Blood Relics (A James Acton Thriller, #12) (22 page)

Tommy
laughed. “Probably not! My guess is it’s family money.”

“Why?”

“He’s
too young to be that rich and not all over the Internet. My guess is he was
born into the money and therefore learned how to keep a low profile.”

“So how
do we find him?”

“High
society.”

“Sorry?”

“For fun
I wrote a program for my senior thesis to show how the government could track
our movements through other people’s social media posts. The program pulls
photos from Facebook, Instagram, whatever, then using facial recognition plot
points, uniquely tags the people in the photos then crawls all of the friends’
accounts that had everything set to public viewing. I can follow those plotted people
through their friends and acquaintances, use the geocoding embedded in the
metadata—another thing most people don’t know about—and then just through data
analysis, identify which Facebook accounts belonged to what face.”

“So you
could trace someone through their friends’ photos back to their original
account and know where they had physically been?”

“Yes, it
was a piece of cake!”

“Huh?”

“Sorry,
an expression. It means it was easy.”

“Oh.”

“Can you
do that with this photo?”

“Sure, I
can plot his facial recognition points no problem. Then we just need to write a
program that pulls as many photos from the Internet as possible dealing with
high society—and I don’t mean Hollywood, I mean the truly rich—where somebody
like this might show up and be caught on someone’s camera, a press photo,
whatever.”

“Do you
think you can do it?”

“Yes.
But it might take some horsepower. We’re talking a lot of data, a lot of
bandwidth.”

“Meaning?”

“We’re
going to need Dean Milton’s permission to use the lab.”

Mai
smiled. “You get to work, I’ll go talk to the dean.”

Hotel Astor Saint Honore, Paris, France

“Do you have enough money?”

Niner’s
shoulders slumped, a frown creasing his face. “I’m an E-5 in the army, Doc,
which means before allowances and bonuses, I make about thirty-three thousand.
Of course I don’t have enough money.”

Acton
flushed, stammering out an apology. “I didn’t mean that, I meant—”

Niner rubbed
a tear from his eye. “It’s so hard, you know, trying to get by on so little. I
send every spare penny I can to help out my folks. Then there’s my family in South
Korea. You know it’s really hard there; that country’s so primitive, so poor.”
He shook his head. “I can barely make ends meet. D-do you have enough money?”

Acton’s
eyes narrowed. “Wait a minute, South Korea is one of the richest countries in
the world. You’re bullshitting me, aren’t you?”

Niner
grinned. “You should have seen your face, Doc!” He laughed, his head shaking.
“Don’t worry about me, I do just fine. And I know what you meant and yes, the
account you provided has more than enough. We tapped it for our flight here
along with the equipment delivery and vehicle when we arrived. We’re good.”

“Okay,
just let me know if you need more, and don’t hesitate to use that entire line
if you have to. I don’t care what it costs to get Laura back.”

The
elevator doors opened. “I completely understand. I don’t know if there’s
anything I’d stop at if it was somebody I loved.”

A
doorman bowed to them slightly as they pushed through the revolving doors, and
as Acton stepped into the fresh air he was greeted by a gentle breeze and car
horns blaring.

“Taxi,
sir?”

He
didn’t bother asking how the doorman knew he spoke English.

Must
be how I’m dressed.

He
glanced at Niner who was surveying the area, probably for threats, his eyes
hidden behind sunglasses, his eyeballs doing most of the wandering rather than
a turning head.

Maybe
it’s because I’m with an Asian guy?

He
doubted it. With the number of former French colonies in Asia—not the least of
which was Vietnam—there were plenty of Asians in France.

Just
good at his job.

“We’ve
got a car waiting for us.” Acton looked at the empty laneway in front of the
hotel. “Or supposed to be.”

The doorman
pointed to the road. “Everything is blocked by that ridiculous automobile. You’ll
have to go to the street then to the right. All of the cabs and limos are
there. We have staff there to help.”

Acton
nodded. “Thanks.” He and Niner walked the few yards to the road and past a Jaguar
XK-8 cabriolet, its owner in a shouting match with several people including
what appeared to be his wife.

“I
cannot move the vehicle, it is broken down!” he shouted in a thick French
accent at an angry tourist. “What part of that do you not understand, you
imbecile!”

“Don’t
be calling me an imbecile, mate, you’re the one that bought a Jag!”

The
exchange continued, the entire electrical system apparently having failed. Acton
spotted the chauffeur that had picked them up at the private airport the day
before near the end of the street, waving.

“It
is
a new battery, I’m not an idiot! When I say the car is always doing this,
it doesn’t mean I’m not trying to get it fixed.”

“Shoot
the piece of shit, put it out of our misery.”

“I had a
Jag once, cost over two hundred euros for a new battery!”

“Must
have been blessed by the Queen!”

Roars of
laughter replaced the angry shouts for a moment, leaving Acton wishing Reading
was with him to hear the exchange. The chauffeur rushed toward them, taking
Acton’s carryon bag he was rolling behind them.

“Allow
me, Professor.”

“Thanks,
Andre.” He turned to Niner. “I think I’m good from here, thanks for the
escort.”

“Nothin’
doin’, Doc.” He extended his hand and Acton took it, shaking it firmly, not
risking any type of limp wristed display with this warrior. “Good luck in Rome
and make sure you keep us posted on your movements. If you need help, you’ve
got our numbers.”

“Thanks,
Niner. Find Laura for me.”

“We
will.”

Acton
climbed in the back of the Mercedes S600, Andre closing the door, the shouts
and horns immediately silenced, and within moments they were underway.

On an
expedition he was certain was doomed to failure.

Dean Gregory Milton’s Office
St. Paul’s University, St. Paul, Maryland

“Mai Trinh’s here to see you.”

Gregory
Milton’s eyes widened slightly.
Odd.
He hit the button on his phone.
“Send her in, Rita.” Milton rose from his chair as the door opened and the tiny
Asian girl that had helped save his friends in the Hanoi incident entered, shy
as ever.

“Good
morning, Miss Trinh,” he said, motioning toward the couch. “What can I do for
you today?” He was certain it was about what was happening in Paris right now.
He had received a call from Acton late last night and hadn’t got a wink of
sleep, powerless to help.

It was
frustrating.

With his
back in recovery mode he wasn’t able to hop on a plane and go help, though even
if he were perfectly healthy he wouldn’t be much good beyond moral support.

But
sometimes that’s all that was expected. He was certain Acton wouldn’t expect
him to solve the problem, just be there to help him through this difficult time
mentally.

He had
already made the offer last night but Acton had saved him by telling him he
needed somebody stateside to coordinate things should it become necessary.

He had
agreed.

And he had
seen by the CC list on the email updates that Mai had been informed and
enlisted to help in the archeological aspect of this crisis.

And now
she stood in his office for only the second time, the first when he had
formally hired her several months before.

He took
his seat after Mai, wincing slightly as a pain shot up his spine.

Sitting
up all night wasn’t smart.

“I need
your permission to use one of the labs,” she said meekly. “One of the computer
labs.”

“What
for?”

“Well,
Tommy Granger—”

“The
whiz-kid who was arrested as a minor for hacking the DoD mainframe?”

Mai’s
head shot up, her eyes wide. “He’s a criminal!”

Milton
smiled. “Some might say so, though he claims to have gone straight. Anyway,
continue.”

Mai
seemed uncertain as to what to say.

“You
said you needed a computer lab. Why?”

She
smiled slightly. “Tommy came up with the idea of trying to find the German
using the Internet. He wants to use facial recognition to crawl the web and
find his face in photos of high society.”

“High
society? Why?”

“We think
he’s rich.” She quickly gave him a rundown of why, and it seemed solid. Very
solid, in fact. And the idea she and Tommy Granger had come up with was
fascinating. He remembered reading about his software, even allowing himself to
be used as a guinea pig.

It was
frightening in its abilities.

He had
immediately gone home and updated his privacy settings on Facebook and disabled
the geocoding on his phone.

“So do
we have your permission?”

Milton
nodded.

“Use
whatever resources you need. Keep me posted.”

A broad
smile broke out on Mia’s face as she jumped to her feet, he a little slower.
“Thank you so much!”

“You’re
welcome. But don’t forget your primary job is to help Jim out with his
research.”

“Of
course, sir. It will be Tommy who does most of the work. I’m not very good on
computers, not like him.”

“You’ll
learn. Just make sure you put it to good use,” he said with a wink.

She
blushed.

He
opened the door for her, making a mental note to check if winking in Vietnam
meant something different than here.

He closed
the door as a spasm of pain shot through his spine. He gasped, grabbing at the
small of his back, collapsing to one knee. Dropping to all fours, he rolled
over, clutching at the epicenter of his agony.

He
closed his eyes, focusing on his breathing. It wasn’t the first time this had
happened, and it probably wouldn’t be the last, but it was the first time it
had happened at the office, and it was the first time it had happened without Sandra
around to help him.

He
cursed.

“Rita!”

The door
opened within seconds and Rita cried out. “Oh my God! Are you okay?” She rushed
to his side, kneeling down beside him.

“It’s my
back.” He pointed to his desk. “Top drawer, right hand side. Pills.”

She
jumped up, rushing around the desk, pulling open the drawer with trembling
hands, the bottle shaking in them. “How many?”

“Two.
And calm down, you’re making me nervous. It’s not like I’m having a heart
attack here.”

“I-I’m
sorry, sir, just the sight of you on the floor.”

She
poured out some pills on the desk—all of them by the sound of it—then plucked
two from the pile, rounding the desk with his bottle of water. He took the
pills and popped them in his mouth as she propped his head up. He sipped some water
and swallowed, lying back down, the pain already beginning to wane without the
muscle relaxants having had a chance to work their wonders.

“What
can I do?”

“Get me
a pillow and two strong students.” Rita nodded, grabbing a throw cushion from
the couch and placing it under his neck. She hesitated.

“Students?”

“To get
me up.”

“I’ll
get Oscar. You don’t want the students seeing you like this. It will undermine
your authority.”

He
chuckled, regretting it. “Whatever you say, Rita.”