from forgery by holograms. On the photocopy these show up as ghostly shadows of Lincoln and the Capitol dome. No doubt there are also security threads in the original paper that don’t show up on the copy at all. Katia’s photo, a head-and-shoulders passport shot, is on the left. Next to it at the top is the location of the “issuing post,” in this case San Jose, Costa Rica. Below this is her name, surname first, given name underneath it.
I check the copy of her passport next. It’s the thing Katia told me at the jail, what’s been rattling around in my head, that the names on the two documents didn’t jibe. They don’t. The surname on her passport is listed as “Solaz-Nitikin.” On the visa it’s “Solaz.” This latter is the name on the charging documents in the criminal case as well, the criminal information filed by the prosecutor’s office, though the other, “Katia Solaz-Nitikin,” is listed as an alias, “aka.” I’d paid no attention to it before.
“What do you know about passports and visas?” I ask Harry.
“Ask me, I’m becoming an expert,” he says.
“Look at this.” I lay the copies down on the desk side by side, facing Harry.
“Look at the surname on each document.”
“Yeah, that’s typical in Latin countries, Hispanic composite names. See?” Harry points to the copy of the passport. “Here, you see the first surnames on the top line, ‘Solaz-Nitikin,’ and then here, next to it, it goes back what, looks like three, no four generations. It starts with her father’s name, mother’s maiden name, grandfather’s paternal name, grandmother’s maternal name, so on and so on, so what’s your point?” says Harry.
“Why wasn’t the last name ‘Nitikin’ included on the visa?”
“She probably dropped it when she filled out the application. Sometimes they do that, especially in the States.”
“That’s the point. Katia didn’t fill out the application. Pike did. And she called him on it. He knew that she used the surname ‘Solaz-Nitikin’ because that’s the name he found her under.”
“So what’s your point?” says Harry.
“Pike found Katia by way of a website for a modeling agency. She was listed on the website as ‘Katia Solaz- Nitikin.’ What she told me is correct. I found the site online. Pike told the agency he wanted to do some advertising in Costa Rica for his company and paid for a photo shoot with Katia. But he never used any of the shots or followed through on any advertising.”
“Maybe he changed his mind,” says Harry.
“Or maybe he already had what he wanted, a way to meet Katia.”
“You think he used the modeling thing as a con to hit on her?”
“No. I think Pike was searching for something on the Internet, but it wasn’t Katia’s picture. It was her name, and if I had to guess, I’d say it was the one he dropped from her visa application.
“Think about it. You’re trying to bring this woman into the country. You’re filling out her visa application and you’re working from her passport. Look at it.” I point to the passport copy on Harry’s desk. “There it is. She uses the hyphenated form of ‘Solaz-Nitikin’ as her surname, but Pike drops the last name. It seems to me you would use at least the hyphenated portion of the name, the one that’s on her passport, so that the two documents would conform when you checked in at U.S. immigration; that is, unless you had some reason not to include the name.”
“But if you’re right and he dropped the name intentionally and immigration flagged the difference when he came in, then they’ve got problems,” says Harry.
“Not necessarily. Pike probably figured he could finesse the passport at immigration, first because of all the other names on her passport, none of which were included on the visa. And if that didn’t work, then he’d use whatever it was he had that got her the expedited visa in the first place.”
“So you’re thinking he didn’t just pay somebody for that?” says Harry.
“I don’t know. But I don’t think he’d whip out his wallet in an immigration line at the airport with all of those cameras watching, an army of immigration officers there, and a long line of people behind him.”
“Got a point,” says Harry. “But why would he want to drop the last part of the hyphenated name?”
“That has been bothering me for two days. It kept banging around in my head, until I dropped the name ‘Solaz’ out of the middle. If you never met the woman and I told you I was going to introduce you to someone named Katia Nitikin, what would you think?”
“Russian,” says Harry.
“Look.” I take a piece of paper and a pencil from his desk. “There are several ways you might write the name ‘Kathy’ in Spanish. You could use ‘Kathia,’ or ‘Kathy,’ or ‘Katia.’” I turn the paper around for Harry to read. “But in Russian there is only one way it is generally written, and that’s ‘Katia.’”
“Okay, so her mother’s dad is Russian?” says Harry.
“And Katia’s mother was sufficiently sensitive to this that when she named her daughter, she used the Russian spelling. What does that tell you about Mom?”
“That she probably had a close relationship with her dad?”
“Bingo. Put it all together. Mom hangs out in Colombia visiting relatives that Katia has never met. A relative or relatives who, according to Katia, no one else in the family except her mother has ever met.”
“The old man’s on the lam,” says Harry.
“Uh-huh. Pike sees the photographs of the mother’s last trip, gets all excited, and immediately hustles Katia off to the States where he has her calling home every day-asking where Mama is and when’s she coming back.”
“So Pike was looking for Mr. Nitikin, assuming Grandpa’s still alive,” says Harry. “And you think Pike was killed because of that?”
“Two murders made to look like a badly botched larceny, gold coins and pawn tickets on Katia when they catch her, but none of the rest of the missing coins. The computer, the one the cops didn’t find at Pike’s house, it was a laptop,” I tell Harry. “Katia saw it. He had it with him in Costa Rica. He used it to download the Colombian photographs from her camera without her knowledge. Katia saw it on his desk the night she left, and unless she killed him, and I don’t think she did, she was right as rain to run, because she got out of that house half a beat ahead of whoever did.”
“Hand me that binder,” says Harry.
He wants the document binder from the shelf, the one I had just opened. I hand it to him and Harry riffles through it. He finds what he wants.
“Six photographic prints, eight by ten,’” Harry is reading this to me. “It’s the property inventory sheet from when they took her into custody in Arizona,” he says. “The prints she took back from Pike that night. They were in her bag when they arrested her.”
“We need to get copies of those photographs yesterday,” I tell him.
SIXTEEN
Ten en after seven in the morning and Zeb Thorpe was already sweating. “Make it fast. I’ve got a full day, starting with the director, in twenty minutes. That means you got ten.”
In his sixties, craggy faced, a retired marine colonel, this morning Thorpe was pumping enough adrenaline he could have gone toe-to-toe with George Patton and chewed the stars off his helmet.
As the FBI’s executive assistant director for the National Security Branch, he headed up four separate divisions: Counterterrorism, Counterintelligence, the Directorate of Intelligence, and the WMD Directorate. All of these had
