Echo of War

by Grant Blackwood

  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.”

  “Yes.”

  There were a few seconds of silence, then Coates said, “Gunston had a dead drop in Dinard; that’s why he was in St. Malo, he was trying to set a meeting with her. Whether he’d already checked the drop, we don’t know.”

  “It’s a place to start,” Tanner replied. “Where is it?”

  It was behind a loose brick in an alley off Rue des Lilas.

  In his slouch hat, glasses, and windbreaker, Tanner looked like any other middle-aged businessman on his way to work. It was just past seven in the morning and the streets were mostly deserted, with only a few delivery trucks and shop owners visible. He reached Rue Lilas, crossed the street, bought a paper from a machine, then slipped into the alley. The brick was exactly where Coates said it would be. Tanner slipped it free, palmed the square of paper inside, replaced the brick, then turned and walked out of the alley.

  Forty minutes later, back at the hotel, Tanner handed Cahil the note, then shrugged off his disguise. “Well?” Briggs asked.

  “It’s her. The Lorient docks, midnight, day after tomorrow.”

  14

  Erbs Mill, Pennsylvania

  Following confirmation of Selmani’s appearance at Bob’s Boat Rental, events moved quickly.

  Within hours of Deputy Lewen’s report, Oliver, McBride, Gene Scanlon, and a full squad of HRT descended on the town of Quarryville, about nine miles east of Erbs Mill, where they were met by contingents from the FBI’s Pittsburgh Field Office, the Pennsylvania State Police, the Lancaster Sheriff’s Department, and, finally, arriving in a black Lincoln Town Car, Pennsylvania’s lieutenant governor. In the space of two hours, Quarryville’s population of eighteen thousand had increased by thirty souls.

  In the town hall Oliver and McBride sat at the conference table and watched the attendees file into the room and take in their respective seats. The murmuring grew until it became a cacophony of overlapping voices.

  The Quarryville police chief, a laconic man of sixty, had long ago retreated into his office wearing a “let ‘em have their fun” smile. Conversely, Jerry Nester, the Erbs Mill chief of police, stood in the corner, his mouth agape. Rumor had obviously reached him that his little corner of the world was about to be overrun.

  “Poor guy,” McBride said.

  “He’ll recover,” Oliver said. “Besides, before this is all over, he’ll probably end up being the hero. He probably knows every nook and cranny of the Susquehanna. If Selmani’s on his turf, he’ll find him.”

  “Then what’s with the hordes? It’s overkill, for god’s sake.”

  “It’s CYA, Joe—Cover Your Ass. They’re covering their asses by showing up and making sure we don’t screw up, and I’m covering my ass by inviting them so they can say they’re doing their duty.”

  “God save us from politics.”

  “Yep, but with a case like this, our little invasion wasn’t going to stay secret for long. Better to get this out of the way now so we go get the son of a bitch.” Oliver looked around. “Well, I think the gang’s all here. Time to play diplomat.” He stood up. “Can I have your attention please … Everyone, your attention, please.” Once all the voices had gone silent and all eyes were on him, Oliver said, “My name is Collin Oliver. I’m with the FBI. We’re a little pressed for time, so I’m going to be brief.

  “In case you don’t know why we’re here, a few days ago, the wife of Jonathan Root, former director of the CIA, was kidnapped from their home
in Maryland. We’ve tracked one of the suspects to this area. Whether he has Amelia Root, we don’t know, but at the very least he may have information about his accomplices and Mrs. Root’s possible whereabouts. We don’t believe our suspect is a threat to the general public, nor do we believe he knows we’ve tracked him here.

  “Once we’ve captured him and recovered Mrs. Root, the agencies in this room will receive the lion’s share of the credit. Whatever you’ve heard about the FBI swooping in, wreaking havoc, kicking shins, then grabbing all the glory is crap.” Oliver smiled, then added, “At least in this case.”

  There was general laughter.

  “I don’t give a damn about credit. What I do give a damn about is getting our guy and returning Mrs. Root to her husband. Everybody clear on that?”

  “And if you mess it up?” one of the State Troopers asked. “What then?”

  “Then it’s on us—on me. Now for that bad news: This is an FBI operation. I’m not going to keep each and every one of you informed of our every move; I’m not going to brief everyone on every detail of this case; I’m not going to allow your people to beat the bushes looking for this guy. And finally, I am not going to tolerate anyone jeopardizing either this woman’s life or this subject’s capture.”

  Oliver paused for a long three seconds and scanned the room. “Questions?”

  The lieutenant governor stood. “You’ve got a lot of balls, Oliver, coming in here—”

  “Sir, if you’d like to talk this over with my boss, he’s easy to find.” Oliver pulled out his cell phone, and laid it on the table. “Press one on the speed dial; it’ll take you straight to the director of the FBI. I guarantee you two things: One, he will have already talked to your boss; and two, your conversation will be brief.”

  Looking as though he’d been slapped, the lieutenant governor sat back down.

  “I’ll say it again: As long as it’s ongoing, this is an FBI case. When it’s over, it’ll be trotted in front of the media as a superb example of local, state, and federal cooperation—with the emphasis on state and local. If that’s not good enough for everyone here, too damned bad.”