The Identity Thief (11 page)

Earl chimed in. "It's also widely agreed that the Air Force recovered alien technology from the wreckage and took it to Area 51. Our scientists used reverse engineering to develop the Stealth Bomber, the Star Wars missile defense system and a lot of weaponry that's never been declassified. Possibly even a time-travel device."

X nodded. "Why, it only stands to reason," he said encouragingly.

He might have known no sane person would pick up a male hitchhiker these days.
Well, at least they seem harmless. Not more than a 10 percent chance I'll wind up in a dozen different garbage bags along the highway.

"When it comes to the federal government, you've got to understand that every word they tell the public is a lie - including 'and' and 'the,' " Don continued. "It's wheels within wheels, lies within lies, riddles inside of riddles. Heck, there are so many secret agencies today, they keep secrets from one another - the left hand doesn't know what the right hand is doing and one group ends up foiling the plans another group has had in the works for decades."

Earl added, "When that happens they call it a 'Wilderness of Mirrors.' If things go rhino and everyone ends up shooting each other, a team is sent in to cauterize the scene - liquidate all the compromised assets.

"They call it the 9 mm pension plan. All the documentation on the botched mission goes to a place at CIA headquarters called the Pit where it's dumped into an enormous shredder, then burned. You know there are agencies not even other agencies know about? One is - "

Earl interjected, "The most secret of all is called the Secret Committee. It's so secret the President doesn't even know about it. They say it's been around since the American Revolution and it's tied up with the French Foreign Legion."

He wrapped his index and middle fingers around each other to emphasize this closeness. "Politicians pretend to hate France, but that's just a cover. We're like that."

"It's like the Kennedy assassination," Don said, warming to the topic. "Did you know the real reason was that the CIA wanted to keep him from revealing the truth about extraterrestrials?"

"Didn't know that," X said.

"JFK was about to reveal the presence of aliens on Earth in his speech that day in Dallas," Earl said, digging a crumpled newspaper clipping out of his pocket. "See, I have it right here."

The source of the article was unclear, but the byline was "Mike Foster," which sounded like a pseudonym to X. He scanned the article quickly and saw that it included an excerpt from the undelivered speech."Citizens of the Earth, we are not alone," it began dramatically and continued in a distinctly Kennedyesque style and cadence X recognized from documentaries. The source of the article was an upcoming book titled
Killing the Messenger
by one Professor Merrick.

"Here's the spooky part," Earl said in a hushed voice, turning fully back to look at the passenger. "You try to find the book on Amazon and it isn't there. You Google this expert Merrick and there's absolutely no trace of him."

Don nodded gravely. "It's like the guy has been erased. Poof."

X had a feeling that the historian's lack of any footprint suggested something else entirely. But he'd gone 48 hours without sleep and had no interest in debating the subject.

"The world sure is full of mysterious stuff," he agreed and leaned back.

As his rescuers launched into a feverish discussion of the role of the Illuminati and the presence of their symbols in monuments like the Statue of Liberty, he drifted off into an uneasy sleep, descending into a dream world populated by bulbous-headed E.T.s, a buoyant JFK with a bullet-hole in his forehead and the spiraling concentric circles of an impossible gyroscope, wheels within wheels within wheels.

* * *

"Go, go, go! Floor it!" Earl was hollering at the top of his lungs. X's eyes flew open and he braced himself as the pickup tore down the road at better than 90 m.p.h.

The whir of chopper blades flooded his eardrums and he looked out the window. Overhead, a pair of sleek black helicopters hovered like hummingbirds. A huge, ugly machine gun projected out of the open door of one.

"The Men in Black," Earl gasped more in awe than fear.

"Like in the movie?" said X, trying to determine if he was still dreaming.

"The helicopters aren't in stealth mode. I can hear them," said Don.

The chase lasted only a moment or two before the driver hit the brakes, nearly sending X through the windshield, and the pickup screeched to a stop about 20 yards in front of a roadblock. About two dozen men in body armor toting assault rifles stood in front of a trio of jet-black Humvees.

"Get out of the vehicle," a voice roared over a bullhorn.

"Jesus Christ, they're going to kill us," Earl said. Tears were pouring down his face. "We know too much."

"Don't panic, man," Don said, though his tremulous voice suggested he was doing just that. "They'll blank out our memories, that's all. Come on."

The brothers climbed out of the cab, arms raised, walked a couple of yards and prostrated themselves on the baking road. Men raced over and quickly cuffed them, and then dragged them away. Don kept whimpering that he didn't want
all
his memories erased, not the ones of childhood or "my first time."

X got out of the car, hands raised. As he strode toward the roadblock, he began formulating in his mind the story he would tell. He was an identity thief, yes, but merely a pawn in a vast organization. And he would certainly be willing to cooperate if given a guarantee of immunity. X already had a name in mind, Jared Spinrad, age 35, from St. Louis.

As he walked toward the row of guns pointed at him like a firing squad, one of the gleaming black helicopters whooshed down in front of him.

"On your knees, NOW!" a voice boomed through another bullhorn, this one from the aircraft. He obliged, still holding his hands up high.

Six black-clad men brandishing weapons that resembled M-16s but a bit fancier poured out of the chopper and ran toward him.
What is it with all this black?
X thought
. If it's to make them inconspicuous, it's not doing the trick.

A female figure climbed out last, a black woman with an FBI cap and flak jacket, holding the bullhorn. As she approached, he recognized the agent who'd posed as Stacy the masseuse.

A smile came to X's lips. "Fancy meeting you here."

Traci didn't return his smile as she put down the bullhorn and cuffed him. Her boss Normand had moaned when she requisitioned a military-type drone aircraft to be on the lookout in this area, but it had paid off. Seeing this SOB face-down on the asphalt was giving her so much satisfaction, she almost DID smile.

"Ouch. Easy there," X said as the cuffs bit into his wrists. "Now listen, sweetheart, there's been a big mistake and I can clear everything up in about two minutes."

"My name isn't sweetheart, you terrorist, baby-killing son of a bitch."

She drew something metallic from her holster - not a gun, X could see. A taser.

"Hey, that isn't necessary, " he cried. "I'm surrendering."

The zap hurt like hell. It felt for a moment as if he was on fire. He collapsed backward. While he was still on the ground, one of the men rolled him onto his belly. From head to toe, his body shook uncontrollably as another goon rolled up his sleeve and stuck a hypodermic needle in his arm.

When X awoke he found himself wrapped in a blanket in what he quickly recognized as the cargo hold of an airplane. His hands were still secured behind his back with handcuffs and his ankles were shackled as well.

Well, this is an unpleasant surprise.

A man clad in black from his cap to steel-toed boots sat on a bench a few yards away, a huge .44 Magnum holstered at his side, his nose buried in a copy of the
Sports Illustrated
swimsuit issue

"Where are we going?" X said hoarsely.

"That's for us to know and you to find out," the guard said without looking up and without a trace of playfulness.

"Can I have a pillow and some peanuts?" X requested. "What's the in-flight movie?"

His attempt at levity didn't merit even the slightest snicker from his guardian.

X had heard of the process. Newspapers called it "rendition" didn't they? He was undoubtedly bound for some gulag the CIA kept under wraps in countries like Egypt or Saudi Arabia where torture - or as the U.S. media delicately called it "enhanced interrogation techniques" - was legal.

"Listen, I gotta to talk to your commanding officer, ASAP." He deliberately spoke in a pronounced Brooklyn accent, to leave no doubt in his captor's mind that he was as American as a Nathan's hotdog.

The guard neither replied nor tore his attention from page 41 - which is to be excused since it featured a slice of Australian cheesecake who resembled a young Cindy Crawford.

"There's been a big mistake. I am not Ali Nazeer." Still no response.

"I'm a U.S. citizen!' he practically screamed.

Now the guard rose and quietly approached him. He crouched in front of X, wearing an expression so savage it would have suited a Viking berserker. His blond eyebrows were nearly invisible and his eyes the color of ice, adding to the frightfulness of his appearance.

"Open your mouth," he instructed, drawing his sidearm.

"Now wait a minute."

"I said open your fucking mouth."

X parted his lips an inch and the guard shoved the muzzle past his teeth and so far down his throat he began to gag.

"Don't open your damned trap again with that bullshit," his minder growled. "Say it again and you're going to get your head blown off. Where you're going, we have people inside, listening. Say that shit again, and you're dead meat. Nod if you understand me."

Shaking like a sapling in an earthquake, X nodded.

"Now I'm going to sit over there and relax. I strongly suggest you shut the fuck up for the rest of flight."

He withdrew the Dirty Harry weapon, wiped it on his pants and holstered it, then resumed his former position, calmly thumbing through the magazine.

Under the circumstances, X elected not to attempt small talk for the remainder of the flight.

* * *

It was hours - X had no idea how many - before the plane touched down. Long enough to cross the Atlantic and then some, the identity thief thought. A pair of brawny men, similarly clad in black (apparently the look this season) came back to the hold and blindfolded him.

He felt a rush of heat as the door to the cargo hold glided open and he was led down a steep ramp, shuffling in the leg irons. The prisoner was shoved unceremoniously into the back of a truck. The vehicle roared to life noisily, and then rumbled along.

How long he sat on that metal bench in the back of the truck he couldn't tell. Perhaps three hours. His wrists ached and he was starving. He couldn't remember the last time he ate or drank.

"Could someone loosen these handcuffs, please?" he said. There was no reply.

"Okay, how about some water?"

Again, no answer.

"Can you turn on the radio? I'd like to hear the latest from Lady Gaga."

Finally the truck stopped.

"Get out," ordered a gruff voice that exuded all the friendliness of a grizzly bear. With difficulty he rose, hunched over and climbed out of the vehicle. He was marched in the leg irons, shuffling across a courtyard of some kind.

A buzzer sounded and metal doors clanged open. Complete cacophony assaulted X as he was hustled in. There were American voices barking orders, Arabic ones uttering prayers.

Jesus, I really have been rendered!

He was familiar enough with Arab dialects to know they spanned the Middle East. There were Yemini, Iraqis, Saudis, and Jordanians. There were Afghanis too, Iranians and Pakistanis represented. When they finally took the blindfold off him, along with the cuffs, his eyes stung from bright fluorescent lights and he shielded his pupils.

He stood in a small room with grim, gray cinderblock walls. Somewhat ominously, he noted, there were dark red stains on the concrete floor. A female soldier with prominent breasts, a 6-foot-5 giant and a younger guy with bad acne faced him. The men sported buzz cuts; the woman a short, butch-looking hairdo. All wore what looked like Marine uniforms with the nametags and rank insignia missing.
Not a good sign,
X thought.

"Strip, son - right down to your birthday suit," ordered the big guy, with a deep Mississippi accent. There was nothing avuncular about the "son." He came off like a KKK cretin snarling "boy."

X took off his now ragged jacket and shirt and dropped them to the floor. He hesitated when he got to the pants. When he escaped the hotel suite, he hadn't had time to don underwear. Despite a life of crime that extended to his early teens, X had never been arrested and never strip-searched. Never been naked in front of a clothed person since early childhood. He avoided eye contact with the female soldier, who made no effort to turn away, evincing neither interest nor embarrassment. Like she'd been through this a thousand times, which X supposed she had. Reluctantly, he dropped his trousers and stepped out of them, placing his hands over his genitals.