Dance with the Dragon (16 page)

When that first run was finished, the computer began matching facial characterstics—hairline, nose size and shape, eyebrows, eyes, cheeks, lips, jaw—again eliminating obvious nonmatches.

One by one, the computer spit out a series of possible matches that Rencke had to eyeball. Computers were marvelous tools, but even Rencke’s programs sometimes couldn’t match human intuition.

Within a few minutes the first two images were identified with better than 95 percent confidence, and Rencke could only stare at the monitor. One made sense, but the other was out of the blue, and for once in his life, Rencke was at a loss about what to do next. Mac would have to be told, but first he had to talk to somebody.

His wife, Louise, had been sound asleep at their apartment, but she woke on the second ring. “You’re still at work,” she said groggily. “What’s wrong?”

“I want you to take a look at something.”

“Are you okay, Otto?”

“I don’t know. It’s for Mac, but I gotta make sure I’m not dreaming or something.”

“Just a sec,” Louise said.

Rencke e-mailed the two images to the computer at the apartment. It took his wife less than a minute to get to the spare bedroom, open the e-mail, and download the attachment.

“All right,” she said. “I don’t know Thomas Alvarez, but it looks like your POI program has a high confidence that you’ve come up with a match. Where’d the pictures come from? They’re lousy.”

“Mac took them a few hours ago at a place outside Mexico City.”

“The General Liu thing?” Louise asked. She and Otto never kept secrets from each other, even though it was against law. But from the beginning they had depended on each other’s intellect and judgment.

“Yeah. Alvarez probably launders more South American cartel drug money than anyone else on the planet. The Bureau hasn’t been able to prove it, but he’s on their top twenty POI list. They’d like to talk to him in the worst way, but he dropped out of sight a couple of months ago.”

“About the same time you think Liu showed up in Mexico City,” Louise said, catching the point. “What is a top-ranking Guoanbu general doing with a moneyman for the druggies?”

“In Mexico, no less,” Rencke said.

“Makes you think,” Louise said. “But Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, no need for the computer to recognize the other guy. Fred is going to go nuts when you show him that one.” Fred Rudolph was the FBI’s chief of special operations, a position very much like Rencke’s. Rudolph and Rencke had a history together, and a mutual respect.

“That’s why I had to talk to you,” Rencke said. “I don’t think Mac’s going to want to share this, leastways not right now.”

“Does he know?”

“I don’t think so. I had to do a lot of enhancements to come up with a reasonable image. He couldn’t have recognized this guy from the viewfinder. He was too far out.”

“Well you better get word to him soon, because there could be some shit going on down there that’s even more serious than he thinks. The drug banker I can fathom, but Walter Newell is something else. A whole other universe. You have to ask what a U.S. congressman from Arizona is doing at a party hosted by a Chinese Communist intelligence officer.”

“That’s why I had to talk to you. What next?”

“Who else was down there?” Louise asked.

“A bunch of people, including some young girls they were using as whores.”

“Any other IDs?”

“The computer is working on it,” Rencke said. He explained the entire setup at Liu’s house south of the city, including the sophisticated surveillance equipment.

“Before you tell anyone else, let Mac know what you’ve come up with,” Louise advised. “In the meantime, take a close look in the dark corners.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Logic, my dear,” Louise said. “A party like that can be a dangerous thing for the wrong guy. Newell is not going to be a happy camper that he was spotted. But he’s an amateur, unlike Liu, who you say was nowhere to be seen. Check the corners to see if you can spot him, or any other old odd bod who preferred to stay out of the limelight.”

Rencke grinned. “I love you,” he said.

“You’re welcome,” she replied. “Now I’m going back to bed. No need to ask when you’ll be home.”

“No,” Rencke said absently, but even before his wife broke the connection he was bringing up the original digital images that McGarvey had taken.

In his first run he had isolated each person from every shot, enhancing the quality of the images and then combined them into an electronic photo album of the forty-three guests, including the girls.

This time he electronically subtracted all those images from the original shots Mac had taken with the digital video cam, leaving only the backgrounds—the buffet tables, the musicians’ instruments, the back and sides of the house, the pool and chairs and lounges, and the cabanas.

Next, he divided each still shot into a grid of sixty-four squares, eight on a side. Taking one square from each of as many as a dozen shots of the same area, he stacked the individual images, averaging out the light, dark, and color values.

The morning shift was in full swing when he finished the huge task and sat back. He was tired, but his excitement acted like adrenaline on his system, and he was wired, scarcely able to keep himself from snapping his fingers, bouncing his feet on the floor, and rocking back and forth in his chair.

“Oh, boy,” he said softly. “Oh, boy.” Something serious was happening or about to happen in Mexico. Trouble was, he had absolutely no idea what it might be.

He had managed to catch the faint image of a man standing just inside the house, by a reflection in one of the sliding glass doors. The quality was terrible, but it was just luck that he was able to snag three separate images and stack them. It was almost impossible to get any kind of a clear identity, but he’d been able to extract enough information from the enhanced final shot to get his attention, and make him realize that something bigger, and probably even more sinister than anyone had first thought, was going on.

Sliding over to another monitor, Rencke brought up the program that was still sifting through the other forty-one images he’d lifted from the original shots, and identifying them from the CIA’s database. So far a list of seventeen names had popped up with a confidence above 80 percent. Scanning the list, he wasn’t surprised to find the names of several important Mexican Army and Air Force generals, plus a smattering of politicians and one aide to President Ricardo Sabina. None of the young women had been identified yet, but that didn’t surprise him either. Chances were, none of them were in any of the databases that he could think of except perhaps the Mexican driver’s license bureau, or something like that.

Back at his primary monitor he stared again at the stacked image of the man reflected in the glass door. Judging by the camera angle and the height of the door frame, Rencke guessed the man was short, probably five five or five six, and slightly built. He was wearing what looked like light slacks, perhaps khakis, and a regular button-up dress shirt, most likely white. The open collar and collar points stood out clearly. The man was looking out toward the pool, and slightly upward, possibly at the top of the compound’s outer wall, so that some of the details of his face, though almost completely in shadow, were recognizable to a degree. He had narrow cheeks, an angular chin, and a long, hawkish nose. It was almost impossible to determine his skin color, though Rencke had to guess that it was dark, perhaps olive or maybe even tan, but definitely not African black.

Middle Eastern, Rencke thought. It had been his first impression once he’d looked at the stacked and enhanced image. Iraq, Iran, Syria, someplace like that. Not Afghanistan or Pakistan.

If he was right, what the hell was a guy like that doing at the same party with an American congressman, a drug money banker, and some important Mexicans, hosted by a high-ranking Chinese Communist intelligence officer?

*   *   *

McGarvey was just leaving his hotel room to go downstairs for breakfast when Rencke caught him on the sat phone. “Have you come up with some names?”

“Yeah, and you’d better be sitting down, kemosabe, I shit you not.”

“What have you got?”

“I’ll download what I’ve come up with so far to you in a minute, but something weird is definitely going on, so you’re going to have to really watch your back this time.”

“Continue,” McGarvey said.

“Most of the people at Liu’s party were about who you figured they would be, Mexican generals and politicians. But a guy by the name of Thomas Alvarez was in the thick of it. Does that ring a bell?”

“No. Should it?”

“Probably not, but the Bureau will be interested to know where he is. They’ve been looking for him ever since he disappeared a couple of months ago. The Bureau thinks that he’s one of the major drug-money launderers. Does about six billion a year in trade.”

“Sounds like Liu is looking for a money source,” McGarvey said. “Could mean he’s working independent of Beijing after all. Send me his file.”

“Do you want me to give Fred Rudolph the heads-up?”

“Not yet,” McGarvey said. “Who else did you come up with? Anyone interesting?”

“How about Congressman Walter Newell? Arizona?”

For just a moment McGarvey wasn’t sure what to say. “Are you sure?”

“The computer is at ninety-eight percent, and when I showed the picture to Louise she recognized him right off the bat,” Rencke said. “I don’t like it.”

“Neither do I,” McGarvey replied. “I want you to put together something for Fred. Include what you have to about Liu, but don’t mention me, or Updegraf’s assassination.”

“When do you want me to send it over?”

“Not just yet. I’ll let you know,” McGarvey said. “Any other surprises?”

Rencke took a deep breath and blew it out through pursed lips. “One more, so far,” he said. He explained his wife’s suggestion to look in the shadows for someone trying to hide, and the image he’d come up with. “Could be he’s a professional intelligence officer trying to cover his ass.”

“A Syrian or Iranian,” McGarvey said with wonder. “Have you checked to see if Tehran or Damascus are running an operation down there?”

“I didn’t find anything on a first pass, but I have a search program on it.”

“Maybe it’s just a coincidence, Shahrzad being Iranian,” McGarvey said, but he didn’t sound convinced.

“Yeah, right.”

“Has your primary threat assessment color changed?”

“Still lavender, maybe a shade deeper,” Rencke said. “But I haven’t inputted the last bit yet.”

“Okay,” McGarvey said after a moment. “I’m going to have some breakfast, and then I’ll go over to the Chinese embassy. There was something on TV this morning about a news conference at ten. In the meantime send me what you’ve come up with so far, and give Adkins the heads-up that I’m coming to Washington to talk to him about the assignment.”

“Watch yourself, Mac,” Rencke said. “I don’t like this one very much. Too many warts.”

“You have to admit, it’s an interesting mix of people that Liu has gathered around him.”

“Yeah,” Rencke said. “Okay, hold on, I’m sending this stuff to you now.”

It took only a second to download all the files to McGarvey’s sat phone, and when the transfer was complete the connection was broken.

Rencke looked up as Deputy Director of Operations Howard McCann showed up at the door, a smirk on his round face, his eyes narrowed behind his glasses.

“Now why would my director of special operations be spending the night in the Building?” McCann asked. “Could it be he’s working on something that he’s not willing to share?”

“I’m working on a few things,” Rencke admitted, sitting back.

“Give me a for instance,” McCann said. “Like the lavender screen. That’s one of your big ones, isn’t it?”

“That’s just something I’m dinking around with,” Rencke said, and he idly hit the Escape button on his keyboard and the screen went to wallpaper, which was the logo of the old KGB.

McCann’s expression hardened. “You’re not a team player, are you?”

Rencke let his own expression fall. “No, I’m not, Mr. Deputy Director. Never have been. But now if you’ll get the fuck out of here, I’d like to get back to work.”

“I’ll have your hide,” McCann shot back. He was angry.

Rencke grinned. “Good luck,” he said. “And don’t let the door hit you on the ass on the way out.”

McCann stood motionless for several seconds. It was obvious he wanted to lash out, but it was equally obvious that he was intimidated by Rencke. Just about everyone in the Building was, because just about everybody knew that if something or someone set Rencke off on a tangent he could bring down the CIA’s entire computer system.

“You
will
fuck up one of these days, you and McGarvey, and I’ll have you both,” McCann said. He turned and got out without slamming the door.

As soon as the DDO was gone, Rencke brought up a small program and sent it to the computer in McCann’s office and his PC at home, infecting both machines with a minor little virus that would last for only twenty-four hours, but would make both computers so temperamental, they’d be next to impossible to use. The virus couldn’t be found or fixed until it ran its course. McCann would know that he was being screwed with, but he would not be able to prove it.

Rencke had to smile. Bothering the true assholes was one of the perks of working for the Company.

TWENTY-SIX

CHINESE EMBASSY
COLONIA TIZAPAN SAN ANGEL

Sitting alone at the restaurant at the Hotel Four Seasons, McGarvey scrolled through the images and identifications that Rencke had downloaded to his sat phone. There still was no sign of Liu at the party, but the presence of a U.S. congressman, a drug cartel banker, and a third man who was possibly an intelligence officer for a Middle Eastern country—though that was purely speculation at this point—was as intriguing as it was disturbing.

For the life of him he couldn’t think of any scenario that would make sense of those three men being at the same place at the same time.

Darby Yarnell had surrounded himself with some fairly eclectic characters in his heyday down here, yet the mix was understandable against the backdrop of the cold war. The Russians had been looking toward a close relationship with as many high-ranking Mexican government and military officials as possible. Their long-range goal was to place offensive nuclear weapons on the desert less than one hundred miles south of the U.S. border. For that they needed the Mexican government to agree to a Russian-financed and -engineered agrarian-reform project. Russians were drilling a series of extremely deep wells, from which brackish water would be pumped. The water would be desalinated in massive facilities, and then used to irrigate the desert, which would come to life and bloom.