Echo of War (29 page)

Tanner laid the phone aside, stared dumbly at it a moment, then leaned his head back and gulped air.
Susanna
..
. What did it mean? Was Litzman on to her, or in his hurry to leave had he simply been rough with her? He prayed it was the latter. If not, Susanna was already dead.

Dammit,
dammit,
dammit
… He should have been there; should've pulled her out and sent her home. Kestrel was gone, Susanna was gone … Briggs felt things closing in around him. He felt trapped, powerless.

Beside him, the phone was still blinking. He grabbed it and dialed Cahil, who answered immediately: “Where are you?”

“Neumvield See. They're gone.”

“I
figured as much. I think I know where they are.”

“Explain.”

Cahil recounted his movements after they parted ways in Innsbruck. Upon arriving in Trieste he went straight to the Piazetta dead drop. Inside was a note from Susanna: “Overheard L; Svetic here, staying Hotel Abbazia; L men watching, expecting Svetic departure.” Cahil penned a response, then left a chalk mark on the pillar along Rive Tralana.

“From there I went straight to the Abbazia. She was right: Svetic's there with two of his men. Not for long, though.”

“Why?”

“There's a storm brewing here, a bad one judging by the commotion. I trailed them a bit; they ate, did some shopping, then took a taxi to the harbor and booked three tickets on a ferry called the
Aurasina.
It was scheduled to leave tomorrow morning, but they've pushed the departure ahead to midnight.”

“Trying to outrun the storm,” Tanner said. Svetic's choice of transportation made sense, he decided. Svetic wouldn't dare risk Kestrel at a border crossing or an airport checkpoint. Ports had always been and always would be the first choice of smugglers. “Where's it headed?”

“Zadar, Sibenek, Split—”

“That's how he's getting home.” Any one of those ports would put Svetic within fifty miles of the Bosnian border and well within reach of whatever help he needed to make a covert crossing.

“My thought exactly,” Cahil replied. “You remember the description of Svetic we pulled out of Grebo?”

“Yes.”

“He wasn't lying; it was right on the money. Problem is, Risto Svetic isn't Risto Svetic.”

“You've lost me.”

“Svetic may be his real name, but he goes by something different: Trpkova.”

“That can't be, Bear.”

“I was standing five feet from him. It's him.”

In the early and mid-nineties Risto Trpkova was the commander of an ATU, or antiterrorist unit within the Kaznjenicka Bojna, or KB, a Bosnian paramilitary group known better by its later nickname, the Convict's Battalion. Following the disintegration of Yugoslavia, waves of Serbian-backed anti-Muslim violence erupted in Bosnia. To combat this, the Bosnian government organized and dispatched the KB to protect heavily populated Muslim areas. Of all the parties involved, Bosnia alone wanted to maintain the diverse ethnicity of its country, so it recruited into the KB soldiers of all cultural and religious identities, from Eastern Orthodox, to Muslim, to Roman Catholic. Bosnian Serbs and Bosnian Croats served alongside Kosovoans, Macedonians, and Montenegrins. For several years the KB was effective, protecting Muslim enclaves from Serbian attack, intercepting Serbian weapons convoys, and gathering evidence of mass murders and concentration camp atrocities.

In 1995, realizing it had little chance of controlling the KB by force of arms, Serbia changed tactics and reverted to the same tactics it had used to incite its own incursions into Bosnia. Soon reports of KB atrocities began finding their way into the European press. Serbian enclaves were being attacked without provocation by Muslim-led KB units manned by prison inmates whose sentences had been commuted in exchange for their service. Like wild animals, the Convict's Battalion roamed the Bosnian countryside, killing innocent Serbians, raping women and girls, and burning villages. The ruse worked.

Under pressure from the West, the Bosnian government ordered the KB disbanded. Most units complied and soldiers returned to their parent units. A few units refused, went to ground, divided into guerrilla teams, and continued their missions. One of these was commanded by a then little-known colonel named Risto Trpkova. Pressure to apprehend Trpkova mounted. Serbia denounced him as a terrorist, followed soon after by Bulgaria, Germany, and Macedonia.

Trpkova and his unit continued to operate in the highlands of Bosnia, harrassing Serbian forces, disrupting supply lines, and gathering evidence of Serbian “ethnic cleansing.” In July of 1997 a company of French UN peacekeepers was ambushed near Mostar, Bosnia. To a man the company was slaughtered. The first unit to reach the scene was Serbian. Predictably, evidence implicating Trpkova's unit was found.

Two months later the UN's Yugoslavia Tribunal in The Hague indicted Trpkova for crimes against humanity and called for his capture and extradition to stand trial.

Tanner asked Cahil, “How sure are you about this?”

“Very. He's had some work done on his face, but it's him.”

Tanner believed him. Not only was Bear as reliable as the setting sun, but he was even-keeled to a fault. Most importantly, he'd met Risto Trpkova.

Anxious to shore up the Bosnian government and assuming Belgrade was manufacturing evidence against the KB, in 1996 the CIA launched
StrikePlate,
an operation designed to gather evidence supporting claims of Serbian atrocities. Seconded to Langley from Holystone, Cahil had led a team through Albania and into southern Bosnia. After a few month's work, they established contact with Trpkova's unit outside Foca. Before any exchange of intelligence could take place, the situation deteriorated and Trpkova and his unit were forced to flee.

Cahil said, “Briggs, there's one more thing: I tried to keep tabs on Susanna but—”

“She's gone, I know,” Tanner replied, then described the message she'd left him.

“I'm sorry,” Cahil said.

“Not your fault. Have you talked to Leland yet?”

“No.”

“I'll do it. You stay on Trpkova. Keep your distance, Bear.”

“Will do.”

Tanner disconnected and dialed Dutcher's cell phone. “Briggs?”

“Yes.”

“Call land line.”

Tanner redialed Langley's operations center and was transferred directly to Sylvia's office. “You're on speaker-phone,” she said. “Everyone's here. Where are you and what's happening?”

Tanner brought them up to speed, starting with his arrival in Kulm am Zirbitz and ending with Cahil's revelation about Svetic's true identity. “The answer is yes,” Tanner said. “Bear's sure; he's met the man. Where are the Roots?”

“Safe—along with their luggage,” Dutcher replied. “By now they're somewhere over the Atlantic. They'll be landing in six hours. Walt's got a theory you need to hear about.”

“I'm listening.”

Oaken laid out the same scenario he'd given Dutcher and the others: the Serbian SDB's hiring of Litzman; the false trail designed to implicate Svetic and thereby Bosnia; the conference delegates and their trip home aboard the
Aurasina.

Tanner was stunned. It all made sense, it all fit. Things had just gone from bad to worse: Risto Svetic, descendent of the Dark Watch guerrilla leader and fugitive were one and the same. Litzman and the Serbian SDB had chosen their scapegoat well. If the plan succeeded, Svetic/ Trpkova's alleged involvement would be all the catalyst pro-Serbian factions needed to ravage Bosnia. And what of Kestrel? At the very least, Trpkova was a battle-hardened guerrilla who had eluded capture for over a decade; at worst, he was exactly what the Serbians claimed—a terrorist guilty of mass murder. Whatever the truth, it was a safe bet Trpkova had sought out Kestrel as part of a larger plan.

The worst case was unthinkable: Litzman succeeds in sinking the
Aurasina
;
hundreds of people die; Trpkova is blamed and the Balkans descend into war—and behind it all, Kestrel is let loose. The next worst case was little better, if at all: Litzman fails, the
Aurasina
sails on, and Trpkova slips into the hinterlands of Bosnia with Kestrel.

“So Litzman never knew about Kestrel,” Briggs said. “Hell, he might not even know about the Roots, the kidnapping—none of it.”

“Could be,” Dutcher replied. “It's clear Grebo was a mole for the SDB; whether he was planted specifically for this we don't know. Either way, that's what he's been doing for Litzman—acting as a human homing beacon.”

“Letting Litzman stay two steps ahead of Svetic all the way.”

“Exactly,” said Oaken.

Len Barber said, “The question is, Did Litzman know Svetic would be using the
Aurasina
?”

“Doubtful,” Tanner replied. “Its just a happy coincidence for the SDB. All Litzman and SDB needed was Trpkova in Trieste at roughly the same time as the delegates. Litzman's window dressing and Trpkova's name would do the rest. Nobody would doubt he's responsible.”

“This is a goddamned catastrophe in the making,” said George Coates. “There's a thousand ways to lose this and only a couple to win.”

“Then let's find them,” Tanner said. “The ferry leaves at midnight. Unless something changes, Trpkova will be on it. He's heading home, trying to go to ground. We either take him now, or before he gets off the ferry. Do we have any guesses on how Litzman's going to do it?”

Dutcher replied, “Either a bomb already aboard or an attack en route—which I think is the more likely of the two. I doubt he had either the time or opportunity to plant something aboard.”

“I agree,” said Coates.

Sylvia said, “Which makes me wonder about the mystery crate he picked up in Lorient.”

“There's a French naval base there,” Tanner said. “Do they have—”

“Working on it. We're not expecting a quick answer, though. If they're missing something they won't be quick to admit it. The what doesn't matter as much as the where and how.”

“Which brings us back to Litzman,” said Tanner. “You're tracking the
Barak
?
”

“We've had a Lacrosse on her since she arrived in Trieste,” Sylvia said, referring to a Lacrosse radar satellite. Unlike standard imagery satellites, Lacrosse platforms can see through rain, clouds, and camouflage, day or night. “She's headed south. As of ten minutes ago she was coming up on Pula on the tip of the Istrian Peninsula.”

“I need to get ahead of him,” Tanner said. “Whatever he's got planned, he'll have to do it before the
Aurasina
reaches Zadar.”

Oaken said, “Start driving toward Graz. I'll call you with flight arrangements.”

“Wait,” Len Barber said. “Let's slow this down. We're overlooking the most direct solution: Stop the ferry; have the Italian police grab Trpkova.”

“A bad idea,” said Tanner.

“Why?”

“First, that's when he's going to be most on edge; until he's on that ferry and it's underway, he'll be looking for the net to drop on him. Once he's headed home, he'll relax. Secondly, departure's only two hours away. Even if we get the Italians' cooperation, by the time we get done answering all their questions, they won't have enough time to mount an operation worth a damn. The last thing we need is Trpkova in a standoff while he's got his hands on Kestrel.”

“You have a suggestion, Briggs?” Sylvia asked.

“Bear follows Trpkova onto the ferry and keeps tabs on him. I go after Litzman. In the meantime, we've got eight hours to plan a reception before the
Aurasina
reaches Zadar. We take him the moment he steps onto the pier. If he sails on to Sibenek or Split, we do it there. There's one thing I'm sure of: If we try to do this halfway and Trpkova gets wind of it, we're done—Kestrel's out.”

There was silence on the phone for several seconds, then Sylvia said, “Dutch?”

“Better to plan it out than stumble into it. Even if Briggs doesn't catch up to Litzman, we've got Cahil. If worse comes to worst, he can disable the ferry. If not, we get a team to Zadar and wait.”

“George?”

“I agree. We don't have time to bring in the Italians or anyone else. This is on us alone.”

“Okay,” said Sylvia. “That's our plan. Briggs, get moving. Find Litzman; stop him.”

Graz,
Austria

As the
Aurasina
was steaming out of the Gulf of Trieste and turning south along the Istrian Peninsula with her cargo of 800 passengers and 290 passenger vehicles, Tanner was pulling into the parking lot of a small municipal airstrip on the southern edge of Graz. Through the hurricane fence he could see a single hangar. The double doors were open, revealing the pale glow of fluorescent lights.

Briggs climbed out of the Mercedes, shoved the keys under the seat, then locked and closed the door. He checked his watch; he had a few minutes. He dialed Cahil. Dutcher had called Cahil with orders to follow Trpkova aboard the
Aurasina,
but had told him nothing else.

“Hello,” Cahil answered. His voice sounded distant; static hissed in the background.

“How's your weather?” Tanner asked.

“Lousy, leaning toward crappy. The waves are running about six feet with heavy wind. It hasn't started raining yet, but it's coming.”

“Didn't I warn you about stowing away on strange boats?”

“I'm passive-aggressive.”

“Where's our friend?”

“Stateroom 3-B-19, safe and snug. Where are you and where're you headed?”

“Graz, about to catch the flight Oaks cobbled together for me; I'm headed into Croatia. Sylvia's working on having a helo waiting for me in Rijeka,” Tanner replied. The timing would be dicey, since the helicopter would likely come from the remains of the U.S. Army's Joint Forge bases at either Zagreb or Rimini, Italy. Whether Sylvia could get the unquestioned cooperation from European Command was yet to be seen.

“And while you're sightseeing, what am I doing?” Cahil asked.

Tanner explained the rest of the plan. “Best case, I stop Litzman and they grab Trpkova in Zadar. Worst case, I fail, it all goes to hell, and you'll have to find a way to stop the ferry.”

“No problem,” Bear said. “I'll start—” His voice was lost in static.

“Say that again,” Tanner called. “I lost you for a second.”

“I said, I'll start looking for my monkey wrench. How're you going to find the
Barak
?
It's a small boat in a big damned ocean.”

“Luck and a Lacrosse. Listen, Bear, we've got no idea what Trpkova's got planned for Kestrel, or how stable he is. If you recognized him, he may recognize you. Stay away from him and don't take any chances—”

“I won't if you won't.”

“Deal.”

“Besides, if he pulls the cork, where am I going to hide? Briggs, I hope you find Susanna.”

Whatever it takes,
Tanner thought.
And if she's
…
Tanner caught himself before he could finish the thought. “I'll find her. Take care of yourself, Bear. I'll be seeing you.”

Tanner disconnected, then walked to the hanger. Inside he found a man in blue coveralls kneeling beneath the engine cowling of a single-engine Cessna Skyhawk. Bright yellow letters on its door proclaimed: “Goeben & Goeben Cargo Air.”

“Hi there,” Tanner said.

The man glanced at him, then stood up and turned around. He had white-blond hair and wore a patch over his left eye. “Dan Watts?” he asked in an American southern accent.

“Yes.”

“You're lucky. I don't usually take passengers, but your office manager had a deep checkbook.”

“He's a resourceful fella. I can't help but notice you're not Austrian.”

“Born and raised in Houma, Louisiana. Name's Filmore Gaines; call me Bud. A couple years ago me and the IRS had a little disagreement, so I came over here for a vacation. You got a problem with that?”

“Are you a decent pilot?”

“Damn right.”

“Then, no.”

“Let's get moving. And before you ask—most people do—the answer's yes, I can fly just fine with one eye—as long as it's daytime, that is.” Tanner glanced at the blackness beyond the doors, then back at Gaines and opened his mouth to speak, but Gaines cut him off. “A joke, just a joke. Damn I love that. Never get tired of seeing that look on people's faces. Okay, get aboard.”

Twenty minutes later they were crossing the border into Slovenian airspace. As though they had passed into another world, Tanner watched the sky go from clear to overcast. North of them a line of black, flat bottom clouds lay like a wall over Bosnia. Every few seconds the clouds pulsed with lightning.

Gaines checked in with Maribor control, which vectored him south toward Celje. As the Cessna banked over, a sudden gust of wind caught them broadside and flipped the wing up; Gaines corrected and leveled off.

“Damned
bora,
”
he muttered.

“What's that?” Tanner asked.

“One of the names for the hundred kinds of winds they got here. During the summer the
bora
blows down from the Dinarics in corridors—usually seven of them. We just passed into the Balkony Corridor.”

Tanner could feel the Cessna shuddering; wind whistled through gaps in the window's weather seals. He gripped the armrests tighter. “Is this going to last all the way to Rijeka?”

“Gets a little worse, actually. Relax, I've made this run hundreds of times.”

“In how many planes?”

“This'll be the fourth; the first three are down there somewhere,” Gaines said, then jerked his thumb toward the darkness.

Tanner stared at him. “Another joke?”

“Yeah. As long as we don't get any shear, we'll be fine. In fact, with this kind of tail wind, I'll get you there ahead of schedule.”

Tanner checked his watch and made some mental calculations. The
Aurasina
would be well down the Istrian by now, perhaps as far as Rovinj—moving closer to Litzman and the
Barak
with every passing mile.

North of Ljubliana Tanner's SAT phone trilled. It was Dutcher: “You might be on your own,” he said, his voice chopped with static. “Zagreb's helos are grounded by high winds.”

“The
bora,
”
Tanner said. “I'm in the middle of it right now.”

“Rimini said they'll try, but their weather's worse still. Evidently4this storm is something of an aberration, a once-in-a-decade confluence. The base commander's got a couple Blackhawks standing by on the tarmac. If they get a break, they're going to lift off. No guarantees, though.”

“I understand,” Tanner replied. Abruptly, an idea occurred to him. He glanced at Gaines, who was hunched over the wheel, his one good eye screwed into a squint. “Where's the
Barak
?”

“The Karvner Gulf, steaming south about twelve miles north of an island called Unije,” Dutcher replied.

“Where's the nearest airfield from Rijek?”

“Stand by,” Dutcher said. He came back in twenty seconds: “Losinj island, fifty miles to the southwest and eight miles from Unije.”

“I might have a solution. Have Sylvia call the Op Center and tell them to stand by for a call from a man named Bud Gaines.”

Gaines muttered, “Huh? You say something?”

“Who's Bud Gaines?” Dutcher asked.

“The man who's going to save the day, I hope.”

Tanner disconnected then turned to Gaines. “What kind of IRS problems do you have?”

“Why?”

“Tell me.”

“I owe a little back taxes. The auditors didn't agree with my bookkeeping.”

“How much?”

“Forty thousand.”

“What would you say if I told you I could make that go away?”

“I'd say you're full of crap,” said Gaines, then glanced at him. “Are you?”

“No.”

“What would I have to do?”

“I've got a friend on a boat somewhere in the Adriatic. She's in trouble—”

“Call the Croatian Navy.”

“It's beyond that now. If you can get me to the airstrip on Losinj, I'll have a fighting chance to reach her.”

“Lemme get this straight. I fly you an extra fifty miles and you fix my IRS quandary?”

“Fifty miles and a boat,” Briggs corrected. “I need a boat.”

Gaines thought for a moment “Maybe.”

“Maybe's not good enough.”

“How do I know you're not shining me on? I need some kind of proof—”

“Give me the wheel.”

“What! You can't fly!”

“Not as well as you, but well enough to keep us airborne. I'm going to fly; you're going to call for your proof.” Tanner handed him the sat phone; Gaines hesitated, then took it. “Hold tight, the wind's pushing us to port. Tanner grabbed the yoke and nodded. Gaines asked, “Who am I calling?”

“The CIA,” Tanner replied, then recited the number. “Give them your name and ask for Sylvia Albrecht.”

“That name sounds familiar.”

“It should. She runs the place.”

Gaines dialed the number, waited, then said, “Uh, yeah, Bud Gaines for Sylvia … Albrecht.” Ten seconds passed, then he said, “Yes, ma'am. Yes, he is, hold on.”

Tanner exchanged the yoke for the phone. “Sylvia, Bud's got a problem and so do we. If we fix his, he'll fix ours,” Briggs said, then explained the situation. “Can you make it happen?”

Sylvia snorted. “If he can get you to the
Barak,
I'll pay it off myself. Hell, yes, I can make it happen. Put him back on.”

Tanner held the phone up to Gaines's ear, and he listened for a moment, muttered a string of uh-huhs and yes, ma'ams, then finally said, “Whatever you say. I'll get him there; you have my word.”

Tanner took the phone back. “Done?”

“Done,” Sylvia said.

“I'll call you when I'm on the ground. I'll need steering to the
Barak.
”

Tanner disconnected and glanced at Gaines. “You'll be back in Houma before the week is out.”

Gaines shook his head in disbelief. “I'll be damned. Hold on to something, I'm gonna try to pick up some speed.”