Echo of War

30

The next day passed without incident. McBride and Oliver took turns staying with Root, who continued to show signs of fraying at the edges. Tanner and Cahil alternated shifts at the main harbor, waiting and watching for the Sorgia to appear. They blended perfectly with the throngs of binocular-toting spectators that had come to gawk at the razza yachts.

Shortly before ten P.M. Tanner was seated on a bench overlooking the harbor when his Motorola trilled. “Briggs, it’s Leland. We found the Sorgia.”

“Where?”

“Adrift about thirty miles off the Moroccan coast.”

“Litzman?”

“Nowhere to be seen. The reports we’re getting are sketchy, but it sounds like the crew is dead — their throats were slit.”

“Susanna?”

“Only the crew was aboard, Briggs. No one else. The ship was ransacked. The Moroccan authorities are leaning toward piracy.”

“Then they’ve never met Litzman,” Tanner said. “He’s covering his tracks.”

“Agreed. The good news is, we may have a lead.”

Assuming it had been Litzman’s plan all along to abandon the Sorgia, Sylvia’s people had speculated his interest in Tangier was somehow related to alternative transportation. If so, he had four options: buy, charter, lease, or steal. The DCI called the State Department, who in turn called its stations in Rabat and Casablanca with orders to probe their Tangier contacts.

Six hours later, word returned to Langley: The only ship-related incident that fit the time frame involved the theft of a forty-two-foot motor yacht called the Barak.

“We’re still working on the details, but according to the Tangier grapevine the boat belongs to a Safi businessman named Helou. From the way it sounds, he falls somewhere on the dark side of scrupulous.”

Why buy when you can steal? Tanner thought.

Given Litzman’s trade, it was unlikely he’d be bothered with sales negotiations, nor did it make sense to charter a boat in Tangier for a trip to Trieste. Litzman was more practical than that. How hard could it be? Tanner thought. Cash is paid up front, the boat is made available, then the owner waits a few days and cries hijacking. Meanwhile, Litzman is hundreds, if not thousands, of miles away, lost in the expanse of the Mediterranean.

“What’s the Barak’s speed and range?” Briggs asked.

“Range, thirteen hundred miles. Best speed, nineteen knots.”

“Fast boat.”

“We’ve got an edge: We know where she’s headed, and she’s going to have to refuel before she reaches you. We’re thinking Tunis or Cagliari. Sylvia’s sending a re-tasking order to the NRO right now,” Dutcher said, referring to the National Reconnaissance Office, which controlled when and where the CIA’s spy satellites hunted.

Tanner did a quick mental calculation. “The Barak’s been gone how long? Eighteen hours?”

“Roughly.”

“If you’re right about her refueling stop, we should be seeing her in the next six or so.”

“Right. Where do we stand with Root?”

“Still waiting for contact. According to McBride, Root is barely keeping it together.”

“I don’t blame him. By the way, Walt’s still working on Litzman’s phone, but he came up with something new: In the last two days he’s placed three calls to Austria; none longer than two minutes.”

They’re close, Briggs thought. The Austrian border was less than an hour’s drive to the north. Why there? “Can he narrow it down?”

“He’s doing his damnedest, but Litzman’s gone to a lot of trouble to insulate himself. Same with the Bihac Istina—Len’s people are digging, but so far it’s a tough nut.”

“How about the Lorient crate?”

“Nothing. Langley’s best guess is small arms — something ancillary to the job itself.”

“That doesn’t explain why they were wearing wet suits when they got back to the Sorgia.”

“You know the panic phrase as well as I do: WMD — weapons of mass destruction. The chances are good the crate wasn’t holding a nuke, so no one here is too excited about it.”

The argument had merit, Tanner decided. Maybe he was overthinking this, focusing on minutiae. He’d said it himself: Right now Trieste was the epicenter of whatever was happening. Once the Barak arrived — along with Susanna, he prayed — they’d start getting some answers.

Tanner said, “Have you talked to Gill?”

“This morning,” Dutcher replied. “I haven’t given him the whole story, but he knows you’ve found her.”

“I should’ve sent her home, Leland.”

“She sounds like a stubborn young lady. Anything short of stuffing her in a box and mailing her back wouldn’t have worked.”

Tanner couldn’t help but laugh. “True. How much trouble is the FBI going to make for McBride and Oliver? They’re good men.”

“The FBI doesn’t know, and Sylvia’s not inclined to change that until we’ve got more answers. Either way, she’ll go to bat for them.”

“They deserve it.”

“I’ll call you when we find the Barak. Unless Litzman’s plans change, she’ll reach you sometime in the next forty-five hours.”

True to his word, Dutcher called five hours later. The Keyhole picked up the Barak docked in Valletta, Malta. She must’ve been running on fumes to get there.”

“And running hard,” Tanner added. “Whatever it is, Litzman’s on a timetable. How long ago?”

“She left about ninety minutes ago. By now she’s probably entering the Ionian Sea.”

Next stop, us.