Judge & Jury

"Please," I answered. The Eel. A slimy fucking eel. Things were starting to add up."Where would I start to look, Yuri?"

The Russian paused, scrolling farther down the file."Perhaps with your own State Department, Inspector. Judging from what I see, they may be better help than us."

The State Department, our State Department."Why is that?"

"Remlikov's last-known whereabouts. He is thought to be in Israel, Inspector."

Chapter 87

FINALLY I WAS ONTO something. The bearded face now had a name, and a history. Remlikov's prints came in over the fax a short time later, but my eyes had started to close.

I dozed off until nine. Then I shaved and showered, and called a colleague I had worked with at the FBI. I asked if I could meet him around ten.

Senil Chumra was a plump, likable Indian whose office wasn't in the Bureau's official place downtown. He was in a nondescript warehouse building up on Eighteenth and Tenth, overlooking the river. Chumra headed up a specialized area of the department we called CAF.

Computer Assisted Forensics.

These were the guys who could trace e-mails, hack into computers, worm their way through coded passwords, track the complicated movements of cash overseas. I had last worked with him tracking the flow of Cavello's union paybacks to the Cayman Islands. Senil's other talent was manipulating digital images.

"Hello, Nick." The techie lit up as I walked through the door of his lab. The technical guys always liked it when one of the so-called glamour boys showed up."Haven't seen you in a while. What have you been up to?"

"I'm good, Chummie," I lied."Busy." These technical whizzes worked in their own little specialized cocoon up here. No reason he'd know what I was up to-or in this case,wasn't."You got that e-mail I sent over?"

"I got it." The Indian wheeled over to a Mac screen down the line, maybe a little disappointed."Got it uploaded right here."

Senil touched a mouse, and the image of Cavello's bearded accomplice jumped onto the screen."Okay, Nick, tell me-what is it you want me to do?"

"I want to change around the image, Chummie. See if it matches someone I know."

He nodded, hunching over the screen and cracking his knuckles. He clicked the mouse again. A grid appeared over the image."Shoot."

"First, I want to lose the beard."

"Easy." Senil typed in a few coordinates, and the image immediately narrowed in to just a square of the suspect's face. Then, using a cursor, he outlined the area of the beard. Gently, he moved his cursor back and forth, as if he was airbrushing.

"What are you onto these days?" he asked while he worked, his fingers guiding the cursor like a surgeon's."Things have to be pretty hot up there for you C-10 boys, what with Cavello and all. What're you thinking, he changed his face on you?"

"Sort of," I said, not picking up on his inquisitiveness."Just a hunch."

"A hunch." He sighed, dropping the conversation."This process is called grafting and displacement," he said, continuing to carve away the facial hair, tracing it around the chin."Essentially, we eliminate a field: skin tone, a scar, in this case, a beard." In a moment the facial area was blank, and Senil retrieved a section of skin from another part of the image and filled in the space."Then we just graft onto it." He smoothed out the facial lines."Cut and paste."

"That's good," I said, leaning over his shoulder."Now what do you say we try and alter the hair. Make it short and close to the skull. A little darker."

"You mean like this?" He pressed an icon, and a file of various hairstyles came up. Then he chose one fitting my description and basically transplanted it over the newly configured face.

"Now set the hairline back a bit. Around the sides."

Chummie started playing around with the cursor again.

"Yes, like that. Now, can we ditch the eyeglasses?"

"Faster than Lasik." He gri

The man's dark glasses disappeared.

"Fucking A!" I exclaimed. The image on the screen almost knocked me on the floor.

"Anything else, Nick? If you're not satisfied, give me the word. I'll make him look like anyone you like."

"No, Chummie." I patted his shoulder."I think we're done."

I pulled out the file of Kolya Remlikov that Yuri Plakhov had faxed me. I put Remlikov's face side by side against the altered image of Cavello's accomplice.

"Bingo," Senil Chumra said.

We were staring at the same man.

Chapter 88

THIRTEEN YEARS OF working my way up through one of the most bureaucratic law enforcement agencies in the world told me to go straight to the Javits Building and drop what I had right on ADIC Cioffi's desk.

There wasn't much doubt that Kolya Remlikov was the man who had sprung Cavello.

I got as far as hailing a cab on the corner. Then something made me hold back. I wasn't sure exactly what.

Maybe it was the thought of handing Remlikov over to the very people who had let him escape. Or the sudden realization of just how difficult this could prove to be-getting through cha

I'd spent so many years doing the right thing. Suddenly the right thing didn't seem so right anymore.

I waved the taxi on.

I just went back and leaned against the building for a while, holding the photos, trying to decide what the right thing was. When it hit me, I told myself,For a professor of criminal ethics, Nick, you're about to do one very stupid thing.

I looked up a number in my BlackBerry and placed a call. I asked Steve Bushnagel if he had plans for lunch. Steve was a partner in a private law firm now, but he used to advise the FBI. He was an expert on matters of extradition and international law.

"Lunch? Where?" Bushnagel asked.

"Cheap and fast," I said."I'm buying."

"How fast?" the lawyer asked.

"Hop into the elevator. I'll be right outside."

When he stepped out of the lobby of the big glass tower on Sixth Avenue, I was leaning on a parked car, holding out a couple of hot dogs."Ketchup or mustard?"

"Not to be particularly lawyerly about it-but how 'boutboth. "

We sat on a ledge on the busy corner, the lunch-hour crowds streaming by."Steve, I've got someone I want to get to who's fled to Israel."

"Get to?"

"I need to get him back."

Bushnagel took a bite."Are we talking fugitive or citizen, here?"

"Citizen, I suspect. He's been there awhile."

"And what you want him for, these are crimes committed in the United States, not Israel, right?"

"We're just talking, right, Steve?"

He waved his dog at me."I assure you, you're not paying me enough for anything more specific."

I gri

"Hmmph." Bushnagel grunted."The Israelis are cooperative-to a degree. You remember Jonathan Pollard? We arrested him for espionage in 1985-in the Israelis' eyes, unjustly. They've been trying to get him back unsuccessfully for twenty years. And that electronics guy who fled there? ‘Crazy Eddie' Antar? Look at how long it took to get him back. Of course, it all depends on what we'rereally talking here."

"Talking?"

"In the post-9/11 world." The lawyer shrugged."Do the Israelis want something from us? Are the other governments involved? Look, Nick, I didn't become a complete dummy when I left the government. I know we're not chasing tax cheats here.

"If the evidence is solid, you could definitely get the guy held for questioning. But what kind of access you'd have, and how long that would take, that's all up for grabs. How time sensitive is this?"