The Identity Thief
Read The Identity Thief Online
Authors: C. Forsyth
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Thrillers, #Spy Stories & Tales of Intrigue, #Crime Fiction, #Espionage
By C. Michael Forsyth
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2013 C. Michael Forsyth
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
The characters and events in this book are fictitious.
Any similarity to persons living or dead is coincidental.
Published by Freedom's Hammer
Greenville, S.C.
ISBN 978-0-9884780-2-2
Library of Congress Control Number:
2013950598
Cover art by Mshindo I.
Proofread by Martha Moffett.
Book design and layout by URAEUS.
Ebook formatting by
www.ebooklaunch.com
Chapter 8 - THE DEN OF INIQUITY
Chapter 9 - NOTES FROM UNDERGROUND
Chapter 10 - WHEELS WITHIN WHEELS
Chapter 13 - THE SECRET COMMITTEE
Chapter 14 - WELCOME TO THE TEAM
Chapter 16 - ON THE ROAD AGAIN
Chapter 17 - THE FORGOTTEN WAY
Chapter 19 - DOWN THE RABBIT HOLE
Chapter 24 - REQUIUM FOR A BELOVED ROGUE
This book is dedicated to my father,
Chiron William Forsyth,
who taught me right from wrong.
I thank my wife Kaye for her unwavering support and my partners in crime Jordan Auslander, Jennie Franklin and John Stevens for their invaluable input. A story in the
Las Vegas Sun News
about the homeless denizens of the sewers beneath Sin City spared me from having to make a trip down there, and descriptions of the Khyber Pass in Steven E. Wilson's wonderful book
Winter in Kandahar
were equally helpful. Interviews with security experts from LifeLock provided cutting-edge information on the ploys of identity thieves - some of which will doubtless be old hat by the time you read these words!
Looking at X, one would be hard-pressed to pinpoint his ethnicity. Olive-skinned with prominent cheekbones and thick, close-cropped hair the hue of a raven's feathers, he could be, one might argue with equal conviction, Greek, Italian, Turkish, Arabic, Hispanic or Indian (either "the dot or feather kind," as a former associate once jocularly put it).
The fact that he was fluent in six languages and could convincingly fake accents of a dozen others - not to mention his mastery of a slew of regional American dialects - served him well in his vocation. Which was, of course, identity theft.
Today, X happened to be Jewish and today his name happened to be Arnold Feinberg of Great Neck, Long Island.
Dressed in a crisply pressed gray business suit, he sat in the local branch of the First Federated Bank across from an assistant manager, a lean brunette with the even features and wrinkled visage of an over-the-hill beauty queen.
"Your electronic transfer cleared last night, Mr. Feinberg," she told him and gestured toward a desk where a bald co-worker was busily stamping documents. "The check is printing out over there."
X never liked this part. The process by which information was beamed to a printer and churned out seemed interminable. Although logic dictated that it must travel at close to the speed of light, the data seemed to hover in limbo for an unnervingly long time.
Quite unwillingly, he would find himself vividly imagining FBI agents bursting through skylights, rappelling down walls from all directions and piling on him like linebackers. But he feigned nonchalance and smiled patiently.
"I'm in no hurry," he assured her in a cultured New York accent with just a hint of a Brooklyn pedigree. It was a dialect X had mastered - exquisitely, he thought with considerable pride. "The next item on the agenda is shoe-shopping with the little woman, so time is
not
of the essence."
At last the check printed out - the figure $168,017.03 standing out in a crisp, elegant font. No G-men came crashing through the skylight. He was not tackled, handcuffed or ordered to "spread 'em."
"We'll certainly miss having you as a customer, Mr. Feinberg," the assistant manager said as she slid a document across the desk toward him. She sounded oddly sincere, although they'd met for the first time today. "Just sign here and here and we'll close the account, as you requested."
"Thank you," he replied. After he signed Feinberg's name, he stood and turned to go.
"Just a minute," the assistant manager said.
X turned slowly.
The woman looked about furtively. X could not be sure exactly at whom; it was someone behind him. He was, however, quite sure that out of the corner of his eye, he could see a younger woman at a nearby desk meet her eyes and give a knowing nod.
"I need you to accompany me to my office for a moment," she said, now wearing a blank, unreadable expression.
X looked at his Cartier watch, as if time suddenly were of the essence.
"As a matter of fact, I really do have to go ... " he began lamely.
"This will only take a minute," she said, pleasantly but authoritatively, still wearing the poker face. "I promise."
X glanced longingly at the large glass doors, gauging how quickly he could sprint to them. A burly security guard with biceps like The Rock's stood at the exit and now turned to face him.
"Fine, then," he said, turning a shade pale. She stood, and led him through a maze of desks. One co-worker looked up at X and seemed to scrutinize him; two others he caught hastily looking away.
As they approached the back office, X could feel his heart beginning to pound so hard he thought that it surely must be audible. The walls weren't glass; the door was good, old-fashioned oak. You couldn't see who or what was behind it.
Was this woman even a real bank employee? Her frozen helmet-hair suddenly reminded him of an undercover officer who once nearly snared him.
"I really, I really ..." he muttered as they reached the door, and tried to turn back. Her hand gripped his forearm and stopped him in his tracks. Wearing what was now plainly an artificial smile, she opened the door and more or less pushed him through.
The room was empty, save for a shelf full of assorted giraffe-themed knickknacks and a photo of the bank employee at the Grand Canyon with two teenage boys and an older man sporting a receding hairline. The assistant manager went to her desk, reached into a tray and plucked out a business card.
She took a pen and began to scribble on the back.
"I just wanted to be sure that you have this," she said, handing him the card.
He glanced at the front. Leslie Middleton, Assistant Manager, First Federated Bank. She'd given her name before and he'd promptly forgotten it. He flipped the card over and saw a cell phone number accompanied by the words "Call me!" And a smiley face.
When he looked up she was blushing profusely.
"If you need anything, be sure to contact me," she said with a coy smile.
"I'll definitely do that if something ... comes up," he replied warmly.
As he turned to go, his heart rate returning to normal, he noticed the jar of lollipops on her desk.
"May I?"
"Help yourself."
He dipped his hand into the jar and plucked out a lemon-flavored lollipop. Lemon had always been his favorite.
Swiping Feinberg's identity had been monumentally easy. The real Feinberg, a rising exec at an advertising firm, had applied for a mortgage online and was blitzed by offers from numerous banks and brokers. What he had no way of knowing was that one company, Worldwide Bank, was bogus and its Web site existed solely as a device for collecting personal data from unsuspecting customers.
Feinberg had to provide his mother's maiden name, his date and place of birth, and his Social Security number. He also set up a password, which was Amber. (This, incidentally, was not his wife's name, nor his daughter's. Perhaps it was a former paramour for whom he still carried a flame.) In any event, Feinberg made the lazy, all-too-common error of choosing the same password he'd used for all his personal accounts. Plus he provided the numbers of all his savings, checking, money market and brokerage accounts.
Feinberg had received an apologetic email stating that he'd been turned down for the loan, a minor blow to his ego, but no real inconvenience since he had plenty of other banks to choose from. Within a couple of days, he'd forgotten he ever heard of Worldwide Bank. But by then, of course, all the raw material needed to fabricate Feinberg's doppelganger had been obtained.