Echo of War (10 page)

Washington,
D.C.

Once the evidence response team was done processing and returning the apartment to its original condition, Oliver called in the surveillance team, made sure everything was in order, then called ahead to Quantico with news of the indented writing from Selmain's notebook. When he and McBride arrived, a technician from Questioned Documents was waiting.

McBride had worked with his share of QDs before, most of which had come in the form of ransom notes and bogus statements, so he knew the process well.

For indented writing, there are two primary recovery methods. The most complex, which is reserved for indentations too faint for the human eye to see, is ED, or electrostatic detection. The document in question is covered with a transparent Mylar sheath which is drawn tight to the paper with a vacuum and then exposed to repeated high-voltage charges that allow static to accumulate in microscopic indentations. Once done, the Mylar is “misted” with powdered toner which settles into the charged indentations. The document is then photographed and converted into a negative image to highlight the indentations.

The second and simpler method is called oblique or graze lighting. Angled lamps of varying intensities are shined onto the document's surface from various angles to better reveal furrows and shadows. Finally, multiple photographic exposures are taken and fed into a computer which creates a matched collage.

Though Oliver and McBride suspected the indentation from Selmani's apartment had been beneath only a single sheet of paper, Oliver requested the former method be used since ED leaves the document undamaged and unchanged. If this case ever went to trial, he wanted to make sure the evidence was above reproach.

As they waited, McBride called the agent-in-charge at the Root estate. Mr. Root, McBride learned, was taking a nap. As he did most of his waking hours, the former DCI passed the time by alternately staring at the phone and into space. Every time an agent's cell phone trilled, Root wandered around the house until he found the source, stared hopefully at the agent, and then wandered off again.

“How's he doing?” Oliver asked when McBride disconnected.

“Not good. I wish we had something solid to give him. He needs it.”

“Maybe this'll be it. We're getting close.”

“Is that intuition or a professional opinion?”

“Both,” Oliver replied, then added, “More of the first, though.”

An hour after arriving, the Questioned Documents expert returned with the results. “Good news, bad news.”

“Bad news first,” Oliver said.

“We could only lift one more number.”

“Good news?”

“We found an apostrophe and an extra letter.” He placed the negative image photo on the table before them:

Bob's 7.5 . 94

“My guess,” the tech said, “Bob isn't a person. It's a given name—probably a business. Not a lot of people jot phone numbers like that—'Bob's house,' or ‘Bob's cabin.' Based on the decimal groupings you can assume some blanks. Fill those in and you get ten digits.”

“Area code and phone number,” said McBride. “We're just about the only country that uses parentheses and dashes. In Europe its mostly decimal points or spaces.”

“Right,” said the tech.

Oliver asked him, “How about Albania?”

“I'll check, but I'd say yes. You're lucky, actually. Aside from getting a complete number, you got the next best thing—last digit in the area code, first in the prefix, and the final two numbers. Combine that with a place name and the computer should be able to make short work of it.”

And it did.

Working from the area code digit, the computer spit out a list of thirty-nine candidates, ranging from Wyoming to Florida to dozens of points in between. The first digit in the prefix further narrowed the list, the eight and ninth digits further still. For the sake of thoroughness, Oliver asked first for a printout of all residential numbers that were listed for men named Robert or Bob, but as the counter on the computer screen swept past the 9,000 mark, he halted the search and switched to business listings with “Bob's” in the title. This narrowed the field to nearly fourteen hundred.

“Still too many to cover,” Oliver said. “We'd be at it until Christmas.”

With the Golden 48 gone and still no contact from the kidnappers, Oliver and McBride agreed they had to make some assumptions, the first being that the indentation Selmani had left behind wasn't an innocent note, not the telephone number to Bob's Ice Cream Parlor or Bob's Supermarket As the HRT commander had described it, Selmani's apartment was a flophouse, a logistical staging area for the kidnappers. Following that logic, anything they found there had to serve the operation.

“So let's narrow it geographically,” Oliver said. “Try D.C., Virginia, West Virginia, Maryland, Delaware, and Pennsylvania.”

The computer tech, a blonde in her early twenties, punched some keys, waited for the results to come up, then said. ‘Two hundred twelve businesses with ‘Bob's' in the title.”

“Still too many.”

“Okay, how about this,” McBride said. “Think before and after. What did they need before the kidnapping to get it done, and what did they need after to get away? First, transportation.”

“All kinds, or just ground?” the technician asked.

“Everything.”

She punched keys. “Done.”

Oliver said, “Hardware stores, army surplus …”

“Got it What else?”

“Camping outfitters.”

She punched more keys, men looked up. “Anything else?”

“No, give it a shot,” said McBride.

She hit enter. Ten seconds passed, then the results popped onto the screen. “How about twenty-seven?” she said.

Oliver grinned. “Better.” He looked at McBride. “Back to canvassing.”

Oliver called in every available body he could find and rammed them into the conference room. Between agents and administrative personnel, the group numbered fifteen.

“The sheets you've got are a list of businesses in a five-state radius that we believe our suspect may have visited either shortly before or shortly after the kidnapping. Work the phones. Best case, fax the attached photo to the local cops and have them take it to the store; have them talk to the owner and every employee they've got. Failing that, fax the photo directly to the store. Lean hard on them. We need a break and we need it fast.

“The subject has shown a fondness for stolen credit cards and pickpocketing. The credit cards he used to buy the Stonewalker boots and to rent the Ford Econoline were not only stolen the same day they were used, but within a ten-mile radius of the stores. Use that as a red flag; ask the local cops for any reports of pickpocketing. If you get a report and a possible sighting of Selmani at one of the stores on the list, that'll be our guy.”

“You hope,” one of the agents said.

“Hope, hell,” Oliver replied, shooting a glance at McBride. “I'm praying. It's worked so far.”

There was general laughter.

“Another thing,” McBride said, “Our guy's from Albania, so his grasp of English may be shaky; he may have a heavy accent.”

“If you get anything—even a faint
maybe
—call me. If a credit card was used, get a copy of it and send it to QD; they're standing by. Any other questions?” There were none. “Okay, let's get to it.”

Seventy minutes later they got their first nibble.

Earlier that day a man in Quaker Hills, a suburb of Lancaster, Pennsylvania, reported a credit card missing to the local police. Upon leaving a movie theater the night before, he found his car open, but found nothing missing or disturbed, so he assumed he'd simply forgotten to lock the door. The next afternoon he remembered the emergency credit card he kept in the glove compartment, went to check on it, and found it missing.

“If that was all, I might have let it pass,” the agent named Kathy Berelli told Oliver, “but there's also a Bob's Boat Rental in Erbs Mill, a town on the Susquehanna about thirteen miles southeast of Lancaster.”

Oliver's head snapped up from his notepad. “And?”

“I've got the Lancaster County Sheriffs on their way there now. Said they'd get back to us—and I quote—‘lickety-split'” Berelli shrugged.

Oliver looked at McBride. “How long is—”

“No idea, John. Somewhere between real quick and not too long, probably.”

Oliver exhaled heavily. “God almighty.”

As it turned out, lickety split turned out to be thirty-four minutes.

An agent popped his head in the door, pointed to Berelli, then to the phone. As if on cue, it rang. Berelii pressed the speakerphone button. “Agent Berelli.”

“Yes, ma'am, this is Deputy Sheriff Lewen.”

“I hear you, Deputy. I've got you on speakerphone with two other agents.”

“Uh-huh. Okay then. I drove out to Bob's and showed them the picture. Bob's wife Eunice recognized him right away. He'd been in as soon as they opened this morning at seven. She said he had a funny accent; thought he might be Russian, but wasn't sure.”

“Did he rent something … buy something?”

“Both. Bought some grocery items and such, and rented a pontoon boat for a week.”

“Credit card?”

“Yep. I've got the original slip. Our secretary's puttin' it on the fax now.”

“Thanks, Deputy Lewen. You might have just broken our case.”

“Yeah? Well, that's great Listen, is this guy dangerous? What's his deal?”

Berelli looked at Oliver, who hesitated, then said, “Deputy Lewen, this is Special Agent Collin Oliver. If this pans out, we'll probably be meeting in person before the day's out. I'm not going to lie to you, the man we're looking for is a suspect in a multiple murder and kidnapping. We don't think he's a threat to the general public, but if he's sighted, don't try to apprehend him. He may be holding a hostage.”

“Holy cow.”

“We'd like to get to him without ripping him off.”

“Well, yeah, I can see that, but I gotta tell somebody about this.”

“I understand. We're on the line with the Pennsylvania State Police right now.” Oliver looked at Berelli and formed a phone with his thumb and pinky finger; she nodded and hurried from the room. “We'll have them contact you directly.”

“I guess that'll work.”

“Until then, we need to make sure we don't spook this guy. Don't go looking for him.”

“Gotchya.”

Oliver disconnected. As he did so, the technician from Questioned Documents walked in. He was holding the fax of the credit card slip. “Same guy,” he said. “I'll need the original to be sure, but it's a ninety percent match. Same loops and baseline drops as the other slips. It's him.”

Oliver sat still for a long five seconds, then chuckled. He looked up at McBride. “I'll be damned. That's it, mat's what we needed. Now we just have to find out how the hell we get to Erb's Mill.”

“That's the easy part,” McBride replied. “What I wanna know is why the hell he needs a boat, and where he's going with it.”

CIA headquarters,
Langley,
Virginia

Dutcher had his choice of people to wake up at the CIA, but as Tanner's report involved not only a missing agent, but one who'd been juggling undercover roles for both them and the DEA, he decided to go straight to the top.

The new DCI, the first woman in the history of the agency to hold that post, answered her home phone on the first ring. “Hello,” said Sylvia Albrecht.

“Sylvia, Leland Dutcher, sorry if I woke you.”

“Evening, Dutch. You didn't; I was on the phone with the FBI.”

“The Root business?”

“Yes. It's got everyone uptight.”

“I believe it. Did you ever meet Jon Root?”

“Once, in a ceremony. As I recall, he said a few words to me but all I can remember is nodding like an idiot. Back then, he was one of the gods—still is, for that matter. I hope to hell they find her.”

“Me, too. I worked with him before he retired; he was a tough SOB, but Amelia was his rock. Without her … Well, I hope it doesn't come to that.”

“Amen.”

Dutcher had liked Sylvia from their first meeting a decade earlier. She was razor-sharp, decisive, and open-minded. She'd climbed to the top of a profession that had been dominated by men since its inception over fifty years earlier. As far as Dutcher was concerned, Sylvia's tenacity alone qualified her for the job.

As the deputy director/Intelligence under the now retired Dick Mason, Sylvia had had a heavy burden to bear with word of Mason's retirement and her possible ascendancy becoming public. Not only was the CIA itself still under the microscope since its alleged failures involving 9/11, but every eye in Washington was on her personally. Feminists and chauvinists, Republicans and Democrats, Defense contractors and Pentagon hawks—whether they wanted her to succeed or fail, all were scrutinizing her every move.

If anyone could shoulder the load, Dutcher believed, it was Albrecht, As a divorced mother of three, she'd returned to Yale at the age of thirty-eight, finished her master's degree in international relations, then joined the CIA as an entry-level analyst in 1982 during the final years of the Cold War.

“Heard anything from Dick?” Dutcher asked.

“Last I heard he and Marjorie were in Alaska. He was hooking Coho and she was birdwatching. So, tell me: Did you just call to shoot the breeze or is there something on your mind?”

“The latter. I've got somebody in Paris on a personal matter. He came across something that might belong to you.”

“Oh? Whose side of the house?”

“George's.” George Coates was her deputy director/Operations.

“It's almost eleven now. How about my office in forty minutes?”

“I'm on my way.”

When Ditcher's escort from the Office of Security dropped him at the door to the French Room—the nickname-of-old for the DCI's private conference room—Sylvia, George Coates, and Len Barber, who'd taken Sylvia's role as DD/I, were already there.

Albrecht said, “Dutch, I don't think you've met Len.”

They shook hands. Barber said, “Good to meet you. Heard a lot of good things about you.”

“How's life under the new boss?”

Barber shrugged. “No scars yet.”

Sylvia gestured to the coffee carafe. “Help yourself, Dutch.”

Dutcher poured a cup then took a seat at the oval table. “Sorry to roust everybody so late, but as I told Sylvia, one of my people have come across something that might interest you. It's not good news, I'm afraid.”

“First of all, who are we talking about?” Sylvia asked.

“Tanner and Cahil.”

“Why do those names sound familiar?” Barber said.

Albrecht replied, “The Chinese thing two months ago—”

“Night Wall
?”
Barber replied. “That was them?”

“And the year before,
Symmetry/Dorsal.
”

“That doesn't ring a bell.”

Coates said, “I'll get you the file; it's interesting reading. Trust me, they're reliable. Dutch, what're they doing over there?”

In answer, Dutcher asked Sylvia, “You remember Gillman Vetsch?”

“I think so … Intelligence Support Activity. Something in Bucharest?”

“He was shot by a sniper and paralyzed. Tanner is godfather to Vetsch's daughter. She disappeared in France. Gill asked Briggs to find her. George, her name might ring a bell with you.”

“Sorry, no.”

Dutcher wasn't surprised. The “need to know” rule extended all the way to the top at Langley; the number of people who knew Susanna's name probably numbered less than half a dozen. “How about
Tabernacle
?”
Dutcher asked. “The double agent you've got inside the DEA?”

Coates arched an eyebrow. “Go on.”

“Tanner came across her controller in St. Malo. He identified himself as Jim.”

“Jim Gunston. Okay, back up. Start from the beginning.”

Dutcher recounted Tanner and Cahil's movements from their arrival in Paris to the melee outside the Black Boar and their meeting of Gunston. “George, he's dead.”

Coates bolted forward. “What! When?”

“A couple hours ago, at his hotel.”

“Tanner and Cahil were there?”

“Yes. They're on the move now; they should be calling shortly. Did Gunston report Susanna missing? The DEA did—almost two weeks ago.”

Coates glanced at Sylvia, who nodded her approval. “The last time he checked in he said her reports were getting spotty. She was withdrawn … on edge. He was worried about her. Though he never said as much, I think he was worried she'd gone native.”

Dutcher knew the term. A “native” is a deep cover operative who becomes so immersed in his or her legend they lose touch with reality—and their mission. As with the Stockholm Syndrome, where a hostage comes to sympathize with his or her captors, undercover operatives often come to see the people in their alternate life as genuine; informants become friends, killers become lovers, and the operative's mission becomes lost in the fog. Tanner had described Gunston as haggard. Was this why? Dutcher wondered. Had he realized his agent had gone over the edge?

“Maybe you better give me the whole story,” Dutcher said. “What was she doing for you?”

Again, Coates looked to Albrecht. She said, “Go ahead. If we decide to pull her in, Tanner and Cahil will have to do it. If we decide to keep her in play, they'll have to take over.”

Coates nodded. “About ten months ago, Susanna approached us. She'd come across something she didn't think the DEA could handle….”

When Coates finished talking, Dutcher realized they'd crossed into completely new territory. If Tanner had been anxious about Susanna's disappearance before, this new information would be agonizing for him. Dutcher said, “How sure was she about this … Stephan?”

“She was sure. Over time she's managed to catch snippets of conversation between him and his pals—the four Spetsnaz Tanner and Cahil tangled with. We've been able to piece together a history on him. He's either who Susanna claims, or he's somebody pretending to be him.”

“Which is nonsense,” Len Barber said.

“Agreed,” Dutcher replied, then said to Coates, “Does she have any idea what he's up to?”

“No, but he's moving toward something. His pace is picking up.”

Sylvia said, “What do you think, Dutch? Will Tanner take it? We need somebody to lay eyes on her—and pull her out if she's gone over.”

Will he take it
?
Dutcher thought.
Try to stop him.
“He'll take it.”

The speakerphone on the table rang; Sylvia pressed the button. “Yes?”

“Director Albrecht, I have a call for Mr. Dutcher. It came in land line, secure from Fort Meade.”

“Put it through.”

There were a few seconds of clicks and squelches, then Tanner's voice: “Leland?”

“I'm here. We're in Sylvia's office with Len Barber and George Coates. Are you safe?”

“I think so. We're in a Mainotel in Plancoet, about twenty-five kilometers from St. Malo. So far we haven't seen any Wanted posters bearing our faces.”

“That's a plus,” Dutcher replied. “Your guess about Gunston was right. He was a case officer, and Susanna's controller.”

“A double in the DEA,” Tanner said. “Sylvia, not only are you getting lovelier with age, but you're getting bolder.”

“Always the gentleman,” Sylvia replied. “I think when you hear the details you'll understand our approach.”

“I'm listening.”

Dutcher said, “First of all, you need to know who you're dealing with. The name Stephan is an alias. It's Litzman, Briggs. Karl Litzman.”

Three thousand miles away, Tanner heard the words, but it took several moments for them to register. He gripped the cell phone a little tighter and squeezed his eyes shut.
Litzman
…
Good god.

“Briggs, are you there?”

“I'm here. We're sure about that?”

“We're satisfied it's him,” Sylvia replied.

“Give me the story.”

“Last fall Susanna was working undercover on distributor-level heroin,” Dutcher said. “She was laying the groundwork for a seeding purchase of about a thousand kilos. Her customers were a pair of soldiers from the ETA who were looking to convert the heroin into cash or arms. When Susanna arrived at the meeting she got a surprise. The ETA had brought along some bodyguards—Litzman and his team. He was going by the alias Stephan Bolz.”

Coates said, “The theory is the ETA had hired Litzman to make sure the shipment got where it was going,”

A solid theory, Tanner thought. For years both Spain and France had been tightening the noose around ETA cells operating in southern France and northern Spain. In the last year alone the French Navy's GCMC, or Close Quarters Combat Group, had successfully boarded three ETA freighters and seized hundreds of thousands of dollars in weapons; at the border, Spain's Grupos Antiterroristas Ruales, or GAR, had been successfully interdicting the ETA's traditional overland supply routes.

Litzman's background in Spetsnaz made him and his team superbly suited to protecting an ETA ship at sea. Compared to the loss of the heroin, Litzman's fee had probably been incidental to the ETA.

“What happened at the meeting?” Tanner asked.

“Litzman's appearance threw a wrench in the works,” Coates replied. “They were heavily armed and ready. Susanna aborted the sting; the French decided to hit the shipment as it left the country. Unfortunately, it didn't work out. Litzman, the ETA, and the heroin disappeared.”

“Are you saying Susanna recognized Litzman on sight?”

“So she said, and her interactions with him later confirmed it. She didn't think the DEA was set up to handle somebody like him, and the French had their own agenda, so she approached us.”

Sylvia said, “We weren't keen on poaching a DEA operation, but the chance was too good to pass up. To get Litzman I'd step on every damned toe in Washington.”

Tanner shared her conviction. Though his face had never appeared on any public wanted poster, Karl Litzman was one of the U.S.'s most wanted terrorists, and Briggs knew only too well why the German held that honor.

In December of 2001, as the focus of Operation Enduring Freedom was on the caves of Tora Bora along the Afghani-Pakistani border, a light company of fifty-eight Marines had been dispatched to Zibak, a village in Northern Afghanistan's Hindu Kush, about twenty miles from the border with Turkistan, to investigate reports of an Al Qaeda redoubt.

As the company entered a ravine ten miles north of town, it came under heavy sniper and mortar fire. The first targets were the radiomen and their equipment, followed by the company commander, then the platoon and squad leaders. Leaderless and cut off from the outside world, the decimated platoon tried to retreat, but was boxed in.

Over the next ten hours the snipers whittled away at the Marines until, as night fell, those left alive were able to slip away under cover of darkness and link up with battalion headquarters in Eskatul. Of the fifty-eight that went into the ravine, only nine escaped.

A pair of Blackhawks dispatched to the area caught up with the sniper team outside Darwan, two miles from the Turkistan border. Four Taliban fighters were captured and eight were killed, but one—the team leader—managed to slip across the border. Interrogation of the prisoners revealed the man was a mercenary whom the Taliban had hired to lure U.S. troops into the Hindu Kush and ambush them. A week later, through informants and captured documents, investigators came up with a name: Karl Litzman.

In March of 2002, Tanner led a team of five men into Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan, to investigate a reported sighting of Litzman. On their second night in the city, an informant directed them to an apartment near the Great Chuysky Canal. Tanner and his team raided the apartment. There was an explosion. Only Tanner and one other man survived.

Months later Tanner learned that Litzman had not only been tipped off about the team's presence in the city, but that he'd fabricated the information that led them to the apartment. Instead of simply fleeing, Litzman had again laid a lethal trap.

And now he's back,
Tanner thought.
And he's got his hands on Susanna.

“Point me in the right direction,” Briggs said. “I'll find Susanna, then I'll find him.”

“As I understand it, you've got some history with Litzman,” Coates said.

“That doesn't make me unique. He's had a busy career.”

“And what about Susanna?” Len Barber asked. “Are you sure you're not—”

“I'm sure.”

Sylvia said, “I don't suppose it matters. Something tells me with or without us, you've made up your mind.”