Echo of War

by Grant Blackwood

  Called Tergeste by the Romans who overran it in 178 B.C., Trieste was revived in the latter 1800s by the Austro-Hungarian/Hapsburg Empire, which needed a port to dominate trade in the northern Adriatic. Following World War One and the defeat of the Central Powers, Trieste fell into economic ruin and became a shabby-chic resort for poets, painters, and political extremists, as well as various armies, ranging from the German Wehrmacht to Tito’s Yugoslavs. Now, almost fifty years after the post-WWII allies returned it to Italy, Trieste boasted a population of 250,000 and was fast becoming a hub of technology in the borderlands between Europe and the Balkans.

  The Hotel Italia’s entrance consisted of a modest arched door flanked on either side by a bay window trimmed in bright white and green paint. In halted Italian Oliver told the receptionist who they were.

  “Yes, Signore Oliver,” the receptionist replied in accented English. “I have reservations for both you and Signore McBride.”

  They signed in and the receptionist rang for a bellhop who escorted them up to their room, which they found decorated in varying shades of pink and lime green. McBride plopped down on the bed and stared at the walls. “I can already feel a headache coming on.”

  Oliver laughed. “Why don’t you find out about the local fare; I’m going to rinse off the grime.”

  They had a quick bite in a nearby taberna, then strolled about the city center and debated their next move. While neither of them was looking forward to the confrontation with Root, neither saw any reason to put it off. Unless they were willing to stake out Root’s hotel until he tipped his hand, the best course was the most direct one: Go to Root, lay out their suspicions, and see where it took them.

  The Grand Duchi D’Aosta was a ten-minute walk away. Where their hotel was modest—save the lime and pink room decor—the Duchi D’Aosta was extravagant. Towering over a piazza along the sea front, it was fronted by white Svarto stone, arched doorways and windows, and wrought-iron balconies draped in flowering vines.

  They walked through the lobby, boarded the elevator, and took it to the top floor. Root’s room was at the end of the hall. McBride knocked on the door. It jerked open.

  Jonathan Root, his hair askew and eyes drooping with exhaustion, stood in the threshold. He blinked several times. “Agent Oliver … Joe … What … what are you doing here?”

  Oliver replied, “That’s the same question we’ve come to ask you, Mr. Root.”

  “Christ. Get in here.”

  He shut the door. He brushed past them, strode to the bedside table, touched the phone.

  As though making sure it’s still there, McBride thought. Interesting.

  “Explain yourselves,” Root said. Gone was the meek and exhausted old man they’d seen standing in the doorway; in his place was the commanding and unassailable spymaster. “Why are you here?”

  “Your attorney told us you were in Belgium,” McBride said. “Why—”

  “He was mistaken. Now, if that’s all …”

  “No, sir, it’s not,” Oliver replied. “Tell us why you identified that woman in the Lancaster County Morgue as your wife.”

  “What?”

  McBride said, “Jonathan, the woman that died in that explosion was wearing fingernail polish. Amelia would no more paint her fingernails than she’d let someone else tend her garden.”

  “For god’s sake … This is crazy. Go home. Everything’s fine.”

  “What’s everything?” Oliver said.

  “Listen, both of you, I appreciate your dedication, but I’d like to be left alone. Go back home and we’ll forget this ever—”

  Oliver cut him off: “Mr. Root, did you arrange your wife’s kidnapping?”

  “God, no, I—”

  “Her murder?”

  “What?” Root cried. His hands started shaking. “How dare you! I love—I loved Amelia. I could never hurt her. Never!”

  McBride caught Root’s slip. / love Amelia. Love. Root was involved, but how exactly? The thread of an idea formed in his mind. Could it be? He decided to improvise.

  “When did they contact you?” McBride asked.

  “What?”

  “When did they contact you—before or after the explosion at the shack?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  McBride cocked his head, watched Root’s eyes. Before or after the explosion, it didn’t much matter. Either way, the call would explain Root’s opposition to the autopsy; he knew the body in the morgue was not his wife’s. The question was not when they contacted him, but how. Within hours of the kidnapping, Root’s home and cell phones were tapped and Root himself was under constant surveillance. Or had he been? McBride thought.

  Root repeated, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “It was the day you went to lunch at your neighbor’s—the Crohns, wasn’t it? How did it work? The kidnappers called them, told them to invite you. When you got there, they called back. That’s it, isn’t it?”

  “Joe, come on …”

  “They tell you about the explosion, tell you to put on a good show and identify the body, then, once things calm down, you’re to get on a plane and come here.”

  “Joe, you have no idea what you’re doing. Let me handle this. If you’d just let me handle it, everything will be—”

  “Have they contacted you here?”

  “Dammit, you’re going to get her killed!”

  “Jonathan: Have they contacted you?”

  Root exhaled heavily, then nodded. “This morning.”

  “Did they let you talk to her?”

  “My god, don’t you understand? They warned me. If I told anyone, they’d kill her. Why couldn’t you just drop it? Oh Christ …” Root began weeping.

  Oliver said, “Mr. Root, whoever these people are, they’re sophisticated. They’ve gone to a lot of trouble—the stand-in for your wife, the trail leading to the shack, the explosion … Listen, I’ve been doing this a long time, and I tell you what I know for sure: There’s no way they plan to let either of you live through this. To them, you’re loose ends. Whatever they’re after, once they get it, you’re both dead.”

  “I know. God help me, I know all that. I didn’t know what else to do. You’d think after thirty years at Langley, I would’ve been smarter than this, but it was like my brain was fogged over.”

  McBride understood. Take the toughest son of a bitch in the world, stick him in a situation where a loved one’s in jeopardy and he’s powerless to stop it, and everything changes. Even with his own expertise, McBride wasn’t sure he would have weathered this any better than Root.

  “They were counting on that,” Joe said. “Most professional kidnappers—the ones that do it and get away with it—know as much about human nature as any psychologist. They took your wife, threatened to kill her, offered you a way out, then followed it up with the murder of her stand-in. That’s powerful stuff. You can’t blame yourself.”

  “I just don’t know anymore. God, I’m tired.”

  Oliver asked him, “Did they set up the next contact time?”

  “No, they just told me to stay by the phone.”

  “What about the ransom? What’re they asking for?”

  Root hesitated. “Pardon?”

  “The ransom.”

  “Oh … uh, twenty million.”

  McBride said, “Cash?”

  “Uhm, yes—well, in a way. Twenty million in bearer bonds.”

  “You have the money here?” he asked.

  “No, in a bank.”

  “Smart,” Oliver said. “Which one?”

  “Banca Triesta.” He looked at McBride and Oliver in turn. “What do we do? We have to get her back. I don’t know what I’ll do without her.”

  “First things first,” Oliver said. “We call Washington. We’ll get the Italian police and Interpol involved—”

  “No,” Root said.

  “What?”

  �
�No police. They were clear about that. They’ll know; they’ll kill her.”

  McBride said, “Jonathan, that’s a kidnapper’s standard line. Believe me, the Italian cops have forgotten more about kidnapping than most will ever know. They can handle it. We have to call them.”

  Root shook his head. “I said no. If you call them, so help me God I’ll queer the deal and do it on my own. You can’t watch me forever.”

  “Why are you doing this?” Oliver asked. “Without the police we’ve got no chance of getting her back. Do you understand? No chance.”

  Root cleared his throat, lifted his chin. The indomitable spymaster again. “You can go or stay—help me or not—but I won’t change my mind. If we’re going to get Amelia back, we do it without the police.”

  Olaberria, Spain

  Tanner’s call to Holystone immediately put Dutcher on the phone to Sylvia Albrecht at Langley, who in turn started making her own calls. Four hours, a hearty breakfast, and hot bath after walking into the cafe in Olaberria, Tanner was sitting at one of the sidewalk tables with his benefactor, Señor Ivara, when an attaché from the U.S. embassy in Madrid pulled up in a battered red Opel.

  “Would you be our wayward tourist?” he said.

  “That I am,” Tanner said, standing up and walking over. He extended his hand. “Briggs.”

  “Keith Beaumont.”

  “Good to meet you. I hate to borrow money on a first date, but I’ve run a tab with Señor Ivara here.”

  “No problem.” Beaumont pulled out his wallet and peeled off about fifty dollars’ worth of lira. “The Euro hasn’t quite caught on in these parts.”

  Ignoring his protestations, Tanner pressed the money into Ivara’s palm, shook his hand, then climbed into Beaumont’s Opel. As they pulled away, Briggs said, “One more favor: Can I borrow your cell phone?”

  “Lemme guess: You’re gonna fire your travel agent.”

  Tanner laughed. “No, I’ve got a French gendarme to set free before he starves to death.”

  The rickety Opel was faster and tougher than it looked, and three hours later they arrived at the embassy. They were met in the lobby by the deputy chief of mission, a woman named Sandra Dorsey. Beaumont excused himself, and Dorsey escorted Tanner to a conference room where another attaché was waiting. “Toby Kirkland,” he said. “Economic Affairs Division.”

  One of Sylvia’s boys, Tanner guessed.

  Kirkland was probably the CIA’s station chief. His official title was merely a placeholder to give him diplomatic immunity should he get caught doing something he shouldn’t be doing—though Briggs couldn’t imagine what that might be. The last time Langley had anything but a passing interest in Spain was during the Franco regime.

  Kirkland turned to Dorsey. “Sandy, would you mind collecting our other guest?”

  “Sure.”

  She returned two minutes later with Ian Cahil in tow. Laughing, he and Tanner embraced. Bear said, “You look like hell.”

  “Nothing a long nap won’t fix. How was Marseilles?”

  “Enlightening. Walt told me about your excursion. Yet another country we can’t set foot in.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it. Give it a year and you’ll be back at that little boulangerie in the Latin Quarter sipping bouillabaisse.”

  Cahil laughed. “I think Leland’s expecting us.” He turned to Kirkland. “Are we ready, Toby?”

  Kirkland nodded and gestured to the phone on the table. “Line one. You’re in the tank, so speak freely.” In spook-speak, a “tank” was an electronically shielded room that was swept several times a week and equipped with windows designed to deflect laser-directed optical bugs.

  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.”

  29

  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 t
he 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.