Echo of War (24 page)

Tanner's report of Root's disappearance made further debate irrelevant, so while he and the others scrambled to leave Trieste, Sylvia Albrecht and Dutcher focused on contingencies.

If Tanner failed in Innsbruck and Kestrel fell into Svetic's hands, they would have no choice but to press the panic button. If on the other hand he and his cobbled-together team succeeded in recovering the canisters, they needed a plan to spirit Kestrel out of Austria and transport them safely back to the U.S.

Tanner's next call went to Trieste's airport. As he'd feared, Svetic's reputation for thorough planning was proving well deserved. The day's last shuttle to Innsbruck had left forty minutes earlier. Root's wrong number call had likely been instructions from Svetic, who, playing it safe, had assumed Root was under surveillance and ordered the hurried departure to shake off watchers. More importantly, by controlling Root's arrival in Innsbruck, Svetic could keep Root under surveillance until the exchange.

“If we can't fly,” Cahil said, “we drive like hell. With luck, we'll be there in three hours.”

Tanner thought for a moment, then said, “Go down to Hertz, get a car, then leave a message for Susanna at the Piazetta drop; tell her we'll be back in a few days.” Briggs didn't like the idea of leaving her on her own, but he had little choice. “Meet me at Root's hotel when you're done.”

“Why're you going there?” Oliver asked.

“I want to see how well he covered his tracks.”

Tanner took a taxi to the Grand Duchi, put on his actor's face, and found the manager. Jonathan Root, he explained, was his father-in-law and they were in Trieste on a recuperative vacation following the death of his wife. Suffering from Alzheimer's, Root was prone to wandering off on his own.

“We've searched the hotel from top to bottom,” Tanner said. “I'm afraid he's somewhere out on the street, lost.”

The manager's eyes went wide. “Good heavens! We should alert the police—”

“My wife already has; she's with them now. What I'm hoping you can do is show me his phone bill. He may have made some calls that would give us a clue where he was going.”

“Of course! Wait one moment.” The manager returned two minutes later with a photocopy. “What else can we do to help?”

“I'd appreciate it if you'd call me if he comes back,” Tanner said.

“Of course.” The manager took down Tanner's number. “My good luck to you.”

Tanner found Cahil and the others waiting under the lobby awning. Cahil had rented an eight-cylinder Mercedes well suited to Austria's autobahn. Tanner climbed into the front seat. As Cahil pulled away, Briggs handed the phone bill back to McBride. “Joe, you know him better than anyone. See if any of those numbers ring a bell.”

They drove north from Trieste until they reached Lidine, where the road joined the A23 and continued north toward Austria. At Pontebba they caught the B90, and followed it across the border and into the Carnic Alps and the province of Karnten.

Working in the backseat with his PDA and the phone bill, McBride announced, “I may have something. There's a couple U.S. calls here. One to his lawyer, I think, the other to an 802 area code—that's Vermont. Don't hold me to this, but I think Root has a sister in Burlington.”

Could this be the break they needed? Tanner wondered. Root's late departure guaranteed he wouldn't reach the Bank of Tirol before it closed, which meant he'd have to check into a hotel. Tanner doubted he'd make the mistake of using his personal credit card again, which in turn meant he'd be looking for alternatives. The sister or the lawyer? he wondered.

“Let's check,” Briggs said. He dialed Holystone, explained his theory to Oaken, then recited the names of Root's lawyer and sister. “Can you run credit and phones for both?”

“Give me twenty minutes.” He called back in fifteen. “It's his sister. Shortly after you lost Root, she placed an overseas call—Innsbruck, the Hotel Goldene Krone on Maria Theresien Strasse.”

“Bingo. One more favor—a big one.”

“Shoot.”

It took two minutes for Tanner to explain. Oaken whistled softly. “Long shot.”

“It's all we've got. Without it, we'll have to crash the meeting and hope it goes our way. I'd prefer better odds than that.”

“I'll see what I can do. I'll call you from Langley.”

The only edge they had, Tanner felt, was Litzman's still-mysterious connection to Svetic. For whatever reason, Litzman had been calling either Svetic himself, or someone in his group, beginning in Maryland with the Root kidnapping, then continuing to Austria, where they were awaiting Root's arrival. Whoever Litzman's contact was, Briggs hoped to use him. First, however, Tanner had to lure him out.

Forty minutes later, as Cahil was skirting Lenz and heading north on the B108, Oaken called back. He'd arrived at the CIA's audio lab. “Sylvia called in the Science and Tech chief. Hold on, I'll put you on speaker.” There were a few clicks, then a woman's voice: “Mr. Tanner, this is Stephanie Aguayo. Walt's told me what you want to do. You realize that without a direct sample, we're not going to get a perfect match.”

“I understand,” Tanner said. “I just need it to be convincing enough for a ten-second call.”

“We'll give it a shot. Let's use your voice as a base-line.” She had Tanner recite several phrases then said, “Let's start with pitch: Deeper or higher?”

“Deeper.”

And so they started building from Tanner's memory a simulation of Karl Litzman's voice, from tone and inflection to cadence and clarity. With each addition or change, Aguayo would replay the computer-modified sample of Tanner's voice, then adjust it before moving on to the next attribute. Finally, after thirty minutes, she played the accumulated sample. “How's that?” she asked.

“Very close. A little more gravelly.” Aguayo made the adjustment and replayed it. “Good,” Tanner said. “Now all we need is the German accent.”

“We'll add it when you make the call. It'll be real time, but with delay of roughly a second.”

“That's fine. If it goes as planned, I expect it to be brief.”

“Okay, give us thirty minutes to set up the software and the link and we'll be ready.”

Tanner spent the time rehearsing his script with Cahil and the others until confident it would do the job. However, without knowing the nature of Litzman's relationship with the contact, Briggs knew he'd have to be ready to improvise.

His phone trilled. Oaken said, “We're set. When our mystery man answers, just talk normally. We'll convert the signal en route. We've got two translators standing by just in case—Serbo-Croatian and German. If necessary, you'll get an abbreviated running translation.”

“How much delay will that add?” Tanner asked.

“A few seconds.”

“I'll try to force him into English. Okay, go ahead and dial.”

Tanner heard a click, a brief hiss of static, then the double-buzz of a phone ringing. On the fourth ring, the line opened and a voice said in Bosnian,
“Zdravo
?”

“It's me,” Tanner said.

There was a long five seconds of silence. Briggs closed his eyes and held his breath. Then the voice said,
“Da.
”

“Speak English. Can you talk?”

“Where are you? Your voice sounds strange.”

“Milan, I'm on my way to the airport. We need to meet; there's a problem.”

“What?”

“Not on the phone. I'm coming to you. Meet me on the steps of Schloss Ambras lower hall—”

“Where?”

“Ambras Castle. It's south of the Altstadt. Nine-thirty.”

“That might be difficult.”

“Why?”

“I'll have to make some excuse—”

Interesting answer,
Tanner thought. One of the possibilities he'd considered was that Liztman's contact was Svetic himself. The answer he'd just gotten seemed to suggest this man was a subordinate. That raised another question: If Litzman was partnered with Svetic's group, why did his contact need an excuse to make the meeting?

“Then do it,” Tanner snapped. “Be there. Do you understand me?”

Another pause. “I'll be there.”

Tanner disconnected, then redialed. Oaken picked up on the first ring: “It sounded good,” he said. “We had him on voice analyzer. He was stressed, but I think he bought it.”

“We'll know in a few hours,” Briggs replied.

They arrived in Innsbruck shortly after six. Sitting astride the Inn River valley, the city lay nestled between the Stubaier Alps to the west and the Tuxer Alps to the east. For Tanner, the Tirolean landscape epitomized the word “alpine,” with ice blue lakes, jagged peaks, lush forests, and deep, hidden valleys. The road into the valley was dwarfed by rolling hills lined with chalets and ski resorts, their signs so plentiful they stood stacked atop one another, arrows pointing higher into the mountains.

“Makes me want to yodel,” Cahil said, keeping one eye on the road, the other on the scenery.

“Have at it,” Tanner said. “Just make sure your window's rolled up.”

As planned, they drove straight to the Europcar office on Salurner Strasse, where they rented an Opel Astra and Hyundai Starex minivan, then proceeded separately—Tanner and Cahil first, McBride and Oliver following in the new rentals—to the Best Western Mondschein and checked in.

Once settled, they parted ways again, Cahil and Oliver on a shopping trip, Tanner and McBride to the Hotel Goldene Krone on the outskirts of the Altstadt, or Old City. After fifteen minutes of walking the area and watching for surveillance, Tanner decided they were clear. They entered the alley behind the Golden Krone.

Briggs found a door near the kitchen ajar for ventilation and they slipped inside. Somewhere a radio was playing Strauss's “Alpine Symphony.” A chef working over the stove glanced up.
“Kann ich Ihnen helfen
?”
Can I help you?

“Are you the manager?” Tanner demanded in German.

“
Nein.
”

“I need the manager!” Tanner growled and kept walking.

He strode past the reception desk, took the elevator to the third floor, and knocked on Root's door. Root opened it and stared at them, mouth agape. “How did you—”

“Dumb luck,” Tanner replied, brushing past him. McBride shut the door behind them. Briggs turned on Root. “What in god's name are you thinking, Jonathan?”

Root sighed. He raised his hands to his waist, let them drop. “I'm trying to save my wife.”

McBride said, “Alone?”

“Of course alone! Do you really expect me to believe you give a damn about Amelia?”

Tanner stepped closer to Root and stared into his eyes. “As a matter of fact, I do.”

“But Langley—”

“Langley thinks her life is a small price to pay to keep Kestrel safe,” Tanner finished. “And the truth is, all our lives are a small price to pay, but we're not there yet. I think we can keep Kestrel safe
and
get your wife back.”

“How?”

“First, give me your word you won't run again. It's either that or I tie you to a chair.”

Root exhaled, then chuckled. “Damned if you wouldn't do it, too. You have my word.” He sat down on the bed. “What's your plan?”

“A good offense,” Tanner replied, then began explaining.

Innsbruck

At seven-fifteen, Tanner left McBride with Root and returned to the Best Western. Cahil and Oliver were waiting. A pile of clothes lay on the bed; on the floor were four shopping bags, three from a local hardware store, one from an auto parts store. Briggs could see a length of radiator hose jutting from one of the bags.

“The clothes are secondhand,” Cahil said. “All local and well worn. Except mine; I'll be the best dressed
sicherheitsbeamte
in town.”

“Been practicing again, I see. What about the hardware?”

“Not as good as guns, but I think I can come up with something.”

Tanner nodded. Improvised weapons would have to do. Besides, he reminded himself, if they found themselves in a firefight with Svetic's men, they would have already lost. Amelia Root would be the first casualty.

Oliver cleared his throat. “I have a question.”

Tanner turned to him. “Yes?”

“What's my part in this circus and how many years in prison will it cost me?”

Tanner smiled. “As for the second question, none if we do it right.”

“And the first?”

“That depends. How do you feel about being a getaway driver?”

“Nervous.”

“Good,” Cahil said, then clapped him on the shoulder. “Shows you're thinking.”

“Let's get moving,” Tanner said. “We've got an hour.”

If for Tanner the Tirolean landscape epitomized the word “alpine”, Ambras Castle epitomized Bavarian grandeur, with towering, whitewashed stone walls, heavy beam shutters and buttresses, and a pitched slate roof lined with parapets. Having been the home to Archduke Ferdinand II in the 1500s, Ambras Castle was now one of Tirol's most famous museums, housing a vast collection of medieval weaponry and armor.

Tanner had chosen Ambras as the meeting location for three reasons. First, it was on the outskirts of the city, and second, the castle's last tour was at 4:30, both of which reasons increased their chances of privacy. Lastly, the castle grounds were heavily wooded, offering plenty of concealment. Of course, that could work both ways, Tanner realized, as Litzman's contact could station his own watchers around the meeting site.

There were too many variables for comfort. But then again, Tanner reminded himself, that was more often the rule than the exception. There was always the chance their facsimile of Litzman's voice had been unconvincing, prompting Svetic's man to call Litzman directly.

They could be walking into a trap.

Tanner was in place forty minutes before the meeting, having left his taxi a quarter mile away on Aldranser Strasse and then crossed the southeast comer of the castle grounds, where he picked his way through the woods behind the castle until certain there were no watchers about. He found a suitable spot at the southwest corner of the castle and settled down to wait.

Lying in the undergrowth, he had a clear view of the front steps and the U-shaped turnaround that connected them to the Schlossstrasse, the castle's private entrance road. When the time came, he would have a ten-second run to the steps.

Miniature streetlights lined the drive, casting yellow pools of light on the sidewalk. The castle itself was dark, a towering shadow rising into the night sky. Crickets chirped in the grass. Across the lawn, a firefly winked.

Tanner felt his sat phone buzz. He cupped his hand over the mouthpiece. “Yes.”

“Oliver. I'm in place.”

Tanner craned his neck and parted the branches until he could see down the Schlossstrasse. “Show me your parking lights,” he whispered.

He saw the minivan's orange lights wink on, then off. Oliver had chosen a good spot, having tucked the Hyundai behind the groundskeeper's hut. Whether the contact came on foot or by car, it was unlikely he'd spot the van.

“Perfect, Collin,” Briggs said. “Did you have a look around?”

“Yeah. I didn't see anyone. Where are you?” Tanner clicked on his red-lensed penlight and aimed it at the Hyundai. “I've got you,” Oliver said.

“When you see me move, count twelve, then come,” Tanner said.

“Right.”

Tanner disconnected, then dialed Cahil, who answered on the first ring. “I'm ready,” Bear said. “I timed the walk. Sixty seconds to the steps.”

“Good. Can you whistle in German?”

“No, but I can hum a polka.”

“I'll page you when it's time.”

He disconnected and returned his gaze to the steps. He checked his watch: twenty minutes to go.

At 9:20, Tanner's SAT phone vibrated. It was Cahil: “A taxi just passed me, should be coming your way.”

Thirty seconds later the taxi appeared, turned off the Schlossstrasse and into the turnaround. As it passed, Tanner could see a lone figure sitting in the backseat. The taxi slowed beside the steps, its brake lights flashing red, then continued on to the end of the turnaround, where it turned out and disappeared back down Schlossstrasse.

Tanner dialed Cahil. “Coming your way.”

“I see him. The taxi's stopping … Somebody's getting out … one person, white male. Stand by.” There were ten seconds of silence, then, “He's walking back your way. Two minutes if he keeps going.”

Tanner disconnected and wriggled a little deeper into the underbrush.

Ninety seconds passed. A lone figure appeared walking down the Schlossstrasse, turned into the turnaround, and headed toward the castle's steps. The man paused at the bottom step, looked left, then right, then shoved his hands in his pockets and began pacing.

Tanner text-paged Cahil:
Go.

Cahil's timing was dead-on. Forty seconds after the signal, a flashlight beam appeared down the Schlossstrasse. Tanner could hear Bear humming faintly as he walked. He turned onto the driveway, his flashlight playing over the grass, keys jangling on his belt. In black pants, a crisp white shirt, black tie, and a homemade laminated ID card clipped to his pocket, Cahil looked every bit the castle's
sicherheitsbeamte,
or security man. Whether or not Litzman's contact knew there was no such thing, they would soon find out.

Tanner kept his eyes on the man, who had spotted Cahil and was showing signs of agitation: He glanced at his watch, looked around. Sensing the change in his demeanor, Bear called out a friendly
“Guten abend,
herr
!”

The man hesitated, then replied,
“Guten abend.
”

“Anything I can help you with?” Cahil said in well-rehearsed German.

The man shrugged, then said,
“Kein German.
”

“Ah … English perhaps? Is there anything I can help you with?”

“No, thank you. I'm waiting for a friend.”

“Very good, sir.” Cahil said. “I'll just check these doors and be on my way. Duty calls, of course. Have a nice night.”

“Sure. You, too.”

Cahil put two fingers to his brow in salute, then turned and started climbing up the steps.

Tanner got up, slipped out of the underbrush, and began sprinting on the balls of his feet toward the man, who, as expected, was watching Cahil. Bear reached the top of the steps, jiggled both door latches, then turned and started back down.

Tanner kept coming.
Thirty feet
…
twenty
… He pulled the improvised sap—a length of sand-filled radiator hose—from his jacket pocket.

Cahil called to the man, “Sure I can't call you a taxi?”

The man turned to face him. “No, thank you.”

When Tanner was ten feet away, Cahil shined the flashlight in the man's eyes.

“Hey, watch that! What are you—”

“You don't look well,” Cahil said. “Perhaps you—”

And then Tanner was on the man, sap coming up and around and slamming into the base of his skull. He let out a groaning
umph,
then collapsed into Cahil's arms. Tanner tucked the sap back into his jacket pocket, and together he and Cahil walked him to the curb.

Headlights off, the Hyundai raced out of the darkness, pulled into the turnaround, and stopped beside them. The side door was already open. They hefted the man inside, climbed in behind him, slammed the door shut.

“Go,” Tanner ordered.

The entrance to A31 autobahn was less than a mile away. Five minutes later they were outside the city limits and heading south. After a few minutes' driving, Oliver took the Villerberg exit, turned right at the bottom of the ramp, and pulled into the rest stop they'd chosen earlier.

As expected, it was all but deserted, with only two other vehicles visible in the lot. Oliver drove to the far end and pulled into a spot marked,
“Ubernachtung Parkplatz
”
—Overnight Parking. He turned off the lights and turned around. He stared at the unconscious man on the floor—who was now bound and gagged with duct tape—and said, “Christ, tell me he's not dead.”

“He's not dead,” Tanner said.

“You guys were pretty slick back there. Why do I get the feeling this isn't your first kidnapping?”

“Such an ugly word,” Cahil said.

“Does he have anything on him?” Oliver asked.

“Just a passport,” Tanner said. “His name is Izet Grebo, from Sarajevo—probably an alias—and this.” Briggs held up a compact semiautomatic pistol.

“I don't recognize it,” Oliver said.

“Sig Sauer P239.”

“He's coming around,” Cahil said.

The man groaned into the duct tape, then his eyes flickered open. He focused on Tanner, then Cahil, then blinked a few more times. He began struggling. Tanner placed a hand on his chest. “Save your strength,” he said. “I'm going to take the tape off your mouth. Please don't scream. I'll only ask once. Do you understand?”

The man nodded.

Tanner peeled the tape off his mouth. “We want to ask you some questions. Answer them and everything will turn out fine. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” the man rasped. “What do you want with me? Why have you—”

“According to your passport your name is Izet Grebo.”

“That's right. Who are you?”

Tanner glanced at Cahil with a mock puzzled expression. Cahil shrugged. Tanner said to the man, “You have no idea who we are?”

“No.”

“The woman you kidnapped—do you know who she is?”

“What woman? I don't—”

Tanner held up his hand, silencing Grebo. “It would be best if you didn't lie. Two weeks ago you kidnapped a woman in the United States. Four security guards were killed. You were involved; we know that. Whether you end up dead or alive and free is up to you. Yes or no: You were part of the team.”

The man hesitated, then nodded. “I was there, but I didn't—”

“Is she still alive?”

“Yes.”

“When did you last see her?”

“Earlier this evening….”

“Did your boss tell you who she is?”

“No.”

Again Tanner glanced at Cahil, who shook his head and chuckled. “Amazing.”

“What?” said Grebo. “What's amazing?”

“The woman you kidnapped is the wife of a former director of the CIA. Does that give you some clue about who we are?”

Grebo stared at Tanner for a few seconds. “You're lying.”

“No.”

“I don't believe you. She's not … she can't be—”

“We're giving you a chance to survive this. You can either swim free or sink with the others. Make your choice.”

“I can't,” Grebo said. “You don't understand—”

“Give me the tape,” Tanner said to Cahil. “We're done here.” Bear reached for the tape.

“Wait!” Grebo cried. “You're not lying? About the woman … her husband?”

“You picked the wrong victim, Izet.”

“I didn't pick her, I—”

“That's not really the point, is it?” Tanner replied. “You were there; you participated. I'll say it one more time, so listen carefully: You have a chance to come out of this alive—the only one, in fact. It's time to decide, Izet. You have five seconds.”

Grebo thought for a few moments, then nodded. “What do you want to know?”

“Everything,” Tanner replied. “Let's start with Karl Litzman.”

They questioned him for nearly an hour, taking him backward, forward, and sideways through the same topics until Tanner felt fairly certain he wasn't holding anything back—save one area. He claimed to know Litzman only by his alias, Stephan, and swore he was only a conduit between him and Svetic. Grebo's earlier comment about needing an excuse to slip away contradicted this explanation. What was he hiding? Why was Litzman dealing with Grebo, and not Svetic, the leader of the group? Clearly, Litzman had a role in all this; what was it?

Regarding Amelia Root, Grebo knew neither why Svetic had kidnapped her, nor why they were in Innsbruck. Aside from “when, where, how” instructions, Svetic shared little with his men, citing the need for operational security. This Tanner could believe. Until a few days ago the only two men on earth who'd known about Kestrel were himself and Jonathan Root. Svetic understood Kestrel's potential; to share that with anyone—even his own men—would be too risky.

Satisfying his own curiosity, Oliver asked Grebo about Hekuran Selmani. “Svetic served him up, dicing he?”

“It was necessary.”

“What was his real name?”

“Boric.”

“He didn't know? He really thought you all were coming back for him?”

Grebo nodded. “Yes.”

Though Tanner had never doubted Svetic's ruthless-ness, hearing Grebo describe it in clinical detail made his scalp tingle.
Cold,
cold people.

Finally Tanner asked about where Amelia Root was being held.

“A cabin outside Vogelsberg; it's about twenty minutes from here.”

“How many men?”

“Three.”

Too few,
Briggs thought.