Echo of War (17 page)

Lorient, France

Tanner drew abreast of the
Sorgia's
beam and stopped
swimming. The swells were rolling heavily, and he could feel the current swirling beneath him. At the
Sorgia's
accommodation ladder a crewman tied off Susanna's runabout, helped her over, then the two of them climbed the ladder and disappeared on deck.

Tanner ducked underwater and swam hard until he felt his hands touch the runabout's hull. He surfaced, peeked over the gunwale to make sure the way was clear, then eased around to the platform and crawled up. He paused, listened. On deck, a man's voice laughed. A hatch banged shut, then silence.

Eyes fixed on the railing above, Tanner pressed himself against the hull and crept up the ladder. A few steps below the deck he paused and poked his head up. The deck was empty. On the bridge a man passed before the windows, then out of view.

Tanner crab-walked the last few steps onto the deck. Fully exposed now, he sprinted aft on cat feet, heading for the nearest stack of crates. He was ten feet from them when a spotlight washed over him. He dropped to his belly.

“
Sie sind zur
ü
ckgekehrt
!”
a voice called from above and behind him. They're back!

Tanner crawled a few feet to his left and scrambled behind the crates.

Off the port beam he heard the grumbling of an outboard engine. It rose in pitch until a speedboat materialized out of the fog and drew alongside the accommodation platform. Four men were aboard: one at the wheel, and three seated around a coffin-sized crate on the deck. The light was too faint for Tanner to make out facial features, but one man stood out from the rest. Standing nearly six and a half feet tall, he had white-blond hair and sickly pale skin.
Karl Litzman.

Tanner watched him, unable to tear his eyes away. He imagined his hands on Susanna and—
Stop,
he commanded himself. Now wasn't the time. He had to concentrate on staying clear of Litzman and his men. If caught, he had no doubt about his fate: a bullet in the back of the head and a burial at sea.

Litzman cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted. A moment later two of the crew came trotting down the ladder. Tanner caught a glimpse of a white cast on the second man's hand—one of their attackers from the Black Boar.
The gang's all here.

On the platform there was a few moments of hand shaking and back slapping. Litzman barked an order. The men stooped down, lifted the crate off the deck, and slid it onto the platform. Judging from their grunts, Tanner guessed the contents weighed several hundred pounds.

“
Beeilen Sie sich
!”
Litzman growled. Hurry yourselves!

With two men at each end of the crate, the group climbed the ladder, maneuvered around the railing, then through the hatch in the superstructure. Litzman crouched beside the boats, cut each one free, waited until they began drifting away, then tossed an object into each. There was a muffled double
crump.
Each boat began settling into the water. Thirty seconds later they slid beneath the waves.

Litzman turned and climbed up the ladder.

After a few minutes of searching the afterdeck, Tanner found a stack of crates that formed a small alcove. Once certain he hadn't missed any telltale gaps, he crawled inside and tried to get comfortable. He was cold and wet and starting to shiver. He wrapped his arms around his calves and curled into a ball.

From the forecastle he heard the whine of a generator starting up, followed by a rumbling as the anchor came up. A voice shouted from the forecastle:
“Alles ist bereit
!”
The deck trembled and then settled into a throbbing rhythm.

Underway,
Tanner thought.

But to where? And what was in the crate?

His alcove blocked much of the wind, but as the
Sorgia
moved first into the Bay of Biscay then into the Atlantic, tendrils of cold air slipped through the crannies and set him shivering again. He tried to concentrate on warm images: a roaring campfire, a steaming cup of coffee … Whether the exercise did anything for his body temperature he wasn't sure, but it occupied his mind.

Some time later—three A.M. by his watch—he heard the clomp of footsteps outside his cave. They paused for a moment, then continued on and faded away, only to return a few minutes later. Tanner lay still, waiting. A voice began whistling; the tune was rough, but recognizable: the theme from
I
Dream of Jeannie.
The signal had been Susanna's choice; as a child, the show had been one of her favorites.

Tanner smiled, then whistled back. A hand appeared through one of the gaps. Tanner gave it a squeeze. “You okay?” he whispered. “Any problems?”

“No, I'm fine. Everyone but the bridge crew is asleep. I brought you something.” Her hand withdrew and the corner of a woolen blanket appeared. “There's a cap in there, too.”

Tanner pulled the blanket through, wrapped himself in the blanket and slipped the knit cap on his head. Almost immediately he felt a flood of warmth course through him. “Thanks, Susanna.”

“I'll try to find you some food, too.”

“Any idea where we're headed?”

“South. I got a look at the chart. Unless I read it wrong, we're headed for the Straights of Gibraltar. I didn't notice anything beyond that.”

Into the Mediterranean,
Tanner thought. “Where are we now?”

“Somewhere off La Baule.”

Tanner tried to visualize France's coastline. They'd traveled roughly fifty miles in four hours, which made the
Sorgia's
cruising speed about twelve knots. “Litzman brought a crate aboard.”

“I saw it. They've got it locked in the forward hold; he's got the only keys.”

“I need to get a look at it. What kind of door to the hold?”

“Most of them are steel, I think,” she replied. “No, that's not right; they're too thin. Aluminum, maybe?”

“Guards?”

“I'll try to find out.”

“I may need some tools.”

“Briggs, I'm starting to get scared. I was scared before but it was fuzzy, like I was watching it all through a camera.”

This was both a good sign and a troubling one, Tanner realized. He'd been through it himself. His sudden appearance in Lorient had jarred her. Reality was slipping back into focus. With it, however, would come an awareness of what she'd gotten herself into. There was little Briggs could do to forestall it.

He reached through the gap and gripped her hand. “It's okay. I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere. We'll get through this. Before you know it, you'll be back home.”

“I hope you're right.”

“I am. You can do this, Susanna.”

“Someone's coming,” she rasped. She pulled her hand free and slipped away.

Just before dawn she returned, shoved a cloth bundle, through the gap, then disappeared again.

Inside the bundle Tanner found a bottle of water, three slices of bread, two apples, and an empty liter bottle he assumed Susanna intended as a latrine. Tanner found himself smiling; this was the Susanna he knew: always thoughtful, always pragmatic. He ate the apple, took a few sips of water, and set the rest aside.

The day passed without incident. Several times he heard footsteps outside his cave and voices speaking in German, but they never lingered for more than a few minutes. By mid-morning the sun had risen high enough that patches of sunlight found their way into the cave. He adjusted his body to take advantage of the warmth and spent the rest of the afternoon dozing and watching the sky pass overhead.

By mid-afternoon they'd been at sea nearly sixteen hours. By his calculations they were probably somewhere off Bordeaux, approaching the northern coast of Spain. A sharp breeze had kicked up and the air seemed warmer.

As darkness fell, Susanna returned. “How are you?” she asked.

“Couldn't be better,” Tanner replied. “Thanks for the supplies.”

“I got a look at the door to the hold. The padlock on it is bigger than my fist. I don't see how you can get through it.”

“That's what I was afraid of.”

“Something else: We're making a stop later tonight. I overheard the captain and Litzman talking. I think we're picking someone up near Saint Sebastian.”

“Any idea who?”

“If I had to guess I'd say Jurgen. Litzman sent him on an errand a few days ago. He's the only one missing.”

“Where'd he go?”

“That much I know: Tangier. I also stole another look at the chart, but there's still nothing marked beyond Gibraltar.”

“That's fine,” Tanner said. “You're doing great.”

“Can I get you anything else?”

“A pillow?”

“I'll try—”

“I'm kidding, Susanna. I'm okay. Worry about taking care of yourself.”

Shortly after midnight, Tanner came awake. The freighter's engines had changed pitch, then died, followed a minute later by the clatter of the anchor chain running out. Above, the sky was clear. He could see a slice of white moon.

In the distance he heard the sound of a motorboat approaching. The engine faded to an idle off the port beam, where it puttered softly for a few minutes before revving up again and speeding away. Footsteps clanged on the accommodation ladder.

“
Willkommen,
Jurgen
!”
Briggs heard, followed by a quick exchange he couldn't follow.

Another voice said,
“Ist es bereit
?”
It's ready?

“Ja,
es ist unten.
”
Yes, it's below.

The conversation tapered off as the men walked away. A hatch slammed shut.

A few minutes later footsteps approached Tanner's cave and stopped. One of the crates shifted. Tanner's heart leapt into his throat. He heard the flick of a lighter, then smelled cigarette smoke. A pair of voices began murmuring in German.

The
Sorgia
began wallowing. Before Tanner could react, an apple slipped from his bundle, rolled across the deck, and slipped through one of the gaps.

“What's that?” a voice said in German.

No,
no,
no
…

“Someone must have dropped it,” the other man replied. “It's yours now.”

“My lucky day.”

Tanner let his breath out.

With a crash, the crates tumbled around him. Tanner found himself staring into the glare of a flashlight. To his right he could make out the tip of a rifle barrel leveled with his head.

“
Stehen Sie auf
!”
voices shouted.
“H
ä
nde hoch
!”

Tanner raised his hands and stood up. From out of the darkness he saw a rifle butt arching toward his head. He tried to duck, but was too slow. He felt himself falling backward. Everything went dark.

Marseilles,
France

Courtesy of Walter Oaken, FedEx, and the all-night internet cafe Cahil used to transmit updated photos of himself back to Holystone, sixteen hours after parting company with Tanner in Lorient, he was armed with a new passport and international driver's license.

He caught the afternoon AOM shuttle from Lorient to Marseilles's Marigane Airport.

Oaken's search for the name Fikret Zukic had turned up only one hit in Marseilles, which didn't surprise Cahil. Aside from the basics—name, address, and nationality (Zukic was a naturalized French citizen, having emigrated from Sarajevo three years earlier)—Oaken found little information on the man. Zukic had no arrest record in either France or Bosnia; he wasn't on any Western intelligence agency's watch list; and he had no credit history.

According to Oaken, Marseilles had a significant Balkan immigrant population, many of whom lived in near-poverty conditions. Several Marseilles neighborhoods well known as enclaves for immigrants bore the names of their home countries: Little Sarajevo, Zagreb City, Ville Tirana. These were tight-knit communities that mixed little with the rest of the city—let alone the police—so for Fikret Zukic to be something of a mystery wasn't surprising.

Oaken arranged for Cahil a meeting with a U.S. naval commander assigned to the consulate's NCIS, or Naval Criminal Investigative Service, which wore a lot of hats for the consulate, including that of counterintelligence. If anyone had a feel for the shadowy side of Marseilles's Balkan community, Oaken explained, it would be this man. How he knew the Navy man or how he'd finagled the meeting, Cahil didn't know. It was, he suspected, yet another example of what Briggs had long ago named the “Walter Oaken Secret Friends Network.”

As Cahil stepped off the jetway, a man standing beside the cordon raised a single finger and gave him a nod. Cahil shook the extended hand. The man said, “Alex?”

The name caught Cahil off guard for a moment before he remembered Oaken had renamed him for the passport. “Right. Thanks for meeting me.”

“No problem. Call me Bob.”

Bob was dressed in blue jeans, a gray sweatshirt, and hiking boots. His hair, Cahil noticed, extended well below his collar. Whatever role Bob played at the NCIS, Bear guessed it rarely involved the wearing of a uniform. “Got any luggage?” Bob asked.

Cahil nodded to his duffel. “Just this.”

“Good, come on. I've got a car waiting.”

Bob drove him into Marseilles proper and parked in the Old Port, near the Panier, a collection of medieval-esque neighborhoods between the Town Hall and the Vieille Charite. As he climbed out of the car, Cahil could see the Panier's tightly packed and colorful houses rising up the hillside, seemingly stacked one on top of the other.

“Some of the brick in there is over three hundred years old,” Bob said as they started walking.

“The streets are narrow.”

“Twenty feet on average. Aside from about an hour on each side of noon, they're in constant shade. Very cozy.”

“And that's where all the Balkan immigrants settle?”

“Not all, but most. Truth be told, the city loves it. Whatever else anyone might say about the immigrants, they know how to take care of their neighborhoods. You get a pothole in the street and the locals have it repaired before the city workers even hear about it.”

They were walking uphill now, the tall houses closing in around them. The streets were crowded with vendors hawking food from hastily erected stands. No one paid them much attention, but Cahil caught a few oblique glances and the occasional smiling nod with a
“Dobar dan.
”
Good day.

“I assume they know we're outsiders?” Cahil asked.

“Oh, yeah. It's nothing official, of course, but there's a network here. Not much happens without word spreading. Don't worry about it; they love tourists. Most of the business here is strictly cash-based, and tourists have plenty of cash.”

“How about crime?”

“Very little. During the day is really the only time this place sees any tourists. At night …” Bob shrugged. “Word has it that a lot of these neighborhoods police themselves. They either deal with the criminal by ad-hoc council, or they turn the accused into the police. In fact, last week a man from Ville Tirana was found lying on the steps of a precinct house. He was bound and gagged with a note taped to his forehead reading, ‘Thief.'”

Cahil chuckled. “Good for them.”

“Other times, it's not so good,” Bob replied. “Rapists and murderers usually just disappear.”

They walked in silence for a few minutes. “Where's Zukic live?” Cahil asked.

“The address Walt gave me is in Little Sarajevo,” Bob replied, pausing at an intersection. He pointed up a winding street of shops and apartment buildings, all painted in faded rainbow shades. “That way. It's easy to get turned around in here. Little Sarajevo is mostly Bosnian, with some Serbs and Croats thrown in. For the most part, they all keep to themselves. They're friendly enough, but you don't see a lot of block parties, if you know what I mean.”

“So I take it there's not much of a Muslim-Christian problem here?”

“Not like back home, that's for sure,” Bob replied. “You get a few street brawls, but nothing major. The last Serb-Bosnian murder was over two years ago.”

“Sounds like they don't care much for politics.”

“Oh, no, they care. It's one of their favorite pastimes, debating everything from U.S. involvement in Bosnia, to the elections in Pristina, to where Milosevic dies.”

“What's the consensus on that one?”

“Surprisingly, most Serbs and Bosnians alike think he'll be cooking. The difference is, Serbs think he's going there because he raised their taxes.” Bob stopped walking and pointed to a peach-colored apartment building across the street. He frowned. “Huh. I'll be damned.”

“What?”

“I didn't recognize the address, but now that I'm here … That building—the one Zukic lives in—also happens to be the headquarters of the
Bihac Istina
—the Bihac Truth. It's one of the more popular dailies here.”

“Bihac?” Cahil repeated. “Isn't that a village in northern Bosnia? Why—”

“It's also where a lot of Bosnians believe the largest mass grave in their country is—over three thousand and counting. Back in ‘they claim a Serbian death squad came in and slaughtered the whole town.”

Cahil grimaced and shook his head. “Is it safe to assume the
Istina
isn't exactly a conservative paper?”

“It's about as militant as they comes. Anti-Serbian, anti-U.S.—anti-anything they see as against Bosnia.”

“What're the chances Zukic's living there is just a coincidence?”

“Slim to none.”

“Maybe Walt got the address wrong.”

“No, I checked it with my local sources. This is the place.”

“So, does the
Istina
just talk tough or—”

“As far as I know, nobody's got anything concrete, but …”

“But what?”

“Don't quote me, but my grapevine says the
Istina's
been spreading its wings: tunneling money, providing safehouses, handling stringer agents—those sorts of things.”

“What's your gut tell you?” Bear asked.

“I say the rumors are true. The
Istina's
about as much a newspaper as I am Irish—and that's only about a quarter. Most of what they do is beneath the surface.”

Interesting turn,
Cahil thought. Litzman's contact-of-choice in Marseilles was neck deep in a militant pro-Bosnian group. Though far from proof of anything, it was perhaps the first inkling of an answer to their “who-what-where” question. The problem was, if Susanna were right and Litzman was close to finishing his job, the “who” of it didn't help them much. If they were going to shut Litzman down, they needed to know the what and where.

Gloucester Point

Joe McBride had broken one of his unbreakable rules.

For as long as he'd been married to Libby he'd never shared any details of the cases he worked. Sure, he talked about them in general terms, but he'd always spared her the nitty-gritty stuff. It wasn't that she couldn't handle it—she'd worked as an ER nurse, after all—but rather his own protective caveman instinct that kept him from sharing.

The Root kidnapping was different. He needed her counsel. If he went through with what he was considering, he would be stepping off a very tall cliff.

Libby listened in silence as he laid out the case, from start to finish. He ended by sharing his admittedly nebulous suspicions. She toyed with her coffee cup for thirty seconds, then said, “What're you saying, Joe? Jonathan Root arranged the kidnapping and murder of his wife?”

“No, that's not the feeling I get. He's involved, though. How exactly, I don't know, but he's up to his neck in it.”

“Did you talk to the FBI—Oliver?”

“He's skeptical, but I don't think he's dismissed it. As far as the bigwigs, the law has been laid down: Aside from chasing down the remaining kidnappers, the case is closed. You know, Jonathan Root has been out of Washington for over a decade, but even today, when he talks, people snap to.”

“Where did his lawyer say he went?”

“Belgium, to break the news to relatives.”

“Could be plausible.”

“I guess.”

Libby sighed. “Well, this much I know: I've worked with a lot of doctors who have almost uncanny intuition. They can just
look
at a patient and know what's wrong with them, and not one of them—not a one—comes even close to having your instincts. Joe, if you've got a bad feeling about this, you can't ignore it. The question is, what do you do? If Root's as powerful as you say, and everybody from the FBI to the White House is watching this, it doesn't leave you much room.”

“I know. First thing's first, I want to find out if he's really in Belgium. If we could check his credit cards—”

“Could you do that?”

“No. Collin could, but he's—”

The doorbell rang. Libby patted his forearm, and walked to the foyer. McBride heard the door open and her say, “Just a minute … Joe, for you.”

McBride walked down the hall. Standing in the foyer, a suitcase sitting beside his feet, was Collin Oliver. His expression was one of equal parts excitement and dread. “Hey, Joe,” he said.

McBride stared at him for a moment, then said, “Lemme guess: Not Belgium?”

“Not Belgium.”

“Where'd he go?”

“Trieste, Italy.”

Joe glanced at Libby, who gave him an indulgent shrug. McBride said, “I'll pack a bag.”

The
Sorgia,
off the coast of northern Spain

Tanner came back to consciousness, his brain slowly piecing together the sounds and smells and sensations around him. Bits of memory flashed across a screen in his mind:
boarding the freighter
…
Litzman coming aboard
…
a crate
…
hiding in his alcove
…
the glare of a flashlight in his eyes
…
a
rifle butt rushing out of the darkness toward his face.

He could hear the lapping of the waves against the hull, could feel the deck rocking beneath him. His forehead throbbed and his eyelids felt caked in … what? Blood, he decided; his own blood. His wrists were bound by rope.

“
Er ist wach,
”
he heard. He's awake.

Briggs felt the tip of a boot nudge his shoulder, followed a moment later by a sharp kick to his ribs. He groaned and forced open his eyes.

Standing above him in a semicircle were six men.

“
Wer Sie sind
?”
Litzman said. Who are you?

Tanner squeezed his eyes shut, opened them again.
No German,
Briggs.
Don't give them anything.
“What?” he rasped. “I don't understand.”

“Wer Sie sind
?”

Tanner shook his head. “I don't …
Nein
.
..
nein Deutsch.
”

“Who are you? Why are you here?”

There wasn't much he could say. At least one of these men was from the group at the Black Boar, so while Litzman probably didn't know who Briggs was, it would be obvious—at least superficially—why he was here. Briggs decided to gamble. There was little chance his story would hold water, but at the very least he could draw suspicion away from Susanna.

“I've been looking for you,” Tanner replied.

“What's your name?”

“Bakken—Sam Bakken”

Litzman glanced at Cast—Tanner's name for the one from the Black Boar—who shrugged. “Why are you looking for me?”

“I want to hire you—
we
want to hire you.”

“Who's we?”

“We're a group in Oregon. We heard you did a job for the ETA … drugs. We want you to do the same thing for us.”

Litzman grinned, but there was none of it in his eyes. They were dead, emotionless. “What kind of group?”

“A militia.”

“And you want drugs so you can sell them for guns?”

“That's right.”

Litzman knelt at Tanner's feet and studied his face. “Stand up,” he said, then extended his hand. Tanner took it. Litzman jerked him to his feet as though he were a rag doll and pushed him backward onto a nearby stool.

Briggs looked around. He was on the
Sorgia's
bridge. Gray moonlight streamed through the windows. In the far corner, above a chart table, glowed a red lamp. Three men—members of the freighter's crew judging by their clothes—stood near the bridge wing hatch watched nervously. Susanna stood beside the helm console. Her face was neutral, but Briggs could see the glimmer of fear in her eyes.