permit giving his nationality as Dutch. ISIS has him tracked back to a university in the Netherlands. I doubt that he went undercover before he was eighteen. Regardless, I want a thorough check. Run all of them through Identigate, then drill down for the breeder docs.”
Breeder documents included social security cards and birth certificates: the government-issued paperwork that validated one’s identity.
Leaning to his side, Seiler cleared a stack of papers off a nearby chair. A glance revealed Italian driver’s licenses, German medical insurance cards, English birth certificates. All fakes.
“Jules Gaye, born 1962, Brussels,” he read aloud, after opening the Belgian passport. He flipped through the pages, studying the immigration stamps, then returned to the front page and held it under a goosenecked ultraviolet light. A faint image of Belgium’s royal palace came to life.
“Reactive ink looks good,” said von Daniken.
“The new Belgian issues are sharp. This one has five security features to put a crimp in counterfeiting. A laser-cut pinhole of the passport holder, a watermark of Albert II, an optically variable image of Belgium that changes from green to blue depending on the viewing angle, and two microtaggants. Offhand, I’d say it’s genuine.”
“You mean the blank?”
“Not only the blank. I mean ‘genuine’ as in official. Issued by the proper passport authority.”
“You’re sure?” Von Daniken’s skepticism was born of experience. Belgian passports were the VWs of the false documents trade. Cheap, reliable, and easy to come by. Since 1990, over nineteen thousand authentic blanks had been stolen from Belgian consulates, embassies, town halls, and diplomatic pouches the world over. The country lost passports the way some people misplaced their keys.
“We can check.” Logging onto his computer, Seiler fed the passport number into Identigate, the Swiss police’s repository of over two million stolen and fraudulent documents from around the world. “The Belgians are as scrupulous about reporting stolen blanks as they are lax about losing them,” he said. “If it’s stolen, we’ll get a match.” After a moment, his broad features creased in dismay. “Nothing. As far as the Belgians are concerned, it’s legit.”
“You’re sure it hasn’t been tampered with?”
“Positive. The pictures are burned into the fabric of the passport itself. It’s physically impossible for Lammers to have replaced the original holder’s photograph with his own.”
“Mind if I use your phone?”
“All yours.”
Von Daniken placed a call to a contact in the identity documents department of the Belgian Federal Police. “Frank, I have one of your passports on my desk. Belongs to a man who got himself killed last night. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it’s the real thing.” He read off the number and the corresponding name.
“It’s genuine,” said Frank Vincent after a second or two. “Number’s in the system.”
“Funny. We have the man down as Theo Lammers, a Dutch citizen. Do me a favor: run a complete check on this Jules Gaye. Go all the way back. Tell me if he’s real, or if he’s a straw man.”
“I’ll need some time. End of the day suit you?”
“Before lunch would be better. And one more thing: tell me where you mailed the passport.”
Von Daniken hung up. Max Seiler was examining the New Zealand passport. Again, it passed muster. The document had not been doctored and its number did not turn up on any of their databases for stolen papers. Von Daniken checked his watch. It was five-thirty p. m. in Auckland. Past closing time. He decided to contact the embassy in Paris, instead. Due to the ten-hour time difference, the Kiwis maintained a beefed-up embassy in France capable of handling most official inquiries.
Von Daniken placed the call and was informed that the passport was authentic. According to the New Zealand authorities, the passport holder, Michael
Breeder documents included social security cards and birth certificates: the government-issued paperwork that validated one’s identity.
Leaning to his side, Seiler cleared a stack of papers off a nearby chair. A glance revealed Italian driver’s licenses, German medical insurance cards, English birth certificates. All fakes.
“Jules Gaye, born 1962, Brussels,” he read aloud, after opening the Belgian passport. He flipped through the pages, studying the immigration stamps, then returned to the front page and held it under a goosenecked ultraviolet light. A faint image of Belgium’s royal palace came to life.
“Reactive ink looks good,” said von Daniken.
“The new Belgian issues are sharp. This one has five security features to put a crimp in counterfeiting. A laser-cut pinhole of the passport holder, a watermark of Albert II, an optically variable image of Belgium that changes from green to blue depending on the viewing angle, and two microtaggants. Offhand, I’d say it’s genuine.”
“You mean the blank?”
“Not only the blank. I mean ‘genuine’ as in official. Issued by the proper passport authority.”
“You’re sure?” Von Daniken’s skepticism was born of experience. Belgian passports were the VWs of the false documents trade. Cheap, reliable, and easy to come by. Since 1990, over nineteen thousand authentic blanks had been stolen from Belgian consulates, embassies, town halls, and diplomatic pouches the world over. The country lost passports the way some people misplaced their keys.
“We can check.” Logging onto his computer, Seiler fed the passport number into Identigate, the Swiss police’s repository of over two million stolen and fraudulent documents from around the world. “The Belgians are as scrupulous about reporting stolen blanks as they are lax about losing them,” he said. “If it’s stolen, we’ll get a match.” After a moment, his broad features creased in dismay. “Nothing. As far as the Belgians are concerned, it’s legit.”
“You’re sure it hasn’t been tampered with?”
“Positive. The pictures are burned into the fabric of the passport itself. It’s physically impossible for Lammers to have replaced the original holder’s photograph with his own.”
“Mind if I use your phone?”
“All yours.”
Von Daniken placed a call to a contact in the identity documents department of the Belgian Federal Police. “Frank, I have one of your passports on my desk. Belongs to a man who got himself killed last night. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it’s the real thing.” He read off the number and the corresponding name.
“It’s genuine,” said Frank Vincent after a second or two. “Number’s in the system.”
“Funny. We have the man down as Theo Lammers, a Dutch citizen. Do me a favor: run a complete check on this Jules Gaye. Go all the way back. Tell me if he’s real, or if he’s a straw man.”
“I’ll need some time. End of the day suit you?”
“Before lunch would be better. And one more thing: tell me where you mailed the passport.”
Von Daniken hung up. Max Seiler was examining the New Zealand passport. Again, it passed muster. The document had not been doctored and its number did not turn up on any of their databases for stolen papers. Von Daniken checked his watch. It was five-thirty p. m. in Auckland. Past closing time. He decided to contact the embassy in Paris, instead. Due to the ten-hour time difference, the Kiwis maintained a beefed-up embassy in France capable of handling most official inquiries.
Von Daniken placed the call and was informed that the passport was authentic. According to the New Zealand authorities, the passport holder, Michael
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