Echo of War Page 4

  Dutcher asked Briggs, “Does Gill know the odds?”

  “I suspect so,” Tanner replied, “but he doesn’t care. It’s his little girl, Leland.”

  “Yep. So: He asked you for a favor.”

  Tanner nodded.

  “Does he know you’re still on the inside?”

  “I suspect so, but he’s never brought it up. Bottom line: His daughter is missing, the DEA isn’t talking, and he can’t go himself. He needs help.”

  Dutcher smiled. “I can see you’ve already made your decision.”

  “Not much to think about.”

  “I suppose not. Briggs, if you get into trouble—”

  “I know.” If he got into trouble, he would truly be on his own. Semiautonomous as Holystone was, Dutcher still had people to whom he answered and boundaries he could not cross. If it came out that Holystone was applying its resources to an operator’s personal agenda, heads would roll—starting with Dutcher’s. While this in itself didn’t worry Leland, the idea of Holystone being shut down did.

  Dutcher stared hard at Briggs for a few seconds, then said, “What we can do is have Walt do a little digging”—Tanner opened his mouth to protest, but Dutcher held up a hand and kept going—“into open sources and see what we come up with. Maybe we can give you a trail to follow. What do you think, Walt?”

  Oaken smiled. “You’d be surprised what you can learn on the internet these days.”

  Tanner smiled back. “Thanks.”

  “One condition, though,” Dutcher said.

  “What’s that?”

  “If you turn up anything dicey, hand it over to the right people and step aside.”

  “I’ll step back, not aside.”

  Dutcher shrugged the concession. “How’s your French?”

  “Ce n’est pas grave.” No problem.

  “J’espère ainsi,” Dutcher replied. Here’s hoping so.

  After leaving Holystone, Tanner ran some last-minute errands before driving home. He pulled into the garage, then mounted the wraparound deck and walked toward the rear French doors. Slouched in an Adirondack chair, his feet propped on the deck railing, was Ian Cahil. A black duffel sat on the deck beside him.

  “About time you got here,” Cahil called. “Our flight leaves in an hour.”

  “Our flight?”

  “You didn’t think I’d let you jaunt on over to France without me, did you? One condition: We make a stop at that little boulangerie in the … uh …” Cahil snapped his fingers rapidly. “Where was it?”

  “Latin Quarter—off Saint Germain.”

  “That’s the place. With the spicy bouillabaisse.”

  Tanner chuckled. He didn’t need to ask Cahil how he’d found out about the trip. Either Dutcher or Oaken had called him. Good ol’ Mama Bear, Briggs thought.

  Like Tanner and Gillman Vetsch, Cahil was also a former member of ISAG, but his and Tanner’s friendship was older still, having been cemented during what was then called BUD/s, the Navy’s Special Warfare six-month selection course. Early in the grueling program Cahil’s protective nature earned him the nickname Mama Bear.

  Cahil was Tanner’s finest friend—reliable, stubborn, and fiercely loyal. Standing five-eight and weighing 220 pounds, Bear was a half-foot shorter than Tanner and thirty pounds heavier, with a physique somewhere between that of a brick and an Olympic wrestler.

  Noting the expression on Bear’s face, Briggs knew better than to argue with him. Besides, Cahil also counted Gill and Susanna Vetsch as near-family. Moreover, Bear would argue, Tanner needed him. He’d be right Tanner could think of no one he’d rather have at his side when diving headfirst into the unknown.

  “They told you everything?” Tanner asked.

  “Yep. How’s Gill taking it?”

  Tanner sat down in the other Adirondack. “Not very good. She’s all he’s got.”

  Cahil nodded solemnly. “How’re you doing?”

  “We’ll find her.”

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  Briggs smiled, shrugged. “Tell you the truth, I think I’d started thinking of her as my own. I’ve got this hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach that isn’t going away.”

  Cahil was silent for a moment, then he clapped Tanner on the shoulder. “It will when we find her. Somebody, somewhere, knows where she is. We’ll find them, then we’ll find her.”

  Tangier, Morocco

  Three thousand miles away, the only man who knew what had become of Susanna Vetsch was walking along the Rue de la Marine toward the city’s main harbor. In the distance, through the waves of heat shimmering off the ocean, he could see the jagged cliffs of Gibraltar. A group of four imdyazn came marching down the street, the lead man singing as the other three cavorted around him, somersaulting and prancing for passing tourists who tossed coins and applauded.

  “Too shah rif na! Shokran!” You honor us! Thank you!

  The man stopped across from the Grand Mosque and pulled out a handkerchief to mop his face. The imdyazn pranced over to him, dancers spinning. “Sbah I’khir ...”

  The man shook his head. “Seer, seer!” Get lost!

  “So sorry, so sorry … Allah akbar!”

  He watched the group turn the corner and disappear onto Dar el Baroud, then he unfolded a map and perused it. Down the block a vendor knelt over a brazier of lamb’s meat. A customer in a bright red fez walked up, haggled briefly over the price, then purchased a slice. He paid the vendor and then strolled to where the man was standing.

  “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…”

  4

  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 w
as 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.”