The Devil's Banker (43 page)

“Darn it!” Spencer muttered, raising his head from the eyepiece and pushing himself back from the desk. Until he could define these all-important pixels, he would not be able to submit the picture to the Identix software for a match. He wouldn’t go to Owen Glendenning with anything less. A picture without a name was no good to anyone.

Sam Spencer, age thirty-seven and one day, director of the FBI’s forensic audio, video, and image analysis unit, had been enhancing the final seconds of the digital tape rescued from Mohammed al-Taleel’s apartment for thirty-six hours’ running. What had begun as a top-secret rush job had continued into the night and plowed right through his birthday. He didn’t mind missing the celebration dinner with his wife and parents. He did mind the yellow packages piling up outside his door. Spencer was conscientious about his responsibilities to a fault. At this rate, he’d have to motor through the weekend to clear the backlog.

Working out of an air-conditioned bungalow on the grounds of the FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia, Spencer assisted not only the FBI, but also state, local, and international law enforcement agencies with the examination of recorded audio, video, and photographic media. Jobs varied from converting a tape from NTSC to PAL to repairing shot-up video cameras. Most of his enhancement work came from ATM security cameras and involved getting a clear shot of the robber’s, and sometimes, the eventual murderer’s, face. It was critical work and he loved it.

Never, though, had he been tasked with such an important project.
Top Secret. Eyes Only. Utmost National Priority.
The urgency of the mission had been drummed into him ad infinitum. And the calls. Every hour on the hour the deputy director for operations of the CIA called for an update on his progress, always ending their conversations with the same terse warning not to share the information with anyone.

A box of See’s candies was in easy reach. Snapping up the birthday sampler, Spencer hunted for his favorite—a dark chocolate ganache. He was pretty sure he’d eaten the last one, but it paid to look twice. A finger poked under the gold crenellated paper and blindly surveyed the bottom tray. His conscience stopped him cold. It was cheating to start on the bottom tray until you’d finished the top. Spotting a pecan carmel, he popped it into his mouth. The chocolates weren’t a luxury. They were a necessity. Fuel.

Chewing the delicious confection, Spencer crossed the room to a humming white machine the size of a refrigerator. Slipping on a pair of surgeon’s gloves, he ran the original tape through the Canon X3 Digital Enhancer one more time. The X3 broke down the picture into individual pixels, then using an artificial intelligence program, compared each to the pixels surrounding it, and either sharpened, or flattened, the image. It was the same process the human eye performed in concert with the brain when it looked at Monet’s cathedrals. Each step you took away from the painting rendered the cathedral in clearer focus.

So far, Spencer had run the image through the enhancer five times. What had started as a speck on the mirrored sunglasses had evolved into a slender brunette wearing ivory pants and a matching sleeveless T. Model material all the way. But that fact and ten cents still wouldn’t buy him a cup of coffee. He needed a face. The problem was that the machine was at the end of its tether. There was only so much the A.I. could manipulate the pixels without the result boomeranging. This was the last go-round.

Wiping a lock of hair out of his eyes, Spencer retook his place on his red stool and rolled up to the X3.

“Clearer, baby. Just a little bit clearer.”

Chapter 51

They would be waiting for him at the border, thought Marc Gabriel as he guided the year-old Mercedes S-class with Bern license plates along the curving country roads. It was an hour before daylight. Hills thick with heather, fields ripe with wheat, and glades of summer pines lay asleep beside him, but in his mind he was dreaming of yellow sand and blue skies, of the graceful curve of a windswept dune and the razor hush of an approaching storm.

By now, he could be sure George had talked. Genteel approaches had yielded to older, trusted methods. At the least, they had a description of him. Perhaps even a photograph, if George had been stupid enough to carry one. But what else? Gabriel had been meticulous in compartmentalizing information and sharing with each contact only what each one required to complete his assignment. George, like the others, knew only what he needed to know, and in his case, the basics.

He had not told them about Kahn or the meeting at Cléopatre. Gabriel could only guess that somehow, somewhere Kahn had slipped and that the Americans had gleaned the information from the Israelis.

The sun rose as he passed through Besançon, fifty kilometers from the Swiss border. The terrain grew mountainous. The road bordered gaping chasms and roaring cataracts. The dashboard clock read 6:55 as he spotted the red and white flag flapping in the morning breeze. Two lanes slimmed to one and led to a steel and glass booth sitting astride the highway. A black-and-white striped pole was raised to allow cars to pass. Five vehicles filled the lane ahead of him.

Gabriel turned off the radio and drummed his fingers against the wheel.

If they were waiting for him, it would be here.

Nonchalantly, he checked the rearview mirror. A Peugeot nosed close behind him, then a Volkswagen Kombi. Traffic leaving Switzerland was sparse, but steady. He saw no vehicles parked near the booth, or in the examination lanes beside it, that shouldn’t be there.

A guard left his post and began strolling down the line of vehicles. A longtime veteran; fifty, gray, serious. Not one of the young lions doing their annual military service.

Gabriel busied himself with formalities. He gathered his registration, driver’s license, and passport. He was a Belgian businessman returning to his home in Bern after a weeklong stay in Brussels. He rehearsed his home phone number, his address. Both would check out if confirmed. If they were looking for Omar al-Utaybi, they would be disappointed.

The guard met his eyes and motioned for him to roll down the window.

Gabriel’s spine stiffened.

They had him.

Rolling down his window, he extended his passport. “’Morning,” he said, as if bored.

The guard did not return the greeting. “Front tire needs air,” he said, not bothering to look at the passport.

“Vielen Dank,”
said Gabriel, but the guard was out of earshot, pointing a finger at the driver of the VW Kombi and motioning him into the inspection lane.

A horn blared at Gabriel.

Ahead, a second guard was waving traffic through.

Raising an acknowledging hand, Gabriel shifted into drive and pumped the accelerator with a little muscle.

He was in Switzerland.

They met on the third floor of the parking structure at Geneva Cointrin Airport. They had not seen each other for over a year, but they did not kiss, offer to hug, or even shake hands. He was her controller, nothing more. He opened the trunk and lifted the panel to the spare tire. A compact titanium box lined with lead held the package.

“So small?” she asked, accepting the weapon, assaying its weight.

“Incredible, no?”

“Maybe the rot is not as pronounced as we believed.”

Gabriel’s instinct was to slap her, but he knew her too well. “Maybe not,” he agreed, and together they laughed.

The woman straightened and sighed. “I must go.”

“Yes,” he said, and lifting his hand, he touched her cheek. “Good-bye, sister.”

“Good-bye, brother.”

In the changing room of Terminal B, Marc Gabriel removed his jacket, pants, shirt, and tie for the last time. Opening his overnight bag, he withdrew the long white cotton shirt-dress known to Arabians as the
dishdasha
and slipped it over his head. The
bisht
came next, a loose-fitting black silk robe with a gold shawl collar and piping on the sleeves. He’d had the clothing tailor-made for him at Harrison’s off the Etoile. Finally, he folded the red-and-white–checked
ghutra,
or
khaffiyeh,
in a triangle and arranged it on his head, securing it in place with a sleek black
agal,
or headband, made from tightly woven goat hair and sheep’s wool. He spent a moment adjusting the clothing, enjoying the generous fit. When he looked in the mirror, he gasped. After twenty years, he was looking at his true self.

Emirates Flight 645 to Dubai was on final call when he presented his boarding pass to the flight attendant. “Seat 2A,” the pleasant woman said. Something in his expression stirred her concern. “Has it been a long trip, sir?”

Omar al-Utaybi shrugged tiredly. “You have no idea.”

Chapter 52

Adam Chapel was running. His stride was fast and loose, his legs fresh, with no sign of cramping. His breath came easily. His arms, tucked at his side, pumped with short, efficient strokes. It was his habit to keep his eyes trained on the twenty feet of pavement in front of him, to disappear inside his mind to a tranquil place he had prepared in advance, a quiet corner where he’d set aside his treasured memories. But today, his mind was a crowded, chaotic place, and he let his eyes meander from the pavement toward the vast expanse of ocean that spread to his right. Over the great blue Pacific. Over the whitecaps cresting the late afternoon chop. Over the dolphins jumping in great arcs and the seagulls wheeling and diving into the sea.

“It will be over soon,” Chapel repeated to himself.

The swim and the bike were behind him. The wind was at his back. Thirteen miles along the superheated roadway of the Kilauea Highway would carry him across the finish line. The pavement stretched like a silver ribbon across the black pumice stone and the red volcanic ash. His body had weathered eight hours of constant physical strain. It could endure two more hours of abject misery. Time, effort, discipline, and the will to survive would see him through.

“How much longer can you take it, Chapel?”

It was not his voice that demanded he give in, but the corrugated baritone of General Guy Gadbois. “Eight hours. It’s a record.”

Chapel squeezed his eyelids tighter, as if blackness would block out the voice. He knelt upright on the cold concrete floor of an interrogation cell at Mortier Caserne. Handcuffs pinned his hands behind his back. A round three-inch-diameter pole nestled in the craw of his knees. If he sat up, the kneecaps dug harder into the unyielding floor. If he sat back, the pole cut all circulation to his feet. Either position promised an excruciating result.

“Twenty-one dead in a week,” Gadbois continued as he circled Chapel, his toad’s head lowered to seek out the prisoner’s eyes. “That’s good work for anyone. A record to be proud of. Come now, Mr. Chapel. It is time to rest on your laurels. To pass on the baton to someone else.”

“Sarah,” Chapel muttered. “I want to see Sarah.”

“But you can’t. Whatever remains of her is back in the building you and your colleagues saw fit to blow up.”

“No. She isn’t dead.” When the pain had grown too intense, and the world had dissolved in a freakish kaleidoscope of white noise and unbearable sensation, he had seized upon the idea that she was still alive. The notion of her waiting for him somewhere after this was over was the only thing keeping him going. He had not seen her body, therefore she was alive.

“Perhaps you should have taken your feeling for her into account before embarking on such rash actions? Or did you have a choice? Did Marc Gabriel order you to lead us into Cléopatre in order to kill us off, just as he ordered you to lead my men into the Cité Universitaire?” Gadbois put a foot on the pole and allowed his full weight to rest on it. “Santos Babtiste deserves an answer! Herbert Leclerc deserves an answer! Sarah Churchill deserves an answer! Tell me now, Chapel. Clear your conscience. You loved the girl. Tell me, for her sake!”

Chapel moaned as the blood left his feet. His flesh was slowly dying. Every cell screamed for oxygen, the nerves firing off their emergency flares. He was kneeling on razors. Sweat beaded his forehead. He began to shake.

“No,” he said. “No.”

He’d already given his answers. He’d sworn his innocence. No one had paid him two hundred sixty thousand dollars. If it was in his account, it was a setup; more of Marc Gabriel’s handiwork. Chapel began to shake his head violently. No, he had not tipped off the police. No, he had not sent George Gabriel to the Hôpital Salpetitpierre to boost his own credibility. No, he had not warned off Dr. Mordecai Kahn.

“The problem, Mr. Chapel, as you know, is that as lead investigator on this case it was you who determined which directions we were to follow. It was you who led us every step of the way. It was you who told us what was black and what was white. We simply have no way of knowing what was clean and what was dirty. You leave us no choice but to believe that this whole thing has been nothing but an elaborate wild-goose chase. From bank to bank we hopped, but what did we find? Names? Addresses? Any live person who might bring us one step closer to figuring out what Gabriel was discussing on the tape? That was him, wasn’t it? You see, we’ve come up with some photos of the man, and I’ve been told he hasn’t aged a day. We found exactly nothing.”

“Kahn,” said Chapel. “We found Kahn. We found the Holy Land Trust. We found François’s account in Berlin.”

“Window dressing,” complained Gadbois. “Diversions. I called the Mossad myself, and they deny ever talking to Miss Churchill. ‘Bomb?’ they say. ‘There’s no bomb. Kahn is still at work in Tel Aviv.’ He released his weight from the stick. “Come now, Chapel, let’s be gentlemen about this. Tell me what you know—everything from A to Z—and I’ll take you down to the officers’ mess and buy you a
steak frites
and a glass of beer. Hmm? What do you say? I told you that I’m impressed. Eight hours. I’ve never had anyone hold out on me like this. You’re a tough bastard. I could’ve used more like you in Algeria.”

Chapel continued to shake his head, the steady rhythmic motion comforting him, transporting him. It was a denial of his complicity, a refusal to acknowledge his plight. It was a dying heart’s plea to bring Sarah back. Yet, even as he fought the pain, he freed a corner of his mind to unravel the insanity of his predicament. Gabriel’s sleight of hand did not interest him. Cybercrimes were a trivial menace. Hacking into commercial bank accounts was a daily occurrence. The crime could be uncovered in hours.