The Identity Thief (9 page)

Oh darn it all,
X thought, ducking back.

There was a truck parked next to a dingy pawn shop. X dropped to his belly and rolled underneath it. He could hear the clippity clop of heavy government-issue brogans headed his way.
Well, end of the road,
X thought. He'd had a nice run of it, but they'd ferret him out in short order.

Then he noticed it: A manhole cover. It would be only a matter of seconds before the agents reached the corner. X lurched for the manhole cover. It was heavy as lead, but an adrenaline rush gave him the strength to pry it off. He descended into the sewer and hauled the cover back over his head.

The fumes - so potent they were almost visible - were overpowering. X nearly passed out on the way down the ladder. But to retreat would mean a prison cell if not a bullet in the brain. So he pressed on, deeper and deeper into the abyss. His claustrophobia kicked in as he climbed, rung after rung, down the narrow shaft into Stygian darkness. He was perspiring profusely - unusual for a man of whom his colleagues often joked, "He's not human enough to sweat." Finally, he splashed down into a waist-deep pool of fetid, bacteria-laden wastewater.

God knows what diseases I'm going to pick up,
thought X, who was normally the type to wash his hands eight to 10 times a day.

FBI special agent Traci Kingsmith, AKA Stacy the masseuse, sat at the conference table in the makeshift command center set up at the Giza Hotel as her superior Mark Normand pounded the conference table in fury.

"You're telling me we have satellites that can read the label on a Coke bottle, but we can't locate one man we had in our sights three hours ago," the potbellied, graying Bureau man grumbled.

"Let me explain," said an NSA specialist. He punched a button and a satellite photo showing the roof of the Pink Panther appeared on a screen at the front of the room. "When the subject exited the back entrance, he passed through a dark alley. There wasn't enough light for a good image. We're having the image enhanced as we speak.

"Las Vegas is more than 84,000 square miles - that's a lot of ground to cover, even with the manpower at our disposal."

The multiagency taskforce working on the manhunt also included the Department of Homeland Security, the CIA and the Defense Intelligence Agency, in addition to at least four outfits Traci had never heard of. "Swimming in alphabet soup" is how one of her colleagues termed such sessions.

"Un-fucking believable," fumed Normand, who headed the task force.

Traci saw an opening and took it.

"Maybe that's our problem. Maybe he's not above ground."

"Are you suggesting that he's in the sewer?" said the CIA man dubiously. "Like in
The Fugitive?
"

"I didn't kill my wife," joked red-haired FBI agent Malloy, quoting Harrison Ford.

"I don't care," the Defense Intelligence Agency rep quoted Tommy Lee Jones.

Everyone laughed.

The female agent pulled out a chart from her carrying case and expanded on her theory.

"It's technically a storm drain system," she said. "There are more than 350 miles of flood channels under the city. And it's largely habitable, although I wouldn't want to build a summer house down there. According to some estimates, as many as 700 'tunnel people' call it home."

A tall woman, close to six feet, with a rapid, clipped manner of speaking, Traci was a graduate of Rutgers, cum laude, and her research skills had been among the attributes that had impressed Bureau recruiters. Traci was fluent in Spanish, French, Italian, German, Arabic and Pashto. The first four of these she had actually learned before she entered college.

Her parents were of modest means. Her father was an Episcopal minister who'd served 20 years as a missionary in China and her mom was a school librarian. They were firm believers in education as a means to climb the social ladder. From the age of five, her father introduced her to foreign languages through books and audio tapes. And beginning with Spanish, she learned one every two years.

She was brilliant enough that the burdensome Rutgers tuition was paid for by a basketball scholarship. Traci was a gifted athlete and continued to maintain a state of fitness through running, weight training and kickboxing. Traci was a black belt in kung fu - one of the reasons she was so furious she'd allowed herself to be overcome by the relatively shrimpy Ali Nazeer. She was justly proud of her figure, her long, lean legs and high, taut buttocks.

Yet, truth be told, the agent had not had a date in eight months nor sex in a year. She was, as her friends put it, "very, very picky." To be considered boyfriend material, the suitor had to be African-American, a church-goer, exceed her height (5 feet 10 1/2 inches to be exact) and have an income exceeding her own.

Some potential boyfriends were intimidated. Though some would, in a gentlemanly manner, retreat from the field saying, "You're too good for me," the fact was men tended to find her brittle and high-strung.

Traci pointed to the map. "If he's down there, he could go beneath our perimeter and reach Lake Mead in a matter of hours."

An agent appeared in the doorway. "The computer-enhanced image of the alley is back, sir. It shows the subject approaching this dark truck, and going under it."

"The truck was searched, wasn't it?"

"Our men went through it with a fine-toothed comb," confirmed the representative from Homeland Security.

"Call up the image of the alley as it looks now," said Traci. Normand nodded and up popped an enlarged image of the alley on the conference room screen.

"Here is the alley with the truck gone," she said.

Where the truck had been, only a manhole and a flattened soda can remained.

Normand swiveled his chair slowly until he faced Mr. Homeland Security.

"No one noticed that there was a goddamned
MANHOLE COVER
at the scene?" he growled. "Did it need a big orange 'Down here' arrow on it?"

The Homeland Security man looked as if he wanted to pull a vanishing act himself. Traci gave herself the pleasure of flashing a quick, smug smile. Then she came to his rescue.

"There was a lot of confusion at the scene," Traci said. "In that kind of pandemonium ... "

"That's nice. Bring me the heads of the clowns who searched the truck," snapped Normand. He addressed Traci, to her delight. "So we send a party down there."

"I would suggest 10 eight-man teams,' Traci said.

At the far end of the table, a white-bearded man who'd been introduced only as Mr. Jones puffed thoughtfully on a pipe. Exactly what organization he worked for was something of a mystery. Traci had been told "That information is strictly need to know."

"It's vital that he be taken alive," Mr. Jones declared. "The information he has about terrorist networks - the Jihadist Brotherhood and the Warriors of Allah in particular - is invaluable."

Normand nodded. "Understood."

Traci cleared her throat. "Sir, I want to lead the search team."

Her boss hesitated.

"After what happened I think I'm owed a little payback," she said.

Traci was certain she heard a low snicker from her colleague Malloy but ignored it.

Normand pounded the table. "It's your show. Let's roll."

Traci shot out of her seat. As the crowd poured out of the room, Agent Malloy whispered to her, "Your feminine wiles came through again. This is going to be a real feather in your cap - if you catch the guy."

Traci usually ignored the redhead but couldn't resist saying, "By the way, Malloy, I thought you told me your sister was an ophthalmologist. Don't forget to get her out of lockup when her interrogation is over. She'll get cold in that G-string."

Malloy stood there, trying to think of a comeback, but by the time he did the room was clear.

* * *

X hadn't the vaguest clue where he was. The tunnel, about eight feet high and five feet wide, was as dark as the inside of a womb. His hands groped the sides of the tunnel and found them slick with slimy algae. He recoiled in disgust but he forced himself to slide along them for support, for to fall into that foul water was unthinkable.

He sloshed through the now knee-deep water, through which floated plastic bags, Styrofoam cups and crushed beer cans. It was like wading through the digestive tract of some garbage-eating sci-fi monstrosity.

It reeks like a week-old corpse down here
, he thought, clapping his left hand over his nose while the right clung to the tunnel wall.

X had expected it to be hot but the temperature was actually at least 30 degrees colder than above ground, and the fugitive felt goose bumps rising on his arms. The stream, though shallow, roared like a mountain river. Occasionally from far above, X could also hear the rush of traffic and the occasional rattle of manhole covers.

Retrieving his getaway car and the clean identity of Steve Holdenbrook was, of course, now a lost cause. But X had a plan. He had a friend - all right an acquaintance, for X had no friends as an ordinary person would understand the term - who operated a legal brothel about 50 miles outside Vegas. If X could make it there, he could probably find a temporary refuge.

X's face encountered a spider web that stretched the breadth of the tunnel and he brushed it away in revulsion.
The bug that made that thing must be the size of a raccoon
, he thought, wiping lingering strands from his cheeks.

It was slow going. About 100 feet later, he felt a punch to the rib cage as he slammed into a protruding lateral pipe. X lost his footing and - horror of horrors - fell to his hands and knees in the water. He scrambled to his feet, screaming in disgust and fury. He hated germs, he hated dirt.

Why is this happening to me? It isn't fair!

"Yuck, yuck, yuck!" His voice echoed through the tunnel and he cursed himself for his stupidity. Hardly the time for loud complaints.

X trudged on.

About 150 yards farther down the tunnel, X came to a juncture where a sewer drain, 15 feet above, above cast a parallelogram-shaped beam of light, unveiling graffiti scrawls and arcane official markings reminiscent of hieroglyphics. The sudden illumination also revealed cockroaches scuttling over the walls, while crawfish the size of trout wallowed in the green-brown water. Compared to that loathsome sight, the dark was almost comforting.

In the distance X heard approaching voices. Reluctantly, he abandoned the oasis of light and broke into a run, splashing in the opposite direction.

Traci and a team of eight heavily armed agents were at this point no more than 500 yards to the east. There were 10 such teams pouring into the tunnels from various ports of entry. The searchers were outfitted with masks, hazmat suits and rubber waders that reached to their waists. Traci's high-intensity LED flashlight illuminated rats swishing through the water, on top of which floated a child's doll, a basketball and a moldy, torn-up sneaker.

Though theoretically protected from biohazards, the overall repulsiveness of the place brought Traci nearly to the point of retching. Only her pride prevented her from ripping off her mask and puking in full view of the otherwise all-male crew.

Pulaski, an expert from the city's Streets and Sanitation Division who looked a bit like Tony Soprano, guided them, pausing now and then to consult a map. They had reached yet another fork and had to decide which way to go.

"We're just under Bonanza Road now," the beer-bellied guide informed her, panting from the effort of their descent. "That way leads east, that's west."

Traci flashed her light down one corridor, then the other. Each was equally dismal, each equally forbidding.

"We split up," she decided.

"That cuts us to four," protested a husky male subordinate.

"I can divide, Agent Greavy," she said sharply.

X sloshed down a snaking tunnel, guided by blind instinct. To his alarm he saw two pinpricks of light appear suddenly in the distance. As the far-off flashlights swiveled in his direction, he crouched down, barely ducking the beams in time. Then, with no other option, he lay flat, head underwater. After holding his breath as long as he could - close to a minute - he surfaced, gasping for breath. The lights were gone.

He struggled to his feet and staggered on.

Traci walked alongside the husky male agent, who was just a few years older than herself.

"So, are you married or what?" Greavy asked casually.

She couldn't believe she was being hit on, decked out in full hazmat attire, mired in crappy water and in the midst of the most intense manhunt the city had ever seen.

"That's not appropriate," she responded sternly.

"Just making small talk. Yeesh, excuuuuse me."

The talk at headquarters was that Traci was a lesbian, a theory G-men could not resist frequently putting to the test.

"Hey, what happened at the Giza?" the agent blundered on. "You wouldn't believe some of the rumors floating around. Some people are even saying you gave the guy a- "