Echo of War (5 page)

“You're Stephan?” the customer asked.

“Nafed?” the man replied in German-accented English.

“Indeed. I was told you are looking for a boat.”

“That's right.”

“Well, my friend, you've come to the right place—”

“Save the sales pitch. If you supply the right vessel, you'll be well paid.”

Nafed smiled and bowed his head submissively. His newest customer was a giant of a man with fish-belly white skin and a puckered scar on his cheekbone that twisted his eyelid downward.
Here's a face that hasn't seen a smile in years,
Nafed thought.
A very serious,
very dangerous man.
The broker in Sarajevo had told him as much, but Nafed had dismissed the warning. He'd dealt with men from all walks of life, from the very dangerous to the very stupid. But now, looking at the man calling himself Stephan, Nafed reconsidered his attitude. This man, with his dead eyes and Teutonic accent, reeked of violence.

“
Massena beef,
”
Nafed said with a broad smile. “Whatever you wish. We will take a stroll and you shall point out the kind of boat you want. Allah willing, we will find one that suits your needs.”

They spent the next hour walking among the slips in the marina, Stephan pointing out vessels that interested him and Nafed reciting each one's specifications: speed, cruising range, cargo capacity, and, most importantly, availability.

Once they'd accumulated a dozen candidates, they walked to the Hotel Continental and found a table on the terrace overlooking the harbor. Nafed pulled a notebook from the pocket of his robe and began paging through it, making notations as he went. Finally he looked up. “Of the twelve you chose, four would be quite easy to obtain; six difficult but not impossible; two would be out of the question.”

“Why?”

“They are owned by prominent Moroccans—one a politician, the other a staff-level officer in the national Gendarmerie. I have resources, my friend, but I'm not stupid. These are men I will not cross. Let me ask you this: How far do you plan to travel?”

Stephan stared hard at him for a moment, then said, “The Adriatic.”

“I assume you would prefer to make as few fuel stops as possible?”

“Yes.”

“Cargo? Passengers?”

“No cargo you need to worry about. Eight to ten passengers.”

Nafed consulted his notebook again, scribbled a few notes, then nodded. “I
think I have the boat for you.” He reached under his robes and withdrew a pair of compact binoculars. He handed them to Stephan and pointed into the harbor. “Find the
gare du port
on the peninsula road; she sits in the second anchorage from shore.

Stephan tracked the binoculars over the water until he saw the one Nafed had indicated. “I
see it.”

“She's called the
Barak.
Forty-two feet, flying bridge, accommodations for twelve. She can cruise at nineteen knots with a range of thirteen hundred miles. As luck would have it, my sources tell me her owner—has financial troubles. For the right price, I'm sure he would be happy to report her stolen—and even happier to collect the insurance.”

Stephan scanned the yacht for a few more moments, then nodded. “She'll do. I'll need her no later than six days from today. A few days before, I'll send one of my people to make the final arrangements.”

Nafed smiled.
“Massena beef.
Now, let us dispose of the unpleasant business of my fee…”

FBI Headquarters,
Washington,
D.C.

McBride had never liked FBI headquarters.

It wasn't the Hoover itself that bothered him, but rather the connotation he'd come to associate with it: rules, regulations, stolid tradition. In some irrational part of his brain he worried that such conditions might be contagious. As far as he was concerned when it came to hostage negotiation, formulaic thinking tended to get people killed. Whether it starts out that way or not, a kidnapping eventually becomes an emotionally charged event for both kidnappee and kidnapper. Trying to fit that kind of situation into a box rarely worked.

Given the seeds from which he was sprung, Joe wasn't surprised by his independent, slightly rebellious attitude. In fact, his family history was rife with it. According to legend, in the 1850s his great-grandfather was one of the original members of the Robert Emmit Literary Association, the precursor to the Irish Republican Army. During World War Two, a distant cousin working with the French Resistance to smuggle Jews out of the country was captured by the Nazis and summarily executed. On the maternal side of his family, he claimed a long line of relatives in France's Savoie region, where fierce independence—if not downright orneriness—was the regional pastime.

Besides, McBride reminded himself as he walked into the lobby and headed toward the receptionist desk, whenever he walked the Hoover's halls, he could almost feel the implacable gaze of J. Edgar on his back. He absently wondered if they had a file on him stashed in a warehouse somewhere:
In sixties,
subject McBride known to have chased bra-less hippy girls and listened to Jimi Hendrix albums.
Categorize as marginal deviant and continue observation.

“Good morning, sir, can I help you?” the receptionist asked him.

“Joe McBride. I have an appointment.”

The receptionist typed on her keyboard, then nodded. “Yes, sir. I'll need two pieces of identification.” McBride handed over his driver's license and social security card, which were both examined, then photocopied, then handed back. “And sign here, sir.”

McBride signed the clipboard. The receptionist compared his signature with the photocopies, then handed him a visitor's badge. She signaled to one of the blue-suited escorts standing nearby, who walked over. “This way, sir.”

The escort glanced at McBride's badge, then lifted a portable radio to his mouth: “Guest McBride, ninth floor, coming up.”

“Roger, waiting,” came the reply.

That's new,
McBride thought. The last time he'd been here there'd been no lobby escorts, let alone two. Then again, much had changed since 9/11. In hindsight, it seemed ridiculous that such measures hadn't always been pro forma.

When the doors parted on the ninth floor, a second, similarly dressed escort was waiting. He gave McBride a curt nod, said, “This way, sir,” then turned and started down the hall. Halfway down he stopped at the door. “You can go in, sir.”

Through the looking glass again,
Joe.
He took a breath and pushed through the door.

There were eight people milling about the conference room, most of whom McBride recognized: the bureau's director, the attorney general, Collin Oliver, and Charlie Latham, who was sitting at the oval table nursing a cup of coffee. Latham gave him a shrugged smile that seemed to say,
Sorry,
buddy,
then got up and walked over.

“Morning, Joe. How're you doing?”

“Thinking I should make a run for it. Why're you here? Is there a terrorist angle I don't—”

“Nope, but these days you never know. Harry Owens asked me to sit in. Plus, Jonathan Root isn't exactly what you call an everyday citizen. You know everyone here?”

“Most.”

Latham nodded toward each attendee, whispering names as he went. “You probably recognize Len Barber.” He pointed to a bald, middle-aged man with a marathoner's physique. “Unless he gets derailed in confirmation, he'll land Sylvia Albrecht's old spot at the CIA. Across from him is Carolyn Fitzpatrick.”

McBride knew the name. Fitzpatrick was the president's chief of staff, which, according to most Washington pundits, made her the third most powerful person in the capital. “Big fish,” McBride said.

“Unavoidable. Root's name still carries a lot of weight. Love him or hate him, everybody respected the man. You met him?”

McBride nodded. “At the house.”

“How was he?”

“Just like anybody else, Charlie. Scared, numb, frantic … a husband who's worried his wife is dead. That kind of thing tends to be a great leveler.”

“That it does.”

The FBI director walked up. “You're Joe McBride.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Heard a lot of good things about you. I appreciate you coming. I'm sure you're going to be of great help.”

Coming from any other bureaucrat, McBride might have discounted the pep talk, but something in the director's gaze told him the words were genuine. “Let's hope so.”

“I talked to Mr. Root this morning. He likes you—trusts you. That's not something he passes out on a whim.” The director checked his watch, said, “Time to start,” then walked to the head of the conference table.

The rest of the attendees took their seats. McBride found a spot next to Oliver, who leaned over and whispered, “Stick around after we wrap up.”

McBride nodded.

“Okay, folks,” the director began, “we've got a lot of ground to cover, so let's get started. Though I doubt it needs to be said, I'm going to say it anyway: The loop on this investigation is closed. Only those in this room and those you'll find on the distribution list are cleared for what we're going to discuss.

“Special Agent Collin Oliver of the Baltimore field office is heading the investigation for us. He's going to walk us through the details. Agent Oliver?”

Oliver got up and walked to the podium, where he used a remote to dim the lights. A recessed projector beamed an image on the wall. It showed an aerial view of the peninsula on which the Root estate sat. The house, tennis court, and pool were surrounded by the flagstone wall and a windbreak of trees. On the seaward side were the creek and estuary that led into the Chesapeake proper.

“Last night at approximately ten-twenty eastern time, four intruders entered the home of Jonathan and Amelia Root outside Royal Oak, on Maryland's eastern shore. They incapacitated Mr. Root, bound and gagged him, and then left the residence with Ms. Root. According to Mr. Root, from start to finish the operation lasted less than four minutes. The intruders did not speak during the incident.

“At approximately eleven P.M., while walking his dog, a neighbor found a security guard lying semiconscious near the stone wall on the property's eastern perimeter. The first police unit on the scene found the guard had been shot once in the back of the head, with the bullet exiting over his right eye. He was transferred by ambulance to Salisbury Memorial Hospital, where he's in critical condition.

“When backup units arrived, a search of the property was conducted. Three other security guards—a number we now know is standard for the estate—were found dead, each shot in the back of the head. We found impressions in the dirt that indicate each man was made to kneel before being shot.”

“Christ,” Carolyn Fitzpatrick muttered.

Len Barber, the CIA's acting deputy director of intelligence, spoke up. “You said three guards was the standard complement. Why were four on duty?”

“Good question. We're looking into it. Upon entering the house, the police found the Roots' alarm system—which was linked by microwave to a monitoring center in Cambridge—had been bypassed. They found Mr. Root in the upstairs master bedroom, shaken but otherwise uninjured. Upon his release, he informed the police that his wife had been kidnapped.

“There was little physical evidence left at the scene, but we've been able to determine the intruders entered the Root property from the seaward side by boat … here.” Oliver used a laser pointer to indicate a spot on the rocky shoreline. “Once inside the wall, they incapacitated the guards—taking all of them by surprise, it appears—then bypassed the alarm system and entered the house. Though Mr. Root claims to have seen only four intruders, we have reason to believe there were six involved in the operation.”

“What are you basing that on?” asked Len Barber.

“Physical evidence,” Oliver replied.

Barber chuckled. “What, John, don't trust us?”

Oliver smiled back but didn't answer. The FBI director spoke up: “Agent Oliver's following my orders. Go ahead, John.”

“We're still processing the scene, so more evidence might turn up, but I'm not hopeful. This was a professional operation; it was well planned and expertly executed. As of thirty minutes ago, no ransom demands have been received and no contact has been made. In the event that does happen, we've brought in Joe McBride. Joe specializes in hostage negotiation and kidnapping. He's consulted with both the CIA and the Bureau in the past. We've slaved his cell phone to Root's home telephone number as well as Mr. Root's cell phone. If the kidnappers make contact, Joe will hear it in real time.”

Oliver raised the lights and looked around. “Questions?”

“Any idea how the intruders were armed?” asked Len Barber.

“Mr. Root only got a glimpse, but he described the weapons as ‘short-barreled assault rifles.' None of the neighbors reported hearing shots, so we're guessing the weapons were noise-suppressed.”

“That narrows the list, at least.”

“What do we know about these guards?” the director asked.

“They'd been contracted from a company out of Baltimore. Their employees are firearm qualified and heavily screened. With the exception of the guard found alive, all four had been working for the Roots for several years. Two were ex-military, one a retired police officer. The fourth had recently graduated from Wake Forest with a criminal justice degree and had applied to the Maryland State Police. We're digging into each man's background—bank accounts, credit problems, affiliations.”

Carolyn Fitzpatrick asked, “The fourth man, the one that's still alive—do you have anything to suggest he was involved?”

“We're working on it, but my initial impression is no.”

“What do you base that on?”

“Three things: one, the physical evidence at the scene; two, my gut feeling. As I said, this was a professional job. These kind of people don't hire outsiders unless absolutely necessary. And three, the alarm system. Of all the obstacles the intruders faced, that would have been the biggest. If they'd chosen to coopt one of the guards, it would have been to gain access to the house.”

“I'm not following,” said Len Barber.

“The system wasn't disengaged; it was bypassed—basically tricked into believing the house was still secure. Chances are, if one of the guards was involved, the system would have simply been turned off.”

“Unless it's a ruse: One of the guards turns off the system, they bypass it for a red herring, take Ms. Root, and reengage the system on the way out.”

“We checked that,” Oliver replied. “The monitoring center logs each time the system is turned on and off. It was engaged at seven thirty-seven in the evening and stayed that way until we called one of their technicians out at two A.M.”

“Still …”

Oliver nodded. “Which is why we're taking a hard look at the guards. If one of them was involved, it'd be for money, in which case we'll find telltales: odd spending patterns, credit problems that suddenly disappear … But, as I said, I think we're going to find this was an outside job.”

Carolyn Fitzpatrick said, “Which brings up the question, Who are they and what do they want?”

“And why the Roots?” added Charlie Latham. “The kidnappers had to have known who they were dealing with. Why a former DCI? I can't imagine it's money; there are richer targets out there—not to mention less well guarded.”

Bingo,
thought Joe McBride. Latham has just asked
the
question. Though McBride had nothing to support it, his instincts were telling him the kidnapping had everything to do with Jonathan Root's background and nothing to do with money. What was it, then? Information? Root's tenure at the CIA had ended a decade ago; what could he possibly know that would be of interest today? If in fact it was information the kidnappers were after, it had to be something earth-shattering to warrant a gamble like this.

Concentrate on Root,
McBride thought, then scribbled on his pad:
What are they going to ask for,
and what will they really want
?

“Joe, you have something?” asked the director.

McBride glanced up. “Pardon me?”

“You've got a light bulb hanging over your head.”

“Oh … yeah. Most money-driven kidnappers make contact very quickly, usually with a note at the scene or a phone call within hours. Their focus is on getting the money, losing the hostage, and slipping into the woodwork. Charlie said it: This is about Root. If these people are smart enough to mount this kind of operation, they're smart enough to know exactly who they're dealing with and what kind of heat it's going to bring down on them.”

There was silence around the table for a few moments. Len Barber of the CIA said, “We're checking our side of the house right now. Here's the problem: Professionals or not, the kidnappers might have bought into the popular view of DCIs—that they know every secret in the kingdom. Truth is, the need-to-know rule extends all the way to the top; DCIs rarely get down-and-dirty briefings.”

“Explain that,” said Carolyn Fitzpatrick.

“The DCI takes his policy cues from the White House, sets the agenda for the directorates, then turns them loose. How exactly things get done is decided by the deputies, division heads, station chiefs, and ultimately the case officers on the ground. Squeezing Jonathan Root for operational details would be like asking a former Procter and Gamble executive for the chemical formula for toothpaste—he just wouldn't know.”