Trojan Horse

by Russinovich, Mark

  The completed network would have both aerial and ground unmanned vehicles as well as roving robot vehicles, all supervised by a command and control center. The ground component would consist of a system of watch stations and primary-response patrols. The system was designed to be mobile and adaptable to local conditions of border length and terrain.

  The design and implementation of the project had been extensive, involving experts from more than one dozen institutions, eight EU nations, Turkey, and even Israel, which had the most experience with such matters. And while this aspect of it was intended to reduce reliance on human patrols, the greater vision was to extend it beyond mere electronic bordercamera surveillance.

  With the credentials Bridget had provided, Jeff logged into TALOS. He spent several minutes surfing its interior to refresh his memory of its structure and to learn what he didn’t already know. He was not surprised at how unchanged it was since he’d last had a look. Despite widespread illegal immigration into the European Union, there was no sense of urgency about implementing the project to its full capability.

  He soon located ASSET, Advanced Software and driver Support for Essential Road Transport. As was the case with so many patrolling police cars, all European Union entry points possessed such cameras and every car entering the EU was recorded and basic computer checks run on its history. It made bringing stolen cars into Europe more difficult than ever and when an alert was out for a certain vehicle it could be stopped or tagged for follow-up when it entered.

  France and Germany in particular also possessed an extensive network of highway cameras, which made it possible to track a vehicle on the major highways and often within the cities themselves once they’d been identified and marked.

  Every passport of someone entering the EU was also scanned and if the individual arrived in a passenger vehicle, the two databases were linked. In other words, the driver and occupants of a car were matched to that car. Even if the system was not set up to do that automatically, the two sources could be readily matched if you had the right access codes and knowledge of the system.

  Jeff had fled his captors shortly after one in the morning. The police rescue team had located and entered the building around two thirty so that was his starting point. He assumed the captors had left the country at once, which meant they’d have crossed no later than three in the morning. One hundred and twenty minutes. A check of the map displayed three major routes immediately out of Geneva into a foreign country.

  Two major routes entered Italy, one veering east, the other west and quickly led into France. The third was a lesser road and took an indirect route before crossing the border also into France. Once in the EU, there would be no more passport controls. Two hours, in the dead of night. Jeff typed the query into the database analysis path using the ASSET syntax and crossed his fingers as he pressed ENTER. There had to be a manageable number. There had to be.

  Six hundred thirty-eight. That was what he had to work with, assuming Daryl’s abductors had fled Switzerland. He had no idea what vehicle the men were using, so next he matched the vehicles to the scanned passports.

  Nine hundred and four passports.

  He stopped to think. The vehicle he wanted would be multipassenger so he dropped all single-passenger vehicles. That left 246 cars and trucks, which gave him another idea. He could always come back if what was left proved a dead end. He dropped the passports for large commercial trucks. It was possible they’d had one lined up but unlikely. Now he had 187 scanned passports.

  And that he could manage. Before starting, he picked up the telephone and ordered a large pot of American coffee.

  He’d seen their faces. That had been their big mistake.

  He also knew there was only one reason why they’d allowed it. They’d intended to kill him. And they intended to kill Daryl. The only question was when. With that grim foreboding, Jeff began scanning the passports photos, willing himself to take his time, to get it right.

  30

  GENEVA, SWITZERLAND

  UNITED NATIONS OFFICE AT GENEVA (UNOG)

  AVENUE DE LA PAIX

  5:08 P.M. CET

  Franz Herlicher closed the door to his office, carefully locking it behind him. Since the events of the last few days he’d become conscientious in following standard security protocol. Now he set out with briefcase in hand.

  Work had been hell. The status of his report was up in the air since no one could be sure what data was authentic and what had been tampered with. The documents, pictures, e-mails, and other evidence they had that Iran was on the verge of detonating a device was being reviewed by the department’s staff and they found more and more original material that appeared to have been modified, sometimes in major ways and sometimes in subtle ones. No one was sure anymore what was real and what had been doctored. He was determined that his months of work not go to waste and this huge opportunity for advancement and recognition be missed and was urging his superiors to circulate the copy of the report he’d verified as unaltered, but he was meeting resistance. They couldn’t publish a report with such implications without all the supporting data being in order, certainly not with their records in a state of disarray.

  Then there was the consternation caused by the abduction of the two Americans. When he’d first learned the news, he’d not believed it. He’d never heard of such a single incident taking place anywhere near the Palais des Nations. What troubled him was the rumor he’d heard during lunch. According to the grapevine, security believed the kidnapping was related to their activities. As they’d been working in his office, on his problem, Herlicher couldn’t help wondering if he was at risk.

  When the thought first crossed his mind, he’d dismissed it as absurd. He knew nothing about viruses and that sort of thing; that’s why they had experts. But as he prepared to exit the building, he wondered if the Arabs knew that. Maybe they’d want him as well. Maybe the altered report had made him a target. They could have been Iranians. Outside, he stopped and checked the grounds carefully. The late-afternoon light was fading. Every tree cast a nearly black shadow. Anyone could be hiding there.

  Several colleagues glanced his way and he realized his behavior was arousing suspicion. There’d be talk if he just stood here with his back to the building. He joined the stream of employees taking the walkway to the street and tried to put a smile on his face.

  Ali Kharrazi was tired. He’d hardly slept in the last forty-eight hours. Yet he had much to do before he’d get any rest.

  He still burned with humiliation at the American’s escape. True, he and Ahmed had been in the other room when the man had managed to get free and assault Karim. But Ali had believed he should have had no difficulty subduing the man. Instead, he’d managed to be struck in the nose, a blow that still hurt. He was uncertain if his nose was broken but the skin had turned ugly shades of purple.

  After receiving his orders and leaving the abandoned shoe shop, he’d moved quickly away from the busy streets into a quiet neighborhood. He’d found a darkened house, placed himself in the black shadows beside it, and after keeping a nervous vigil he’d fallen asleep. He was awakened at dawn as the family inside stirred, and he quietly set out on his quest.

  With daylight and the return of normal city activity, Ali was no longer concerned. His passport was good, he had cash in his bag and a change of clothes. If stopped, he’d say he was looking for work and though that was technically illegal it was not something the Swiss police would arrest him over. They’d just check the stamp on his passport and warn him about the law.

  He stopped at a workers’ café to eat, feeling much better with a full meal in his stomach. This operation was rushed. There’d been no time to properly plan it. His escape would depend on confusion and a measure of luck. He was not concerned. What mattered was success; what took place after that was in Allah’s hands.

  At the café, Ali made inquiries and by noon was in possession of a used Ford Focus. It was suffering from a serious rust problem and had hi
gh mileage but it ran well. Next, he drove about the city to become accustomed to it and the car before heading to his destination. He was careful to avoid passing more than twice through his target area. The streets were narrow and complex. He identified routes but was concerned about recalling them at the crucial moment. He decided on another course of action. He drove back to the industrial regions and the lower-class residential areas. He checked the proximity of busy streets and public transportation.

  Late that afternoon, he parked near the Place du Marché and waited. He wondered if this assignment was punishment for botching the earlier mission but dismissed the thought. It was important, and, he concluded, had been made necessary by their failure in allowing the man to escape.

  Workers on their way home were now filling the sidewalks as they exited the sleek multicolored tramway. Ali waited until the streets were bustling, then took another look at the photograph he’d been sent, fixing it in his memory. He left the car and made his way to the address. There he stopped and scanned the men walking along the sidewalk, especially those approaching the building, careful not to be seen as doing so.

  His situation was awkward. Standing within this well-dressed crowd of mostly blond-haired Swiss, Ali was aware of how he stood out. It was important he look like a laborer of some sort here to meet someone or maybe waiting for a ride. He couldn’t simply stand like a statue. He used his phone frequently, pretending to text. He had to wait at or very near this spot because this was the only place he could be reasonably certain his target would appear.

  To mask his intentions, Ali moved away from his position from time to time, walking a short distance up the sidewalk, then back, pacing easily as if searching for a car. But he always returned to the one spot from which he got a clear view of every man.

  Herlicher had boarded his usual tram for Carouge, the suburb where he lived. Carouge was unlike any other part of Geneva. Originally controlled by Sardinia, its colorful three-story buildings retained a strong Mediterranean appearance. It was a quiet district, known for its artists, old-style cafés, and a certain small-scale nightlife that appealed to Herlicher.

  At the Place du Marché, he climbed off the tram and walked the short distance to the Rue Jacques-Dalphin. He then turned onto his own narrow street, experiencing the first sensation of relaxation from work.

  A heavyset olive-skinned man stood before him. “Franz Herlicher?” he asked with a becoming smile.

  “Yes?”

  Ali pressed the revolver against the man’s torso and pulled the trigger three times in quick succession. The sound was explosive and those nearby recoiled reflexively away. A woman screamed as Herlicher fell to the sidewalk. Ali turned away from him, pushing his hand with the gun into his pocket as he did.

  Guido Thury, gendarme with the Commune de Carouge police, was driving past in his white police car with its distinctive broad orange stripe, when he heard the noise and spotted the trouble. He jerked the car to the side of the road, riding up on the sidewalk, then bolted from the vehicle even as he reached for his handgun. Those were gunshots!

  Ali was running toward Thury, back to the Place du Marché where his car was parked. It was a short distance and he estimated it would take him less than one minute even with busy pedestrian traffic. Once in the car he’d drive a distance, ditch it, then make his way to the immigrant quarter on foot. All he needed was a bit of luck during this crucial minute.

  “Arrêtez!” Halt! Thury shouted at the running man.

  Ali barreled down the sidewalk, knocking people left and right as he did, finally moving into the narrow street to give him a clear run.

  “Arrêtez!” Thury shouted again.

  Ali spotted the officer, brandished his gun, and gave a shout as he rushed at the officer. Thury crouched, held his pistol with both hands, and fired once into Ali’s chest.

  Ali staggered but kept moving, slowing with each step, his gun clattering to the cobblestone. After a few steps he was walking awkwardly, then he drew to a stop. He felt as if a heavy hammer had struck him. There was no pain but now it was as if all the air had been knocked from him. He willed himself to keep moving. Only in the car would he be safe. He took a step, then another, then dropped to his knees in an attitude of prayer.

  There was more screaming very close. Behind, he could hear heavy footsteps. He placed his hand on his chest and felt a hot flow. He tried to breathe and it was as if a tight belt was choking him about the chest. He toppled face forward.

  Everything around him slowed. He could no longer hear. The man who’d pointed a gun at him was beside him, mouthing something. Their eyes met for the first time. Ali moved his lips as if to speak. Thury knelt and moved his ear to the man’s lips but there was no sound except a harsh whisper, as he heard for the first time the death rattle.

  31

  GENEVA, SWITZERLAND

  RUE DE LAUSANNE

  HÔTEL MON-REPOS

  5:11 P.M. CET

  The system at the Italian border, Jeff discovered, was for the security officer to scan the passport of each incoming person. This produced an image of the page containing the photograph, which was stored along with the information that of the database search produced. To move people as rapidly as reasonable the system was limited to wants and alerts.

  As the physical passport was scanned when the officer pressed it to a screen the quality of the photographs varied but was generally poorer than Jeff had anticipated. He had thought that the system would enable Italy, an EU country, to immediately access the passport database of each involved nation, especially if it also was part of the EU. That would have produced a clearer image but that was not the case.

  The difficulty it presented him with was that because of the indifferent quality one dark-haired man in his thirties of a certain weight tended to look pretty much like another. He also could not discount the possibility of the use of glasses or presence of facial hair in photographs intended to make a visual search such as this more difficult if not impossible.

  After several minutes, Jeff organized a system in order to speed the process. He passed through the 187 photographs with relative speed, noting those that roughly fit his recollection. He immediately discarded the obese or excessively thin, those with blond hair, and all women. He copied each of the other photographs and placed them in a separate file within his computer. This process consumed nearly two hours.

  He then slowly went through the likely fifty-six photos in his computer, taking his time, trusting his instincts. It took half an hour to view them again and not one jumped out at him. The problem he realized was that he was searching for three men or any one of them. His mind could not conjure a single face and attempt to match it to what was on the screen. He had to recall three images.

  He stood up and paced the room, trying to devise a means to make this happen. He could think of no additional screening device so sat back down and worked his way through the photographs, discarding once again those he was certain were not who he was looking for. When he finished he was down to a tentative nineteen.

  Now he went through them very slowly, reminding himself that these men were professionals and would have made an effort in their photograph to present as bland an impression as possible. He thought of glasses again and paid special attention to the eleven wearing them.

  And there he was. Jeff stared at the photograph, looked away, then stared again. He took a long drink of coffee. That was him. He was wearing glasses and sported a bushy mustache but that was the leader. His pulse quickened. One step closer to saving Daryl.

  He examined the others again. Nothing. He went to his discards and then, almost at once, found another. He was much thinner and very young-looking in the photograph. This was the bigger man, the one who had stood guard over them. He looked diminished in the picture, as if it was the photograph of someone related to him.

  Jeff segregated these two files into another folder. Now he went carefully back through the others until he was satisfied his third man was
n’t there. What did that mean? Was he assuming too much? Were these two leaving Switzerland innocently, leaving Daryl behind guarded by their confederate? Or was the third man smuggling her out of the country some other way, perhaps across a thinly guarded part of the border in some rural region?

  He stopped and reminded himself that there was no way he could know what was taking place. He could only make his most educated guess and act accordingly. He was certain that time was against him. He had to take chances.

  Neither of the two passports had raised an alert with the border security officer. The names and addresses were certainly aliases and false leads. What he did note was that both passports were from the Czech Republic, though their names were Middle Eastern. He performed a quick Internet search. Both addresses were for modest hotels in Prague. He ran the names. There were no matches.

  Now what? The car. The two passports were matched to a VW Jetta. When he checked he found that the ACCESS system had automatically produced the registration and found the car clean. All it showed Jeff was that the country of original was the Czech Republic.

  And that was it, nothing else.

  Jeff rose and rubbed his forehead. What to do? What could he do? For all he knew, Daryl was right here in Geneva. That certainly made a lot of sense. The leader and one of the men had left the country, leaving her guarded by the third man. That was the simplest explanation.

  Would they have risked smuggling her out in that car? Could she have simply been bound up and in the trunk? Would they have been so reckless?