Echo of War (20 page)

Kirkland shut the door behind him. Tanner and Cahil sat down and Briggs pressed the button for line one. A voice said, “Connecting you.”

Thirty seconds later Sylvia Albrecht's voice came over the speaker. “Good morning, gentlemen. I've got Leland, Walt, and my two deputies here: George Coates and Len Barber.” Greetings were exchanged all around. “Briggs, I'm going to have Ian bring you up to speed on what he found in Marseilles, then we'll hear from you.”

Cahil recounted his visit to Marseilles's Little Sarajevo and his discovery of Fikret Zukic's association with the
Bihac Istina.

“What do we think about Bob's hunch?” Tanner asked. “Is the
Istina
fronting for someone?”

Len Barber said, “The Balkans are rife with them, from charities to newspapers, all involved to varying degrees with one group or another. What exactly each does for whom and how much they know is the big question. We're checking into the
Istina,
but my sense is Bob's right: They're certainly pro-Bosnia, and probably active. Folks like that aren't satisfied with writing editorials in a neighborhood rag.”

Dutcher spoke up. “If we make a few leaps, we can assume that whatever Litzman's up to, he's doing it at the behest of a Bosnian group. Who, though?”

“And what and where?” Oaken added.

“I
might be able to answer the where,” Tanner replied. He recounted his boarding of the
Sorgia,
Litzman's return with the mystery crate, his own capture and escape, and finally his crossing into Spain. “Susanna mentioned two locations: the first, Tangier, which is where Litzman's man had supposedly been before meeting the
Sorgia
;
the second, Trieste.”

“Trieste?” Barber said. “She said Trieste?”

“That's right; they're due there in five days—four now.”

“What is it, Len?” asked Sylvia.

“Nothing, I thought—an administrative matter—but now I'm wondering.”

“Tell us.”

“This morning my CRE chief reported one of his analysts came to him with a guilty conscience. It seems an FBI agent—a buddy of his—called the day before and asked for a favor.”

“And?”

“He wanted a RAR/c done on someone,” Barber replied, referring to a recent activity report/credit. “Evidently the analyst is a real cave dweller. He didn't recognize the name until later: Jonathan Root.”

“Aw, Jesus,” Sylvia groaned. “What's the agent's name?”

“Collin Oliver.”

“What the hell's he up to?”

“Until a couple days ago he was leading the Root investigation. Here's the interesting part: As of two days ago, Jonathan Root's RAR/c showed him checked into a hotel in Trieste.”

“I've never been a big fan of coincidences,” said Duteher. “We've got a freelance terrorist from our Most Wanted list and a former director of Central Intelligence both showing up in the same city at roughly the same time. Is there something we're not seeing here?”

Sylvia nodded. “Coincidence, complicity, or something in between, we need to get this sorted out—quickly. Len, George, two things: One, dig into the
Bihac Istina
and find out who's pulling the strings; two, find the
Sorgia
and Karl Litzman. Walt, how're you doing with his cell-phone records?”

“It's slow going, but I'm getting there.”

“Whatever you need, ask. Also, I want to know what he picked up in Lorient. Whatever's in that crate, he begged, borrowed, or stole it from someone.”

“Gotchya.”

“Dutch, with your permission, I'd like to send your people on one more trip.”

“No objections. Briggs, Ian?”

Tanner said, “You get us the flight, we'll be on it.”

Trieste

Tanner and Cahil spent the rest of the first day and most of the next at the Madrid embassy, as Sylvia's people put together their travel packages, which arrived by diplomatic pouch. Each contained a fresh passport, international driver's license, sanitized credit cards, and a pair of encrypted Motorola satellite phones that were now standard issue for case officers working overseas. Both of them had used the commercial version of the Motorola before, but Langley's version had been fitted with GPS (global positioning satellite) transceivers built into the nub antenna.

“As long as you have the phone,” the embassy's science and tech expert told them, “we can track you to the nearest meter. Depress the nub into the case, give a right twist, and it comes free. Once off the phone's battery, it can transmit four hours before the internal lithium gives out.”

Cahil frowned. “Down to a meter, you said?”

“That's right.”

“Well, that's a little creepy. Any way we can switch it off?”

“Why would you want to?”

“You ever hear of George Orwell? Big Brother?”

“Huh?”

Tanner said to the man, “Don't mind him. He's still not convinced the world is round.”

They boarded the afternoon shuttle to Milan, where they changed planes and continued on to Trieste. As Oliver and McBride had done with Root, Sylvia's people had in turn tracked them by their credit cards, so after hailing a taxi Tanner and Cahil ordered the driver straight to the Hotel Italia.

Tanner had never been to Trieste, and out of habit he found himself picking out the city's various landmarks as navigation aides: the Victory Lighthouse's eight thousand tons of white Istrian stone soaring over the main harbor; the boxed turrets of Castle Miramare; the hybrid Romanesque-Baroque cathedral of San Giusto. On the surface of the city were the broad strokes of Italian culture, but underlying it all were touches of the Teutonic influences of the now dead Austro-Hungarian empire. It was as though some ancient and befuddled city planner had taken the best of Germany and Italy and crammed it into this outpost on the edge of the Slavic world.

From every shop window and balcony hung bright banners proclaiming,
“Razza
!”
Race! Tanner asked the driver about it. “It is the Nations Cup Yacht Race,” the man replied. “It starts in four days.” He pointed out the window toward the harbor.

Now Tanner saw them, hundreds of rainbow-colored sails jutting from the blue of the bay. Darting amid the sleek racers were hundreds more small, square-nosed feluccas with truncated sails of hand-painted canvas.

“How many are entered?” Tanner asked.

“One hundred eighty, from all over: Italy, Slovenia, Croatia, Austria, Germany … We even have a boat from Japan this year. You already have a hotel?”

“Yes,” Cahil replied. “Sounds like we got lucky.”

“Ah, only about half those boats are racers; the rest come to watch. They are the die-hard
arinaio
;
they sleep aboard their toys. Hey, watch for pickpockets, eh? The
razza
always brings them—especially at night when everyone comes ashore to drink.”

“Thanks for the advice.”

The taxi dropped them at the Italia's entrance. They checked in, settled into their room, then walked to Oliver and McBride's room. The door opened, revealing the man Tanner guessed was Joe McBride. “Can I help you?” he said.

“I'm hoping we can help each other,” Briggs said, then introduced him and Cahil.

“You're American.”

“Yes.”

“Well, that didn't take long. Hoover or Langley?”

“Both and neither,” Cahil replied. “Can we come in?”

McBride nodded. “Sure, come on in. Sorry about the color scheme.”

Tanner said, “Ours is the same. Agent Oliver isn't here?”

“He's … running an errand.”

“Give him a call. You're both going to want to hear what we have to say.”

Oliver returned twenty minutes later. Seeing Tanner and Cahil, he hesitated in the doorway and glanced at McBride, who said, “The powers that be sent them. The good news is, they haven't mentioned anything about us going to jail yet.”

Oliver strode in and leaned against the chest of drawers. “You're FBI?”

“They're a little cagey on that point,” McBride said, then made the introductions.

“Sorry, but cagey isn't good enough,” Oliver said. “You'll have to give me more.”

Tanner said, “You know the number to CIA headquarters?”

“Not off the top of my head.”

Tanner handed him the Motorola. “Call directory assistance. When you get through to Langley, give the operator your name and ask for Sylvia Albrecht. She's expecting your call.”

Oliver did as instructed, got the number, then redialed. “Uh, yes, DCI Albrecht, please….Collin Oliver calling.” A few seconds passed, then he said, “Yes, ma'am, good morning. Yes, they're here.” The conversation lasted another sixty seconds, during which Oliver mostly listened. “Yes, ma'am, I understand. Thanks.” He disconnected and handed the Motorola back to Tanner. “Jesus.”

Cahil grinned at him. “So, what do you say? Can we be friends now?”

Oliver laughed back. “Yeah, we can be friends.”

Tanner started by giving them the highlights of Karl Utzman's career, beginning with his induction into the Russian Spetsnaz, then on to his slaughter of the Marines at Zibak, to Tanner's own encounter with him in Bishkek, and ending with his appearance at Susanna's ETA drug buy.

“Sounds like a real gem,” McBride said. “This woman—Susanna—I get the feeling she's special to you.”

“What makes you say that?”

“A hunch.”

Tanner smiled. “Remind me to never play poker with you. Her father and I are old friends. Susanna is my goddaughter.”

“Then I'd say the sooner you get her away from him, the better.”

“I know.”

Oliver said, “How sure are you that Litzman's headed here?”

“Pretty sure. What we don't know is why—nor do we have anything suggesting a link between him, Root, or the kidnappers.”

Oliver said, “Not yet.”

“Which brings us to you two. Why are you here? The newspapers say Amelia Root is dead.”

“The woman that died in that shack wasn't Root's wife,” McBride said.

“Pardon me?” Tanner replied.

Oliver described the trail of evidence that led to Selmani's shack and Joe's revelation about the fake Mrs. Root. “We have no idea who she was, but these are some thorough sons of bitches. They even went so far as to duplicate a scar. From start to finish, the whole thing was designed to take the heat off them and get Root out of the country. Whether Selmani knew he was being served up we don't know, but he was.”

Cahil glanced at McBride. “Fingernail polish, huh? I'm impressed.”

“It would've been more impressive if I'd caught it earlier.”

Tanner found himself liking Oliver and McBride. Not only had they dedicated themselves to rescuing a woman neither of them had ever met, but when things took a bizarre and dangerous turn, neither of them had backed off.

“The question is, why here?” Tanner said. “Why Trieste?”

McBride replied, “We don't know, and neither does Root—”

Cahil snapped his fingers. “Joe, you said Pennsylvania? That's were Selmani was holed up?”

“Yeah, a little town called Erbs Mill on the Susquehanna. Why?”

Cahil glanced at Tanner. “Litzman's cell-phone records.”

“What?” said Oliver.

“We managed to get ahold of Litzman's cell-phone records,” Tanner replied. “Most of his calls have been to numbers in France, with a few to the US: Virginia, Maryland, Pennsylvania.”

“Southern Pennsylvania,” Cahil added.

“Erbs Mill is about as southern as you get,” McBride said. “It's ten miles from the Maryland border.”

Oliver asked Tanner, “You said you're not sure who Litzman's working for. How about guesses?”

“Some of his calls went to someone we've linked to a pro-Bosnian group in Marseilles.” Seeing Oliver and McBride exchange glances, Tanner said, “That mean something?”

“Selmani came into the country on Albanian papers. We later recorded him speaking Bosnian.”

“Coincidence number three hundred twelve and counting,” Cahil murmured.

“We've still got a lot of gaps to fill in,” Tanner said. “If Litzman was involved in the Root kidnapping, it couldn't have been for anything hands on. At the time of the kidnapping, he was in France; Susanna's confirmed it.”

“Maybe they hired him to consult,” Oliver replied.

“Kidnapping isn't his forte. Plus, there's the crate he picked up in Lorient and his side trips to Tangier. If there's any connection to the kidnapping, I don't see it.”

McBride said, “What we've got, gentlemen, is a wonderfully useless circumstantial case linking Litzman to Amelia Root's kidnapping.”

“That's the gist of it,” said Tanner. “Did Root say when they would make contact again?”

“No.”

“Then we wait, and we watch, and we keep digging, and hope something breaks before Litzman gets here. Whatever's happening, it's going to happen here.”

Trieste

The next day passed without incident. McBride and Oliver took turns staying with Root, who continued to show signs of fraying at the edges. Tanner and Cahil alternated shifts at the main harbor, waiting and watching for the
Sorgia
to appear. They blended perfectly with the throngs of binocular-toting spectators that had come to gawk at the
razza
yachts.

Shortly before ten P.M. Tanner was seated on a bench overlooking the harbor when his Motorola trilled. “Briggs, it's Leland. We found the
Sorgia.
”

“Where?”

“Adrift about thirty miles off the Moroccan coast.”

“Litzman?”

“Nowhere to be seen. The reports we're getting are sketchy, but it sounds like the crew is dead—their throats were slit.”

“Susanna?”

“Only the crew was aboard, Briggs. No one else. The ship was ransacked. The Moroccan authorities are leaning toward piracy.”

“Then they've never met Litzman,” Tanner said. “He's covering his tracks.”

“Agreed. The good news is, we may have a lead.”

Assuming it had been Litzman's plan all along to abandon the
Sorgia,
Sylvia's people had speculated his interest in Tangier was somehow related to alternative transportation. If so, he had four options: buy, charter, lease, or steal. The DCI called the State Department, who in turn called its stations in Rabat and Casablanca with orders to probe their Tangier contacts.

Six hours later, word returned to Langley: The only ship-related incident that fit the time frame involved the theft of a forty-two-foot motor yacht called the
Barak.

“We're still working on the details, but according to the Tangier grapevine the boat belongs to a Safi businessman named Helou. From the way it sounds, he falls somewhere on the dark side of scrupulous.”

Why buy when you can steal
?
Tanner thought.

Given Litzman's trade, it was unlikely he'd be bothered with sales negotiations, nor did it make sense to charter a boat in Tangier for a trip to Trieste. Litzman was more practical than that. How hard could it be? Tanner thought. Cash is paid up front, the boat is made available, then the owner waits a few days and cries hijacking. Meanwhile, Litzman is hundreds, if not thousands, of miles away, lost in the expanse of the Mediterranean.

“What's the
Barak's
speed and range?” Briggs asked.

“Range, thirteen hundred miles. Best speed, nineteen knots.”

“Fast boat.”

“We've got an edge: We know where she's headed, and she's going to have to refuel before she reaches you. We're thinking Tunis or Cagliari. Sylvia's sending a re-tasking order to the NRO right now,” Dutcher said, referring to the National Reconnaissance Office, which controlled when and where the CIA's spy satellites hunted.

Tanner did a quick mental calculation. “The
Barak's
been gone how long? Eighteen hours?”

“Roughly.”

“If you're right about her refueling stop, we should be seeing her in the next six or so.”

“Right. Where do we stand with Root?”

“Still waiting for contact. According to McBride, Root is barely keeping it together.”

“I don't blame him. By the way, Walt's still working on Litzman's phone, but he came up with something new: In the last two days he's placed three calls to Austria; none longer than two minutes.”

They're close,
Briggs thought. The Austrian border was less than an hour's drive to the north.
Why there
?
“Can he narrow it down?”

“He's doing his damnedest, but Litzman's gone to a lot of trouble to insulate himself. Same with the
Bihac Istina
—Len's people are digging, but so far it's a tough nut.”

“How about the Lorient crate?”

“Nothing. Langley's best guess is small arms—something ancillary to the job itself.”

“That doesn't explain why they were wearing wet suits when they got back to the
Sorgia.
”

“You know the panic phrase as well as I do: WMD—weapons of mass destruction. The chances are good the crate wasn't holding a nuke, so no one here is too excited about it.”

The argument had merit, Tanner decided. Maybe he was overthinking this, focusing on minutiae. He'd said it himself: Right now Trieste was the epicenter of whatever was happening. Once the
Barak
arrived—along with Susanna, he prayed—they'd start getting some answers.

Tanner said, “Have you talked to Gill?”

“This morning,” Dutcher replied. “I haven't given him the whole story, but he knows you've found her.”

“I should've sent her home, Leland.”

“She sounds like a stubborn young lady. Anything short of stuffing her in a box and mailing her back wouldn't have worked.”

Tanner couldn't help but laugh. “True. How much trouble is the FBI going to make for McBride and Oliver? They're good men.”

“The FBI doesn't know, and Sylvia's not inclined to change that until we've got more answers. Either way, she'll go to bat for them.”

“They deserve it.”

“I'll call you when we find the
Barak.
Unless Litzman's plans change, she'll reach you sometime in the next forty-five hours.”

True to his word, Dutcher called five hours later. The Keyhole picked up the
Barak
docked in Valletta, Malta. She must've been running on fumes to get there.”

“And running hard,” Tanner added. “Whatever it is, Litzman's on a timetable. How long ago?”

“She left about ninety minutes ago. By now she's probably entering the Ionian Sea.”

Next stop,
us.