Echo of War (16 page)

Lorient,
France

Tanner heard her words, but they'd come so unexpectedly he couldn't immediately wrap his mind around them. Her seeming obsession with Litzman now made sense. Right or not, Susanna had come to believe Litzman was responsible for the maiming of her father and for tearing their lives apart.

Briggs asked the first question that popped into his head. “Does he know?”

“Of course not.”

“How do you know all this?”

“Because the son of a bitch talked about it, that's how.”

“Explain.”

“About a month after we hooked up, he and his cronies were drinking—sharing war stories. Litzman was talking about a snatch-and-grab job he'd taken in Bucharest. He said just before they moved in he spotted a minder—that's what he called it, a minder. He shot the man. He was ready to finish him off, but changed his mind at the last second.”

“Why?”

Susanna paused, cleared her throat. “He said—and I remember his words exactly—he was feeling generous, so he decided to ‘let the
wichser
off with an old-fashioned crippling.' Those were his words. He was laughing; they were all laughing. They thought it was funny as hell.”

Tanner felt the skin on his arms turn to gooseflesh. “What else?”

“I wanted to get up and rip his face off, but I didn't. God knows how, but I didn't. Over the next month I brought it up a few times. The date, the street, the time of day—everything fits. It was him, Briggs. I'm sure of it.”

And still she stayed on him,
Tanner thought. What must it have been like for her over the past nine months? Not only had she stayed with the man who'd crippled her father, but she'd given herself to him, hoping to uncover what he was up to. Anyone else would have broken by now. The war inside her psyche must have been gut wrenching. She was damaged, Tanner knew. Regardless of the outcome she was going to need help.

“I can't let him get away,” Susanna said. “I won't. I've come too far.”

Gently, slowly, Tanner reached out and laid his hands on her shoulders. She flinched, but didn't back away this time. “Susanna, you're hurting. I know you don't see it, but—”

“Of course I see it. I
feel
it. Every time he touches me, I feel it. Every time he …” Her eyes brimmed with tears. “Briggs, please—”

“I'm taking you home. We'll find another way—”

Susanna shrugged of his hands. “I won't let you take me. I'll fight you every step of the way. You won't get out of the country.”

It was no idle threat. Without her cooperation, he and Cahil had little chance of getting her out of France, especially now that every cop and immigration official from here to Paris was looking for them. Plus, as much as he hated to admit it, there was a part of him that agreed with her: She deserved to see this through.

Even so, there was no way he was going to send her back into the lion's den alone. Nor was he going to let her kill Litzman. The man deserved it—Briggs knew that better than most—but he didn't want that on Susanna's conscience. Movie portrayals notwithstanding, taking a life isn't something you simply shake off like a bad day at the office. Tanner had gone through it himself, and it never got easier. He'd met people who found the act trivial, and they scared the hell out of him. When the time came to finish Karl Litzman, he'd do it himself.

“Okay,” Tanner said. “You win. But we're coming with you.”

“We?”

“Bear's with me.”

“I should have guessed,” she said. “No. Forget it.”

“Either we're coming with you or I'll burn you.”

“What?”

“We found a conduit to Litzman—a supplier,” Briggs lied. “One phone call and he'll know who and what you are.”

“You wouldn't dare.”

“I would and I will. I'm not sending you back alone, Susanna.”

“So that's your plan? You're going to follow me around and play bodyguard?”

“More or less.”

“Christ,” she grumbled. Behind her anger Tanner saw a hint of a smile on her face. In that instant, she looked like the old Susanna. “You're a pain in the ass, you know that?”

“So I've been told. You're my goddaughter; it'd be bad karma for me not to watch over you.”

“I've done pretty well without you so far.”

“True, but now you need help. If it makes you feel any better, when I'm old and gray I'll let you come over and cook and clean for me.”

Susanna laughed. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Is my dad … Is he okay?”

“He's worried about you, but he's okay. He'll be better once he hears you're alive.”

“I couldn't tell him, Briggs. If he'd known what I was doing …”

“I know. You can explain it all when you're home.”

She exhaled and nodded. “I guess I better fill you in. We haven't got much time.”

Wary of being seen together, they followed Cahil's hand signals to an unlocked fire ladder and climbed up to the roof. Susanna and Cahil hugged. Tanner asked him, “Anybody around?”

“No.”

Tanner explained Susanna's suspicions about Litzman, then said, “We've decided on a compromise. We're tagging along with her.”

“Good.”

Tanner turned to Susanna. “First, I need the wheres and whats of what Litzman's been doing since you met him. Do you have any idea what he's up to?”

“No, but it's coming. In the last week they've been busy. He's made a few trips to Marseilles in the last month. I overheard a name…” She paused for a moment. “Zukic, I think. Yeah, that's it: Fikret Zukic. Hard name to forget, actually. I don't know if it's real or an alias.”

“What about stateside?” Cahil asked. “Any trips there? New York, Pennsylvania … ?”

“No, not that I know of.”

Tanner asked, “Where is he now?”

“Here. A couple days ago he chartered a ship—a small freighter called the
Sorgia.
She's anchored off Port Louis right now. I told him I was seasick, so he told me to take the launch ashore and kill some time. I have to be back in …” She glanced at her watch. “Forty minutes.”

“Why?”

“We're leaving, I assume. Where or why, I don't know, but he was adamant about the time. He's on some kind of schedule, that's for certain.”

Susanna's information warranted a change in plans. They would split up. Cahil would go to Marseilles in search of Fikret Zukic. Tanner would stick close to Susanna, either as a stowaway aboard the
Sorgia,
or by shadowing her movements along the freighter's course, whatever that might be. Of these two options, Briggs preferred the former. If Susanna were right about Litzman's job nearing its final phase, the German would be ramping up his security measures, which might make communication problematic. Having finally found her, Tanner was reluctant to let her go again.

He and Bear divided their gear and money between them, said their goodbyes, then parted company. Susanna led Tanner to the end of Quai Bellevue, then down a set of old stone steps. At the bottom was an outboard runabout. They climbed aboard and Tanner cast off the bow line. Susanna cranked the engine to life. Through patches in the fog Tanner could see lights twinkling across the harbor. “How far to the anchorage?”

“About two miles.”

“You can find it in this soup?”

“Haven't you heard? Women make the best navigators. It's the whole intuition thing.”

“I'll remember that next time I need directions,” Tanner replied. “When we're about a quarter mile from the ship, I'll go over the side.”

“The water's pretty cold.”

“Better cold than shot. I doubt they'll invite me aboard. I'll have to find my own way.”

“Have it your way. Hold on.” She shoved the throttle forward.

Fifteen minutes later she throttled back. The runabout coasted to a stop and began wallowing. Crouched beneath the dashboard, Tanner could hear the waves lapping against the hull.

Susanna said, “We're almost there. I can see her mast light.”

“Coast forward until you can see the decks.”

She eased the throttle forward, guiding the boat through the fog for half a minute. “Okay.”

“Anyone on deck?”

“Not that I can see.”

Tanner peeked through the windshield. As Susanna had described it, the
Sorgia
was a squat coastal freighter about eighty feet in length. A loading crane sat perched on the forecastle. Above it, the bridge windows were lit from within. He could see men moving around inside. The afterdeck was stacked high with crates of varying sizes.

The freighter's size and layout left him little choice. It was neither complex enough to offer many hiding places, nor big enough to allow any freedom of movement. His best chance was to stay topside. Not only would contact with Susanna be easier, but if discovered he didn't want to find himself trapped belowdecks.

He explained his plan to her and they settled on a recognition signal. “I'll try to find out where we're headed then come find you,” she said.

“Don't push him too hard. If you're right about the timeline, he's going to be on edge. Try to get a look at the navigation charts; chat up the bridge crew.”

“Got it.”

Tanner crawled to the gunwale, rolled his legs over the side, and lowered himself into the water. He felt the cold envelope him. He gritted his teeth against it.

“Cold?” Susanna asked.

“Not too bad.”

She placed her hands over his. “I almost hate to admit it, but I'm glad you're here. I guess I didn't realize … Sometimes I thought I was going crazy—I'd try to remember things from before all this started and it was … fuzzy. Does that make sense?”

“Yes. You're not going crazy. Hang in there. I'll get you home.”

“Right now, that sounds pretty good.”

Tanner released the gunwale and pushed off the hull. “Get going. I'll be right behind you.”

“Okay.” She settled into the driver's seat, engaged the throttle, and started forward. The runabout faded into the fog. Tanner started swimming.

Gloucester Point, Virginia

McBride would have been perfectly happy to forget his suspicions about Root's reaction at the morgue, but they continued to haunt him—on the highway from Pennsylvania; as he sat through the debriefing at FBI headquarters; on his way home; and now, in the middle of the night as he stared at his bedroom ceiling.

While Oliver hadn't dismissed his impressions, neither had he been encouraging. “People are strange, Joe. She and Root had been married for over fifty years. That kind of loss can do weird things to people. Hell, maybe a small part of Root
was
relieved to have it done with. Maybe he'd already resigned himself to losing her.”

Was he right? McBride wondered. It was true: Human beings were strange beasts. Ask a hundred people how they describe happiness and you get a hundred different answers; the same goes for grief, anger, sadness … More importantly, Root didn't strike him as a man who'd arrange his wife's kidnapping and murder. On the contrary, the former DCI had cherished his wife.

Then why the hell can't you get this out of your head
?
Why couldn't he shake the feeling that Jonathan Root was somehow involved in what had happened to his wife?

At two A.M. he gave up on sleep and went out to the garage, where he tinkered with a chickadee house he was building, until Libby got up for work. He made her coffee and a bowl of cinnamon oatmeal, then sat down to read the paper.

He could feel her staring at him. He lowered the paper. “What?”

She smiled and said, “What's on your mind?”

“Nothing.”

“You're a bad liar, Joe.”

He folded the paper and laid it aside. “This thing with the Roots. I can't figure it out.”

“You did the best you could.”

“I know. It's just …” He hesitated. Did he tell her or not? Not, he decided. Until he settled it one way or another he would keep his mouth shut. “I really thought we were going to get her back.”

“I know,” Libby replied. “You always think that—and you're usually right. You've got a good track record, Joe. Don't forget that.” She downed the rest of her coffee and stood up. “Now give me a kiss; I've gotta go to work.”

McBride filled his thermos with coffee, got in his car, and started driving. He tried to tell himself he was just wandering, but he knew better. He headed north up Highway 17 past Tidemill and Whitemarsh. At Tappahannock he crossed over to 360, then met the ferry at Ophelia and took it across to the Delmarva Penninsula. Three hours after leaving his house he pulled into the Roots' driveway.

As he approached the front door, it opened, revealing a man in a sports coat and sweater vest. “May I help you?” he asked.

“I'm Joe McBride. I'm looking for Mr. Root.”

The man flashed a too-polished smile and extended his hand. “Steve Stanley. I'm the Roots' family attorney. Mr. Root mentioned your name; he's very grateful for everything you did.”

“That's very kind. Is he at home?”

“He's out of town.”

What's this
?
McBride thought. “Pardon me?”

“Mrs. Root had family in Europe. He wanted to tell them in person about her death and bring them back for the memorial service.”

“I didn't realize she had family out of the country. Where?”

Stanley's smile wavered ever so slightly. He scratched his eyebrow. “Belgium.”

“Do you know when he'll be back?”

“No. Is there a message I can relay?”

McBride shook his head. “That's okay. I just wanted to see how he was doing.”

“That's very thoughtful. It was my understanding the case had been handed over to a task force. Are you part of it?”

“No, this is a personal call.”

“I'll be sure to let Mr. Root know you stopped by. If he needs anything, I'm sure he'll call.”

Translation:
Don't call us,
we'll call you,
McBride thought.
Okay,
let's check your geography,
Counselor.
“You know, I have relatives in Belgium myself. Where are Mrs. Root's?”

“I'm not sure. Brussels, I think.”

“Lovely city,” McBride replied. “Well, thanks for your time.”

“Don't mention it.” The door closed.

McBride stood in the driveway for a few moments, not sure what to do next. His eyes roamed around the property, taking mental inventory:
The first guard was found over there,
by the wall
;
another two on the path along the creek
;
the kidnappers used that door to gain entry
…

His eyes fell on Mrs. Root's garden. Weeds had overtaken the zucchini patch, and the tomato plants lay on their sides, their support stakes uprooted. She adored that garden, Root had told him. Despite their wealth, Amelia had insisted on tending it herself, getting her hands dirty, kneading the soil. She'd even kept her own compost heap …

McBride caught himself. He was drifting. He walked back to his car, got in, and drove a hundred yards down the road. He pulled over and stopped. He dialed his cell phone. Oliver answered on the second ring. “Hey, Joe, I was just about to call you.”

“What's up?”

“You first.”

“I just stopped by the Root house. Guess who's out of town?”

“Where'd he go?”

“According to their George Hamilton look-alike attorney, he's in Belgium visiting relatives.”

“Could be,” Oliver said.

“You don't find that curious? The day after he identifies his wife's body he's on a plane out of the country.”

“Maybe … hell, I don't know. How soon can you be at Quantico?”

“An hour.”

“I'll meet you there. We've got something on Selmani's cell phone.”

McBride was met in the lobby and escorted to a conference room where he found Oliver paging through a manila folder. Sitting on the table was a pair of clear evidence bags, a larger one containing bits and pieces of what McBride assumed was Selmani's cell phone; the smaller one held what looked like a thumbnail-sized circuit board.

“What've you got?” McBride asked.

“Right before the explosion, Selmani got a call. The first signal we picked up was 1.9 watts—very weak. It lasted sixteen seconds.”

“Wait a second. You said the
first
signal. Was there—”

“Ten seconds after Selmani disconnected we picked up another signal, this one incoming at 2.1 watts—a little stronger.”

“But the explosion—”

“Right. Selmani never had a chance to answer; the detonation came at almost the exact same moment.” Oliver pointed at the bag containing the circuit. “Know what that is?”

“A potato peeler? It's a circuit of some kind. Beyond that, I don't know.”

“Me neither until our tech people told me. It's a signal converter. Did you know that cell phones are nothing more than very sophisticated radios?”

“No.”

“They are. They transmit radio waves just like walkie-talkies, but they have a wider range of frequencies. Know what else works by radio waves?”

“Tell me.”

“Remote, electronic detonators.”

“Huh? You think someone other than Selmani detonated the bomb?”

Oliver shrugged. “It's just a hunch, but yeah, I do. I think Selmani did exactly what he was told to do: Call the boss when the good guys come charging in, which he does. He hangs up, ten seconds later his phone rings, and then … boom. I think either the boss was worried Selmani would lose his nerve, or Selmani never had control of the bomb in the first place.”

“They wanted to make sure we didn't get her back alive.”

“Her or Selmani—or both. Whichever it is, these are some sophisticated folks we're dealing with. They went to a lot of trouble to set this up.”

“And for what?” McBride replied. “Five million dollars? That's nothing. How do you know about all this? I thought all this had been handed off to the task force.”

“I have sympathetic friends. What's this business with Root? You don't believe the lawyer?”

“I've got no reason not to. The timing just seems odd. Two days ago Root was distraught; he could barely function. Today he's flying halfway across the globe.”

“I admit, it's a little strange, but hell, everybody's strange.”

McBride shoved his hands into his pockets, wandered to the windows and looked out. On the sidewalk below a groundskeeper was planting marigolds. Joe watched the man's hands work the soil, digging holes for each plant, setting the ball into the hole …

Back to gardening,
he thought. What the hell was going on?

The groundskeeper stood up and brushed the dirt from his hands.

Hands
…
Dirty hands.

Unbidden, McBride found himself back at the shack on the Susquehanna. In his mind's eye, he watched Selmani shuffle onto the porch with Amelia Root held before him, his arm wrapped around her waist, her hand dangling by her side, fingers clenching and unclenching—.
Fingers
…

“She tended her own goddamned garden,” he muttered.

“What's that?” Oliver said.

McBride turned. “Root told me his wife insisted on tending her own garden—zucchini, tomatoes, broccoli—all that. She was a practical woman, a homebody. They weren't socialites. Hell, the day of the kidnapping she'd been out until dusk staking up the tomato plants. He said she came inside, they watched a little TV, then went to bed.”

“So?”

“So why did Selmani's hostage have painted and manicured fingernails?”