Echo of War

by Grant Blackwood

  “None,” Tanner replied. “Jonathan Root is the last one. Unless you count Svetic.”

  “Which we have to,” Dutcher said. “Obviously Anton Svetic passed the secret down to his heirs just like the others. Problem is, this Svetic obviously has other ideas for Kestrel.”

  There was a long ten seconds of silence, then Coates said, “We have to get this thing, bring it back here, and turn it over to Fort Dietrich,” he said, referring to the home of USAMRHD, the U.S. Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases. “I don’t especially like playing the bastard, but if we have to sacrifice Amelia Root to secure this thing, I say it’s a small price to pay.”

  “Unless you’re her or her husband,” Tanner said.

  “What’re you saying? We play Svetic’s game and hope it goes our way?”

  “What I’m saying is, let’s try to save this woman. If in the end it comes down to a choice, I agree: better her life than give Kestrel to Svetic.”

  Barber said, “I agree with George on this. Compared to what’s at stake, Amelia Root is a side issue. In fact, we can’t afford to delay; we need to start making calls.”

  “To who, Len?” Dutcher asked. “Who do we trust with this? If it’s the authorities in Europe, how’re they going to react when they hear a former director of the CIA has been using their backyard to store a doomsday bug?”

  “Who the hell cares how they react? If this thing gets loose, none of it will matter. At the very least we need to send some people over there to deal with these canisters.”

  Coates said, “And how do they go in? In biohazard suits? Unless we’re prepared to turn Kestrel over to whoever’s got jurisdiction, we’ve got to do this ourselves—and do it in the gray.”

  “He’s right,” Dutcher replied, then said to Sylvia, “Truth is, I can’t fault Root’s reasoning for keeping Kestrel secret. Whether it’s us, or Iraq, or some radical terrorist group living in a cave, we haven’t exactly been circumspect when it comes to WMD. Unless we recover these canisters ourselves—and destroy them ourselves—we can never be sure. Every flu outbreak, every flare-up of cholera or malaria or West Nile virus … we’d be wondering if it’s Kestrel, and whether it’s going to stop at a thousand people, or keep going to kill millions—or more. For my part, that’s not something I want hanging over my grandchildren’s heads.”

  Barber opened his mouth to protest, but Sylvia raised a hand, silencing him. “First of all, we shouldn’t even be having this conversation. This belongs in front of the president.” She paused, sighed. “But God help me, I’m not sure. What would he do? Who would have his ear? Could I convince him to have this thing destroyed, or would he listen to some armchair warrior who thinks Kestrel should be kept alive and studied?”

  Coates said, “If Root is right about how it works, there may be some merit to that. The medical implications alone could be enormous.”

  Barber said, “Something to consider.”

  “No,” Dutcher said.

  “Do you have any idea what something like this could do for immunological research? For genetics? It could put us light-years ahead.”

  “Some things are best left alone, George. If we start toying with Kestrel, where does it end? I’ll say it again: Who do we trust with it? All it would take is one accident, one slip-up; some idiot with an ax to grind or too many bills to pay so he decides to sneak a little out. We’re talking about hundreds of millions of Kestrel particles on the head of pin. There’s no inventory system in the world secure enough to handle something like that.”

  Sylvia said, “Briggs, we haven’t heard your take on this.”

  “As far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing to talk about. If you’re giving me a vote, it’s this: No matter what it takes—Amelia Root’s life, my life, Cahil’s life—we collect Kestrel and destroy it—all of it.”

  “Then why not cut to the chase?” Barber said. “Forget Amelia Root. Go to Innsbruck, get Kestrel, and come home.”

  “I doubt it would be that easy,” Tanner said. “Think about how much planning Svetic has put into this: the kidnapping, the false trail of evidence, the stand-in for Amelia Root, the sacrifice of his own man just for authenticity’s sake … I wouldn’t be surprised if Svetic’s had Root under surveillance since he landed in Trieste. When he walks into the Bank of Tirol, they’ll be watching.”

  “Then leave it in the bank and wait it out,” Coates said. “We can hunt Svetic down, take him out, then retrieve the samples at our leisure.”

  Sylvia considered this, then said, “Sounds reasonable. Briggs, you’re the man on the ground. What do you think?”

  “The sooner we get this done, the better. Listen: We’ve been careful since we’ve been here; the chances are good Svetic believes Root is alone. Aside from Root, Svetic is the only man left alive that knows about Kestrel. We know where he’s going to be, and when. Let’s make that work for us.”

  “Explain.”

  “While Root is waiting for Svetic to call, we go on to Innsbruck, pick our place, lay an ambush, and hit Svetic when he comes for the exchange. In the space of a few minutes we can free Amelia Root, remove Svetic from the equation, and bring Kestrel home.”

  “Bold,” said Len Barber. “And risky.”

  Tanner replied, “We passed ‘risky’ a long time ago, Len. There aren’t many words for where we are now. Sylvia, we can do this. More importantly, I believe now is the time.”

  Sylvia looked across her desk at Dutcher, who simply nodded. She said, “Keep your phone handy, Briggs. We’ll be back to you within the hour.”

  Trieste

  Tanner disconnected, laid his phone aside, then leaned back in his chair and yawned. He looked across to Oliver and Cahil; McBride was still sitting with Root at the Grand Duchi.

  “What’s the verdict?” Cahil asked.

  “They’re debating. Barber and Coates want to wait.”

  “What’s there to debate? We’ve got the guy here, right now.”

  “I told them.”

  Oliver said, “Sylvia’s got a lot of weight on her shoulders. Hell, by law the decision shouldn’t even be hers to make.”

  “She knows,” Tanner said. “But Leland said it: How do we know anyone else would do the right thing? For my part, I’d rather be strung up for destroying Kestrel than not do it and always be looking over my shoulder.”

  Cahil chuckled. “You know, I’m betting Typhoid Mary wasn’t very fond of her name.”

  “A safe bet,” Tanner agreed. His sat phone trilled. “That was quick,” he said, then answered.

  It was McBride: “Briggs, I’m at Root’s hotel. He’s gone.”

  Tanner bolted forward in his seat. “What?”

  “Root’s gone.”

  The former DCI had given him the slip, McBride explained. An hour earlier the room phone had rung. Root answered, listened for a moment, then said, “Sorry, you’ve got the wrong room.” A few minutes later he asked McBride to go to the corner restaurant and get him something to eat, claiming the hotel’s room service was awful. When McBride returned he found a note from Root saying he’d gone down to the sauna room. Suspicious now, McBride hurried downstairs, but Root was nowhere to be found. “I checked with the concierge,” McBride finished. “Root came downstairs right behind me and hailed a cab. My god, I never thought he’d … What in god’s name is he thinking?”

  He’s not, Tanner thought. He got the call, they scared him, and he panicked.

  Better than anyone, Root knew what was at stake and had surmised Tanner’s orders would be prioritized accordingly: The recovery of Kestrel was paramount; everything else was incidental. In his desperation, Root had convinced himself he could not only rescue his wife, but also keep Kestrel safe in the process.

  “I’m sorry, Briggs,” McBride said. “It never occurred to me that he’d try it.”

  “Not your fault, Joe. We all missed it.”

  He disconnected, hurriedly explained the situation
to Cahil and Oliver, then dialed Langley. As the phone started ringing, he thought, Innsbruck … twenty minutes by air.

  Root could already be on the ground.

  35

  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.”r />
  “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.