Echo of War (15 page)

“Roger, stand by. Scout, hold position.”

There was a double click as the man signaled affirmative.

“All units, report any movement,” Scanlon ordered.

The silence stretched into ten seconds, then twenty. A minute passed.

Then, from the reserve sniper: “I've got movement at the rear wall.”

McBride and the others peered at the monitor. The sniper's scope was moving, panning up from the scout's back to the shack.

“Zoom in,” Scanlon ordered.

“Zooming …”

The image tightened on the planking until McBride could see the gaps in the wood. Behind them, a shadow moved, went still, then moved again.

“Reserve, do you have a shot?” Scanlon called.

“Negative.”

Suddenly two
pops
broke the stillness. From inside the shack there came a pair of muzzle flashes, white blossoms in the dark.

“Shots fired!” the reserve sniper radioed. “Permission to—”

“Negative! Hold fire!”

Pop,
pop,
pop.

The scout called, “Command, he's spotted me, I'm taking fire!”

“Withdraw! Get outa there!”

The scout rolled onto his back and began half crawling, half running toward the underbrush.

“What the hell is that?” Oliver said. From inside the shack there came another blossom, this one bigger and brighter. “What the—”

McBride heard a great whooshing sound. Fire burst through the shack's windows. The walls seemed to bulge outward, as though suddenly inflated from inside, and the shack exploded.

Lorient,
France

With nightfall, rain clouds rolled off the Atlantic and settled over the Bay of Biscay, blotting out the stars and moon. A blanket of fog enveloped the city's waterfront. As Tanner and Cahil stepped out of their hotel and hailed a cab, a drizzle began to fall.

Their meeting with Susanna wasn't for another ninety minutes, but with no way of knowing who or what to expect, Tanner opted for overcautiousness. He and Bear would use the time to survey the site until certain Litzman and his men weren't lying in wait. Briggs was determined to make the meeting. This was their best, and perhaps last, chance to reach Susanna.

They'd spent the majority of the day in their room—a trend as of late, it seemed—except for one trip out to buy new clothes, toiletries, and hair clippers, which Bear used to give himself a buzz cut and shave off his beard. Tanner used diluted peroxide to lighten his hair and a razor to shape his stubble into a goatee. There was nothing to be done about the cut on his cheekbone, however, and he prayed the other changes would be enough.

Twenty minutes after leaving the hotel, the taxi dropped them on Quai Bellevue in Larmor Plage, one of Lorient's waterfront suburbs. The meeting site, a warehouse, was at the end of Bellevue, on the industrial docks.

It was nearly eleven and the street lay deserted. Fog swirled around the dim streetlights, creating misty halos. In the distance, Tanner could hear the clanging of bouys and the occasional moan of foghorns. On their right a long row of vertical pilings stretched down the quai; to their left was the maze of alleys and streets that made up the warehouse district.

“It's number forty-two,” Tanner said, pulling up his collar; he could feel rain trickling down the back of his neck. He suppressed a shiver.

Cahil craned his neck, scanning the warehouse's roof lines. “I'll see if I can find a way up top and get a look around. Usual signals?”

Tanner nodded. “Let's go find our girl.”

Tanner spent forty minutes walking the alleys and streets, familiarizing himself with their nooks and crannies and picking out escape routes. He saw only a handful of people, mostly dock workers and late night revelers using the wharves as a shortcut to the pubs on Avenue Jules Le Guen.

At 11:45 he made his way to Warehouse 42 and took a seat on one of the pilings. Rain glittered in the pools of light cast by the streetlamps. A gust of wind flapped his collar against his face. He heard a soft whistle and looked up. From the warehouse roof, Cahil gave a wave. Briggs felt the tension in his shoulders ease.
Good ol' Bear,
he thought.
Always there.
It was good to have him.

Cahil patted his head three times:
All clear.

Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen.

She's late,
Briggs thought. His imagination began working. He quashed it.
Wait.

At twenty past midnight, Cahil signaled from the rooftop:
Alley,
one person.

As if on cue, down the alley, a garbage can rattled. Tanner heard the faint click of heels on concrete. A diminutive figure emerged from the shadows, paused at the mouth of the alley, then looked first left, then right, then toward Tanner. There was the brief flare of a match and the tip of a cigarette glowed to life. The figure started forward.

As the person passed under the streetlamp, Tanner felt his breath catch. It was a woman, but not Susanna. Eyes heavily blackened with mascara, she had ratty, bottle-blond hair and thick crimson rouge on her cheeks. She was dressed in an oversized black leather jacket and baggy cargo pants.

Looking for a trick,
Tanner thought. He stood up to leave.

The woman reached up to wipe the rain from her face, then tucked her hair behind her ear.

Tanner froze.
Oh,
good god.
He knew that gesture, had seen it a hundred times before.
Susanna.

She glanced nervously down the quai, then strode up to him. She squinted at him for a moment, then turned away.
“Pardon,
”
she said in perfect French. “I thought you were someone else.”

“Susanna.”

She stopped, but didn't turn around. Briggs could see her legs trembling. She turned to face him. Her mascara had begun running down her cheeks. She took a puff on her cigarette, blew out a stream of smoke, then cocked her head, appraising him. Briggs saw no hint of recognition in her eyes.

What happened to you
?
Tanner thought. This was not the Susanna he knew, not by any stretch of his imagination. Gone was the bright and vibrant young woman he remembered; in her place was a grim-faced girl with the eyes of a caged animal. She looked indistinguishable from any one of the prostitutes he and Cahil had seen in Paris's Pigalle.

“Do I know you?” she asked.

“Susanna, it's Briggs.”

She blinked, took another greedy puff from her cigarette. “Briggs.”

“Briggs Tanner.”

She flicked her cigarette away and jammed her hands into her pockets. “What the hell are you doing here? You shouldn't be here.”

Just like that.
No surprise,
no familiarity.
“Your father sent me.”

“My father … I guess that figures. I gotta go—tell him I'm okay.” She turned to leave. Tanner stepped forward and grabbed her elbow. She jerked free and spun on him. “Don't touch me! Understand?
Don't.
!”

Tanner took a step back. “Okay, relax. Stay for a minute—talk to me.”

“I can't. I was supposed to … supposed to meet …” Her words trailed off into a murmur.

“Gunston's dead, Susanna.”

“No he's not.”

“He was murdered in St. Malo two days ago.”

“You're wrong.”

“I was with him.”

She chewed her lip for a moment then pulled out a cigarette and lit it. “Tell me.”

Not now,
Briggs thought.
She's not ready.
“We don't know yet. They asked me to find you. A lot of people are worried about you.”

“They told you what I'm doing?”

“Yes. He's dangerous, Susanna.”

She barked out a laugh; there was no humor in it. “Really? Gosh, that's news.”

“What happened to you? Where have you been?”

“With him … doing my job.”

“You've done enough. Come back with me. I'll take care of Litzman.”

“I'll come back when I'm finished.”

“Susanna, you're in trouble. I know you don't think so, but you've got to trust me—”

“I said
no.
Stay out of my way. I've almost got him. I'm close.”

“To what? What's he up to?”

Susanna glanced at him, her expression puzzled. “Up to?”

Tanner got the impression his question had never crossed her mind before that moment. “Who's he working for? What's he doing for them?”

“I don't know … I'm working on it.”

What the hell is going on
?
“You've been under for nine months, Susanna. What have you been doing?”

“Getting close to him.”

“How?”

She glanced down at her body, gestured to her face. “How do you think?”

Tanner felt like he'd been punched in the stomach. He reached out a hand to her, but she backed up. “Don't.”

“Susanna—”

“Just leave me alone. Go home, tell everyone I'm fine, and let me finish this.”

“What's he done to you?”

“Nothing I didn't let him do. What's it matter? Once I get him, none of it will matter.”

“Yes, it will. I've been where you are. You're in trouble. Let me help you.”

“Don't need it. See you.” She turned and started walking away.

“Susanna.”

She turned. “What?”

“I'm not going to let you go.”

“Yeah? What're you gonna do? Put me over your shoulder, take me home to Daddy?”

Tanner took a step forward, crowding her space. He put an edge to his voice. “If that's what it takes. Either way, you're done.”

She stared back at him for a few seconds. Her eyes began filling with tears. “Don't, Briggs. Please. I can do this—I have to do it. Please … just a few more days.”

“Why, Susanna? What's so important?”

She squeezed her eyes shut, raked her hands through her hair. “What's so important?” she repeated. “You ever think about Bucharest? About my father?”

“Almost every day. What—”

“No, I mean do you ever wonder what really happened?”

“He was shot, you know that. No one ever found—”

“I did,” Susanna replied. “I found him. It was Litzman, Briggs. He's the one.”

“What?”

“Litzman was the one who shot my father. And when this is all over, I'm going to kill the son of a bitch.”

Lancaster,
Pennsylvania

Selmani Hekuran and Amelia Root were dead.

The explosion had strewn pieces of the shack a quarter mile in every direction and left a truck-sized crater in the ground. Vegetation and trees around the crater were charred and stripped bare.

So far all that had been found of Selmani was a blackened chunk of hip bone. Mrs. Root's body, however, had been found floating in the inlet, mostly intact but burned beyond recognition. According to the medical examiner, the hood she'd been wearing was a rayon/polyester blend and the heat of the explosion had virtually melted it to her skull.

Oliver's team was shell-shocked. Having come to rescue a woman they'd never met, they'd nonetheless invested everything they had in securing her safe release. She was dead. They'd failed. A husband had lost his wife.

McBride in particular was heartbroken. He'd been within arm's reach of her. She'd been
right there
—scared, alone, listening to the voice of a stranger pleading for her life …
Her husband is worried.
If I could tell him I'd heard her voice
…

Again and again, McBride replayed his encounter with Selmani, second-guessing his every word and gesture until the incident became a blur. He wanted to go home, hug Libby, call his sons. He wanted to be sure his world was still intact.

Not yet,
he told himself. There was one more thing to do.

After showering, shaving, and changing clothes at Nester's house, McBride drove to Lancaster, thirteen miles to the north. He found the county morgue on the corner of East King and South Broad, tucked between an Irish pub and a pizza parlor. McBride hated morgues. For him, they were places of failure. For him, coming here had always meant a mother, father, husband, or wife wasn't coming home safely.

He found a parking space and got out just as Oliver pulled in. “Get any sleep?” Oliver asked.

“Couple hours,” McBride replied. “You?”

“Nah. Things like this … I don't even try anymore. I spent most of the night at the scene.”

“Did they come up with anything?”

“The device. Ammonium nitrate and diesel fuel residue.”

“Fertilzer bomb.”

“A big one—it was overkill. Either Selmani underestimated, mismeasured, or just plain wanted to make damned sure. They also found a chunk of what looks like a cell phone.”

“What about the others, his partners?”

“That's going to be tough. My guess is, there'll be a task force. This is Jonathan Root we're talking about. They're going to chase these guys to the ends of the earth.”

“I'd like to be in on that.”

“Me, too, but I doubt it'll happen. Nobody's blaming us, but the truth is, we're bad karma now. We'll consult, get debriefed, but the group's gonna be at assistant director level.”

McBride sighed. “I'm sorry, Collin. I keep playing it in my head. Maybe if—”

“You did everything right—
we
did everything right. Selmani panicked and pushed the button.”

“I guess.” McBride glanced at his watch. “How soon?”

“Anytime now. The governor's picking him up personally and driving him over.” Upon hearing of his wife's death, Jonathan Root had demanded to see the body. McBride and Oliver had done their best to dissuade the former DO, but the man had been adamant. “The ME's done his best to make her presentable,” Oliver said, “but I don't think Root realizes how bad it is. It just hasn't registered yet.”

They sat in the waiting room sipping tepid coffee until Root arrived. Preceded by the governor and a ring of bodyguards, the former DCI stepped through the door and looked around. McBride and Oliver stood up. Root walked over.

He looks bewildered,
McBride thought. His eyes were red-rimmed and vacant. It had taken every bit of strength he had to make it here, Joe realized.

“Good morning, Mr. Root,” Oliver said.

“Agent Oliver … Joe.”

“I'm sorry for your loss,” McBride said.

“Thank you.”

“I wish it would have turned out better.”

“As do I. You did your best, both of you. I know that. I'm sure Amelia knew it, too.”

Oh God,
McBride thought. “That's kind of you to say.”

“May I see her now?”

The Lancaster ME stepped forward. “Yes, sir, of course, but as I said, it's not necessary.”

“It is for me … for her, too.” Root lifted his chin, took a deep breath. “Please take me to her.”

McBride winced at his first sight of the sheet-draped corpse. What had once been a living, breathing human being was now a misshapen lump of … nothing. The ME had done his best, of course, but there was no hiding the ravages of the explosion and fire.

Root walked stiffly into the small, windowless viewing room. The walls were painted a soft cream. The only furniture was the stainless-steel gurney. Overhead, a fluorescent light hummed. McBride caught the scent of heavy disinfectant; beneath it, the faint odor of decay.

The ME said, “Mr. Root, it's important you understand the nature of your wife's injuries.”

“Pardon me? It was a fire—”

“Yes, but with an explosion … She's largely intact, but the concussive force … damaged her. She was also wearing a hood, which melted under the heat—”

Root's head dropped. McBride could see his eyes squeezed shut.

“I'm sorry,” the ME murmured. “We've done our best to—”

“I understand. Go ahead, please.”

The ME stepped up, grabbed the edge of the sheet, and drew it down the table.

Amelia Root was charred from head to foot, save a few patches of raw, weeping flesh. She lay curled in a fetal ball, her hands clenched into fists against her chest. Her legs were obviously broken, but the damage was unlike anything McBride had ever seen. The force of the explosion had pulverized the bones, tendons, and ligaments, leaving her legs flattened and tapered like a pair of deflated balloons. Her head was a patchwork of melted rayon and matted and singed hair. Her facial features were obliterated, either rendered smooth where the hood had melted or gnarled by the flames.

Root stared at the corpse for a long ten seconds, then let out a low moan and lowered his head.

The ME covered the body. “We recovered her wedding ring. It's partially melted, but …” He held out a small glassine envelope containing a yellowish oval.

Root blinked at it, then took it. He cleared his throat. “Did she … Did she suffer?”

“No, sir. The explosion would have caused instant death. She never felt a thing. Of course, the autopsy will determine the precise cause of—”

“No,” Root said. “No autopsy. She's been through enough.”

“Sir, it's standard procedure in cases like this. We need to compare dental records—”

“I don't want her put through any more.” Root pulled a card from his shirt pocket and handed it to the ME. “I'd like her transported to that funeral home. The director is expecting your call.”

“I'll be happy to make the arrangements, but the law requires me to conduct an—”

The governor stepped forward. “You're authorized to waive the autopsy and release the body. My authority. I trust you don't have a problem with that?”

“Uh, no, sir. If you authorize it—”

“I do. Make the arrangements.” The governor cupped Root's elbow and led him toward the door. Root paused at the threshold and turned back to McBride and Oliver. “Thank you both. I appreciate everything you did.”

Thirty minutes later, McBride and Oliver were through their second beer at the pub across the street. It was just past noon. Most of the stools were empty. McBride, surprised to find the jukebox well stocked with seventies tunes, had plugged it full of quarters. “Hey Jude” by the Beatles was playing.

“I love this song,” Oliver said, “but it always make me sad.”

McBride stared at his glass. “Yeah, but it's a good sad.”

“I guess. So what do you think about the autopsy thing?”

“I don't know. I might feel the same way if I were him.”

“Me, too.”

“What bothers me is … Ah, hell, never mind.”

“What?”

McBride took a sip. “I was watching Root's face when the ME pulled back the sheet.”

“And?”

“Collin, I've seen dozens of loved ones go through the exact same thing. I've watched mothers who were just told their baby is dead; I've stood face-to-face with fathers suspected of brutalizing and murdering their daughters. If you look close enough—if you know what you're seeing—their eyes will tell you everything.”

“What's your point?”

“I saw something in Root's eyes.”

“Me, too—shock, horror—”

“You were looking at his face. I was looking at his eyes.”

Oliver shifted uncomfortably. He took a gulp of beer. “What'd you see?”

“Relief,” McBride replied. “There was a part of him that was horrified, but there was another part—something I can't pin down—that was … overjoyed.”