Echo of War (19 page)

Corniche,
France

He had two choices, neither of them pleasant, but one less so than the other.

He'd mistaken the lights of Hendaye Plage—which lay five miles to the south, around the Viscaya peninsula—for those of Saint Sebastian. By water he was twelve miles from the Spanish border. Assuming he had the strength for another five-hour swim—which he doubted—the sun would be up by the time he reached Saint Sebastian.

Having assumed the Spanish coast would be heavily patrolled at night by anti-ETA units, Tanner had intended to pick his way ashore under cover of darkness. Strolling out of the waves in broad daylight was certain to land him in the hands of military interrogators, who wouldn't likely be burdened with the finer points of civil rights and due process.

Even so, his chances were worse here. That left one option: Go inland and try to slip across the border while it was still dark.

The street of Corniche were quiet. The homes were cottage style, with dormer windows, slate roofs, and rough-hewn bricks. Most of the shops—which ranged from bakeries and candle makers to a Nokia cell phone distributor—were fronted by canvas awnings in shades of blues and reds. Corniche was, Tanner decided, the essence of quaint; he found himself wishing he had time to linger.

Trying to maintain a generally eastern course, he headed up the main boulevard, then turned up the next side street. He saw a few lighted windows above the streets, but nothing was moving. He kept an unhurried pace—a local out for a stroll—but he was under no illusion: If he were seen up close, his appearance alone would raise suspicion: He was shoeless, soaking wet, and his hair had dried into a wild, salt-encrusted mop. Moreover, he had no identification and his French wasn't good enough to pass muster under prolonged questioning. The sooner he could get out of Corniche and into the foothills of the Pyrenees, the sooner he could find a way across the border.

What had Susanna said?
Trieste,
five days.
What was in Trieste? he wondered. Was the Italian-resort city just another waypoint for Litzman, or was it his ultimate destination?

He turned the comer and saw a figure standing at a telephone booth on the far sidewalk. It wasn't a telephone booth, he realized, but a callbox—a police callbox. New millennium or not, many smaller towns in France still used such boxes for patrol cops. Parked beside the curb was a compact black-and-white Simca.

Wonderful,
Tanner thought. Of all the people he could run into, it had to be a cop.
Keep walking
…
act like you belong.
Maybe Corniche had a healthy population of vagabond beach bums with Tina Turner hair; perhaps the cop—

“Bonjour,
le monsieur
!”
the cop called.
“Arr
ê
tez-vous,
s'il vous plaît.
”
Stop, please.

The tone was polite but firm. Tanner kept walking.

“
Vous devez vous arr
ê
ter
!”

Insistent now,
Tanner thought.
Decide,
Briggs.
Run or bluff it out
?

He stopped and turned.
“Pardon
?”

The cop strolled over, hand resting on the haft of his truncheon. “May I ask where you are going?” he said in French.

“Eh?” Tanner replied.

“Where are you going?”

“I'm trying to find a friend. I think I'm lost.”

“What is his address?”

Tanner named one of the streets he'd just passed.

“You're going in the wrong direction,” the cop replied, his eyes traveling up and down Tanner's body. “Are you well,
monsieur
?
Have you been injured?”

“No, I'm fine, thank you.”

“May I see your identification?”

“Of course,” Tanner replied. He rummaged in his back pocket and pretended to pull something out. He swiveled to his right, as though looking for better light. “I can't see. Do you have a flashlight?”

On instinct, the cop reached toward the flashlight on his belt with his free hand.

Tanner's hand shot up, thumb extended, and jabbed the man in the hollow of his throat. The cop let out a gasp and clutched at his throat while struggling to free his truncheon. Tanner stepped close, palm-butted him in the chin, hooked his heel behind the man's foot, and swept his leg. The man collapsed onto his butt, then rolled onto his side, unconscious.

Tanner crouched beside him, looked around. Nothing was moving; no lights, no sounds. He checked the man's pulse and found it strong and steady; he'd have a headache and a bruised trachea, but he'd survive.

Briggs hefted the man onto his shoulder and waddled across to the Simca. He opened the rear door, dumped the man inside, cuffed his hands behind his back, then shut the door. He collected the man's cap from the sidewalk, tossed it through the window, then turned away.

He stopped. The kernel of an idea formed in his mind. He glanced back at the Simca, mulled over the plan for a few moments, then decided.
Better to ride than walk.
He trotted to the callbox and checked to make sure the cop had removed his key—he had—then climbed into the Simca's front seat, settled the cop's hat on his head, turned on the engine, and pulled away.

He drove west until he found the outskirts of Corniche, then pulled over. In the glovebox he found a road atlas, which he studied until certain of his course; then he drove on. Five minutes and two miles later he pulled onto the D658 and headed southeast until he reached the N10, which he followed to Bariatou, the last French town along the border.

After several missed turns and some backtracking he found a sign pointing to Chemin d'Oundidarre, which took him into the foothills of the Pyrenees. Soon the road turned into a narrow gravel tract. He pulled off the road into a stand of trees and doused the headlights.

The cop was still unconscious in the backseat. Tanner stripped off his uniform and donned it. The cop was shorter than he was and slightly plump, but the fit was close enough. He uncuffed one of the man's hands, rolled him onto the floor, looped the cuff chain around one of the seat supports, and recuffed his other hand.

How much time did he have? Tanner wondered. How long before Corniche police headquarters realized they were missing a man, and how quickly would they sound the alarm?

He was in the heart of Basque-ETA territory now, the area of northern Spain and southern Aquitaine the terrorists called Euskal Herria. The frontier would be patrolled by the French border police, Spain's civil guard, and GAR antiterrorism teams. He had two factors in his favor: First, ETA border crossings involved entire teams, their equipment and vehicles, whereas he was a lone man; and two, the terrain was rugged, which meant patrols were often conducted on foot and far from reinforcements.

If he chose his time and place carefully, he had a chance.

He drove for twenty minutes, following the road as it meandered deeper into the foothills and forests along the border. He passed two French patrols in Laforza SUVs, each time tossing a hand salute out the window and each time getting one in return.

At an ancient cobblestone bridge, he stopped the Simca, got out, took a quick peek over the edge, then climbed back in. He spun the wheel hard over, squeezed through a gap between the bridge's piling and a tree, then shifted into neutral and coasted down the embankment. The Simca jerked to a stop as the front tires sank into the mud on the bank. He doused the headlights.

The cop groaned. His eyes fluttered open. He tried to sit up, but fell back. “You!” he said in French. “What have you done?”

“How are you feeling?” Tanner asked.

“You attacked me! I'm a police officer!”

“I know. How's your head?”

“It hurts, damn you!”

“Apologies.”

“What are you going to do to me?”

“I'm not going to do anything to you.” Tanner climbed out, opened the back door, and began stripping off the uniform—save the boots—and putting his own clothes back on. “I'll let someone know where you are.”

“Why are you doing this?”

Tanner stopped, thought about it. “I already told you: I'm trying to find a friend.”

He started jogging, following the creek southeast, which he assumed was an offshoot of the Bidasoa River, part of the natural border between Spain and France.

After a mile the creek split into three tributaries. Tanner flipped a mental coin, chose the left bank, and kept jogging. The creek continued to widen until, half a mile later, it merged with the Bidasoa. He climbed up the bank, stripped half a dozen branches from the brush, then tucked the ends into his belt so the foliage covered his torso. He waded back into the water until it reached his chest, then stroked out into the channel. The current took hold. He began drifting.

He floated for roughly two miles, then stroked to the opposite shore and crawled out onto a narrow beach headed by a tree-lined berm. To the east, the horizon was brightening into shades of orange. The river gurgled softly at his back.

Suddenly to the north came the chatter of automatic weapons, followed by a few seconds of silence, then more firing. Had either the French or Spanish border forces intercepted an ETA border crossing? Tanner wondered. If so, their timing couldn't have been better. He heard the distant wail of sirens. Downriver a helicopter appeared out of the darkness over the treetops and swept toward him, rotors thumping and navigation lights flashing.

HU-21
Cougar.
Spanish special forces.
For me,
or the ETA
?

He had the sudden urge to scramble back into the water, but he forced himself still.
Hold,
hold
… If the Cougar were here for him, he was caught; running would make no difference. He watched, heart pounding, as the helo thundered overhead, banked sharply, then disappeared around the bend in the river.

He leapt up, sprinted for the berm, dropped to his belly in the trees. Ahead lay a two-lane asphalt road with a yellow centerline.
Civilization,
Briggs thought.

A pair of military jeeps, each carrying half a dozen soldiers, screeched around the next corner, raced past the berm, and disappeared around the next corner. Tanner sprinted down the embankment, across the road, and into the trees beyond.

A quarter mile later he reached another tree line and yet another road, this one a four-lane highway. A sign on the shoulder read, “Autopista 121a/01aberria, 1 km.” An arrow pointed to an off ramp across the highway. Here the traffic was heavier, with clusters of early morning commuters passing every ten seconds or so. Over the treetops Briggs could see the glow of city lights; beyond them, the orange rim of the sun.

He couldn't dash across the road unseen, so he opted for boldness. He stood up, brushed himself off, and straightened his clothes. At the next gap in traffic, he walked down the embankment and trotted across to the median. A Renault buzzed past him; the driver didn't give him a second glance.

He strolled across the remaining two lanes, down the next embankment and into a meadow of knee-high grass across which stood a row of buildings with red tile roofs. When he reached them he found a road lined with shops. He picked the nearest one, a cafe fronted by a dark green awning, and walked over.

The elderly man sweeping the sidewalk smiled.
“Buenos dias,
se
ñ
or.
”

“Buenos dias.
Habla usted Ingles
?”

“Yes, I speak English.” He glanced at Tanner's clothes and hair, then said. “Are you tourist? Are you lost?”

“You could say that. May I use your phone?”

“Of course. And,
senor,
pardon if I insult, but I also have a bathtub.”

Tanner smiled. “No insult,
se
ñ
or.
I accept.”

Trieste,
Italy

McBride and Oliver's plane touched down at Trieste's Ronchi dei Legionari airport shortly after six P.M. local time. They collected their luggage and hailed a cab that took them into Trieste proper, thirty-five kilometers away.

According to Oliver's source—a CIA analyst friend at the Intelligence Directorate's Europe desk—Root's last credit card purchase showed him having checked into the Grand Duchi D'Aosta two days earlier. There had been no activity since, which suggested to McBride he was either using cash or he hadn't left his hotel since his arrival.

Oliver had initially balked at approaching his Langley friend, but his FBI contacts were out of the question. With the Root case now firmly in the hands of the FBI's Criminal Investigative Division, any query involving Root would have brought the wrath of God down on him. Hearing this, the closet cynic in McBride wanted to cry conspiracy, but the truth was the FBI hierarchy was simply protecting Root's legacy. From the White House down, the word was the same: The former DCI has been through enough; find those responsible, but leave the man to his grief.

Nothing beats grief like a hasty trip to Italy,
McBride thought.
What in God's name is Root up to
?
With a little luck and a healthy dose of gall, they might soon find out. If this adventure of theirs proved folly and Root's reasons for being in Trieste proved benign, they could only hope Root would be forgiving. If not … For McBride, the stakes were not as dramatic; Oliver, on the other hand, could find himself fired and charged with God-knew-what by a vengeful FBI.

The taxi dropped them off at the Hotel Italia, which Oliver had selected from the Fodor's guide for its proximity to the downtown area's train stations, taxi hubs, and airport shuttles. “Easier to move about,” he explained.

“Easier to gather our luggage and run home with our tails between our legs.”

“That, too.”

Bracketed by white limestone cliffs and the blue waters of the Adriatic, Trieste's proximity to the Slovenian and Croatian borders—three miles and fifteen miles respectively—made it the last stop between “Continental” Europe and “Slavic” Europe.

Called Tergeste by the Romans who overran it in 178 B.C., Trieste was revived in the latter 1800s by the Austro-Hungarian/Hapsburg Empire, which needed a port to dominate trade in the northern Adriatic. Following World War One and the defeat of the Central Powers, Trieste fell into economic ruin and became a shabby-chic resort for poets, painters, and political extremists, as well as various armies, ranging from the German Wehrmacht to Tito's Yugoslavs. Now, almost fifty years after the post-WWII allies returned it to Italy, Trieste boasted a population of 250,000 and was fast becoming a hub of technology in the borderlands between Europe and the Balkans.

The Hotel Italia's entrance consisted of a modest arched door flanked on either side by a bay window trimmed in bright white and green paint. In halted Italian Oliver told the receptionist who they were.

“Yes,
Signore
Oliver,” the receptionist replied in accented English. “I have reservations for both you and
Signore
McBride.”

They signed in and the receptionist rang for a bellhop who escorted them up to their room, which they found decorated in varying shades of pink and lime green. McBride plopped down on the bed and stared at the walls. “I can already feel a headache coming on.”

Oliver laughed. “Why don't you find out about the local fare; I'm going to rinse off the grime.”

They had a quick bite in a nearby taberna, then strolled about the city center and debated their next move. While neither of them was looking forward to the confrontation with Root, neither saw any reason to put it off. Unless they were willing to stake out Root's hotel until he tipped his hand, the best course was the most direct one: Go to Root, lay out their suspicions, and see where it took them.

The Grand Duchi D'Aosta was a ten-minute walk away. Where their hotel was modest—save the lime and pink room decor—the Duchi D'Aosta was extravagant. Towering over a piazza along the sea front, it was fronted by white Svarto stone, arched doorways and windows, and wrought-iron balconies draped in flowering vines.

They walked through the lobby, boarded the elevator, and took it to the top floor. Root's room was at the end of the hall. McBride knocked on the door. It jerked open.

Jonathan Root, his hair askew and eyes drooping with exhaustion, stood in the threshold. He blinked several times. “Agent Oliver … Joe … What … what are you doing here?”

Oliver replied, “That's the same question we've come to ask you, Mr. Root.”

“Christ. Get in here.”

He shut the door. He brushed past them, strode to the bedside table, touched the phone.

As though making sure it's still there,
McBride thought.
Interesting.

“Explain yourselves,” Root said. Gone was the meek and exhausted old man they'd seen standing in the doorway; in his place was the commanding and unassailable spymaster. “Why are you here?”

“Your attorney told us you were in Belgium,” McBride said. “Why—”

“He was mistaken. Now, if that's all …”

“No, sir, it's not,” Oliver replied. “Tell us why you identified that woman in the Lancaster County Morgue as your wife.”

“What?”

McBride said, “Jonathan, the woman that died in that explosion was wearing fingernail polish. Amelia would no more paint her fingernails than she'd let someone else tend her garden.”

“For god's sake … This is crazy. Go home. Everything's fine.”

“What's everything?” Oliver said.

“Listen, both of you, I appreciate your dedication, but I'd like to be left alone. Go back home and we'll forget this ever—”

Oliver cut him off: “Mr. Root, did you arrange your wife's kidnapping?”

“God, no, I—”

“Her murder?”

“What
?”
Root cried. His hands started shaking. “How dare you! I love—I loved Amelia. I could never hurt her.
Never
!”

McBride caught Root's slip. /
love Amelia.
Love.
Root was involved, but how exactly? The thread of an idea formed in his mind. Could it be? He decided to improvise.

“When did they contact you?” McBride asked.

“What?”

“When did they contact you—before or after the explosion at the shack?”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

McBride cocked his head, watched Root's eyes. Before or after the explosion, it didn't much matter. Either way, the call would explain Root's opposition to the autopsy; he knew the body in the morgue was not his wife's. The question was not
when
they contacted him, but
how.
Within hours of the kidnapping, Root's home and cell phones were tapped and Root himself was under constant surveillance. Or had he been? McBride thought.

Root repeated, “I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“It was the day you went to lunch at your neighbor's—the Crohns, wasn't it? How did it work? The kidnappers called them, told them to invite you. When you got there, they called back. That's it, isn't it?”

“Joe, come on …”

“They tell you about the explosion, tell you to put on a good show and identify the body, then, once things calm down, you're to get on a plane and come here.”

“Joe, you have no idea what you're doing. Let me handle this. If you'd just let me handle it, everything will be—”

“Have they contacted you here?”

“Dammit, you're going to get her killed!”

“Jonathan: Have they contacted you?”

Root exhaled heavily, then nodded. “This morning.”

“Did they let you talk to her?”

“My god, don't you understand? They warned me. If I told anyone, they'd kill her. Why couldn't you just drop it? Oh Christ …” Root began weeping.

Oliver said, “Mr. Root, whoever these people are, they're sophisticated. They've gone to a lot of trouble—the stand-in for your wife, the trail leading to the shack, the explosion … Listen, I've been doing this a long time, and I tell you what I know for sure: There's no way they plan to let either of you live through this. To them, you're loose ends. Whatever they're after, once they get it, you're both dead.”

“I know. God help me, I know all that. I didn't know what else to do. You'd think after thirty years at Langley, I would've been smarter than this, but it was like my brain was fogged over.”

McBride understood. Take the toughest son of a bitch in the world, stick him in a situation where a loved one's in jeopardy and he's powerless to stop it, and everything changes. Even with his own expertise, McBride wasn't sure he would have weathered this any better than Root.

“They were counting on that,” Joe said. “Most professional kidnappers—the ones that do it and get away with it—know as much about human nature as any psychologist. They took your wife, threatened to kill her, offered you a way out, then followed it up with the murder of her stand-in. That's powerful stuff. You can't blame yourself.”

“I just don't know anymore. God, I'm tired.”

Oliver asked him, “Did they set up the next contact time?”

“No, they just told me to stay by the phone.”

“What about the ransom? What're they asking for?”

Root hesitated. “Pardon?”

“The ransom.”

“Oh … uh, twenty million.”

McBride said, “Cash?”

“Uhm, yes—well, in a way. Twenty million in bearer bonds.”

“You have the money here?” he asked.

“No, in a bank.”

“Smart,” Oliver said. “Which one?”

“Banca Triesta.” He looked at McBride and Oliver in turn. “What do we do? We have to get her back. I don't know what I'll do without her.”

“First things first,” Oliver said. “We call Washington. We'll get the Italian police and Interpol involved—”

“No,” Root said.

“What?”

“No police. They were clear about that. They'll know; they'll kill her.”

McBride said, “Jonathan, that's a kidnapper's standard line. Believe me, the Italian cops have forgotten more about kidnapping than most will ever know. They can handle it. We have to call them.”

Root shook his head. “I said no. If you call them, so help me God I'll queer the deal and do it on my own. You can't watch me forever.”

“Why are you doing this?” Oliver asked. “Without the police we've got no chance of getting her back. Do you understand?
No chance.
”

Root cleared his throat, lifted his chin. The indomitable spymaster again. “You can go or stay—help me or not—but I won't change my mind. If we're going to get Amelia back, we do it without the police.”

Olaberria,
Spain

Tanner's call to Holystone immediately put Dutcher on the phone to Sylvia Albrecht at Langley, who in turn started making her own calls. Four hours, a hearty breakfast, and hot bath after walking into the cafe in Olaberria, Tanner was sitting at one of the sidewalk tables with his benefactor, Señor Ivara, when an attaché from the U.S. embassy in Madrid pulled up in a battered red Opel.

“Would you be our wayward tourist?” he said.

“That I am,” Tanner said, standing up and walking over. He extended his hand. “Briggs.”

“Keith Beaumont.”

“Good to meet you. I hate to borrow money on a first date, but I've run a tab with Señor Ivara here.”

“No problem.” Beaumont pulled out his wallet and peeled off about fifty dollars' worth of lira. “The Euro hasn't quite caught on in these parts.”

Ignoring his protestations, Tanner pressed the money into Ivara's palm, shook his hand, then climbed into Beaumont's Opel. As they pulled away, Briggs said, “One more favor: Can I borrow your cell phone?”

“Lemme guess: You're gonna fire your travel agent.”

Tanner laughed. “No, I've got a French
gendarme
to set free before he starves to death.”

The rickety Opel was faster and tougher than it looked, and three hours later they arrived at the embassy. They were met in the lobby by the deputy chief of mission, a woman named Sandra Dorsey. Beaumont excused himself, and Dorsey escorted Tanner to a conference room where another attaché was waiting. “Toby Kirkland,” he said. “Economic Affairs Division.”

One of Sylvia's boys,
Tanner guessed.

Kirkland was probably the CIA's station chief. His official title was merely a placeholder to give him diplomatic immunity should he get caught doing something he shouldn't be doing—though Briggs couldn't imagine what that might be. The last time Langley had anything but a passing interest in Spain was during the Franco regime.

Kirkland turned to Dorsey. “Sandy, would you mind collecting our other guest?”

“Sure.”

She returned two minutes later with Ian Cahil in tow. Laughing, he and Tanner embraced. Bear said, “You look like hell.”

“Nothing a long nap won't fix. How was Marseilles?”

“Enlightening. Walt told me about your excursion. Yet another country we can't set foot in.”

“I wouldn't worry about it. Give it a year and you'll be back at that little
boulangerie
in the Latin Quarter sipping bouillabaisse.”

Cahil laughed. “I think Leland's expecting us.” He turned to Kirkland. “Are we ready, Toby?”

Kirkland nodded and gestured to the phone on the table. “Line one. You're in the tank, so speak freely.” In spook-speak, a “tank” was an electronically shielded room that was swept several times a week and equipped with windows designed to deflect laser-directed optical bugs.