“You can figure all of that from one photo?” Reilly asked.
“Not completely, but often it’s in the eyes. They can tell so much. Take you for example.”
“I think that’s good enough, Veronica,” Bob Heath interjected.
Of course she was already forming an opinion, Reilly thought. “No, please go on,” he said. “I’d like to hear what you think.”
Severi looked at Heath, who shrugged.
“Well, you are self-assured, authoritative, and a man of action,” she began.
Reilly glanced at Heath who opened his arms with the kind of gesture that said, “See.”
While she spoke, Agent Dubois started the video again and grabbed still frames of various other people. He began to line them up against the shot of the man in question.
Severi continued. “You’re not married, but you were until fairly recently. The ring finger is still filling in a tan line where the ring was. It also says you’re so busy you haven’t been on a vacation for quite some time. The way you sit, mostly squared off and straight, suggests that you recognize leadership hierarchy. That comes from military experience. Given your age I’d venture you served in the Middle East or Afghanistan. Likely both. But you don’t appear to have the eyes of a killer.”
Heath broke in. “I think Mr. Reilly got more than he expected, Veronica.”
“You’d be great working for a dating service,” Reilly commented, quickly getting off the subject.
“Maybe when I retire,” she replied in good humor.
“Okay, so you mentioned the guy in the video,” Reilly said, getting back to the suspect, “I’ve nicknamed him Smug. It seemed to fit his expression.”
“Very astute,” Severi said.
“Do you have any other immediate reactions to what you see?” Reilly asked.
“Yes. Tight body. Physically fit. Military or paramilitary trained. No facials scars that I can see. That makes him doubly dangerous. Someone who can do maximum damage, strike first, and get away unharmed. He definitely didn’t plan on dying that day. He’s a man to steer clear of or,” she paused and looked at Heath, “take out.”
“Okay, everyone,” Roosevelt Dubois said. “I put these images together. What do you see?”
They turned their attention to the computer screen where Dubois positioned Smug above six screen grabs of six other people from the footage.
“Beyond the difference in their desire to get out of the area fast?” Heath asked.
“But what’s in the images?” Dubois prompted.
Reilly, who’d spent the most time with the video and had been on the ground twenty-four hours after the attack, studied the still frames. He put himself back into the aftermath with its lingering smell of explosives, the stench of human remains, the sight of burned toys, fused jewelry, fire-tinged papers, and utter devastation.
“His back,” Reilly observed. He pointed to Smug.
“Yes,” Agent Dubois said. “What about his back?”
“Smug has more residue on him than anyone else. That puts him closer to the initial blast. Plus,” his finger moved up to the suspect’s neck, “the back of his neck is slightly discolored. A burn?”
Severi raised her eyebrow. “What did you say you do?”
“I didn’t really. But I’m in the hospitality business.”
“Hmm,” she intoned, looking back and forth between Reilly and Heath.
Reilly smiled. “We always look at people. You know, size them up. I meet a lot. So back to Smug. Any other ideas?” Reilly inquired.
“Let’s rule out obvious points,” Dubois stated. “He’s not Japanese, so it’s not a homegrown attack. Not Hispanic or Middle Eastern either.”
“I’d say European,” Reilly noted.
“More specifically Polish, Russian, Ukrainian, or maybe Romanian,” Dubois concluded. “Lots of possibilities. Yes, for my money, your Mr. Smug is from somewhere within that region.”
“Russian maybe …” Reilly mused, looking at the photo intently.
16
Before he left CIA headquarters Reilly made a request that added to Severi and Dubois’ curiosity about Reilly’s true career pedigree.
“I think it’s best I drive back into DC or Arlington. Spend some time walking around, then take a cab to the airport. A CIA car to Dulles, and then a plane on to Tehran makes me feel a little exposed.”
“Tehran?” Dubois asked.
“Meetings on a possible new hotel property. My job to evaluate.”
Dubois agreed. “It’d be better not to pull up in a Company car or with a recognizable driver.”
Two hours into Qatar Airways’ overnight flight to Tehran, Reilly sat upright in his private first-class seat compartment. He opened his computer to reexamine the archived booking records from Tokyo’s Kensington Royal, covering the day of the attack and a month prior. There were two thousand names. He focused on European travelers. That narrowed the list significantly, but it was still far too long a list to reveal anything without more resources. He’d given the same file to Heath, part of his new “job,” for CIA evaluation.
Not yet tired, he signaled a flight attendant for dinner. He started with the “classic Arabic meze”—a combination of hummus, tabouleh, and muhammara served with Arabic bread. The attendant offered him a newspaper, and he chose the London Guardian.
For his main dish, Reilly had the thyme roasted chicken breast served with gnocchi and seared tomatoes. To accompany the meal he selected the Errazuriz Don Maximiano Founder’s Reserve, a luscious Chilean cabernet blend. It was during his second glass, after his dinner had been removed, that a story in the British paper caught his eye. “Memorial Concert to Honor Celebrated Romanian Singer Kretsky.” Kretsky, he thought. The name.
He began reading. The connection was spelled right out in the article.
Janusz Kretsky, noted Latvian composer and singer who died in the deadly terrorist attack at a Tokyo hotel, will be honored in a Bucharest concert this Saturday.
Kretsky achieved international fame producing and recording soundtracks for underground Romanian films. He was heralded in socialist circles and compared to France’s Jacques Brel.
Kretsky was an unabashed supporter of Russian citizens living in Romania, Poland, and the Baltic states, and an outspoken critic of NATO expansion. Earlier this year, Poland’s annual rock festival in Oświęcim canceled Kretsky’s scheduled performance. Organizers condemned comments the artist made that urged the West to give up its paranoia and twenty-first-century imperialism, while ignoring Russia’s own incursions in Ukraine and Crimea.
The 39-year-old artist had become a hero to Russian-speaking separatists residing in the former Eastern Bloc countries that now are democratic NATO members.
The story continued, covering Kretsky’s lyrics and career, and included photographs at a sold-out Moscow concert.
Reilly tore out the Guardian article, folded it, and tucked in his pocket. He wasn’t sure why he did it. Maybe it would be one of those things he passed onto Bob Heath.
17
LANGLEY, VA
CIA HEADQUARTERS
For Veronica Severi, 11:00 p.m. could still be the middle of the workday when she threw herself into a challenge.
No matches, none, nada, she said to herself. The man whom the hotel executive had named Smug was either a newcomer to the scene or a highly experienced operator working well under the radar. She was inclined to believe he was the latter, and a most deadly one at that.
Severi was an expert in the CIA-developed facial recognition technology (FRT), which was later also adopted by the FBI and the Immigration and Naturalization Service. There were experts in each agency, but Veronica Severi was everyone’s role model. She was renowned, as Reilly experienced, because she didn’t completely rely on a run of algorithms. Severi believed that it still took the subjective human mind to evaluate collateral information. Her rule was, “When technology is augmented by experience, probability will increase.”
Aga
in she looked at the key frame, the “probe image,” from the thumb drive Reilly had provided. Looked at didn’t begin to describe it. She talked to it.
“Come on,” she said aloud to the picture. “Tell me something.”
Smug simply looked smug.
She enhanced the image in Photoshop, removing most of the noise and sharpening the facial features. So far no match with any other photograph in the database.
“Who are you? Why were you in Tokyo? Where do you work?” she asked the image on the computer screen.
The trouble with FRT was that it could only find a 100 percent biometric match if a matching photo was in the database. But performance not only depended on the depth of the archive and the quality of the original image, but the image clarity of all possible matches. In other words, the odds were stacked against a fast, reliable search if the subject was off the grid.
Reliability was also contingent on other factors: relatable environments in source and matching photographs, the age of the photos, optical focal length, and effective pattern recognition based on distinct facial features.
“Okay,” she said to herself. “You won’t talk? Then let’s play chess. Time to figure you out.”
Severi flipped a page on her notepad and started writing down her observational estimates.
Height: 6’–6’2” based on the car behind subject.
Weight: 180-200.
Eyes: dark, hazel or green. Cold.
Hair: brown, black eyebrows—possible dye job.
Scars or other distinguishable features: none.
Now how old are you? she wondered. He looked young. Twenty-five?
Severi studied the probe image again. “No, you made yourself look younger, didn’t you?” she whispered.
She studied the photograph more. Then it came to her. His fitness level. He clearly worked out daily. You’re older than you appear, she reflected, a boss who still likes to get into the field. That’s why you’re smiling. You’re self-satisfied. Severi congratulated Reilly. He’d named him accurately. Smug.
The agency’s database went back decades, but was richer with more recent photographs.
Severi realized she needed to run a more comprehensive search dating back to when Smug was in his twenties. For that, she’d need to photographically de-age him.
She brought the image into another program, hit a few keystrokes, and watched the hour glass rotate. Soon she had Smug at 20, 25, and 30.
Severi now ran the younger renderings through the database with search parameters from twenty years to ten years ago. Since the hunt would take hours, at 2:00 a.m. she finally called it a night.
18
TEHRAN, IRAN
ESPINAS PALACE HOTEL
From the moment Reilly deboarded the plane he felt eyes on him. In addition to some not-so secret police assigned to shadow him, Iranian soldiers kept Reilly in full view. What they saw in person, the airport security cameras also recorded. But it was when he approached customs where Reilly, fresh from a visit to the CIA, felt things could really go bad.
As he presented his documents, the veteran agent glared at him, tempting Reilly to act out of the ordinary. His look telegraphed his distrust. Inwardly Reilly worried that if there were anything that could get him arrested, this man would find it, and if not, he would invent it.
“State your business,” the customs agent barked in heavily accented English. To make his point further understood, he pushed his jacket aside so Reilly would see his Glock.
“I am a hotel executive. We are exploring the possibility of opening a property in Tehran.” For good measure he decided to add, “The meeting was called by the minister of economic development. I am here at his invitation.”
If this meant anything to the officer, he dismissed it. He held on to Reilly’s passport. “Do you have a letter to confirm your meeting?” he asked.
Damn, Reilly thought. He didn’t. But he should have. More importantly now, the question was bait. Reilly resisted taking it.
“No, sir.”
“And I am to merely believe you?”
Reilly smiled. “Sir, you may call the minister’s office if there’s any question.”
“There is a question, and I’m asking it. Why have you really come to the Islamic Republic of Iran?” The customs officer signaled two Iranian soldiers to step forward.
Reilly paused before answering. This gave him a moment to calmly phrase his response and not give the guards any reason to react. “Of course, you must understand that such matters are confidential. Again, if you have concerns, you may make a call. I can provide you with the number.”
Reilly knew the guard had it. He also knew that the Iran Customs Administration was actually part of the Ministry of Economic Development and Finance. So why the hassle? Did they suspect a CIA connection?
“Mr. Reilly, I think you’re hiding something. I’m known for never being wrong.”
“Sir, I’m vice president of International at Kensington Royal Hotels. As I stated, I arrived in your country at the behest of your government with the intent to establish a business relationship. This will be our first meeting.”
Reilly decided he needed to show more resolve. Carefully. Smartly. Enough time had passed for any red flags to hit the custom agent’s computer. He bet none had.
“I’d hate to report that Iran is unfriendly to the tourist trade. Now if you don’t have any other questions, I would like to have my passport back.”
He casually glanced over his shoulder, aware that a long line had queued behind him with impatient, exhausted travelers now likely worried they were in store for the same thing.
“I have a meeting I must get to.”
The customs agent cleared his throat, realizing intimidation was no longer working. He moved on to a series of standard questions. Reilly affirmed he was not transporting alcohol or narcotic drugs; gambling tools, weapons, or explosives; magazines, publications, or films that violated the religious or national dignity of Iran; or cash beyond the legal allotment.
The agent stared at Reilly long and hard one last time. Reilly stood confidently under his gaze. Finally the customs officer indignantly stamped his passport and returned it with his visa.
“The Islamic Republic of Iran welcomes you,” he coldly stated.
“Thank you,” Reilly said, with the same insincerity.
Reilly took the waiting town car to his hotel, convinced he had been tested. But for what? As a businessman or a spy?
“Mr. Reilly. As-salāmu ‘alaykum. Peace be upon you,” Hosni Samir Madani offered in greeting thirty-five minutes later.
Samir Madani was the trade envoy assigned to Reilly. He was a heavyset, middle-aged man with a closely cropped beard. He wore a conservative light brown suit with a white shirt buttoned to the collar. All things considered, Reilly pegged him as former military.
“So honored to meet you,” he added.
“As-salaam ‘alaykum,” Reilly replied. “Thank you. I share the honor.”
The two men shook hands in the lobby of the Espinas Palace Hotel, a lavish new 28-story, five-star hotel in the Sa’adat Abad neighborhood in northwestern Tehran. The hotel was built on 15,000 square meters of desert, set against the Alborz Mountains. It looked like it could have been transported directly from another reclaimed desert—the Las Vegas Strip.
With Iran’s goal of adding 125 hotels and increasing visitors to twenty million by 2025, the Espinas Palace was a great advertisement for the tourism industry.
Reilly admired the work. The sparkling golden rotunda with carved reliefs celebrating heroic Persian battles. The highly polished marble floor had statuary reminiscent of the Gate of All Nations at the ceremonial capital, Persepolis. The magnificent chandelier suspended from the center illuminated a fresh flower setting so large that the scent had wafted his way the moment he entered the hotel.
If this was intended as a way to set the bar high, it worked. The Espinas Palace was absolutely palatial. Hard to top, he thought. If Ke
nsington Royal came to Tehran to manage one of the new hotels, they’d be judged against the Espinas Palace Hotel.
“I trust your transit was good?” Samir Madani asked.
Reilly had no doubt that the head of the Iran-Foreign Joint Venture Association, an agency under Economic Development, had been briefed on how difficult its officer had actually made his entry.
“Oh, just fine,” he said cavalierly. “Everyone doing his job.”
Samir Madani voiced an almost inaudible, “Hmmm.” “Well, I’m sure you’re anxious to check in. Let us meet for dinner. Say 17:00? I will have a driver waiting for you in the lobby.”
“That will be fine.”
“Should you feel up for exploring, we are quite near the Carpet Museum and our heralded National Museum of Iran. Both are worth a visit.”
Reilly thought that might be a good idea. He could also determine if Samir Madani had anyone following him.
“But let’s get you checked in. Then the rest of the afternoon is yours.”
When he reached his room on the twenty-third floor, it was apparent that his host had provided far more than the usual business room. Looking out, he had an expansive city view. Inside, it certainly fit every description and then some for an executive suite. On the ceiling were arrows indicating the proper direction to face Mecca for prayer. This wasn’t new to Reilly, but he’d never seen it so artfully painted, even in Kensington Royal’s hotels in the Middle East.
Most of all he was interested in surveillance apparatus. As an industry insider, he started with the fundamental knowledge that every hotel is a pre-equipped, functional laboratory for gathering information on clients. It began when check-in slid a credit card, or earlier if the reservation was guaranteed online. Further intelligence then came from phone numbers dialed on house phones and websites visited if logged in through the hotel Wi-Fi. And then there were the pay-per-view movies to consider. Even though a film title would not appear on the final bill, the hotel management could find out what had been watched and who had watched it.
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