“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.”
30
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 hav
e 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.
31
Trieste
Shortly before noon two days later the Barak sailed around the headland at Piran and into the harbor. Long and sharp-stemmed like the racing yachts around her, the Barak stood out in Tanner’s binoculars by what she lacked: sails. He scanned the decks, but saw no sign of either Susanna or Litzman, only crewman—two of whom he recognized from the Sorgia—hurrying about on deck.
The Barak drew even with Rive Tralana, the road bordering the spectator docks, and dropped anchor. Within minutes she was surrounded by three water taxis—dories with bench seating and long-shafted outboard motors.
A man appeared on the Barak’s deck. The cast on his hand immediately identified him as Gunter. He pointed to the nearest dory, then dismissed the others with a wave. The chosen taxi drew alongside and lines were tossed over the rails and secured.
Susanna walked out the aft door of the cabin. She wore a bright yellow summer dress and sandals. Tanner zoomed in on her face. A piece of white tape lay across the bridge of her nose and beneath each eye was a crescent-shaped bruise.
Tanner felt a pang in his chest, then thought, It might’ve kept her alive.
Accompanied by a pair of Litzman’s men, she climbed into the dory and took her seat. The taxi cast off, came about, and began heading toward shore.
Tanner reached for his phone and called Cahil, who arrived five minutes later. The dory was still waiting its turn to dock at the spectator pier. Cahil peered through the binoculars. “Just two escorts?”
“Yes.”
With plenty of time on their hands over the past two days, they’d come up with several plans for making contact with Susanna. That Litzman had ordered her escorted was unsurprising. At this late stage in the job—whatever that was—he was taking no chances.
“Let’s use that boutique on Via Rossi,” Tanner said. “You find the messenger, I’ll get a head start. It’s a safe bet her escorts would recognize me.”
Having changed into his planter’s hat, dark sunglasses, and Bermuda shorts, Tanner strolled up the street from the wharf, stopping frequently to snap a photo and check on Cahil’s progress.
As Susanna and her escorts—one of which he now recognized as Jurgen—climbed from the dory onto the pier, Cahil took up position behind them. Susanna walked up Via Cesare, stopping occasionally to peer into shop windows as her escorts loitered a few feet away.
Briggs saw Cahil gesture to someone across the street. A young boy of eight or nine scampered over. Cahil whispered to him, then pressed something into his hand. The boy sprinted down the street, then across to the opposite sidewalk, from where he came trotting back. Drawing even with Susanna he stopped and began tugging at the hem of her dress. “Money, signorina, please?” Pleadingly he clutched at her hands. “Please, pretty signorina …”
Jurgen stepped forward to shoo the boy away.
“Ah, pretty signorina, please …,” he said once more, then ran off.
Up the street Tanner watched through his camera’s viewfinder. Susanna covertly unfolded the note, read it, then stuck it into her pocket. She turned, said something to Jurgen, then started across the street with the two Germans in tow.
Walking fast now, Tanner got well ahead of them and turned onto Via Rossi. In the middle of the street he found the unisex clothing boutique he and Cahil had scouted the previous day. He pushed through the door.
At the tinkle of the bell, a young woman wit
h jet black hair and pink hoop earrings walked over. “May I help you, sir?” she said in Italian.
“No, thank you, just looking.”
Tanner wandered the racks, selected several pair of shorts, then strolled back toward the fitting rooms. Through the front window he saw Susanna approach the door. She turned and said something to Jurgen, who shook his head. They went back and forth, Susanna gesturing angrily, until Jurgen shrugged. She pushed through the door.
Tanner stepped into the booth and closed the door, but left it unlatched. He hung his planter’s hat on the hook so the brim was visible over the top of the door, then dropped the shorts in a pile on the floor, covering his sandals and ankles.
A minute later Susanna slipped into the booth carrying a couple scarves and a hat. She shut the door and locked it. Without a word she took off her sunglasses, fell into Tanner’s arms, and lay her head against his chest. He could feel her trembling. She leaned back and brushed at her cheeks. “I thought you were dead,” she whispered. “There was so much shooting. Are you okay?”
“Just a little scuffed up.” He held her face in his hands and studied her bruises. “I’m sorry, Susanna. Does it hurt?”
She smiled back. “Of course it hurts; you broke my nose, for God’s sake. It worked, though. No one gave me a second glance.”
“What about your escorts?”
“They’ve done that before. It’s nothing. If something wasn’t right I would’ve felt a vibe. Believe me, I’ve lived on my wits with this group for nine months.”
Tanner nodded. “How’re you feeling?”
“I want this to be over, Briggs.”
“I know you do. Say the word and I’ll have you on a plane this afternoon. Bear and I can handle Litzman.”
“We’re back to this again? I already told you: I’m staying.”
“Stubborn like your father.”
“Stubborn like you—that’s what he used to say.”
“What can you tell me?” Tanner said. “We found the Sorgia, but we don’t know any details.”
“They killed the crew, didn’t they?”
Echo of War Page 22