Echo of War

25

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.

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.”

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.

He forced himself to look away. Not a word, Susanna. Regardless of what happened here, if he could keep her alive, Bear would find her.

Using his index finger Litzman reached out and tipped Tanner’s head to the side, studying the cut on his cheekbone. He turned to Cast and said, “Ist dies das eine?” Is this the one?

Cast nodded. “Ja.” He held up his hand for Tanner to see. “I don’t forget.”

“So, Mr. Bakken,” Litzman said, “you are with a militia group who wants to hire me.”

“That’s right.”

“And you thought the best way to meet me was by stowing away aboard my ship.”

Tanner shrugged, didn’t answer.

Litzman said, “Yes, no?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Too bad for you.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Even if I believed you — which I don’t — you’ve picked the wrong time and wrong place.” Litzman turned to Cast. “Gunter, take him on deck, kill him, toss him overboard.”

They dragged him down the udder to the afterdeck. Litzman and Susanna trailed behind. Her eyes, desperate and brimming with tears, were fixed on Tanner’s. His heart pounded in his chest; he could hear the rush of blood in his ears. They’re going to kill you, Briggs. How long to live? He’d been in this position before, but no matter how many times he’d lived it or imagined it, the reality of it was overwhelming. Shot dead and rolled overboard like garbage. Nothing magnificent or spectacular or dignified. Just dead. He felt a ball of nausea surge into his throat He clenched his jaw and swallowed it. She’ll be okay, he told himself. Bear will catch up with her, get her away from Litzman, and take her home to Gill.

When they reached the fantail they shoved him belly-first to the deck. A booted foot pressed his face against the steel. Footsteps scuffed as the others backed away. In his peripheral vision he could see their boots, a circle of faceless witnesses.

It would’ve been better to die among friends … family, Briggs thought idly. Abruptly he felt a wave of calm wash over him. It’s okay … okay. It would happen fast.

Above him came the click-clack of a gun’s slide being drawn back. He rotated his eye upward and saw the barrel descending toward his temple. He took a deep breath, let it out. He closed his eyes.

“Wait!” Susanna shouted.

Tanner opened his eyes. The barrel hovered over his temple.

No, don’t, Susanna, he thought. Let it go. Goddammit, don’t—

“Karl, stop him!” Susanna barked. Now her voice had changed: sharp, commanding.

Back into character, the twisted and grim girlfriend.

“Why?” Litzman said.

“You promised me. You said I could do it someday, that you’d let me. This is the perfect chance.”

“No.”

“We’re out in the middle of nowhere; nobody knows he’s here. It’s perfect. He disappears — the end. You promised me, Karl. Let me do it.”

There were five seconds of silence, then he said, “Gunter, let him up. Give her the gun.”

“Nein! He’s mine! Look at what he did to my arm—”

“I said, let him up!”

“Scheisse!”

Gunter’s boot lifted from Tanner’s neck. Briggs rolled onto his back and saw Gunter handing the gun to Susanna. She turned it over in her hands, staring at it as though hypnotized. “It’s heavy,” she said.

Tanner watched her. Her face, her voice, the way she carried herself — all of it was distinctly not Susanna. To save him she’d let herself slip back into the nightmare.

Litzman said to her, “The safety is by your thumb. Flip it so the red dot shows and you’re ready to shoot.”

“How? Where do I …”

“Put him on his knees. Aim for the back of the head. Careful not to get too close.”

“Why?”

“It won’t be neat, Susanna. This isn’t like one of your Hollywood movies. There will be blood.”

She glanced at him. “Really? His brains and blood and stuff?”

“If you’re having second thoughts—”

“No, no, I want to.” She hefted the gun in her hand, then pointed it at the horizon and squinted down the barrel to the sight. She lowered the gun and asked Litzman, “Shouldn’t I do it at the rail? It’ll be easier to throw him over afterward, right?”

“Whatever you prefer. Gunter, take him to the rail—”

“No,” Susanna said. “I want to do it. I’ll do it.”

Using her free hand, she flicked off the safety. She circled around Tanner until she was standing before him. Gun trained on his face, she knelt down so her body was blocking Litzman.

Litzman said, “Careful, Susanna…”

“I want to see his eyes, I want to see if he’s scared.”

Eyes shining, she cocked her head, studying him. For a moment her face was a mask, then she blinked and suddenly the mask was gone. She blinked several more times as though coming out of a trance. “Knock me down and go over,” she whispered. “Make it look good. Trieste, five days. If you understand, say, ‘Please don’t.’”

Tanner stared at her, debating it, then blurted, “Please don’t, lady. Please—”

“Shut up!” Susanna stood up, then toe-kicked him in the stomach. He gasped and doubled over. She pointed the gun at his head. “Get up! Go to the railing.”

Tanner climbed to his feet. Pain throbbed behind his eyes and his vision sparkled. He started walking toward the railing. When he was ten feet from it, Susanna called, “Stop there. On your knees.”

Tanner knelt, left knee on the deck, right leg bent forward like a hurdler. Have to be quick, Briggs. Very quick. Litzman and his men would be on guard, guns at the ready.

Behind him, he heard Susanna’s footsteps clicking on the deck. He rehearsed it in his mind, watched himself moving. He felt the cold steel of the barrel against his neck.

Litzman called, “Not too close, Susanna! Don’t—”

Tanner jerked to the side, then pushed off with his right foot, vaulting upright. Susanna’s gun slipped over his shoulder. He reached up, grabbed her wrist. The gun roared. The bullet sparked off the deck. In one smooth motion, Tanner jerked her forward and whipped his head backward. He felt his skull impact something hard. There was a wet crunching sound.

Even as Susanna screamed and stumbled backward, Tanner was on his feet and sprinting for the railing. He launched himself off the deck and into the darkness.