Echo of War

by Grant Blackwood

  Eyes wide, Grebo looked imploringly at Tanner. “Please …”

  “Sorry.”

  “Oh, God—”

  Bear said, “I’m ready. I’ll need some privacy.”

  Tanner nodded to Oliver. They both climbed out and shut the doors behind them. Oliver’s mouth was hanging open. He stared at the van for a moment, then back at Tanner. “Jesus Christ! You can’t … I mean … Is Ian going to—”

  “No.”

  “I don’t want any part of this, Briggs. This has gone too far.”

  Tanner placed a hand on his shoulder. “Collin: Trust me. He’s fine.”

  Five minutes passed. Oliver paced, staring at the ground, until finally the van’s door opened. Cahil stepped out. “Everything’s true except for the Litzman connection,” he whispered to Tanner. “He’s still holding back on that.”

  “God almighty,” Oliver said. “What did you do to him?”

  “Not a thing.”

  “Then how—”

  “He believed I would. That was enough.”

  Oliver frowned, walked to the van, peered through the window, then walked back to them. “He’s fine.”

  “Yes,” Tanner said.

  “I feel like I’m in the goddamned Twilight Zone. So what now?”

  Briggs said, “We’ll worry about Litzman later. We have a rescue to mount.”

  37

  They dropped Oliver three blocks from the Hotel Golden Krone, then drove to a diner on Bergiselweg near the entrance to the autobahn and waited for his call. Per Tanner’s instructions, Oliver checked into the Goldene Krone, then walked to Root’s room, where Root phoned the front desk and asked the concierge to have all his phone calls anonymously routed to the new room. With Root now relatively safe, Cahil got on the autobahn and headed east.

  Tanner planned as they drove. Their first hurdle was firepower. According to Grebo, the three men at the cabin were armed with H&K SL8s, an assault rifle based on the German Army’s infantry weapon. Aside from a high rate of fire, a laser sighting system, and a modular design straight from a science fiction movie, the SL8 was a compact eighteen inches long and was made almost entirely from carbon-fiber polymer, which made its covert transportation much easier.

  Tanner didn’t relish the idea of going into that kind of situation with only an eight-shot pistol, but their other option was to involve the Austrian Bundespolizei, which would create more problems than it would solve. Moreover, they weren’t likely to get a better chance to rescue Amelia Root. With Svetic having disappeared and the guards around her depleted, now was the time. With a healthy dose of luck and improvisation, they could free her, collect Kestrel from the bank, and be out of the area before the sun had risen over the Alps. Anticipating this, Cahil sat on the van’s floor, working with the supplies from his earlier shopping trip. Grebo watched his every move from his curled-up position in the corner.

  The trick with improvisation was balance. When it came to special ops, most jobs failed for one of two reasons: resources and planning—either you don’t have the people and tools to get the job done, or the plan itself is flawed. Of the two, the latter was the gremlin. Underplanning led to confusion; overplanning, chaos. A balance of the two—simplicity—was the cure.

  At least the crux on the problem was simple: how to get into the cabin and dispatch the guards before they had a chance to turn their guns on either him and Cahil, or Amelia Root. The answer Give them something bigger to worry about.

  Tanner took the Vogelsberg exit and headed southeast into the Tuxer Alps. According to Grebo, the cabin was on the eastern edge of the High Tauren National Park, near an abandoned silver mine, the Juns Silberwerken. Standing on his knees and peering through the windshield, Grebo directed Tanner off the main road and onto a series of switchback dirt roads that led them deeper into the forest. Briggs slowed down and turned off the headlights, relying only on the orange glow of the parking lights. The air grew noticeably cooler as the elevation increased. Through the canopy he could see patches of moonlight.

  Realizing Svetic’s men might have posted an observation post into which Grebo was leading them, Tanner kept the Sauer tucked under his thigh.

  “Stop here,” Grebo said. Tanner did so, and Grebo peered out each side window. “This is it. The cabin’s about a half mile that way.” He pointed down the road, which curved out of sight.

  Tanner turned the Hyundai around, shut off the engine, coasted back down the hill a hundred yards, then braked to a stop. He climbed into the back, forced Grebo into his corner, then secured him hand, foot, and waist to the seat frame.

  He dialed Oliver’s hotel room, said, “We’re here; you know what to do,” then hung up. He turned to Grebo. “If I don’t call them back in ninety minutes, the Bundespolizei will be on their way and you’ll get a chance to talk your way out of this with them. So: Is there anything else we need to know?”

  “No, I swear it.”

  “If you’re lying, my friend here is going to be unhappy.”

  Grebo glanced at Cahil. “No, really, I told you everything.”

  Briggs sealed his mouth with a strip of duct tape and patted him on the shoulder. “Stay put.”

  With Tanner carrying the Sauer and Cahil a small duffel holding their improv props, they climbed the embankment bordering the road and into the trees beyond, where they dropped to their bellies and backtracked until they could see the Hyundai. After ten minutes, certain their arrival hadn’t alerted any watchers, they started climbing again.

  They picked their way through the forest until Briggs guessed the cabin was below and to their southwest, which put them downwind. Given the chill in the air, he was hoping they’d smell the cabin before they saw it. They started downhill. After fifty yards, Briggs stopped. He touched his nose and pointed ahead. Cahil nodded. The tang of wood smoke was unmistakable.

  Now they slowed down, stepping carefully on flat feet and pausing every few yards to watch and listen. Their progress was frustratingly slow, but Tanner knew better than to rash. Outgunned as they were, they could afford to be neither seen nor heard. With little cover and an uphill escape route, an unexpected hail of gunfire would finish them.

  After fifteen anxious minutes, Tanner saw a sliver of yellow light through the trees. He dropped to his belly, as did Cahil. The smell of wood smoke was stronger now; Tanner could taste it on his tongue. They remained still, watching for a full five minutes, then began crawling forward again.

  Tanner was reaching his palm forward when his breath misted the air around his hand.

  He froze. In the moonlight his eye had picked out a threadlike glint of steel. He turned his head slowly, trying to find it again. There … Below his palm, suspended two inches off the ground, was a wire. Aside from the patch that had caught his eye, it had been expertly coated with dirt.

  Grebo had been holding back after all. He’d counted on them stumbling onto the trip wire and being gunned down by his compatriots. It had almost worked—but not quite, which, Tanner decided, was good enough. But what else had he been lying about?

  He gently retracted his hand, then signaled Cahil forward. Bear shimmied up. He peered at the wire and signaled, Wait. He crab-crawled sideways until he reached a nearby tree. With a cupped palm over the lens he flicked on his penlight, examined the ground in the red glow, then flicked it off again. He gestured Tanner over then cupped his hand around Brigg’s ear and whispered, “The wire ends here. RF transmitter.” He pointed to a nub of an antenna jutting from the soil.

  Briggs took the lead again. They continued downhill.

  It took another ten minutes to cover the last fifty feet, but at last they reached a small, bowl-shaped clearing. Through the tree line they could see the cabin, a single-story structure with a flagstone porch and a door flanked on each side by a curtained window. Sitting in the driveway was an Audi. An ivy-covered trellis snaked up the cabin’s wall to a chimney from which smoke drifted. From the trees they heard t
he flutter of wings, then silence.

  They waited and watched. Nothing moved. From the cabin they could hear faint laughter. From either laziness or overconfidence in their trip wires, Svetic’s men hadn’t bothered to post guards. So much the better, Tanner thought. He signaled Bear to wait, then got up and circled the cabin, looking for gaps in the curtains. There were none. He returned to where Cahil was crouched.

  “We’ll be going in blind,” he whispered. They had Grebo’s description of the cabin’s interior, but Tanner wasn’t about to count on that—especially after the trip wire, and especially if they were going to be shot at, which seemed likely. He’d have to use that first split second after he crashed the door to get his bearings, and pray no one was waiting gun in hand. Though the single car in the driveway tended to support Grebo’s count of the men inside, Briggs decided it was best to assume that, too, was a lie.

  Cahil was peering at the chimney. “How old do you think that is?”

  “Fifty, sixty years.”

  “Old enough to not have a flue?”

  Tanner realized where he was headed. He smiled. “Perhaps.”

  “I may have just what we need. It’d mean you’d be going in alone.”

  “We only have one gun.”

  “Good point.”

  Tanner glanced back up the hillside, thought for a moment. “How’s your shotput arm?”

  “Didn’t know I had one. What’ve you got in mind?” Tanner explained, and Bear grinned. “You get me the shot, I’ll put it.”

  Cahil scaled the Trellis until he was perched alongside the chimney. He took a deep breath, screwed his eyes into a squint, then shoved his face into the mouth of the chimney. He jerked it back, shook his head clear, then looked down to Tanner and gave a thumbs-up.

  Tanner knelt beside the duffel and unzipped it. Unsure of what they were going to encounter, Cahil had cooked up an assortment of homemade smoke grenades and flash-bangs he’d hoped would make up for their lack of fire-power. This new plan, however, called for only one item, something Cahil lovingly called the “Bearabomb.” Comprised of two condoms—one filled with a napalmlike concoction, the other with a flour and cornstarch mixture-stuffed into a third condom and topped with a match-head detonator, it would hopefully provide Tanner with the diversion he needed.

  From the cabin came a burst of laughter, then the sound of boots clomping on wood. Tanner stepped to the wall, pressed himself against it, and waited breathlessly for the sound of a door opening. It didn’t come.

  Holding the loose end, Tanner tossed a ball of twine up to Cahil, then tied on their “shot,” a five-pound softball-sized stone. Cahil reeled it in, tucked into the eaves trough, then dropped the twine again and waited for Tanner to tie on the Bearabomb, which he retrieved. He turned his attention to removing the chimney screen; after a few seconds’ work it came free. He gave Tanner another thumbs-up.

  Tanner checked his watch, then signaled, Give me two minutes, and got a nod in return.

  He crept to the tree line and followed it around to the rear of the cabin. Now he could feel the churn of adrenaline in his belly, the rush of it in his arms and legs. The air dried the sweat on his face; he shivered. Inexplicably, he suddenly found himself thinking of Susanna.

  She’s fine, he told himself. She’d made it this far on her own First, Amelia Root, then Susanna. Once done here, he and Bear would return to Trieste, collect Susanna, and unravel Litzman’s role in all this.

  He reached the far side of the cabin, crouched down to watch and listen for a count of thirty, then ran, hunched over, to the porch, where he dropped to his belly in the bushes. He peeked up one last time to check his firing line, then settled down and counted off the final seconds.

  From the opposite side of the cabin there came a crashing of tree limbs, followed by a dull thud and the crunch of leaves as Cahil’s stone rolled down the hillside. It clacked against another stone, echoing, then rolled to a stop. Silence—then, from inside the cabin, Briggs heard a rapid beeping. Good shot, Bear. He’d dropped the stone on the wires.

  Tanner peeked up. The cabin windows had gone dark. A muffled voice rasped, “Sto je ... ?” Boots scuffed on the floor. The curtains on either side of the door parted briefly, then fell back into place.

  Thirty seconds passed. One minute.

  Suddenly the cabin door creaked open a few inches, then a few more. A lone figure stepped onto the porch. The door eased shut behind him, followed by a soft click as the lock was thrown. Smart boys, Briggs thought.

  The guard raised his rifle across his chest, crept down the steps, and turned toward the hillside. He lifted the rifle—an SL8 as Grebo had promised—to his shoulder and pressed his eye to what Tanner realized was a night-vision scope. The guard began tracking the scope over the trees.

  He stopped and raised a portable radio to his lips. “Nista stiglo.” Nothing yet.

  That’s right, Briggs thought, nothing to see.

  Rifle held at the ready-low, the guard started walking toward the hillside, until he disappeared from Tanner’s view. Briggs listened to the crunch of his footfalls, and in his mind’s eye he watched the man walking the tree line, stopping occasionally to peer through the nightscope, walking on …

  It would go one of two ways now, Tanner knew. The guard would either make a complete circuit of the cabin—in which case Tanner would have to take him early then crash the door—or the guard would satisfy himself with a search of the hillside and return the way he came.

  The footfalls grew louder and began moving back toward the front of the cabin. Tanner peeked up. The guard strolled past the Audi and down the driveway a few yards, where he paused to scan once more with his scope. He lifted the radio to his mouth. Limited as Tanner’s Bosnian was, he caught only one word—“clear”—but the guard’s posture said it all.

  Shoulders relaxed and rifle held loosely in one hand, he started back toward the porch. Tanner ducked down.

  So far, their ruse had done its job. Drawing one of the men outside had accomplished two things: First, it improved Tanner’s chances of not having to crash a locked door; and second, the psychological effect of first the trip wire warning and then the relief at finding the alarm false would put the guards at ease.

  Of course, Briggs reminded himself, that was all theory. He’d have his proof in a few seconds.

  He heard the guard’s foot click on the first step, then the next. He peeked up in time to see the guard raise his hand and knock once on the door. “Otvoriti.”

  Tanner closed his eyes, took a deep breath, coiled his legs under him …

  There was a click-clack as the lock was popped open.

  Go!

  Sauer extended before him, Briggs vaulted himself onto the porch and charged the guard. The door swung open. The guard turned, saw Tanner. His eyes went wide. He scrambled to bring his rifle up. Too late. From three feet, Tanner fired once into the man’s chest. As he fell, Briggs caught him by the collar and shoved him through the door.

  The door flew inward. Backpedaling from the thresh-old, the second guard was bringing his rifle to his hip. Tanner shoved the first guard toward him. From the corner of his eye he saw movement near the fireplace.

  At that moment, Cahil’s bomb landed in the fireplace grate. There was a flash of orange. A cloud of white powder billowed from the hearth and washed through the room like smoke. The guard nearest the fireplace screamed. Tanner sidestepped right, fired two rounds into the second guard, who stumbled backward and crashed over an armchair. Briggs spun left, saw a figure moving toward him through the smoke, fired twice more. The man crumpled to his knees and fell backward.

  Behind Tanner, Cahil rushed through the doorway. “Briggs?”

  “We’re okay; check that one.”

  As Cahil did so, Tanner knelt beside the first two guards. Both were dead. “They’re done.”

  “Here, too. Where is she? Do you see her?”

  “No, I—Wait …” Tanner
held his hand up for silence. The remains of Cahil’s bomb sizzled in the fireplace. Then, faintly, they heard a muffled cry.

  Briggs walked the room, trying to locate the sound, until he tracked it to the bathroom. Tanner gestured for Bear to turn on the lights, which he did. Sauer extended, Briggs jerked open the closet door.

  Lying on the floor, her wrists and ankles bound by clothesline, was an elderly woman. Jammed in her mouth was a tennis ball threaded with a leather cord. Eyes wide, she stared at them, tried to wriggle deeper into the closet. She mumbled something into the gag.

  Tanner handed the Sauer to Cahil and knelt down before her. “Mrs. Root? Amelia Root?”

  The woman nodded.

  “My name is Briggs. You’re safe.” He extended his hand and smiled. “If you’re ready, we’ll take you out of here. You’ve got a very anxious husband waiting to see you.”

  Amelia Root hesitated for a moment, then reached out and took his hand.

  38

  Holystone

  It was, Walter Oaken knew, both his blessing and his curse. For him nothing was as simple as it looked. Well, that wasn’t quite true, he reminded himself. Occasionally he found that what he saw was in fact what he got, but in most cases he found the opposite true—especially when it came to motivation. Living by the mantra “First know capability, men intention,” purists in the intelligence business tremble at discussing motivation, but Oaken wasn’t a purist. For him, it was, “First motivation, then means.” Understand the first and the rest will fall into place.

  The forces that drive people, groups, and nations to do what they do are a mélange of history, conviction, and vision. In Euclidean geometry the shortest point between two points is a straight line, but when it came to human motivation, the line was convoluted.

  Knowing this, Oaken had for several days been wrestling with the unmistakable yet mysterious connection between Karl Litzman and Svetic’s group. Was Litzman involved in the kidnapping of Amelia Root? If so, how? As far as Oaken could see, Litzman’s movements in the last few weeks had been unrelated to those of Svetic’s. Did Litzman know about Kestrel or, as Grebo had told Tanner, had Svetic kept the secret to himself? Could it be Litzman was shadowing Svetic, waiting for a chance to steal Kestrel?