The Zero Hour

“But now we’ve got automatic document readers at most major ports, right? They optically scan the coded information at the bottom of the passport, and they’re programmed to look for variances and patterns to make sure a passport is valid. So if our guy flashes a forged passport, isn’t he going to be caught instantly?”

“If it’s a lousy forgery, sure. But not if it’s any good. You’re dreaming if you think the system is set up to catch fakes. It’s not.”

“But if the number of a fake passport doesn’t match existing passport numbers, won’t it be flagged?”

“Wrong. More techno-lust. Little-known fact: the system doesn’t notice passport numbers that don’t exist.”

“Jesus Christ. But surely lost or stolen passports are logged onto the system. Otherwise, what the hell is it good for?”

“Yes, lost or stolen passports are entered into the computer, so if someone tries to use one, a ‘red flag’ goes up-an alert message or whatever it is. That’s how we caught those terrorists who stole all those U.S. passports a couple of years back.”

He was referring to a recent incident, which the FBI has never made public, in which a terrorist group seized fifteen hundred valid U.S. passports. But the FBI had each of the passports flagged on the INS computer system and thereby caught any terrorist who tried to use one.

“Which means,” Sarah said, “Baumann’s not going to use a stolen passport.”

“Well, no, not necessarily. There’s always a delay between the moment he, or someone else, steals a passport and the moment it goes onto the on-line lookout list. Maybe the guy he lifted it from doesn’t notice for a couple of days. Or maybe the lady whose job it is to enter passport data into IBIS took the week off to visit Disney World with her kids.”

“So he can use a stolen passport.”

“Correct.”

“Shit. All right, I’ve got it. We do a cross-check.”

“Hmm?”

“Okay, so we know the automated, optically scanning document readers at all ports of entry store all information on who’s entered the country, at what time, on what day and on what flight and where, right?”

“Right.”

“That’s all on an immense database at State. And we cross-check that list against a list of all passports reported lost or stolen within the last month. So in effect, what we’re coming up with is a list of all lost or stolen passports that’ve been used since they were reported lost or stolen.”

Pappas chuckled. “More of your beloved technology.”

“Of course, it won’t work if the passport Baumann used to get into the country was never reported. But say it was. Then we’ve got a list of all illegal entries, and we filter out that list, and we’ve got him.”

“Can’t be done,” Pappas said flatly. “These are two separate, discrete databases. Sad, but true. We’re not set up to do something like that. Sounds good in theory, but you’d have to check a list of thousands of stolen or lost passports against millions of people who’ve come into the U.S. recently-and do it by hand. It would take forever. Tedious, mind-numbing, and frankly impossible.”

“That’s why God invented computers.”

“Listen, Sarah. For as long as I’ve been in the Bureau, that’s never been done. Never. There’s a reason for that.”

“Yeah. They didn’t have Ken Alton, computer wizard. I’ll give him a call. He’s probably just booted up his computer for the night.”

“Don’t get your hopes up, kid. And don’t forget, even if you somehow find out what passport he used, he’s already in the country.”

“Shame on you, Alex. Then we’ve got us a trail.”

“Hardly a trail.”

“Oh, come on,” Sarah upbraided him. “Then we’ve got us a damn good start.”

“If we’re lucky.”

“Yeah, well, sometimes you’ve got to count on a little luck. Think positive.”

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

In a great city like New York, Henrik Baumann was in his element. He disappeared easily into crowds, his appearance always changing; he made his arrangements, established his contacts, bought what he needed in absolute anonymity.

In the beginning he took a one-bedroom suite on the forty-first floor of the New York Hilton, in what they called the Executive Tower. There were less expensive rooms, and nicer hotels, but it was height he was after most of all.

He set up the MLink-5000 satellite telephone on the sill of an east-facing window and opened its lid to aim the flat-plate array antenna, checked the signal-strength meter, and readjusted the angle of elevation. Rather than use the handset, he plugged into the phone’s modular port a small fax machine he had purchased on Forty-seventh Street. On a table nearby he placed the cheap electronic typewriter he had bought at the same place, and several preprinted invoice forms.

For the first time he felt anxiety. The situation had changed.