The Identity Thief by C. Forsyth
Authors: C. Forsyth
Tags: Literature & Fiction, Thrillers, Espionage, Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, Crime Fiction, Spy Stories & Tales of Intrigue
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stink.
"We got a conversation between Nazeer and his bodyguards," Malloy was saying as he held up a digital player.
"The idiots killed in the car chase?"
"Yes, sir. We're still trying to ID them."
"Well, get a translator in here."
"It's in English."
"So they knew that we were listening in."
Malloy nodded and flipped a switch.
Although the recording had been digitally enhanced by computer whizzes, it was difficult to make out the words, just as Normand anticipated. The voices were so distorted and synthetic, it might have been three Stephen Hawkings talking.
"Where are you two spending your night off?" the first voice said.
"We want to see Wayne Newton," replied a second voice.
"Don't you know he's retired?"
"That's so disappointing. The man is such a big legend. Maybe Celine Dion?"
"Yes, yes. That Titanic song still makes me sad," a third voice chimed in.
"Leonardo DiCaprio is such a good actor," the second voice said. "I'm glad he's making a comeback."
Normand and Malloy looked at each other for a moment.
"They're talking in code obviously," said Normand.
Agent Malloy nodded. "Wayne Newton, that must be The Chief, Abdul Gamel. "
"Retired, that's dead."
"The Chief is dead?"
Normand shook his head. "No way. They must be using elliptical communication. Everything mean's the opposite. He's telling them that The Chief is alive."
"And who is Celine Dion?"
"Dr. Zawari, maybe, his second in command."
"The Titanic could mean a big catastrophe, major loss of life. "
Norman nodded grimly. "A WMD."
"Or if it's the opposite, maybe it means something wonderful is going to happen."
Normand frowned at this attempt at humor.
A knock came at the office door.
"It's Agent Kingsmith."
"Come in."
Agent Traci Kingsmith, whose foray into undercover work as Stacy the masseuse had been less than a smashing success, came into the office bearing a printout. She now wore a gray pantsuit and had scrubbed off the makeup; she looked a paragon of professionalism.
"You didn't have to change right away," Malloy said with a mischievous grin that made his freckled face resemble Howdy Doody's.
Traci gave him a "We are not amused" glare that wiped the smile off his face.
"We have the facial recognition analysis," she said, handing Normand the printout.
As soon as Ali Nazeer had escaped the Pharaoh Suite, the surveillance team had commandeered the hotel's cameras and the incoming signal was processed live by facial recognition software. Such software, which organizes digital video footage into a searchable database, had been around for more than 10 years. As far back as 2001, police had used a program called FaceIt to scan the Super Bowl XXXV crowd for known terrorists. It hadn't turned up any, but identified 19 poor saps with pending warrants who, sadly, didn't get to see the halftime show.
"He shaved the beard," Traci told her boss, pointing to the close-up of X at the slot machine. "That's why the program didn't identify him immediately. He would never have gotten out of the building otherwise."
"That was some fast work - not a nick on him," marveled Agent Malloy. "He ought to be doing Gillette commercials."
Normand shoved the printout back into Traci's hand. "Distribute the picture, get it to everyone."
"Not the media?"
"Including the media," Normand snapped. "Maybe Geraldo will have better luck than our people."
* * *
The Pink Panther was the biggest gentleman's club on the strip, boasting 50 topless dancers. From the exterior, it looked as huge as a Wal-Mart. Inside, marble stairs led to a semicircular front desk where X paid the $25 cover charge and ducked into the inner sanctum through an ornate metal door.
His nostrils were immediately assaulted by the dueling aromas of cigarettes and perfume. X hadn't set foot in a strip club in years. He did not frequent such establishments, where women used their charms to empty the wallets of suckers with flattery and unspoken promises of intimacy. Strippers were con
"We got a conversation between Nazeer and his bodyguards," Malloy was saying as he held up a digital player.
"The idiots killed in the car chase?"
"Yes, sir. We're still trying to ID them."
"Well, get a translator in here."
"It's in English."
"So they knew that we were listening in."
Malloy nodded and flipped a switch.
Although the recording had been digitally enhanced by computer whizzes, it was difficult to make out the words, just as Normand anticipated. The voices were so distorted and synthetic, it might have been three Stephen Hawkings talking.
"Where are you two spending your night off?" the first voice said.
"We want to see Wayne Newton," replied a second voice.
"Don't you know he's retired?"
"That's so disappointing. The man is such a big legend. Maybe Celine Dion?"
"Yes, yes. That Titanic song still makes me sad," a third voice chimed in.
"Leonardo DiCaprio is such a good actor," the second voice said. "I'm glad he's making a comeback."
Normand and Malloy looked at each other for a moment.
"They're talking in code obviously," said Normand.
Agent Malloy nodded. "Wayne Newton, that must be The Chief, Abdul Gamel. "
"Retired, that's dead."
"The Chief is dead?"
Normand shook his head. "No way. They must be using elliptical communication. Everything mean's the opposite. He's telling them that The Chief is alive."
"And who is Celine Dion?"
"Dr. Zawari, maybe, his second in command."
"The Titanic could mean a big catastrophe, major loss of life. "
Norman nodded grimly. "A WMD."
"Or if it's the opposite, maybe it means something wonderful is going to happen."
Normand frowned at this attempt at humor.
A knock came at the office door.
"It's Agent Kingsmith."
"Come in."
Agent Traci Kingsmith, whose foray into undercover work as Stacy the masseuse had been less than a smashing success, came into the office bearing a printout. She now wore a gray pantsuit and had scrubbed off the makeup; she looked a paragon of professionalism.
"You didn't have to change right away," Malloy said with a mischievous grin that made his freckled face resemble Howdy Doody's.
Traci gave him a "We are not amused" glare that wiped the smile off his face.
"We have the facial recognition analysis," she said, handing Normand the printout.
As soon as Ali Nazeer had escaped the Pharaoh Suite, the surveillance team had commandeered the hotel's cameras and the incoming signal was processed live by facial recognition software. Such software, which organizes digital video footage into a searchable database, had been around for more than 10 years. As far back as 2001, police had used a program called FaceIt to scan the Super Bowl XXXV crowd for known terrorists. It hadn't turned up any, but identified 19 poor saps with pending warrants who, sadly, didn't get to see the halftime show.
"He shaved the beard," Traci told her boss, pointing to the close-up of X at the slot machine. "That's why the program didn't identify him immediately. He would never have gotten out of the building otherwise."
"That was some fast work - not a nick on him," marveled Agent Malloy. "He ought to be doing Gillette commercials."
Normand shoved the printout back into Traci's hand. "Distribute the picture, get it to everyone."
"Not the media?"
"Including the media," Normand snapped. "Maybe Geraldo will have better luck than our people."
* * *
The Pink Panther was the biggest gentleman's club on the strip, boasting 50 topless dancers. From the exterior, it looked as huge as a Wal-Mart. Inside, marble stairs led to a semicircular front desk where X paid the $25 cover charge and ducked into the inner sanctum through an ornate metal door.
His nostrils were immediately assaulted by the dueling aromas of cigarettes and perfume. X hadn't set foot in a strip club in years. He did not frequent such establishments, where women used their charms to empty the wallets of suckers with flattery and unspoken promises of intimacy. Strippers were con
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