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?”