Echo of War

35

Tanner’s report of Root’s disappearance made further debate irrelevant, so while he and the others scrambled to leave Trieste, Sylvia Albrecht and Dutcher focused on contingencies.

If Tanner failed in Innsbruck and Kestrel fell into Svetic’s hands, they would have no choice but to press the panic button. If on the other hand he and his cobbled-together team succeeded in recovering the canisters, they needed a plan to spirit Kestrel out of Austria and transport them safely back to the U.S.

Tanner’s next call went to Trieste’s airport. As he’d feared, Svetic’s reputation for thorough planning was proving well deserved. The day’s last shuttle to Innsbruck had left forty minutes earlier. Root’s wrong number call had likely been instructions from Svetic, who, playing it safe, had assumed Root was under surveillance and ordered the hurried departure to shake off watchers. More importantly, by controlling Root’s arrival in Innsbruck, Svetic could keep Root under surveillance until the exchange.

“If we can’t fly,” Cahil said, “we drive like hell. With luck, we’ll be there in three hours.”

Tanner thought for a moment, then said, “Go down to Hertz, get a car, then leave a message for Susanna at the Piazetta drop; tell her we’ll be back in a few days.” Briggs didn’t like the idea of leaving her on her own, but he had little choice. “Meet me at Root’s hotel when you’re done.”

“Why’re you going there?” Oliver asked.

“I want to see how well he covered his tracks.”

Tanner took a taxi to the Grand Duchi, put on his actor’s face, and found the manager. Jonathan Root, he explained, was his father-in-law and they were in Trieste on a recuperative vacation following the death of his wife. Suffering from Alzheimer’s, Root was prone to wandering off on his own.

“We’ve searched the hotel from top to bottom,” Tanner said. “I’m afraid he’s somewhere out on the street, lost.”

The manager’s eyes went wide. “Good heavens! We should alert the police—”

“My wife already has; she’s with them now. What I’m hoping you can do is show me his phone bill. He may have made some calls that would give us a clue where he was going.”

“Of course! Wait one moment.” The manager returned two minutes later with a photocopy. “What else can we do to help?”

“I’d appreciate it if you’d call me if he comes back,” Tanner said.

“Of course.” The manager took down Tanner’s number. “My good luck to you.”

Tanner found Cahil and the others waiting under the lobby awning. Cahil had rented an eight-cylinder Mercedes well suited to Austria’s autobahn. Tanner climbed into the front seat. As Cahil pulled away, Briggs handed the phone bill back to McBride. “Joe, you know him better than anyone. See if any of those numbers ring a bell.”

They drove north from Trieste until they reached Lidine, where the road joined the A23 and continued north toward Austria. At Pontebba they caught the B90, and followed it across the border and into the Carnic Alps and the province of Karnten.

Working in the backseat with his PDA and the phone bill, McBride announced, “I may have something. There’s a couple U.S. calls here. One to his lawyer, I think, the other to an 802 area code — that’s Vermont. Don’t hold me to this, but I think Root has a sister in Burlington.”

Could this be the break they needed? Tanner wondered. Root’s late departure guaranteed he wouldn’t reach the Bank of Tirol before it closed, which meant he’d have to check into a hotel. Tanner doubted he’d make the mistake of using his personal credit card again, which in turn meant he’d be looking for alternatives. The sister or the lawyer? he wondered.

“Let’s check,” Briggs said. He dialed Holystone, explained his theory to Oaken, then recited the names of Root’s lawyer and sister. “Can you run credit and phones for both?”

“Give me twenty minutes.” He called back in fifteen. “It’s his sister. Shortly after you lost Root, she placed an overseas call — Innsbruck, the Hotel Goldene Krone on Maria Theresien Strasse.”

“Bingo. One more favor — a big one.”

“Shoot.”

It took two minutes for Tanner to explain. Oaken whistled softly. “Long shot.”

“It’s all we’ve got. Without it, we’ll have to crash the meeting and hope it goes our way. I’d prefer better odds than that.”

“I’ll see what I can do. I’ll call you from Langley.”

The only edge they had, Tanner felt, was Litzman’s still-mysterious connection to Svetic. For whatever reason, Litzman had been calling either Svetic himself, or someone in his group, beginning in Maryland with the Root kidnapping, then continuing to Austria, where they were awaiting Root’s arrival. Whoever Litzman’s contact was, Briggs hoped to use him. First, however, Tanner had to lure him out.

Forty minutes later, as Cahil was skirting Lenz and heading north on the B108, Oaken called back. He’d arrived at the CIA’s audio lab. “Sylvia called in the Science and Tech chief. Hold on, I’ll put you on speaker.” There were a few clicks, then a woman’s voice: “Mr. Tanner, this is Stephanie Aguayo. Walt’s told me what you want to do. You realize that without a direct sample, we’re not going to get a perfect match.”

“I understand,” Tanner said. “I just need it to be convincing enough for a ten-second call.”

“We’ll give it a shot. Let’s use your voice as a base-line.” She had Tanner recite several phrases then said, “Let’s start with pitch: Deeper or higher?”

“Deeper.”

And so they started building from Tanner’s memory a simulation of Karl Litzman’s voice, from tone and inflection to cadence and clarity. With each addition or change, Aguayo would replay the computer-modified sample of Tanner’s voice, then adjust it before moving on to the next attribute. Finally, after thirty minutes, she played the accumulated sample. “How’s that?” she asked.

“Very close. A little more gravelly.” Aguayo made the adjustment and replayed it. “Good,” Tanner said. “Now all we need is the German accent.”

“We’ll add it when you make the call. It’ll be real time, but with delay of roughly a second.”

“That’s fine. If it goes as planned, I expect it to be brief.”

“Okay, give us thirty minutes to set up the software and the link and we’ll be ready.”

Tanner spent the time rehearsing his script with Cahil and the others until confident it would do the job. However, without knowing the nature of Litzman’s relationship with the contact, Briggs knew he’d have to be ready to improvise.

His phone trilled. Oaken said, “We’re set. When our mystery man answers, just talk normally. We’ll convert the signal en route. We’ve got two translators standing by just in case — Serbo-Croatian and German. If necessary, you’ll get an abbreviated running translation.”

“How much delay will that add?” Tanner asked.

“A few seconds.”

“I’ll try to force him into English. Okay, go ahead and dial.”

Tanner heard a click, a brief hiss of static, then the double-buzz of a phone ringing. On the fourth ring, the line opened and a voice said in Bosnian, “Zdravo?”

“It’s me,” Tanner said.

There was a long five seconds of silence. Briggs closed his eyes and held his breath. Then the voice said, “Da.”

“Speak English. Can you talk?”

“Where are you? Your voice sounds strange.”

“Milan, I’m on my way to the airport. We need to meet; there’s a problem.”

“What?”

“Not on the phone. I’m coming to you. Meet me on the steps of Schloss Ambras lower hall—”

“Where?”

“Ambras Castle. It’s south of the Altstadt. Nine-thirty.”

“That might be difficult.”

“Why?”

“I’ll have to make some excuse—”

Interesting answer, Tanner thought. One of the possibilities he’d considered was that Liztman’s contact was Svetic himself. The answer he’d just gotten seemed to suggest this man was a subordinate. That raised another question: If Litzman was partnered with Svetic’s group, why did his contact need an excuse to make the meeting?

“Then do it,” Tanner snapped. “Be there. Do you understand me?”

Another pause. “I’ll be there.”

Tanner disconnected, then redialed. Oaken picked up on the first ring: “It sounded good,” he said. “We had him on voice analyzer. He was stressed, but I think he bought it.”

“We’ll know in a few hours,” Briggs replied.

They arrived in Innsbruck shortly after six. Sitting astride the Inn River valley, the city lay nestled between the Stubaier Alps to the west and the Tuxer Alps to the east. For Tanner, the Tirolean landscape epitomized the word “alpine,” with ice blue lakes, jagged peaks, lush forests, and deep, hidden valleys. The road into the valley was dwarfed by rolling hills lined with chalets and ski resorts, their signs so plentiful they stood stacked atop one another, arrows pointing higher into the mountains.

“Makes me want to yodel,” Cahil said, keeping one eye on the road, the other on the scenery.

“Have at it,” Tanner said. “Just make sure your window’s rolled up.”

As planned, they drove straight to the Europcar office on Salurner Strasse, where they rented an Opel Astra and Hyundai Starex minivan, then proceeded separately — Tanner and Cahil first, McBride and Oliver following in the new rentals — to the Best Western Mondschein and checked in.

Once settled, they parted ways again, Cahil and Oliver on a shopping trip, Tanner and McBride to the Hotel Goldene Krone on the outskirts of the Altstadt, or Old City. After fifteen minutes of walking the area and watching for surveillance, Tanner decided they were clear. They entered the alley behind the Golden Krone.

Briggs found a door near the kitchen ajar for ventilation and they slipped inside. Somewhere a radio was playing Strauss’s “Alpine Symphony.” A chef working over the stove glanced up. “Kann ich Ihnen helfen?” Can I help you?

“Are you the manager?” Tanner demanded in German.

“Nein.”

“I need the manager!” Tanner growled and kept walking.

He strode past the reception desk, took the elevator to the third floor, and knocked on Root’s door. Root opened it and stared at them, mouth agape. “How did you—”

“Dumb luck,” Tanner replied, brushing past him. McBride shut the door behind them. Briggs turned on Root. “What in god’s name are you thinking, Jonathan?”

Root sighed. He raised his hands to his waist, let them drop. “I’m trying to save my wife.”

McBride said, “Alone?”

“Of course alone! Do you really expect me to believe you give a damn about Amelia?”

Tanner stepped closer to Root and stared into his eyes. “As a matter of fact, I do.”

“But Langley—”

“Langley thinks her life is a small price to pay to keep Kestrel safe,” Tanner finished. “And the truth is, all our lives are a small price to pay, but we’re not there yet. I think we can keep Kestrel safe and get your wife back.”

“How?”

“First, give me your word you won’t run again. It’s either that or I tie you to a chair.”

Root exhaled, then chuckled. “Damned if you wouldn’t do it, too. You have my word.” He sat down on the bed. “What’s your plan?”

“A good offense,” Tanner replied, then began explaining.