45

Johan tossed his final package on the bed, next to the cell phone he’d taken off of the dead man in Gibraltar. It was at 2 percent, and about to die.

Fuck. He’d forgotten to purchase a charger when he’d bought the scanner, and now he might not have enough time to get there and back. Once it went dead, the phone would ask for the passcode after charging before allowing anything else to happen. The Touch ID would be worthless.

He grabbed his hotel key card, preparing to once again go to the Fnac electronics store off of Plaza Puerta del Sol, when he had an inspiration. He dialed housekeeping, asking for lost and found. When it connected, he said, “I’m afraid I’ve left my iPhone charger at my last hotel.”

The dimwit on the other end said, “We wouldn’t have it here at our lost and found, sir.”

Johan rolled his eyes and said, “Yes, I realize that. I’m wondering if I could borrow one from your lost and found. One that’s been there for a spell?”

The bellman hesitated a moment, then said, “Let me ask my manager.” A minute later, he came on and said, “I’ll send it up. Just return it before you check out.”

Johan thanked him, then began unpacking the equipment he’d purchased, courtesy of a wire transfer from Dexter. First, a digital flatbed scanner/printer combination. Next, a laptop computer and digital imaging software. Finally, a collection of art supplies: latex glue, graphite powder, a roll of clear packing tape, squares of double-stick tape, and plastic, transparent overhead projection slides for the printer.

He heard a knock on the door and cracked it open, preventing the bellman from seeing inside the room. He was handed the charger and tipped the man ten euros in return, guaranteeing the charger would be forgotten.

He closed the door and plugged in the phone, seeing the charging icon appear. It would take at least an hour, but Johan didn’t mind. He had plenty of work in front of him.

He placed four pieces of double-sided tape directly under the lamp on the glass table next to his bed, then slit open the first Ziploc bag containing a section of wax paper with a thumbprint. Using tweezers, he pulled it out and placed it on the first section of tape, then repeated the action with the other Ziploc bags until he had four sections stuck to the end table.

He then used the graphite powder and a brush to dust each of the thumbprints, the fat and sweat left behind causing the graphite to reveal the print. He gently blew away the stray graphite, then cut a five-inch strip of the packing tape. Ever so slowly, knowing this step was crucial, he lowered the tape over the graphite, picking up each print, one by one.

Once that was complete, he placed the sections of tape on the flatbed scanner, sticky side down, in essence gluing them in place.

He booted up the computer, connected to the scanner via Bluetooth, and scanned the image at 2,400 dpi, the highest resolution available. When it came through, he smiled. The image was clearer than the images he’d produced when he’d learned the technique in training. A result of the march of technology. Even so, he brought up the graphics suite and digitally enhanced each one, sharpening the ridges and whorls of the prints. Once he was satisfied, he reversed the prints, making them into negative images.

He returned to the printer, removing the tape and cleaning from the glass the residue of graphite and adhesive. He inserted a plastic transparency slide, then used the thickest toner setting available. When the slide came out, it looked like an overhead transparency from an FBI briefing. It had the fingerprints on it in reverse, but the slide wasn’t actually flat. The toner had been applied on top of the plastic, creating a tiny mold, which was why he’d used the greatest resolution. More toner meant more realism for the mold.

He gingerly set the sheet next to the printer, then applied the latex glue over each print, building two layers. He left it to dry, checking the phone. Almost 70 percent. Good enough for government work.

Ten minutes later, he peeled the first piece of latex glue off of the transparency. He used an X-Acto knife to trim the edges, then stuck it on his thumb. He powered up the phone, getting the lock screen. He breathed on the mold to give it a little bit of “human” moisture for the sensor to work through, then applied it to the Touch ID. The lock screen jiggled left and right, telling him it wasn’t a match. He adjusted and tried again, getting the same result. He gave up after five attempts, moving to the next latex mold.

Thirty minutes later, on the second-to-last print, the phone magically unlocked, surprising the hell out of him. In truth, he had started this as nothing more than a time killer while he waited on his visa application to be approved for Morocco. He’d given it about a 5 percent chance that he’d have the right print. There were just too many variables in play, but it looked as though 5 percent was all he needed.

He quickly went to the phone settings, bringing up the Touch ID interface, intending to add his fingerprint. The phone asked for his passcode. He cursed, knowing he was now stonewalled. He had the ability to turn off the autolock, but that was a catch-22. Without the screen locking, it would drain the power at an exponential rate, forcing him to plug the phone in three or four times a day to prevent it from dying and locking him out completely. His only other option was carrying around the dummy print everywhere he went.

He spent the next hour inspecting the phone, finding some loose information in text messaging, but most appeared to be for the target’s actual work. He found an app called Wickr, something he’d never heard of. He Googled and discovered it was an end-to-end encrypted messaging platform, with a self-destruct feature for specified messages. The homepage caused him to chuckle because of a statement hailing the application as empowering democracy. He was fairly sure the man he’d killed wasn’t using it for anything good.

He opened the app and hit a password. Just perfect. He attempted to open the mail app and ran aground again with a password screen. He was thinking about typing in something like JihadJohnny when his own cell phone buzzed. He picked it up, seeing it was Dexter. He answered pleasantly, remembering the threats from his last conversation. Since then, sitting around his hotel room, he’d seen the news about a sinister connection to Gibraltar, and he assumed that Dexter had done what he’d asked. Maybe he had been too hard on the guy.

“Hey, boss. What’s up?”

“I see you got the wire transfer.”

“Yep. Already used it, and it was money well spent. I got into the guy’s cell phone. Hey, do you have any contacts with IT forensic guys? The hardest part about cracking an iPhone is actually getting past the lock screen. I’ve done that, but I have some programs that have passwords. You know anyone who can bypass them?”

“I’m not sure. What are you trying to do?”

“Read his email. Check a messaging app. Things like that.”

“I don’t know of anyone in the private sector, but I might be able to locate someone in the government.”

Johan chuckled and said, “You really think I’d hand this phone over to the government? It would directly tie me to the dead guy. By the way, I see you got that information out. The news is talking about a—quote—possible connection to Gibraltar—unquote. I’m assuming that was you.”

There was a pause; then Dexter said, “Yes, yes. I told you I’d get it done.”

“Well, did they find anything out? Did they make any connections?”

“I . . . I don’t know. I’m not read on to the investigation or anything. It’s not like I’m at the Pentagon.”

“So you don’t know if they’re exploring leads in Morocco?”

“I’m sure they are. There’s no reason for you to continue. They’re very good at this sort of thing.”

Johan gave a mirthless laugh, saying, “Yeah. I’ve seen how that works. Where does my visa stand?”

“Well . . . that’s why I called. It’s available tomorrow. You just need to show your credentials with Icarus and your H-1B visa. I got it done, tying you to the armorer on the movie set, but there’s really no reason to go now. You saw they’ve made the connection.”

“I saw some reporter stating there might be a connection. What I know is that attacks like this aren’t a one-off. There’s a planner behind it, and he’ll just keep on planning for the next one. If you don’t wipe out the queen, the nest keeps working.”

“How are you going to do that? You’re just a single man.”

“I have an address in Fez. I’ll just go check it out. If it leads to something, it leads to something. If not, I’ll come home. Where are my tickets?”

“I’ll email them to you. They’re vouchers you can redeem for any flight.”

“Okay, thanks. And the weapon?”

“That’s a little bit harder. I’m in contact with my guy, but he can’t get it free. It’s a controlled item.”

Johan let the first bit of aggravation come through. “Dexter, we talked about this. Shit, you just told me I’m ostensibly going there to help him. How hard can this be?”

“I know, I know. He’s got a shoot in Fez for something. Using the medina. I think I can do it then. I’ll have to send you coordinating instructions.”

“Perfect. I also want the bank account information as well. The one that led me to Gibraltar.”

Johan heard nothing for a moment, the pause so long he said, “Dexter? You there?”

“Why do you want that information?”

“Because it might provide another thread. I can cross-check accounts, discover linkages, maybe find something in Fez that will help me.”

“The file’s too big to send over email. It’s huge.”

“So create a file-sharing account. Dropbox or something. I don’t need the entire Panama collection. Just the ones that are tied into that account. The ones with your name on them. Come on, boss, why are you jerking me around?”

“Because you’re putting my company in jeopardy! That’s why!”

Johan heard something more. “Is that all you fucking care about? Have you seen the dead in Houston? Do you want to be responsible for the next attack?”

“Why are you saying that? Why do you keep accusing me? I have nothing to do with this.”

As before, the vociferousness of the response raised Johan’s fine-tuned antenna for bullshit. He’d lived in a world of duplicitous lies for so long, he could no longer determine whether Dexter was truly concerned about his business—or whether he was worried about something else.

Either way, Johan needed Dexter on board, if only for the funding. He said, “I wasn’t implying you did. I’m saying you have the means to prevent it. It’s why you sent me to Granada, isn’t it? It wasn’t only about the money, was it?”

Johan waited a moment, growing suspicious yet again. He repeated, “Was it?”

Dexter said, “Okay . . . Okay. I’ll do it. Are you planning on flying tomorrow?”

“If I can get the visa in time to catch a flight. If not, I’ll wait another day.”

“Keep me informed of what you find.”

“So you can feed the beast? Or protect your interests?”

“Both.”

Johan hung up, once again wondering if his boss wasn’t hiding something. For the first time, wondering if Dexter had said a word to anyone about Granada.

He toyed with the terrorist’s phone a little bit longer, but his heart wasn’t in it. He kept returning to the central question, which wasn’t who was doing the attacks, but why he even gave a shit.

But he knew why. At the center of it was a village in Africa. And a lot of dead children.