, British and Russian spies in the Crimean War.

The identity thief imagined soldiers of Genghis Khan high above them on the cliffs staging an ambush, raining arrows down on the road. Soviet troops had hunted Afghani freedom fighters here; drug dealers and smugglers had sneaked through with their illicit wares. And now this motley crew of liars: terrorist hunters pretending to be terrorists pretending to be carpet merchants.

They drove until sundown, when the sparse vegetation lining the road became slowly invisible. As darkness fell, it became increasingly difficult to make out the canyon walls on either side of the trail. There was a half moon, but the light was obscured by a dense cloud cover. Clearly, they could go no farther.