Echo of War

43

Tanner laid the phone aside, stared dumbly at it a moment, then leaned his head back and gulped air. Susanna... What did it mean? Was Litzman on to her, or in his hurry to leave had he simply been rough with her? He prayed it was the latter. If not, Susanna was already dead.

Dammit, dammit, dammit … He should have been there; should’ve pulled her out and sent her home. Kestrel was gone, Susanna was gone … Briggs felt things closing in around him. He felt trapped, powerless.

Beside him, the phone was still blinking. He grabbed it and dialed Cahil, who answered immediately: “Where are you?”

“Neumvield See. They’re gone.”

“I figured as much. I think I know where they are.”

“Explain.”

Cahil recounted his movements after they parted ways in Innsbruck. Upon arriving in Trieste he went straight to the Piazetta dead drop. Inside was a note from Susanna: “Overheard L; Svetic here, staying Hotel Abbazia; L men watching, expecting Svetic departure.” Cahil penned a response, then left a chalk mark on the pillar along Rive Tralana.

“From there I went straight to the Abbazia. She was right: Svetic’s there with two of his men. Not for long, though.”

“Why?”

“There’s a storm brewing here, a bad one judging by the commotion. I trailed them a bit; they ate, did some shopping, then took a taxi to the harbor and booked three tickets on a ferry called the Aurasina. It was scheduled to leave tomorrow morning, but they’ve pushed the departure ahead to midnight.”

“Trying to outrun the storm,” Tanner said. Svetic’s choice of transportation made sense, he decided. Svetic wouldn’t dare risk Kestrel at a border crossing or an airport checkpoint. Ports had always been and always would be the first choice of smugglers. “Where’s it headed?”

“Zadar, Sibenek, Split—”

“That’s how he’s getting home.” Any one of those ports would put Svetic within fifty miles of the Bosnian border and well within reach of whatever help he needed to make a covert crossing.

“My thought exactly,” Cahil replied. “You remember the description of Svetic we pulled out of Grebo?”

“Yes.”

“He wasn’t lying; it was right on the money. Problem is, Risto Svetic isn’t Risto Svetic.”

“You’ve lost me.”

“Svetic may be his real name, but he goes by something different: Trpkova.”

“That can’t be, Bear.”

“I was standing five feet from him. It’s him.”

In the early and mid-nineties Risto Trpkova was the commander of an ATU, or antiterrorist unit within the Kaznjenicka Bojna, or KB, a Bosnian paramilitary group known better by its later nickname, the Convict’s Battalion. Following the disintegration of Yugoslavia, waves of Serbian-backed anti-Muslim violence erupted in Bosnia. To combat this, the Bosnian government organized and dispatched the KB to protect heavily populated Muslim areas. Of all the parties involved, Bosnia alone wanted to maintain the diverse ethnicity of its country, so it recruited into the KB soldiers of all cultural and religious identities, from Eastern Orthodox, to Muslim, to Roman Catholic. Bosnian Serbs and Bosnian Croats served alongside Kosovoans, Macedonians, and Montenegrins. For several years the KB was effective, protecting Muslim enclaves from Serbian attack, intercepting Serbian weapons convoys, and gathering evidence of mass murders and concentration camp atrocities.

In 1995, realizing it had little chance of controlling the KB by force of arms, Serbia changed tactics and reverted to the same tactics it had used to incite its own incursions into Bosnia. Soon reports of KB atrocities began finding their way into the European press. Serbian enclaves were being attacked without provocation by Muslim-led KB units manned by prison inmates whose sentences had been commuted in exchange for their service. Like wild animals, the Convict’s Battalion roamed the Bosnian countryside, killing innocent Serbians, raping women and girls, and burning villages. The ruse worked.

Under pressure from the West, the Bosnian government ordered the KB disbanded. Most units complied and soldiers returned to their parent units. A few units refused, went to ground, divided into guerrilla teams, and continued their missions. One of these was commanded by a then little-known colonel named Risto Trpkova. Pressure to apprehend Trpkova mounted. Serbia denounced him as a terrorist, followed soon after by Bulgaria, Germany, and Macedonia.

Trpkova and his unit continued to operate in the highlands of Bosnia, harrassing Serbian forces, disrupting supply lines, and gathering evidence of Serbian “ethnic cleansing.” In July of 1997 a company of French UN peacekeepers was ambushed near Mostar, Bosnia. To a man the company was slaughtered. The first unit to reach the scene was Serbian. Predictably, evidence implicating Trpkova’s unit was found.

Two months later the UN’s Yugoslavia Tribunal in The Hague indicted Trpkova for crimes against humanity and called for his capture and extradition to stand trial.

Tanner asked Cahil, “How sure are you about this?”

“Very. He’s had some work done on his face, but it’s him.”

Tanner believed him. Not only was Bear as reliable as the setting sun, but he was even-keeled to a fault. Most importantly, he’d met Risto Trpkova.

Anxious to shore up the Bosnian government and assuming Belgrade was manufacturing evidence against the KB, in 1996 the CIA launched StrikePlate, an operation designed to gather evidence supporting claims of Serbian atrocities. Seconded to Langley from Holystone, Cahil had led a team through Albania and into southern Bosnia. After a few month’s work, they established contact with Trpkova’s unit outside Foca. Before any exchange of intelligence could take place, the situation deteriorated and Trpkova and his unit were forced to flee.

Cahil said, “Briggs, there’s one more thing: I tried to keep tabs on Susanna but—”

“She’s gone, I know,” Tanner replied, then described the message she’d left him.

“I’m sorry,” Cahil said.

“Not your fault. Have you talked to Leland yet?”

“No.”

“I’ll do it. You stay on Trpkova. Keep your distance, Bear.”

“Will do.”

Tanner disconnected and dialed Dutcher’s cell phone. “Briggs?”

“Yes.”

“Call land line.”

Tanner redialed Langley’s operations center and was transferred directly to Sylvia’s office. “You’re on speaker-phone,” she said. “Everyone’s here. Where are you and what’s happening?”

Tanner brought them up to speed, starting with his arrival in Kulm am Zirbitz and ending with Cahil’s revelation about Svetic’s true identity. “The answer is yes,” Tanner said. “Bear’s sure; he’s met the man. Where are the Roots?”

“Safe — along with their luggage,” Dutcher replied. “By now they’re somewhere over the Atlantic. They’ll be landing in six hours. Walt’s got a theory you need to hear about.”

“I’m listening.”

Oaken laid out the same scenario he’d given Dutcher and the others: the Serbian SDB’s hiring of Litzman; the false trail designed to implicate Svetic and thereby Bosnia; the conference delegates and their trip home aboard the Aurasina.

Tanner was stunned. It all made sense, it all fit. Things had just gone from bad to worse: Risto Svetic, descendent of the Dark Watch guerrilla leader and fugitive were one and the same. Litzman and the Serbian SDB had chosen their scapegoat well. If the plan succeeded, Svetic/ Trpkova’s alleged involvement would be all the catalyst pro-Serbian factions needed to ravage Bosnia. And what of Kestrel? At the very least, Trpkova was a battle-hardened guerrilla who had eluded capture for over a decade; at worst, he was exactly what the Serbians claimed — a terrorist guilty of mass murder. Whatever the truth, it was a safe bet Trpkova had sought out Kestrel as part of a larger plan.

The worst case was unthinkable: Litzman succeeds in sinking the Aurasina; hundreds of people die; Trpkova is blamed and the Balkans descend into war — and behind it all, Kestrel is let loose. The next worst case was little better, if at all: Litzman fails, the Aurasina sails on, and Trpkova slips into the hinterlands of Bosnia with Kestrel.

“So Litzman never knew about Kestrel,” Briggs said. “Hell, he might not even know about the Roots, the kidnapping — none of it.”

“Could be,” Dutcher replied. “It’s clear Grebo was a mole for the SDB; whether he was planted specifically for this we don’t know. Either way, that’s what he’s been doing for Litzman — acting as a human homing beacon.”

“Letting Litzman stay two steps ahead of Svetic all the way.”

“Exactly,” said Oaken.

Len Barber said, “The question is, Did Litzman know Svetic would be using the Aurasina?”

“Doubtful,” Tanner replied. “Its just a happy coincidence for the SDB. All Litzman and SDB needed was Trpkova in Trieste at roughly the same time as the delegates. Litzman’s window dressing and Trpkova’s name would do the rest. Nobody would doubt he’s responsible.”

“This is a goddamned catastrophe in the making,” said George Coates. “There’s a thousand ways to lose this and only a couple to win.”

“Then let’s find them,” Tanner said. “The ferry leaves at midnight. Unless something changes, Trpkova will be on it. He’s heading home, trying to go to ground. We either take him now, or before he gets off the ferry. Do we have any guesses on how Litzman’s going to do it?”

Dutcher replied, “Either a bomb already aboard or an attack en route — which I think is the more likely of the two. I doubt he had either the time or opportunity to plant something aboard.”

“I agree,” said Coates.

Sylvia said, “Which makes me wonder about the mystery crate he picked up in Lorient.”

“There’s a French naval base there,” Tanner said. “Do they have—”

“Working on it. We’re not expecting a quick answer, though. If they’re missing something they won’t be quick to admit it. The what doesn’t matter as much as the where and how.”

“Which brings us back to Litzman,” said Tanner. “You’re tracking the Barak?”

“We’ve had a Lacrosse on her since she arrived in Trieste,” Sylvia said, referring to a Lacrosse radar satellite. Unlike standard imagery satellites, Lacrosse platforms can see through rain, clouds, and camouflage, day or night. “She’s headed south. As of ten minutes ago she was coming up on Pula on the tip of the Istrian Peninsula.”

“I need to get ahead of him,” Tanner said. “Whatever he’s got planned, he’ll have to do it before the Aurasina reaches Zadar.”

Oaken said, “Start driving toward Graz. I’ll call you with flight arrangements.”

“Wait,” Len Barber said. “Let’s slow this down. We’re overlooking the most direct solution: Stop the ferry; have the Italian police grab Trpkova.”

“A bad idea,” said Tanner.

“Why?”

“First, that’s when he’s going to be most on edge; until he’s on that ferry and it’s underway, he’ll be looking for the net to drop on him. Once he’s headed home, he’ll relax. Secondly, departure’s only two hours away. Even if we get the Italians’ cooperation, by the time we get done answering all their questions, they won’t have enough time to mount an operation worth a damn. The last thing we need is Trpkova in a standoff while he’s got his hands on Kestrel.”

“You have a suggestion, Briggs?” Sylvia asked.

“Bear follows Trpkova onto the ferry and keeps tabs on him. I go after Litzman. In the meantime, we’ve got eight hours to plan a reception before the Aurasina reaches Zadar. We take him the moment he steps onto the pier. If he sails on to Sibenek or Split, we do it there. There’s one thing I’m sure of: If we try to do this halfway and Trpkova gets wind of it, we’re done — Kestrel’s out.”

There was silence on the phone for several seconds, then Sylvia said, “Dutch?”

“Better to plan it out than stumble into it. Even if Briggs doesn’t catch up to Litzman, we’ve got Cahil. If worse comes to worst, he can disable the ferry. If not, we get a team to Zadar and wait.”

“George?”

“I agree. We don’t have time to bring in the Italians or anyone else. This is on us alone.”

“Okay,” said Sylvia. “That’s our plan. Briggs, get moving. Find Litzman; stop him.”