Echo of War (21 page)

Trieste

Shortly before noon two days later the
Barak
sailed around the headland at Piran and into the harbor. Long and sharp-stemmed like the racing yachts around her, the
Barak
stood out in Tanner's binoculars by what she lacked: sails. He scanned the decks, but saw no sign of either Susanna or Litzman, only crewman—two of whom he recognized from the
Sorgia
—hurrying about on deck.

The
Barak
drew even with Rive Tralana, the road bordering the spectator docks, and dropped anchor. Within minutes she was surrounded by three water taxis—dories with bench seating and long-shafted outboard motors.

A man appeared on the
Barak's
deck. The cast on his hand immediately identified him as Gunter. He pointed to the nearest dory, then dismissed the others with a wave. The chosen taxi drew alongside and lines were tossed over the rails and secured.

Susanna walked out the aft door of the cabin. She wore a bright yellow summer dress and sandals. Tanner zoomed in on her face. A piece of white tape lay across the bridge of her nose and beneath each eye was a crescent-shaped bruise.

Tanner felt a pang in his chest, then thought,
It might've kept her alive.

Accompanied by a pair of Litzman's men, she climbed into the dory and took her seat. The taxi cast off, came about, and began heading toward shore.

Tanner reached for his phone and called Cahil, who arrived five minutes later. The dory was still waiting its turn to dock at the spectator pier. Cahil peered through the binoculars. “Just two escorts?”

“Yes.”

With plenty of time on their hands over the past two days, they'd come up with several plans for making contact with Susanna. That Litzman had ordered her escorted was unsurprising. At this late stage in the job—whatever that was—he was taking no chances.

“Let's use that boutique on Via Rossi,” Tanner said. “You find the messenger, I'll get a head start. It's a safe bet her escorts would recognize me.”

Having changed into his planter's hat, dark sunglasses, and Bermuda shorts, Tanner strolled up the street from the wharf, stopping frequently to snap a photo and check on Cahil's progress.

As Susanna and her escorts—one of which he now recognized as Jurgen—climbed from the dory onto the pier, Cahil took up position behind them. Susanna walked up Via Cesare, stopping occasionally to peer into shop windows as her escorts loitered a few feet away.

Briggs saw Cahil gesture to someone across the street. A young boy of eight or nine scampered over. Cahil whispered to him, then pressed something into his hand. The boy sprinted down the street, then across to the opposite sidewalk, from where he came trotting back. Drawing even with Susanna he stopped and began tugging at the hem of her dress. “Money,
signorina,
please?” Pleadingly he clutched at her hands. “Please, pretty
signorina
…
”

Jurgen stepped forward to shoo the boy away.

“Ah, pretty
signorina,
please …,” he said once more, then ran off.

Up the street Tanner watched through his camera's viewfinder. Susanna covertly unfolded the note, read it, then stuck it into her pocket. She turned, said something to Jurgen, then started across the street with the two Germans in tow.

Walking fast now, Tanner got well ahead of them and turned onto Via Rossi. In the middle of the street he found the unisex clothing boutique he and Cahil had scouted the previous day. He pushed through the door.

At the tinkle of the bell, a young woman with jet black hair and pink hoop earrings walked over. “May I help you, sir?” she said in Italian.

“No, thank you, just looking.”

Tanner wandered the racks, selected several pair of shorts, then strolled back toward the fitting rooms. Through the front window he saw Susanna approach the door. She turned and said something to Jurgen, who shook his head. They went back and forth, Susanna gesturing angrily, until Jurgen shrugged. She pushed through the door.

Tanner stepped into the booth and closed the door, but left it unlatched. He hung his planter's hat on the hook so the brim was visible over the top of the door, then dropped the shorts in a pile on the floor, covering his sandals and ankles.

A minute later Susanna slipped into the booth carrying a couple scarves and a hat. She shut the door and locked it. Without a word she took off her sunglasses, fell into Tanner's arms, and lay her head against his chest. He could feel her trembling. She leaned back and brushed at her cheeks. “I thought you were dead,” she whispered. “There was so much shooting. Are you okay?”

“Just a little scuffed up.” He held her face in his hands and studied her bruises. “I'm sorry, Susanna. Does it hurt?”

She smiled back. “Of course it hurts; you broke my nose, for God's sake. It worked, though. No one gave me a second glance.”

“What about your escorts?”

“They've done that before. It's nothing. If something wasn't right I would've felt a vibe. Believe me, I've lived on my wits with this group for nine months.”

Tanner nodded. “How're you feeling?”

“I want this to be over, Briggs.”

“I know you do. Say the word and I'll have you on a plane this afternoon. Bear and I can handle Litzman.”

“We're back to this again? I already told you: I'm staying.”

“Stubborn like your father.”

“Stubborn like you—that's what he used to say.”

“What can you tell me?” Tanner said. “We found the
Sorgia,
but we don't know any details.”

“They killed the crew, didn't they?”

“Yes.”

“Those poor men. The
Barak
met us just outside Tangier harbor and we all ferried over except for Jurgen and Hans. They came a few minutes later. I wondered what they were doing … something felt wrong about it. God, I want to get away from these people. I feel like I'm covered in this layer of ..
.
filth
that'll never come off.”

“Before you know it, you'll be home safe. All this will fade.”

“We'll
be home, you mean.”

Tanner smiled. “Right. Anything else you can tell me?”

“I overheard a name, one I hadn't heard before: Svetic.”

Another Bosnian surname,
Tanner thought. Could this one be part of the Root kidnapping team? Briggs had decided to keep the kidnapping from Susanna; she had enough to worry about without adding a tangent he wasn't even sure about himself. “Litzman's been talking to this man—Svetic?”

“No, that's not the feeling I get. I get bits and pieces … random snatches of conversations—rarely anything solid. A lot of this is gut feeling on my part.”

“Go on.”

“I have the feeling Litzman doesn't really
know
Svetic,” Susanna said. “If he does, they're not close. When they've talked about him, it's somehow distant … unfamiliar.”

“How so?”

“For one thing, they use the formal version of ‘he' and ‘him.'”

That was significant, Tanner realized. The German language is fussy about personal pronouns, using different forms of “he” or “she” for strangers and friends.

“What about the crate?” Briggs asked her. “Is it still aboard?”

“It was, but now I'm not sure. We took a detour, I think somewhere south of here. Litzman told me to stay in my cabin. When we started north again, the crate was gone.”

Litzman had either delivered it to someone, or left it somewhere for later pickup. “Do you have any idea if this is his last stop?”

“No.”

Tanner asked, “We think he's been talking to someone in Austria. Could it be Svetic?”

Susanna shrugged. “Maybe. I don't know. I'm sorry.”

They talked for a few more minutes, then discussed methods of communication, meeting places, and how they would signal her: a red chalk mark on a pillar along Rive Tralana. “You'll be able to see it from the afterdeck,” Tanner said. “One diagonal line for a meeting; two vertical for the dead drop.”

“Got it.”

“One of us will try to keep an eye on the
Barak
when you're aboard. If you go ashore, make your first stop one of the meeting sites. One of us will be there.”

She nodded.

He grasped her shoulders and stared into her eyes. “You're okay?”

She smiled, and again he saw the bright and warm Susanna of old. “Stop mothering me. I better go.” She held up the scarves. “Which one?”

“The blue. It's your color.”

“Good choice.” She kissed him on the cheek and went out.

Tanner waited until she'd paid for the scarf and disappeared down the sidewalk. As planned, he and Cahil met two blocks away at a corner
pasada.
He recounted the meeting.

Cahil said, “Svetic, huh? Yet another cast member in our little drama. I'm thinking it's time we have a chat with Jonathan Root.”

“You read my mind.”

They returned to the
Italia
, collected McBride and Oliver, then walked separately to the Grand Duchi. Outside Root's room Tanner stopped and turned to McBride and Oliver. “We're running out of time, so I may have to push him.”

“You think he's holding something back?” Oliver asked.

“Up until a few days ago, Root had been playing a shell game not only with you, but with the FBI. He's been living on nerve, desperation, and pretense since the kidnappers contacted him. He's also a retired spook. All this stuff—it's what he did for a living.”

McBride said, “You can take the spy out of the business, but not the business out of the spy?”

Tanner nodded. “If there's a connection between Litzman and his wife's kidnappers, the sooner we find that out, the better chance we have of dealing with it.”

Both Oliver and McBride nodded. “One warning,” McBride said. “He's wired tight. Be careful how and where you push, or it might backfire.”

“Understood.”

McBride knocked and Root opened the door. He looked apprehensively at Tanner and Cahil. “They've come to help,” McBride said, then made the introductions. “Can we talk inside?”

Root led them to the suite's sitting room. It was painted in faux finish tones of amber and cream, with heavy brocade drapes, overstuffed chenille chairs, and an Eames rosewood coffee table.

Once everyone was seated, Tanner said, “Leland Dutcher asked me to send his regards.”

Root was unshaven, his face lined with exhaustion, but hearing Dutcher's name, his expression brightened. “You're one of Dutch's?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then, you can't be all bad.”

Tanner smiled back. “I hope you think so in a few minutes.”

“Pardon me?”

“Mr. Root, what you're going through right now probably feels like a nightmare. I understand that. Whatever happens, you have my word we're going to do what we can to get your wife back.”

“I appreciate that.”

“The problem is, her kidnapping may be a part of something bigger.”

“How so?”

“Before I answer that, I'd like to ask you some questions.”

“I've already told Joe and Collin everything I know.”

“Humor me.”

Root shrugged. “Go ahead.”

Briggs took a few moments to gather his thoughts. Working mostly in the dark, he would have only Root's responses and reactions to guide him. “Do you know a man named Stephan Bolz?”

“No.”

“When was the last time you went to France?”

“What? France? I don't know … ten, fifteen years ago.”

“How about Bosnia?”

Root frowned, thinking. He leaned back in the chair and clasped his hands in his lap.
Something,
Tanner thought. Root said, “It would've been back in the eighties while I was still at Langley.”

“Do you have any regular contact with anyone from Bosnia?”

“No.”

“Croatia? Serbia?”

“No.”

“Have you ever heard the name Karl Litzman?” Tanner asked.

“Yes … yes, I think so. His name came across my desk a few times. Who is he?”

“He's German—former Russian Spetsnaz.”

“Yes … that's right. Freelance, wasn't he?”

“Still is,” Tanner replied. “How much money did the kidnappers ask for?”

“Why do I get the feeling I'm being interrogated?”

“Please answer my question.”

“Twenty million dollars in bearer bonds.”

“Do you have that kind of money?”

“Yes.”

“Where did you get it?”

“That's none of your business.”

“It's my understanding Selmani asked for five million, not twenty.”

“I can't explain that. Joe said he was probably a patsy. Maybe he got confused.”

“Mr. Root, I've done a little checking. The truth is, you don't have twenty million dollars.” This was a lie, but as with most of the questions, Tanner was more interested in Root's body language than his words.

“You're wrong,” Root snapped.

“How many times have the kidnappers made contact?”

“Here?”

“Yes.”

“Once.”

“You're sure it wasn't twice?”

“I'm sure.”

That's the truth,
Tanner thought. “Do you know a man named Svetic?”

Root pursed his lips, thinking. He unfolded his hands, refolded them. “I don't think so.”

“You're sure.”

“Yes.”

There it was, Tanner thought. Faced with a name he didn't recognize, someone Tanner was pushing, Root, the desperate husband, should have asked the question:
This man Svetic
…
you think he's involved in my wife's kidnapping
?

“Think about it,” Tanner said. “Be careful with your answer. You're sure you've never heard of, or met, or talked to a man named Svetic?”