“Yes.”
“Those poor men. The Barak met us just outside Tangier harbor and we all ferried over except for Jurgen and Hans. They came a few minutes later. I wondered what they were doing … something felt wrong about it. God, I want to get away from these people. I feel like I’m covered in this layer of ... filth that’ll never come off.”
“Before you know it, you’ll be home safe. All this will fade.”
“We’ll be home, you mean.”
Tanner smiled. “Right. Anything else you can tell me?”
“I overheard a name, one I hadn’t heard before: Svetic.”
Another Bosnian surname, Tanner thought. Could this one be part of the Root kidnapping team? Briggs had decided to keep the kidnapping from Susanna; she had enough to worry about without adding a tangent he wasn’t even sure about himself. “Litzman’s been talking to this man—Svetic?”
“No, that’s not the feeling I get. I get bits and pieces … random snatches of conversations—rarely anything solid. A lot of this is gut feeling on my part.”
“Go on.”
“I have the feeling Litzman doesn’t really know Svetic,” Susanna said. “If he does, they’re not close. When they’ve talked about him, it’s somehow distant … unfamiliar.”
“How so?”
“For one thing, they use the formal version of ‘he’ and ‘him.’”
That was significant, Tanner realized. The German language is fussy about personal pronouns, using different forms of “he” or “she” for strangers and friends.
“What about the crate?” Briggs asked her. “Is it still aboard?”
“It was, but now I’m not sure. We took a detour, I think somewhere south of here. Litzman told me to stay in my cabin. When we started north again, the crate was gone.”
Litzman had either delivered it to someone, or left it somewhere for later pickup. “Do you have any idea if this is his last stop?”
“No.”
Tanner asked, “We think he’s been talking to someone in Austria. Could it be Svetic?”
Susanna shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t know. I’m sorry.”
They talked for a few more minutes, then discussed methods of communication, meeting places, and how they would signal her: a red chalk mark on a pillar along Rive Tralana. “You’ll be able to see it from the afterdeck,” Tanner said. “One diagonal line for a meeting; two vertical for the dead drop.”
“Got it.”
“One of us will try to keep an eye on the Barak when you’re aboard. If you go ashore, make your first stop one of the meeting sites. One of us will be there.”
She nodded.
He grasped her shoulders and stared into her eyes. “You’re okay?”
She smiled, and again he saw the bright and warm Susanna of old. “Stop mothering me. I better go.” She held up the scarves. “Which one?”
“The blue. It’s your color.”
“Good choice.” She kissed him on the cheek and went out.
Tanner waited until she’d paid for the scarf and disappeared down the sidewalk. As planned, he and Cahil met two blocks away at a corner pasada. He recounted the meeting.
Cahil said, “Svetic, huh? Yet another cast member in our little drama. I’m thinking it’s time we have a chat with Jonathan Root.”
“You read my mind.”
They returned to the Italia, collected McBride and Oliver, then walked separately to the Grand Duchi. Outside Root’s room Tanner stopped and turned to McBride and Oliver. “We’re running out of time, so I may have to push him.”
“You think he’s holding something back?” Oliver asked.
“Up until a few days ago, Root had been playing a shell game not only with you, but with the FBI. He’s been living on nerve, desperation, and pretense since the kidnappers contacted him. He’s also a retired spook. All this stuff—it’s what he did for a living.”
McBride said, “You can take the spy out of the business, but not the business out of the spy?”
Tanner nodded. “If there’s a connection between Litzman and his wife’s kidnappers, the sooner we find that out, the better chance we have of dealing with it.”
Both Oliver and McBride nodded. “One warning,” McBride said. “He’s wired tight. Be careful how and where you push, or it might backfire.”
“Understood.”
McBride knocked and Root opened the door. He looked apprehensively at Tanner and Cahil. “They’ve come to help,” McBride said, then made the introductions. “Can we talk inside?”
Root led them to the suite’s sitting room. It was painted in faux finish tones of amber and cream, with heavy brocade drapes, overstuffed chenille chairs, and an Eames rosewood coffee table.
Once everyone was seated, Tanner said, “Leland Dutcher asked me to send his regards.”
Root was unshaven, his face lined with exhaustion, but hearing Dutcher’s name, his expression brightened. “You’re one of Dutch’s?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then, you can’t be all bad.”
Tanner smiled back. “I hope you think so in a few minutes.”
“Pardon me?”
“Mr. Root, what you’re going through right now probably feels like a nightmare. I understand that. Whatever happens, you have my word we’re going to do what we can to get your wife back.”
“I appreciate that.”
“The problem is, her kidnapping may be a part of something bigger.”
“How so?”
“Before I answer that, I’d like to ask you some questions.”
“I’ve already told Joe and Collin everything I know.”
“Humor me.”
Root shrugged. “Go ahead.”
Briggs took a few moments to gather his thoughts. Working mostly in the dark, he would have only Root’s responses and reactions to guide him. “Do you know a man named Stephan Bolz?”
“No.”
“When was the last time you went to France?”
“What? France? I don’t know … ten, fifteen years ago.”
“How about Bosnia?”
Root frowned, thinking. He leaned back in the chair and clasped his hands in his lap. Something, Tanner thought. Root said, “It would’ve been back in the eighties while I was still at Langley.”
“Do you have any regular contact with anyone from Bosnia?”
“No.”
“Croatia? Serbia?”
“No.”
“Have you ever heard the name Karl Litzman?” Tanner asked.
“Yes … yes, I think so. His name came across my desk a few times. Who is he?”
“He’s German—former Russian Spetsnaz.”
“Yes … that’s right. Freelance, wasn’t he?”
“Still is,” Tanner replied. “How much money did the kidnappers ask for?”
“Why do I get the feeling I’m being interrogated?”
“Please answer my question.”
“Twenty million dollars in bearer bonds.”
“Do you have that kind of money?”
“Yes.”
“Where did you get it?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“It’s my understanding Selmani asked for five million, not twenty.”
“I can’t explain that. Joe said he was probably a patsy. Maybe he got confused.”
“Mr. Root, I’ve done a little checking. The truth is, you don’t have twenty million dollars.” This was a lie, but as with most of the questions, Tanner was more interested in Root’s body language than his words.
“You’re wrong,” Root snapped.
“How many times have the kidnappers made contact?”
“Here?”
“Yes.”
“Once.”
“You’re sure it wasn’t twice?”
“I’m sure.”
That’s the truth, Tanner thought. “Do you know a man named Svetic?”
<
br /> Root pursed his lips, thinking. He unfolded his hands, refolded them. “I don’t think so.”
“You’re sure.”
“Yes.”
There it was, Tanner thought. Faced with a name he didn’t recognize, someone Tanner was pushing, Root, the desperate husband, should have asked the question: This man Svetic … you think he’s involved in my wife’s kidnapping?
“Think about it,” Tanner said. “Be careful with your answer. You’re sure you’ve never heard of, or met, or talked to a man named Svetic?”
“Christ, how many times are you going to ask me that?” Root growled. He stood up and began pacing. “Why are you doing this? My wife’s been taken, for god’s sake!”
“I know that.”
“Then act like it!”
Tanner stared at him, said nothing. Thirty seconds passed … a minute. Finally Root plopped down on the edge of the bed. “What do you want from me?”
“Tell me how you know Svetic, why he took your wife, and what he wants from you.”
Briggs could see Root’s lower lip quivering; the muscles of his jaw pulsed. “I’ve had enough of this. I’d like you to leave. Joe, get them out of here.”
“Jonathan—”
“Dammit, this isn’t fair! I just want my wife back! Why can’t anyone understand that?”
Tanner leaned forward in his chair and waited until Root met his gaze. “I do understand, Mr. Root. I know you don’t believe that, but it’s true. Here’s what I think: You know who took your wife, why they did it, and why they made you come halfway around the world to get her back. The sooner you tell us what’s really going on, the sooner we can get her back.”
Root squeezed his eyes shut; tears dripped from their corners. “Oh, Jesus …”
“Tell me,” Briggs whispered.
“I know Svetic—Risto Svetic—and I know what he wants.”
“What?”
“Kestrel. God help us, he wants Kestrel.”
32
“I assume you’re not talking about the bird?” Tanner said.
“No,” Root replied with a humorless chuckle. I’m talking about the Root family secret—the secret we’ve been keeping for over eighty years. Kestrel consumed my grandfather’s life, then my father’s, and now mine. Kestrel is what Risto Svetic wants, and it’s what I don’t dare give him.”
“You’ve lost me. Please explain.”
And Root did.
“My grandfather’s name was Simon Horatio Root, In 1917 he landed in France and was given command of a special unit that later became known as the Havocs. They were trained to fight behind enemy lines, conduct reconnaissance, gather intelligence—those sorts of things.
“In January, 1918, he and his team were in the Dinaric Alps in Bosnia. The Central Powers had mostly been driven out of the area, but there were reports of stay-behind units conducting guerrilla operations. Everyone assumed they were Bulgarians, since they’d done most of the fighting in the Balkans. At the time, the allies were considering opening a second front with landings along the Adriatic coast. My grandfather had been assigned to survey the area.
“He had sixteen men on his team: twelve soldiers, three squad leaders—Pappas, Villejohn, and Frenec—a Greek, a Frenchman, and a Hungarian. Their scout was a Herzegovinian boy named Anton. He was their unofficial mascot.
“On their ninth day in the mountains they came across a bunker. It shouldn’t have been there. None of the Bulgarians they’d come across had been holed up. Most were hit-and-run teams—always moving, sleeping in whatever hole they could find, nipping at the enemy but never fully engaging them. To find an occupied bunker like this was unheard of. Even stranger was who they found guarding it: Germans.
“Simon ordered in his team. The guards were dispatched and my grandfather led his men inside. On the upper level it was just like any other bunker: sleeping quarters, mess rooms. There was another level, though. As was his style, Simon took the lead. He went down first, followed by Frenec, Pappas, and Villejohn. The rest of the team stayed on the main level.
“They reached the bottom of the ladder shaft and started looking around, expecting to find more soldiers, more supplies … more of what they’d found on the main level.
“There wasn’t a soldier in sight. That section of the bunker was designed differently than any bunker they’d ever seen. It was laid out like three squares in a line, each square connected by a single passage. There were heavy, airtight doors, intricate plumbing, generators and backup generators, air pipes and hoses leading every which way …
“Eventually they found some men hiding in storage rooms—seven Germans and one Russian, all civilians, all unarmed. Simon rounded them up in the mess room, left Pappas and Villejohn to guard them, then took Frenec to have a better look around.
“The section they were in—the signs read ‘Der Bereich Eine’—Section One—was mostly sleeping quarters, latrines, and larders. Der Bereich Zwei contained more storage areas, but they were mostly medical supplies like drugs, bandages, and surgical equipment. They’d found a hospital, Simon thought.
“The last area—Der Bereich Drei—was altogether different. It was divided down the middle by another passageway, this one wider than the connecting tunnels. To the left they found what looked to be laboratories with Bunsen burners, distillers, microscopes.
“To the right, set into the wall, were three windows, each ten feet long. Beside each of these was a steel door. The windows were dark, so Simon hunted around until he found a junction box, then started flipping switches. One by one, the lights came on.
“Behind each window were ten hospital beds—thirty total. All of them were full. There were old men, women of all ages, children—all chained to their beds. Most appeared to be unconscious, but when the lights came on a few of them stirred and looked toward the windows. Some cried out in Bosnian. The windows were thick and Simon’s Bosnian wasn’t very good, but it was clear they were pleading with him.
“On the wall of each room was a sign that read, ‘Keimfrei Krankenzimmer.’” Root paused and looked at Tanner. “Do you know what that means?”
Briggs searched his memory, trying to piece together the words. When he did, he felt a chill on his scalp. “Sterile Sick Room.”
Root nodded. “That’s right. All of those people had been quarantined. You know, by the time he’d found that bunker, my grandfather had seen the worst war can offer, but nothing had prepared him for what he found there.
“He was no doctor, of course, but it didn’t take one to know those people were very sick. Some were as thin as skeletons; others horribly bloated. Others were covered in running sores, tumors, or rashes that left them looking like hamburger. A few were seizing so violently their bodies arched off the bed until only their feet and heads touched the mattress. There was vomit and blood and feces on the floors and walls. It was a nightmare.
“My grandfather’s first instinct was to go in and try to help them, but he stopped himself. This was no ordinary hospital, and those were no ordinary patients. There was something very wrong with what was going on. He and Frenec returned to the mess room. Having realized the Germans and the Russian were doctors, he started asking questions. They refused to talk. He locked them in a storage room and went to find his own answers.
“The doctors had been meticulous in their documentation. The file rooms were filled with case histories, experiment notes, private journals—it was all there. Over the next day and a half they pieced together what the Germans had been up to.
“Eighteen months earlier a Bulgarian Army platoon came across a village in the foothills named Doljani. They found half the inhabitants dead, the other half deathly ill. Under questioning, the villagers claimed that a week earlier an illness had taken hold in the local elementary school. Two days after that it had spread to half the village: a day after that, everyone had it. The symptoms were routine—what we’d call a common cold—but none of the villagers had been a
ble to fight it off. A week after the first case, the entire village was dead—nearly three hundred people, gone.
“The unit’s intelligence officer was actually a major in the Austro-Hungarian Army. He sent word back to his commanders in Graz, who dispatched a team of German specialists. You see, at that point in the war the Central Powers knew the tide was against them. Germany had already used gas attacks on the allies—mustard, chlorine, phosgene—and had been experimenting with cholera, anthrax, and smallpox, so this outbreak at Doljani caught their attention.
“By the time the team arrived, half of the Bulgarian soldiers were sick. Assuming the rest would follow, the Germans knew they had to find a place to quarantine whatever the illness was. The Bulgarian commander offered them a solution.
“On their way to Doljani, they’d come across an abandoned hospital bunker built years earlier by the Austrians. It was nearby, it was already partially equipped, so the German doctors and surviving Bulgarian soldiers retreated to the bunker. The soldiers were quarantined. The doctors went to work trying to understand what was making them sick, a report was sent back to Graz. The German High Command dispatched yet another team—an engineering company. Over the next month, the bunker was converted into the complex my grandfather found.
“By the time work was finished, all but a few of the Bulgarian soldiers were dead, as were four of the original twenty German doctors. To a man, the entire engineering company was stricken.
“Good Germans that they were, the doctors stayed put and kept working, trying to isolate the illness. Aside from special troops sent by Graz to act as security, no one came to or left the bunker. The bodies piled up. One of the empty artillery magazines was converted into a crematorium.
“Two months after the project began, all of the original soldiers and engineers were long dead, as were half of the doctors. Only two ‘hosts’ remained—both doctors from the original team. The security soldiers started snatching civilians from nearby villages to use as test subjects. The experiments went on.
“Six months later Graz sent a new doctor to oversee the project, a Russian microbiologist named Nikitin who’d emigrated to Germany in 1902. The rumor was that Nikitin had been a rising star under Dimitri Ivanovski, the scientist who discovered the virus. He and Nikitin were the world’s first virologists.
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