15 Parc de Bruxelles
Parc de Bruxelles
It was one thing to dispatch a few lines of text via email, quite another to transmit undeniable photographic evidence that
one’s hostage was alive and well. This the kidnappers steadfastly refused to do. They were far too disciplined to make a mistake
like that, too professional. Nor would they agree to leave the proof-of-life photo somewhere in London, with its Orwellian
network of surveillance cameras. Brussels was as close as they would get.
The Bombardier Challenger made retrieval of the image a bit less arduous. Gabriel boarded the luxurious private jet at London
City Airport shortly before the 10:30 p.m. curfew and was on the ground in Brussels an hour later. Thirty minutes after that, at 1:00 a.m. local time, a chauffeured Mercedes sedan delivered him to the Parc de Bruxelles. He slipped through an open gate on the Rue
Ducale and then made his way along a cobbled footpath toward the octagonal ornamental pond at the center of the park. Along
the left side of the walkway, nestled amid a stand of trees, was a café called the Woodpecker, an establishment he had frequented
in a previous life.
The service windows of the small wooden hut were tightly shuttered, and the surrounding picnic tables were deserted and dripping with the remnants of a recent rain.
He illuminated the underside of one of the tables—the one indicated by the automated female voice—and spotted a length of opaque masking tape holding a small object in place.
With his thumbnail he pried away a corner of the tape and tugged gently.
The object, a USB flash drive left by one of the kidnappers, dropped into his palm.
He walked back to the car, and the driver took him to the Hotel Brussels. It was located on the Avenue Louise, in an unsightly
tower that looked like something the Soviets might have thrown up in East Berlin during the darkest days of the Cold War.
Higgins had reserved a suite on an upper floor. Inside, Gabriel placed his laptop on the desk and with some trepidation inserted
the USB flash drive. It contained a single file. He clicked the touchpad twice, and a photograph blossomed onto the screen.
She was wearing the same white blouse she had worn the day of her disappearance. Her pale hair hung limp and lifeless, and
there were dark semicircles beneath her eyes. The faded contusion on her left cheek appeared genuine, as did the magazine
she held in her hands. It was the current issue of The Economist. The cover story concerned the perilous state of American democracy.
The wall behind her was gray cinder block—a cellar, thought Gabriel, or perhaps an industrial room of some sort. He enlarged
the photograph and searched for evidence of manipulation. Her skin tone, the shape of her nose and mouth, the curl of her
fingers around the edges of the magazine, the consistency of the lighting. Harsh and white, like the light of the halogen
work lamps in Gabriel’s studio, it shone from Alice’s left. The shadows fell to the left throughout the image, without deviation.
Indeed, to Gabriel’s restorer’s eye, the image appeared authentic. That did not mean, however, that it had not been fabricated
with the help of artificial intelligence. Chiara was right; he required the services of a skilled cyber professional, someone
who could subject the image to sophisticated digital analysis.
The ringing of his mobile phone shattered the silence in the hotel room. Gabriel saw the number and his heart sank. He was
not looking forward to this conversation.
He accepted the call and heard the voice of Edward Knight. “Was it there?” he asked.
“I’m afraid so.”
“Send it to me.”
“I’d rather you not see it.”
“She’s my wife, Allon.”
He dispatched the photograph by email.
“Dear God,” said Knight a moment later. “Look what they’ve done to my beautiful Alice.”
“Are you sure it’s really her?”
“Who else would it be?”
“A computer-generated image of Alice.”
“I know my wife, Allon. That’s definitely her.”
“I’d still like to have it examined before we proceed with the negotiations.”
“Time is of the essence.”
“For them, but not for us. This is only the beginning.”
Knight exhaled heavily. “Do you have anyone in mind for the job?”
“One of the best in the business.”
“And what business is that?”
“Cybersecurity.”
“I insist you send me the bill.”
“Don’t worry, there won’t be one.”
Gabriel rang off and immediately dialed a number from his contacts. The woman who answered spoke English with a pronounced
Danish accent.
“Do you have any idea what time it is?”
“Late,” answered Gabriel.
“Is it urgent, or can it wait until morning?”
“It can’t, I’m afraid.”
“Another missing painting?”
“Missing girl, actually.”
“When and where?” was all she said.
She claimed she was visiting a friend in Luxembourg, but Gabriel never knew quite what to believe where Ingrid Johansen was
concerned. The more likely story was that she had ventured to the small but exceedingly wealthy country for professional reasons.
Poor Ingrid suffered from a lifelong compulsion to acquire objects that did not belong to her. Gabriel had made her acquaintance
while searching for a long-lost Vermeer, which Ingrid had pinched from the Amalfi Coast villa of a corrupt South African shipper.
Sometime later, at the request of a colleague from the Central Intelligence Agency, he had sent her to Moscow to steal a secret
Kremlin plan to wage nuclear war in Ukraine. The operation had ended at the Finnish border. Ingrid had only a vague memory
of how she had managed to survive. Gabriel, for his part, recalled every awful detail.
Lately Ingrid had provided him with services of a different sort, namely her ability to penetrate even the most well-defended computer network as though she were walking through an open door.
Her most recent hack involved an ethically challenged bank in Lugano, which collapsed as a result of the scandal she had helped to bring about.
Attempting to determine the authenticity of a photograph was beneath her.
At the very least it could be done remotely.
Gabriel nevertheless prevailed upon Ingrid to join him in London.
He had a feeling he would need her again before this was over.
He was back at the Adams Row mews house by half past ten the following morning. Ingrid arrived an hour later, dressed in black
jeans, a black pullover, and a stylish houndstooth check jacket. Her shoulder-length hair was the color of toffee and streaked
with blond. Parted in the middle, it framed a face of straight, even features. There was nothing out of place, not a line
or mark.
They embraced in the entrance hall, then Gabriel automatically patted the front of his jacket to make certain he was still
in possession of his billfold. His old friend Ingrid had the best pair of hands he had ever seen.
“You have something for me?” she asked.
He showed her the USB flash drive.
“Please tell me you didn’t stick that thing into your computer.”
“I didn’t really have a choice in the matter.”
She plucked the flash drive from his grasp and surveyed the interior of the mews house. “Nice.”
“It can be yours for a mere fifteen million.”
“Rental?”
“Borrowed.”
“From whom?”
“The Knight Group Limited of Berkeley Square.”
“Is he watching us, your friend Mr. Knight?”
“He’s my client, not my friend. And he swore he wouldn’t.”
“Do you believe him?”
“Not quite.”
She tugged a laptop from her luggage and hacked her way onto the Wi-Fi network. Then, after checking the upload and download
speeds, she inserted the flash drive and clicked on the icon. Her expression darkened as she contemplated the image on the
screen.
“Hello, Alice,” she said quietly.
“Are you sure about that?”
“First impressions are important.” She glanced at Gabriel over the top of the screen. “Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Allon?”
“And what was yours?”
“The photograph is genuine.”
“But can you prove it?”
“Digitally?” She shook her head. “I’m afraid that’s no longer possible. You see, there’s an arms race underway in the cyber
industry, a race between our ability to generate deepfakes and our ability to detect them.”
“Which side is going to win?”
“The fakers, of course.” Ingrid looked down at the screen again and began to type. “In the very near future it will no longer
be possible to tell the difference between AI-generated images and those captured by a camera. Needless to say, the implications
for our already turbulent world are too awful to contemplate. An authoritarian ruler, for example, will have the power to
create his own reality. With a deepfake video he will be able to discredit his political opponents. Who knows? If he’s ruthless
enough, he might use deepfakes to throw his opponents in prison or even to start a war.”
“I’m about to go to war with Alice Winter’s kidnappers, and I need to know whether she’s really alive.”
“When does this war start?”
“Nine o’clock tonight.”
“What happens at nine?”
“Ransom,” said Gabriel.
“How much do you suppose she’s worth?”
“Alice? Could be nine figures.”
Ingrid ceased her typing and turned the computer in Gabriel’s direction. On the screen was a photograph of a weary-looking
woman holding a magazine. It was the current issue of Paris Match. The woman was Ingrid.
“And what about her?” she asked. “How much is she worth?”
“She’s priceless,” said Gabriel. “Now, get to work.”
She began with a basic reverse-image search, which produced no results. If nothing else, it was proof that the kidnappers
had not taken an existing photograph of Alice from the Internet and manipulated it to their ends.
Next she analyzed the photograph with several commercial-grade deepfake detectors, none of which found any reason to question
its authenticity. She then turned to professional-grade products and products that were circulating among the worldwide community
of hackers and cybersecurity professionals, including a deepfake detector that analyzed skin pigment for evidence of inconsistency.
They too found no fault with the photo.
She conducted the final phase of her analysis with Gabriel at her side. Slowly, meticulously, they scoured the length and
breadth of the image for something, anything, that looked distorted, out of alignment, or out of place. They were in agreement
that every aspect of the photograph appeared genuine, especially the look of fear in Alice Winter’s wide blue eyes.
By then it was approaching six in the evening.
Gabriel rang Edward Knight and gave him the news.
The kidnappers had delivered authentic proof of life, the ransom negotiations could begin.
Knight sounded relieved, elated, even. He suggested that Gabriel come to the office in Berkeley Square at half past seven.
They could have a spot of dinner before the nine o’clock call.
“And bring your cyber specialist,” said Knight before ringing off. “I’d love to meet him.”