bath and a shave. The much-needed haircut would wait until later.
“Next!”
The shout from the immigration officer brought him one step closer.
“Good morning, Sir,” offered the deadpan official.
“Good morning,” he replied, handing over his passport. His American accent surprised the official.
As the official swiped the passport, a look that did not equate to a welcome home crossed his face.
“Is there a problem, Officer?” he asked, suddenly aware of exactly that.
“No, Sir. Just routine,” lied the officer as two of his colleagues approached the passenger, having been alerted the moment the passport had been swiped.
He felt the two colleagues before he saw them, each grabbing an arm.
“Would you mind coming with us please, Sir?”
The question was rhetorical; the grip on his arm and the guiding motion allowed for no other option. A locked room awaited, with three chairs, one table, one camera and four blank walls. After thirty minutes of sitting facing two empty chairs, the door opened and two men entered the room. One was middle aged and held himself half- heartedly, shuffling into the room as though it were the last place he wanted to be. The other was younger, brighter, more alert, larger but moved like a man half his size. The older guy was the man, thought the passenger.
A passport was placed on the table as the two men sat down. No words, just the passport placed carefully on the table, the writing facing the passenger. It was his passport; he recognized the creases on the bottom right corner.
“I’m Mr Smith,” announced the older man. He didn’t bother to introduce his younger colleague. “So, Mr…” he stopped, waiting for the passenger to confirm his name, a first test. Did he even know the name on the passport?
“Fox, as my passport no doubt has informed you,” replied the passenger. He wasn’t going to be intimidated.
“Your passport has informed us of many things, Mr Fox,” he emphasized sarcastically. “Most importantly that it ain’t yours!”
“Sorry?” he asked, incredulous. Having used many passports over the years that weren’t his, to be accused of his legitimate one not being real, was rather ironic.
Smith held out his hand to his colleague and received a file which he opened and laid in front of him. “Were you in the army, Mr Fox?”
“Yes.”
“Any particular branch?”
“Yes but that’s classified, above your pay grade,” smiled Mr Fox. He would play them at their own game.
Smith did not react. Not good. A low-level immigration official would have risen to the bait. Smith was obviously not immigration and he was probably way above the pay grade.
“Any other branch of government?” Smith moved on.
“Yes,” replied Mr Fox simply.
“Which one?”
“Can’t remember.”
“Are you still employed by the government?”
“No.”
“Who do you work for now?”
“Myself.” He was tired and his hotel suite was beckoning. “What is this all about?” asked Mr. Fox.
“Any siblings, brothers or sisters?” clarified Smith, ignoring the question.
“No, none.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely, only child, my mom struggled to even have me. What the hell is this all about?”
Smith put out his hand and three sheets of paper were delivered by his young colleague. Smith selected one of the sheets before laying it in front of Mr. Fox.
It was a printout of the front page from the Laredo Morning Times. 'Medal of Honor Winner Slain By Drug Gangs’ was the headline.
A fellow winner had been slain. Mr. Fox was instantly outraged and read on. Captain Sean Fox’s (retired) mutilated body was delivered to his young widow…
A Medal of Honor winner with his name had been murdered, shocking but no relation, at least as far as he knew. His parents had died in a car crash when he was fifteen so he wasn’t great on knowing his extended family. He read on.
…by UPS. The gruesome contents of the parcel were identified by DNA as formal identification of the remains was not possible. The son of ex Chief of Staff General James Fox…
Sean’s head shot up at his questioner. That was his father!
As Smith gathered that Mr Fox had hit the point of realization, he pushed a second page across the table. The photo of Sean Fox in uniform next to a very attractive young woman stared up at him.
“Yep, that’s me but I don’t know who she is, don’t remember this one being taken,” he offered.
“Your wife on your wedding day?”
“I’m not married.”
A third sheet was a wedding certificate. His wife’s name was Katie.
“Doesn’t look much like you, no beard, well groomed hair and I’d say this guy was a good thirty pounds heavier.” The questioner pointed to the wedding photo and opened the passport to the photo page; it matched the wedding photo.
“Six months in Afghanistan fighting the Taliban,” offered Sean, tugging at the beard and ruffling his unkempt hair. The weather-beaten skin that was not otherwise hidden by facial hair was brown and leathery. His clothing, straight from Kabul, didn’t help prove his identity as the handsome clean-cut all-American hero he was claiming to be.
Smith shook his head. “Honestly, after everything I’ve just shown you, you’re still seriously claiming to be Sean Fox who died three months ago? And looks nothing like you?”
Sean nodded his head vigorously. “That is me,” he pointed at both photos. “And that’s obviously not me,” he said pointing to the headline proclaiming his death. “I’ve heard of identity theft but this is ridiculous!” shouted Sean, now outraged.
Smith stood up. “I tried,” he turned to his younger colleague. “Your turn,” and left the room. Sean noted the red light on the camera go out as the door closed.
The young man stood up. At 6’8” and 280lbs, he was a formidable sight, even to Sean.
As he reached down into his briefcase, Sean braced himself. Expecting the worst, he positioned himself in his seat ready to retaliate to any attack. He relaxed as the young man pulled out a small plastic tube, removed its stopper and retrieved a wooden swab.
“Can you open your mouth, please?” he asked very courteously.
Sean opened his mouth and the swab was run along the inside of his cheek. The swab was re-inserted into the tube along with the stopper.
“Thank you,” he offered before leaving and closing the door behind him. The door clicked after closing; it was locked again.
Sean figured it would be a few hours for the results to come through and another couple of hours while they re-checked them. Whoever was in that photo looked like Sean Fox but it obviously wasn’t. Sean was alive and well and sitting in an interview room at Newark. How they messed up the DNA check he didn’t know but it would be cleared up soon enough. All Sean knew was that the wife he didn’t know was in for a hell of a shock.
Chapter 3
