Executive Treason (5 page)

First, Roarke needed to review whatever footage existed. The assassin had posed as a member of the Capitol Police, gotten access to the Rotunda, and at a key moment, made his shot. The still photographer at the Rotunda had nothing. Michael O’Connell, the
New York Times
reporter shooting a DV camera, only had the back of the killer’s head from twenty feet away. Roarke found one quick shot on the pool videotape coverage from the Capitol shootout. But the camera never really focused on him. He was barely visible in a wide shot that panned the room—certainly not enough to make a true ID. He was turned to the side, his hat covered his forehead. He was out of the light. But there he was.

Roarke tried to glean something from the man’s body language, his bulk, his posture. Upright. Stiff. Alert. Watching everyone in one glance. Probably military-trained. Half of the puzzle.

What do you look like? That was clearly Roarke’s primary problem. There were descriptions. But each one was of a different man—all presumed to be the same killer.

A 20-year-old gang member. A 40-something businessman. An insurance agent in his thirties. A fisherman of undetermined age. One dark-haired, another balding, another gray. The Capitol policeman.

No fingerprints. No DNA. No photographs. The only evidence in common with some of the murders, but not all, was the size 11 boot print. Maybe even that was a red herring.

A different identity with every role he played.

Roarke needed to give him a name—a working identity. He thought for weeks, and then it came to him. Depp, for Johnny Depp. He decided on naming his quarry after an actor who always transformed himself adeptly. He even played a master of disguises in the film Donnie Brasco.

Depp fit him perfectly. It showed proper respect for a man Roarke realized he could never underestimate.

Roarke actually had provided a description himself. He’d had fleeting eye contact with Depp in the Rotunda when the killer was disguised as the policeman. But it was more likely that the assassin could pick Roarke out of a crowd quicker than he could spot Depp. That worried the Secret Service agent because it would give his prey a definite advantage the next time they’d meet, and he was certain—deadly certain—they’d meet again.

Touch worked with sketches of each “identity.” They’d been drawn by FBI artists at the scene of Jennifer Lodge’s death in upstate New York and the other killings he could be tied to. Now, he was reconfiguring the sketch based on Roarke’s description. Once completed, it would integrate with the others in a computer program a Littleton, Massachusetts, firm, Viisage Technology Ltd., had provided after 9/11.

Clearly, all of the sketches portrayed vastly different men. But Roarke was personally certain he was looking for a lone accomplished killer. His goal was to come up with a reliable composite image, good enough to make Depp’s mother proud.

“More like this?” Parsons asked after he’d made the changes on the jaw.

“Not sure.” Roarke looked more closely. “No,” he said on second thought. “Split the difference.”

Parsons used his mouse to drag the jaw line out. Then he adjusted the shape of the chin to Roarke’s specifications.

“Once I mess with one thing, I have to adjust everything else. You know, keep the face in perspective. Let me just play with it a bit.”

“But his eyes still need…”

Parsons cut him off. “Do I tell you how to jump in front of the president or bust down a door?”

“No.” Roarke saw where he was going.

“Then let me do what I know how to do.”

“Your toys. Be my guest.”

Parsons worked on a number of things. Thinning the eyes, making them colder. Raising the ears. Lengthening the nose. Everything connected with the last set of changes Roarke requested.

“So what exactly are we looking for in all of the pictures?” asked the Secret Service agent.

“We?”

“Excuse me. What are you looking for?” It was always like this with Roarke and Parsons.

“I am looking for common denominators to all the descriptions. I try them out. I grow them on a face, the computer whirs a little and tells me if I’m full of shit.”

“And by the way, these are not pictures, so don’t expect perfection,” Parsons complained.

“Okay, drawings.”

Parsons typed in a new line of code and sat back. “Sketches,” he said, correcting Roarke again.

“Sketches. And?” Roarke asked encouragingly.

“And what?” Parsons replied.

“And now what’s happening? You stopped.”

“I stopped, but Ferret’s working on it.” Ferret was the Department of Defense’s name for FRT or “Face Recognition Technology,” the program pioneered in the early 1990s, principally researched at MIT’s Media labs. “The computer’s thinking. It’s scratching its hard drive.”

Roarke looked confused for the moment.

“Its head, you dumbass. Ferret is scratching its head looking for commonality. And if this little project of yours crashes my computer, well, if you break it, you bought it.”

“Uh-huh.”

Parsons displayed a holier-than-thou attitude most of the time. Roarke learned to accept it. The 40-year-old FBI expert lived in a world of algorithms. He questioned everything and everybody. He never seemed satisfied that he’d be given enough time or information to properly solve a problem.

“You’re all always in a rush. Every one of you spooks,” he said.

“I’m not a spook.”

Parsons ignored the answer. “Gotta have it now. Gimmie, gimmie, gimmie.”

At least Parsons was right about that. Of course, time was never on Roarke’s side, either. But the FBI graphic artist and programmer delivered, and that’s what made him Roarke’s go-to geek. Now the agent was back at Parson’s door.

“You realize we’d both be better off if you’d give me something reasonable to work with.”

“Sorry, but…”

“Photographs, Roarke. Photographs. Just once. Real pictures. Ever hear of film? Or maybe I can introduce you to a remarkable invention called a digital camera. Sony. Minolta, even Kodak’s got it. Four, five, six megapixels. Amazing things.”

Roarke knew this would go on for awhile. It was simply the cost of doing business with such a talent.

“What was I thinking?” Roarke sarcastically asked. “I’ll go out, find, and capture Depp. Then I’ll ask him to stand still for a second and say ‘cheese.’ Shouldn’t be a problem. After that I’ll pat him on the back and say ‘thanks’ and ‘oh, by the way, you can go back to killing important people now.’ Then I’ll post a real picture of him and see if I can track him down again. But wait. If I knew who he was and where he was, why would I be here?” It was time to re-ask his question. “What the fuck are you looking for?”

“All right,” Parsons said shaking his head. “Using biometric technology designed to ID a person from distinguishing facial traits, the computer is trying to determine if there are any signatures common to each sketch.”

“In other words?” Roarke asked, hoping to get a clearer description.

“Measuring characteristics, like the distance between the eyes, the dimensions of the nose, the angle of the jaw. Ferret’s struggling to interpret data to create a template. Based solely on the multiple images, created by different people, the chances are slim that we’ll get an accurate portrait. But since you ask, we’re looking for face-to-face analogies. Are the eyes similar enough? The bridge of the nose? The lips? Teeth? The things that are hardest to cosmetically change. The program is processing distinct facial regions, encoding parameters from the rectified images, and attempting to establish a norm.”

“And it works?”

“Sometimes.”

“Oh, great.”

“Well, that’s the truth. I’d say Ferret works pretty well provided the materials at hand are good.”

“Like a photograph?”

“Even then, it’s no slam dunk,” Touch allowed. “It’s best when the subject’s face occupies the whole image. Unless they’re holding a number in front of their chest, you tell me how many bad guys will pose for the camera?”

“Back to my point. I got it.”

“No, you don’t. Not yet,” the FBI expert complained. “Ferret recognizes the improbability of that. It’s programmed to examine more complex images and sort out the extraneous, re-focusing on potential faces within any given field. Using a neural network-based face location system, it locates possible faces within an un-composed image.”

“Then it works,” Roarke said, hopefully.

“Depends on your definition of works,” Parsons snorted through a laugh. “One of the first major applications was Super Bowl XXXV back in 2001. Everyone entering got their punnum’s scanned. Mind you, no one realized it was happening. But the FRT cameras clicked away as they went through the turnstiles. The digital pictures were fed to computers, which looked for possible matches with known criminals. Note that I said criminals. Boy, we live in a different world now,” Parsons added as an aside. “Anyway, the software flagged nineteen individuals. Some were just petty thieves. It picked out a ticket scalper or two. Most of the rest were just false positives.”

“False positives?” Roarke needed some help with the explanation.

“Yeah. Falsely matching innocent people with database photos of perps. And then there’s the problem of the reverse-false negatives.”

“Not catching people even when the picture is in the system?”

“Bingo. That answer your question about it working?”

“Sort of. But it is an aid.”

Parsons nodded agreement. “For me, yes. Some others out there wouldn’t necessarily agree. There’s a big debate on its use at airports. Concerns about the competency of Ferret delineating darker-skinned people in bright backgrounds. The effect of adverse lighting. Problems when there’s high red content behind the subject. Whether glasses throw off the analysis. Scars. Tattoos. Head-on shots versus profiles. Everything matters.”

“But now? Is it reliable now?” Roarke counted on an affirmative answer.

“Look, Roarke, with just sketches, you’re not going to get what you came in for. There’s no way to create a reliable extrapolation without at least one authentic picture. You realize the CIA and the Bureau don’t have good pictures of most al-Qaeda. Even when we access an archival passport photo from Interpol or other agencies, the programs still need further development to handle the aging process. You and I have been through that already.”

Roarke nodded agreement.

“And the technology is still fooled by weight gains and beards. That’s why it’s taking so long. Too many geometric variations. Too much differentiation in age. Too much…”

Starting at the top of the screen, an image began to render.

“You were saying?”

“Well, the program reduces measurements of human faces to mathematical formulas or patterns in the database. New software out of Stony Brook detects minute patterns of muscle movement in a smile. It’s becoming one of the best indicators. Imagine that. A smile can be like a fingerprint. We call it a ‘smile map.’ And there are other facial landmarks that can come into play,” Parsons continued more humbly. “Apparently…” he paused. A definite soft composite picture was resolving on screen.

Roarke smiled. “Yes?”

“Apparently, it detected enough landmarks to achieve a robust divination.”

“In English.”

“A crude prediction.”

“Crude? Crude sounds real good to me right now,” Roarke said.

“It’s the best you’ll get until…”

“I know. Until I hand over a real photograph. But this is going to help.”

“Will you leave if I sharpen this up?”

“On my honor.” Roarke held up three fingers: the sign of a scout promise.

“Why do I think you’ll be back?”

Roarke stood and slapped Parsons back. “Because you know me.”

Parsons waved him away and typed a prompt. The computer acted as if it had been given the equivalent of a stirrup to the hindquarter. Seconds later, a new image began to render. An almost photographic face gradually took shape, growing more real with definition. Colors and shading began to give it character. The chin was as Roarke remembered. The eyes deeper and thin. The rest was familiar, yet different.

The computer finished its work, and Parsons immediately saved it to the hard drive and printed a copy.

Speechless, Roarke studied the work. Depp looked to have an almost military quality. The composite depicted a man in his early 30s, Caucasian, computed with a muscular, chiseled face, a thin lower lip, an undistinguished nose, high cheekbones, thin eyebrows, close-set ears, short brown hair, and the cold eyes Roarke remembered. All in all, the likeness appeared very similar to Roarke in facial sculpture. Except for the scar under Roarke’s chin and his short brown hair, they could be brothers.

“Well?” Parsons asked, fishing for a compliment.

“I don’t know. I really don’t know. It’s different.”

“Of course it is. As you said, your Mr. Depp is a master of disguises. But this may be as good a look behind the mask as you’re going to get until you’re face-to-face again.”

Roarke peered into the screen. “Some of it seems right. Some of it….”

Parson’s interrupted the thought. “Now let’s see if he made the mistake of standing in front of a camera somewhere.” Parsons saved the image to another program and typed in a new command. This time, Roarke let the photo expert continue without comment. Ninety-one seconds later, Ferret delivered the answer.

“I just accessed all of the known terrorists in the memory, along with state-by-state motor vehicle license photos, FBI records, newspaper archives, military IDs, and dozens of other sub directories. Here come the results.”

The computer image reduced to one half the page, with the picture on the left and data on the right. Parsons read the analysis.

“Your man is a possible match to, let’s see….” He highlighted a single line of text. “7,451,209 other subjects worldwide.”

“Oh, fuck!” Roarke swore.

“And that’s assuming he’s even in the damned database. Wanna bet he isn’t?”

Cheviot Hills Recreation Park
Los Angeles, California

He was waiting for her. Lynn Meyerson had already circled the Cheviot Hills Park and Rancho Golf Course once, a run of about three miles. Olsen planned to strike on mile six of her second lap.

He watched her still-powerful, long strides come into view again. She had circled the golf course, cut back into the park, and now darted across the grass near the parking lot. Her run took her between two baseball fields where Little League teams played. Olsen stood up from his park bench and stretched. Maybe she would have sprinting power left, he thought. He better be ready himself.

Meyerson took in all the sights and sounds while she ran. It relaxed her. With everything on her mind, it helped.

Closer again. He watched as she hugged the fence that separated the outfield from the greens, then followed a worn path toward the tennis courts, another 200 yards further. There she angled right, which took her by an asphalt basketball court. A few players stopped to catch a glimpse of the redhead. She’s not for you. No one noticed when Olsen fell into step about fifty yards behind her.

Lynn rounded the recreation center. She heard a dance class. The door was open and young girls, probably no older than six or seven, were practicing ballet. She circled around again and ran in place just to take in the sight. About ten girls struggled to stay on their toes. It was sweet and almost comical. They were all dressed in pink tights and black leotards, their hair tied with pink ribbons. They did their best to please their instructor, a Russian immigrant, who had obviously worked with better students.

Lynn saw the pride in the faces of both the youngsters and the parents. She remembered the looks of her own mother and father, watching from bleachers just like the ones in the rec room. For an instant, it seemed like yesterday.

He suddenly slowed, rounding a turn along the path. The woman was jogging in place, distracted by something inside a building. Olsen rerouted to the sidewalk and leaned against a tree. He pretended to be out of breath. Thirty seconds later, she took up her run again, but he waited, not wanting to get too close too early. He noted how her breasts rose and fell with each step. He watched the firmness of her ass and the grace of her legs. He estimated how far away he was. Sixty yards. Good.

Meyerson continued running on a sidewalk that bordered the parking lot she’d crossed before. She gave her watch a quick glance. She figured she had another thirty minutes or so of good light. Enough time to finish up and get back to the hotel. She tried to be aware of the light and run when it was safe. All told, it would be a six-plus- mile course, covering the exact same path she’d carved out two days earlier and repeated the day before.

Now she cut left on the last arc of her run, down a road that rounded a dog park and to the empty park bench she’d spotted the previous day. She’d sit and rest there.

Fifty yards. Thirty. Twenty-five. The jogger behind Lynn counted down the distance as he closed in. The girl had paced herself the entire run, except when she stopped to watch the dancers. For a moment, he thought she might not continue beyond that point, but the ritual called out too loudly to her.

Twenty, he thought. Fifteen. He calculated his steps against hers. She took long, measured strides with her muscular legs that, no doubt, could still deliver a burst of energy in an emergency. But his approach wouldn’t appear threatening. Exactly the opposite. In a few more steps she would hear his labored breathing; nothing unusual at the end of a day. It would announce his presence through a charade.

Now ten. Five. He caught up with her and matched her pace for ten yards. After some heavy exhales, Nat Olsen managed a harmless “Hello.” They were approaching an area about forty feet long, with an incline that fell off sharply to the right.

“Hello,” she said with little effort.

Ten steps later, “This used to be a lot easier.”

She glanced over to him. Oh man. Out of shape. Another automatic look. This one to his ring finger. Married.

He caught the eye contact. She’ll be less on guard. Good. “I want to meet the guy who said it’s all about conditioning, not age.”

Lynn gave him a reassuring nod. “You’re doing fine. Only a little bit further.”

Yes, only a little bit. He had managed to do the whole run without having had to talk with anyone else.

A few yards from the highest point of the incline, he grabbed his side and grimaced.

“You okay?” Lynn asked.

“I’ll run through it.” Five more steps. Four. Three.

They continued running in tandem for two more steps. Then he grunted, stumbled a step, locked his feet up, and tumbled down the hill.

“Hey!” she called out.

The jogger tumbled over four times and came to a stop precisely where he had planned, out of sight in the underbrush. Lynn automatically cut down the hill, calling out, “Are you all right? Need any help?”

He rose to his knees, his back to her. He nodded as if in pain, and waved for her to come down.

“Okay, maybe it’s age, not conditioning,” she joked, seeing that he was trying to regain his balance. “On my way.”

Lynn was only a few feet from him now. She spoke softly. “Can you stand?”

For a moment, the caring in her voice broke his concentration; after all, she was coming to his aid. But he had agreed. The amount was set. Like always, half was already in his account. Instantly, any empathy for the woman evaporated.

He shook his head.

“Okay. Just take a few seconds, you’ll be okay,” she said, coming upon him.

Meyerson knelt down beside him, her arm on his shoulders. A thought flashed in her mind. He’s a lot more muscular than…

Suddenly, the man reached his right arm in front of his chest, across his shoulder, grabbing her left wrist. Simultaneously, he brought his body down. With the combination of his forward motion and his hard yank, she flipped over his back and onto hers. In that one swift move, she lay flat on the ground, with shocked eyes staring into his. They were cold, peering at her from someplace darkly dangerous.

He’s not sweating. He should be sweating.

He rolled on top of her, painfully pinning her arms down with his knees; his butt firmly on her pelvis. One hand went right for her mouth as she struggled to say, “Let me go!”

Lynn arched up her back, trying to toss him off. But she couldn’t.

He’s going to rape me! Her mind raced. Oh my God! She acted instinctively. Kick him! Lynn tried, but his weight and position locked her down.

It had already gone on three seconds longer than it should have. He had no desire to put the woman through any unnecessary agony. After all, it wasn’t her fault. He knew where she worked, but little more. He didn’t need to. All he had focused on were her habits, her rituals, and whether she carried Secret Service protection. The president’s trip provided the perfect opportunity, although her regular jogging trail along the district’s Rock Creek would have worked as well.

He had studied her as he did all his targets. He never considered them victims, just targets. This one was like most others, a creature of habit. In Washington, mornings were always the same. Out at 7:05. A Starbucks stop. A Metro ride to Union Station. An eleven-minute walk to the White House. Coming home depended upon the day. But he knew from his surveillance she always managed to run if the weather held and it wasn’t too late. He followed her on weekends, noting that she dated rarely. No one special was in her life. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. He’d killed husbands and wives without so much as a second thought.

The method of dispatching the woman had been left up to him. She ran. So he’d find her while she was running. If it hadn’t been this, it would have been something else. He’d been given only one additional instruction, which he would quickly carry out after. First things first.

He had decided that strangulation would be too slow. Slitting her jugular, too messy. A silenced shot to the head, too professional. He would do it like a gang member might in a rape.

In one effortless motion he reached under his sweat suit, pulled out the knife from its Velcro hiding place, and depressed the release. It instantly opened, and without further hesitation, he plunged it through her left breast, pressing through the softness, through her ribs, into her heart. He turned the blade slightly inwards to ensure he would cut across the ventricle, flooding her lungs with blood and killing her at least two ways.

She couldn’t speak, but he knew by experience what her eyes were saying. Why? He leaned forward and whispered directly into her ear. “Are you wondering why?”

He was sure she tried to nod yes.

“Beats the hell out of me,” he said coldly. And that was the truth.