“Because we work with people who use some of the most advanced technology available,” Grimaldi pointed out. “We gave them a first-rate description, and not even the facial recognition software has been able to pull a face or name out of the crowd.”
“Really?” Serif tapped her finger against her lips. “I might be able to help you with that. Part of my training with DIA involved a project where we built a new facial recognition program. In fact, it was widely adopted by all sorts of intelligence groups—it’s possible you’re using the program I helped build.”
“Even if that’s true, we have some pretty top-shelf technical people working for us,” Grimaldi said. “They’re capabilities are quite significant.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Serif said. “But my point was that I learned a few things about that science, flaws that might well create problems your people can’t foresee.”
Her statement immediately engaged the Executioner’s interest. “Such as?”
“Well, for one, facial recognition software doesn’t look at probability markers—it can only assess specific and known markers.”
“You’re talking about people who’ve had cosmetic surgery,” Bolan interjected.
Serif’s face brightened and she did nothing to hide her surprise at Bolan’s insight. “Precisely! And there are other factors, too, such as aging and genetic predisposition. Even medical considerations.”
“You mean like when somebody is disfigured?” Grimaldi asked.
“That wasn’t what I meant, but that certainly is another factor. Consider also that medical conditions can change facial structure significantly. For example, problems with the liver can change color and tone, and due to imperfections in capture technology, a person with something such as liver disease can appear much differently in a picture than in person.
“Then there’s rapid weight loss or gain, such as might occur with cancer patients or eating disorders.”
“Like bulimia and anorexia,” Bolan said.
“Right. And there are many others I can list. All these things can make a significant difference in facial recognition software. Cosmetic surgery is usually the biggie, especially when talking about someone within the intelligence community.”
“What makes you think this guy is from that area?” Grimaldi inquired.
Serif shrugged. “It only makes sense, really. You’re talking about someone who has significant resources, someone who can arrange assassinations and potentially travel from one continent to the next on short notice. You also would think that only someone inside the intelligence community could manipulate Amocacci.”
Serif pointed at Bolan. “You yourself tried to use that angle as a way to bait and manipulate Amocacci. Is it all that unreasonable, then, to assume that he might throw in his lot with a similar mark?”
Bolan nodded. “What you’re saying makes a lot of sense. If I could put you in touch with our people, could you help them with modifying their facial recognition procedures?”
“I’d be happy to, Colonel Stone.”
She smiled. Bolan smiled. Grimaldi looked between them and then stood and checked his watch. “Well, if you don’t mind, I think I’d best make myself scarce.”
Bolan looked suddenly at his friend. “Why?”
“First, I need to acquire a new set of wheels before all the rental places close. Second, it’s probably a good idea for me to go back to the plane and get some more equipment.”
Bolan had thought Grimaldi had some sense that he and Serif wanted to be alone. But what the pilot said made absolute sense. “Yeah, good idea. We’re going to need a new ride for the soft probe tonight.”
Serif raised one dark, graceful brow. “Soft probe?”
“Later,” Bolan said.
He gave Grimaldi his full attention. “See if you can get us something fast, Jack. Fast as possible, in fact.”
Grimaldi smiled. “Expecting to possibly have to make a quick getaway?”
“I’d prefer to be prepared for it. I mean, the SUV was a good thought, but this time I don’t want to be caught off guard. Police patrols are likely to be on heightened alert for a while, not to mention we were out there long enough they probably got some decent descriptions. Maybe somebody’s cell phone picture. I’d like to be able to outrun the police as well as any potential enemies.”
Grimaldi nodded. “Roger that. I’ll be back within the hour.”
The pilot nodded at Serif, then split.
Bolan sat on the couch in front of the laptop and withdrew a device from his pocket. He plugged the secure satellite scrambler to the laptop and made a connection via its non-broadcasted mobile hotspot identifier. Within a couple of minutes, Aaron Kurtzman’s haggard face appeared.
“I woke you up,” Bolan said. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Kurtzman said. “I’ve given up on sleep a century ago. What’s up, Striker?”
“I have someone here who wants to talk to you. I think you’ll want to hear what she has to say.”
Stony Man Farm, Virginia
WITHIN AN HOUR of speaking to Serif and plugging in the additional parameters and co-factoring algorithms she provided, Kurtzman was convinced they’d hit on a solid lead. He immediately placed a call to Price and Brognola, who were burning the midnight oil in the War Room and asked them to come to the Annex.
Within twenty minutes the two were seated at a table in the Computer Room as Kurtzman manned the master console. He displayed the picture of a young man with a lean face and beady eyes. “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Mr. Derek Savitch, Esquire.”
“Come again?” Price said.
“This is Striker’s man down in Guatemala.”
Price frowned at the picture. “When was this taken?”
“Less than fifteen months ago.”
“I don’t know, Bear,” Brognola said. “Other than the similarity in the eye color I don’t see it at all.”
“Agreed,” Price added. “And how could there have been such a distinctive change in the face we’re seeing here and the one described to us?”
“Simple. Hashimoto’s Thyroiditis.”
“Explain,” Brognola said.
“It’s an autoimmune disorder marked by an attack of the thyroid gland. The body thinks it’s cancerous and so goes after the thyroid, causing significant drops in hormone levels. It’s normally more common in women than men, but once I knew we had our man and plugged in his information, I discovered in his medical records that he was not only diagnosed with non-Hodgkin lymphoma but celiac disease. This is what actually precipitated his condition.”
“So this caused the sudden weight gain,” Price said.
“And in turn explains why our facial recognition software wasn’t able to pick him out,” Kurtzman said with an emphatic nod. “I did some additional digging and discovered that in the four separate office visits he had to specialists in the twelve months following his diagnoses, Savitch gained ninety pounds.”
Brognola let out a low whistle. “That is significant.”
“Now you said something about ‘esquire,’” Price said. “Tell us about that.”
“He’s a Canadian citizen and attorney.” Kurtzman tapped a key and a copy of the highlights from Savitch’s full dossier appeared. “You’ll see on line four his most recent appointment.”
“‘Security Intelligence Review Committee’?” Price read out loud.
Kurtzman nodded. “Exactly. They’re an independent agency of the Canadian government responsible for overseeing the Canadian Security Intelligence Service. You could pretty much equate them to our own CIOC.”
“So he would have access to significant intelligence information,” Price said. “And I daresay a lot of the community scuttlebutt, too.”
“But the SIRC doesn’t really play any direct
role in CSIS operations. Their primary duty is to ensure that they don’t abuse their powers to violate the rights of Canada’s citizens,” Brognola said.
“I remind you they’ve been the center of some significant controversy as of late,” Kurtzman said. “There was the resignation of SIRC’s chair in 2014 over a conflict of interest. And a few years back there was that business with a guy who was nabbed by the Feds who charged him with a number of criminal counts that, among others, included government fraud and money laundering.”
“I remember reading something about that,” Price said. “Didn’t they nab him in Panama?”
Kurtzman nodded. “Yeah.”
“So it would appear that the affiliations of Canadian intelligence members and their associations with Central America continue,” Brognola deadpanned.
“No more than right here in the U.S.,” Price reminded the Stony Man chief. She returned her attention to Kurtzman. “So let’s assume you’re correct. What would motivate Savitch to work with a group like the Council of Luminárii?”
“Well, we obviously don’t have anything other than Striker’s testimony to tie him to either Amocacci or Quon Ma,” Kurtzman said. “Not that I wouldn’t trust the big guy’s assertions. My guess would be that regardless of Savitch’s ties, he’s probably being motivated by money. He’s had major medical expenses and, most recently, he’s in the wind. In fact, his housekeeper reported him missing more than a month ago and local authorities haven’t had a single lead in the case.”
“I’d say his being in Guatemala at the time the special ops team out of Tyndall was compromised is evidence enough he’s heavily involved with the Council,” Brognola said. “The only question now is where he’s gone and how do we find him?”
“Well, now that we have an identity to match with a face, we shouldn’t have much trouble locating him,” Kurtzman said. “And once we do locate him, I think it would be really good to turn every law-enforcement agency on to his description and issue a Be on the Lookout order.”
“What do you want to bet he’s either on his way to Istanbul or already there?” Price offered, looking at Brognola.
He nodded. “It’s worth checking out. Get on it. And let’s get this information to Striker as soon as possible. He’s got boots on the ground and he may be able to use this information to run the guy down.”
“Right,” Kurtzman said. “And it will give him a potential bargaining chip with Amocacci.”
“I’ll use this information to pursue my own contacts,” Price said. “Maybe I can come up with more intelligence to help us out.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Brognola said. “Let’s get cracking. I don’t think we have much more time before Amocacci and his friends in the Council decide to unleash whatever little plan they have for the U.S. And, frankly, I’d prefer not to read about it in the morning’s headlines.”
* * *
BOLAN RETRIEVED HIS vibrating cell phone.
“Striker, here.”
“We got your man,” Price said.
“Talk to me.”
Bolan listened for the next few minutes as Price laid it out for him. Finally she said, “I also reached out to some of my contacts. Seems that Savitch may be doing business with the British. SIS internal affairs in Britain have monitored some unusual scrambled communications between Savitch and one of their own agents. But they wouldn’t be more forthcoming than that.”
“Then it’s possible there’s a British agent on the Council, too.”
“Yes, that was my thinking.”
“That’s good news, lady.”
“‘Lady’?” Price fell silent for a moment and then said, “You’re not alone.”
“No.”
“Okay, I understand. Just watch yourself. There’s a lot of double-cross and triple-cross going on here. I want you to be careful.”
“I always am,” Bolan said.
“I know, and I don’t have to say it. And I don’t mean to sound like I’m mothering you,” Price said. “Sorry. It’s habit—I always do it with the boys.”
By that remark Bolan knew she meant Able Team and Phoenix Force. In a good many respects, she was much like a mother for that motley crew. A role forced more on her by situation than out of any real desire to play true to it on Price’s part. Sure, they were eight of the toughest and most skilled soldiers in the world, but they had a tendency to act like a bunch of adolescent hooligans to such a degree Price often found herself continuously moderating the behavior of one or another. It was only natural such a task would roll naturally from her where it concerned Bolan, too, regardless of the nature of their personal relationship.
“I hear you,” Bolan said.
“Take care, Striker.”
“Will do. Out.”
Bolan disconnected the call and turned to see Serif studying him intently.
“Well?”
“They found a match,” Bolan said. “Thanks to you. Ever heard of a man named Derek Savitch?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Never came across the name in your surveillance?”
“I already told you no.” She cocked her head. “You sound as if you don’t believe me.”
“It’s not that, Alara,” Bolan said easily. “I was just trying to jog your memory. You’ve been through an awful lot lately, and that kind of stress can cause you to forget things.”
“I understand...I guess.”
“Don’t take it personally. Really. I would have asked the same question of anybody else.”
“That’s what bothers me,” Serif said, staring into his eyes. “But I’m a big girl, I get it. So you never explained this soft probe thing you were talking about before.”
“My people came up with a couple of additional leads,” Bolan replied. “One of them is an export warehouse Amocacci operates. I’m going to check it out, see what I can sniff out.”
“What are you hoping to find?”
“Maybe something that will give me a clue as to the whereabouts of these other Council members. They must have a meeting place of some kind.”
“I’ve always thought maybe it was his house.”
“Where? Here in the city?”
Serif shook her head. “No, it’s somewhere west and south of Istanbul. I don’t even know where, exactly. Every weekend he takes a chopper to Malko Tarnovo. At first I thought he lived in the city, but records show he purchased property somewhere in the foothills of the Strandzha. I’ve always believed he owns a residence and that he shares it with the Lady Fellini. I’ve just never been able to get the resources to pursue it that far, since most of my surveillance was unauthorized.”
Bolan shook his head as he donned his utility belt from which dangled the holstered Desert Eagle. “Well, maybe they’ll start listening to you more now that so much of your information has panned out.”
“Really?” Serif looked suddenly proud.
“You bet,” the Executioner replied. “Now get your jacket.”
“I’m coming with you?”
“I promised you could,” Bolan said. “Besides, I’d rather keep my eye on you. You have a propensity for getting into trouble.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Sofia, Bulgaria
Hurley Willham wouldn’t have remained in Bulgaria by choice. He hated the country, despite the fact it had become one of the largest producers of wind-driven energy in the world. Word had been spreading for a while that Bulgaria was a good target for exploiting nuclear energy, but like most countries of the region, there were worldwide concerns about how this could be turned toward the production of nuclear weapons.
Despite the sociopolitical climate in the country, and the growing unrest in surrounding nations, Bulgaria remained a key European center of energy production. It also had a lot of money go
ing through its financial sector in Sofia, and that played right into Willham’s wheelhouse. It was the key reason he’d chosen to remain as the SIS case officer for Her Majesty’s secret service. He was a decorated officer with a stellar reputation of foreign service, and that lifestyle had afforded him an ability to make a bucket-load of cash.
It amazed Willham how many of his foreign colleagues participated in some sort of graft. Willham could recall the history of many large police forces in the United States at one point, where political and economic corruption was so large that anyone who didn’t participate found themselves an outcast and in the minority. Of course, that kind of environment also landed even those who were supposed to suppress the corruption in a swirling pool of hypocrisy.
Willham, however, couldn’t have cared less about those problems. He’d easily been able to operate under the radar, and it was only happenstance that had forced him to work with men like Derek Savitch. Although he’d learned Savitch had his uses. Already they had done a deed that eliminated the competition and earned him a healthy sum of cash, only half of which he’d been forced to share with Savitch.
But there was the issue of the proverbial exaggeration of Quon Ma’s demise. Word among certain circles had it that Ma wasn’t dead; a scenario that seemed to be supported by the fact Turkey wasn’t crawling with agents from the Ministry of State Security. If Savitch’s assassin had botched the job, it was going to make the rest of Willham’s plans that much harder to achieve. He would have to assign someone else to the deed, and he would now have no choice but to arrange for the elimination of Gastone Amocacci, too. They couldn’t afford to keep the Italian alive if the job on Ma had been botched, and the man who now sat in front of Willham in his undeclared luxury residence in the Spa resort of the Kostenets was busy hammering that point home.
“I’m telling you, Comrade Willham,” Mikhail Ryzkhov said. “If your informants are correct about Ma still being alive, Amocacci must be terminated at any costs.”
“I agree,” Lev Penzak added. The Mossad agent had been standing at the mini bar and staring out the tall window that looked on the lake. The sun was just setting behind the hills and the amber light glimmered with a beautiful glow on the water.
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