Makes sense, Tanner thought. Realizing he and Cahil had escaped the Ghost Line, Litzman’s men had gone to plan B: Let the French authorities do the hunting for them. The witness statements were of course a sham; no one had seen them leaving the hotel, of that Tanner was certain. He wondered how long it would be before the police would be tipped to their presence in the Saint Servant area.
“How good are the sketches?” Tanner asked.
“Yours is pretty good; Bear’s not so much. They’ve got him slimmer, with darker hair.”
Cahil said, “I’m flattered.”
“I thought you might be,” Oaken said. “You’re headed to Lorient?”
“Yes,” Tanner said. “Gunston’s meeting was with her tonight.”
“Okay, on the chance you’ll have to stay in-country, I’ll work on getting you clean passports. You’ll have to do something about your appearance. Anything else I can do?”
“I pulled a cell phone off one of the Germans. I’m hoping you can track a number.”
“Whose?”
“Litzman. He was listed in the speed dial under the Bolz alias.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No.” Such was the double edge of technology, Tanner knew. Even those who knew better often overused such conveniences, recording information into their PDAs, telephones, and computers that’s best kept only in memory. The German had not only ignored good tradecraft, but he’d assumed no one knew about Litzman’s alias. “I put it back the way I found it; with luck they won’t toss the phones.”
“I’ll get on it,” Oaken said. “What kind of phone and what company?”
Tanner told him, then said, “Do what you can.”
Aside from the obvious benefit of knowing who and where Litzman had been calling, Briggs was hoping to make Susanna’s continued participation unnecessary. He’d like nothing better than to put her on the first plane back to Gillman Vetsch.
Since learning of Litzman’s involvement, a knot had been building in Tanner’s chest, and he knew what it was: rage. Litzman had lured a company of Marines into an ambush then slaughtered it; months later, he did the same to Tanner and his team in Bishkek. And now he had Susanna — doing God knew what to her … using her for—
Briggs stopped himself. Don’t, he commanded. Litzman was too dangerous, too ruthless, to pursue without a clear head. In his mind, Tanner opened a box, stuffed all his worry and anger into it, then shut the lid. Get to Lorient; find Susanna, then find Litzman and put a stop to him.
Oaken asked, “What’s your plan?”
“Renting a car is too risky; same with hitchhiking,” Tanner said. “On the way here I saw a sign for a quarry. A few months ago I thought I read something about Saint Servant and Lorient … a waterfront project?”
“Hold on, I’ll do a Google search.” Tanner could hear the tapping of keyboard keys. After thirty seconds, Oaken said, “Yep. They just broke ground on a new airport. The first phase is backfilling some marshland.”
“Which means gravel,” Cahil said.
“Which means a quarry,” Oaken added, then tapped more keys. “Yep … good memory, Briggs. Looks like the Saint Servant quarry is the main supplier for the project.”
“The joys of trivia,” Briggs replied. “Oaks, you work on Litzman’s phone. Bear and I have a date with a dump truck.”
The quarry was only two kilometers outside town but, wary of running into Litzman’s men, who could have easily guessed Saint Servant was their destination, they took it slowly. They arrived at the quarry shortly before dawn.
The crews were already at work. The pit, which measured almost a mile in length and half that in width, was ringed with spiral roads — one for trucks descending, another for trucks departing with loads. Mounted on scaffolding at the quarry’s edge, stadium lights bathed the pit in bright white light. The air was thick with gravel dust and the stench of diesel fumes. In the pit, backhoes scooped up loads of gravel and dirt then dropped them into mechanical separators which in turn dumped them into waiting trucks, which then began grinding their way up the spiral road.
Lying at the pit’s edge, Tanner and Cahil watched for a few minutes before settling on a plan. Tanner pointed to the outlet road and a line of trees that bordered it. “See any guards?” he asked.
“Nope.”
“Let’s go catch our ride.”
It took fifteen minutes to make their way to the opposite side. Crouched in the trees they watched truck after truck grind up the grade, turn onto the service road, and head toward the highway. To the east, the upper rim of the sun was peeking over the horizon.
At the right moment, they sprinted from cover and leapt onto a truck’s bumper. Tanner scaled the ladder, rolled himself over the edge, then reached over to help Cahil up. Together they lay back in the gravel. “How far to Lorient?” Bear asked.
“An hour at most.”
The sun was fully up when the truck pulled into the backfill pit at the Lorient construction site. Tanner could smell the tang of saltwater in the air. In the distance he heard the cawing of sea gulls. Their ride had been uneventful save for a few tense minutes outside Hennebont when the truck stopped at a roadblock.
Seeing flashing blue lights on the passing tree, Briggs crawled to the front of the bin and peeked over the edge to see a pair of gendarmie cruisers sitting astride the road, with a line of a dozen cars stretched back along the road. A trio of officers questioned each driver and inspected the vehicle’s interior before waving it on.
Whether or not the roadblock was intended for them Tanner couldn’t know, but he wasn’t about to take a chance. Working quickly, he and Cahil buried themselves in the gravel, leaving exposed only their mouths surrounded by a crater of pebbles. With the weight of the gravel heavy on his chest, Briggs listened as the truck pulled up to the roadblock and stopped. He heard muffled voices speaking, followed by the clank of footsteps on the steel ladder. He took a breath, held it. After thirty long seconds, a voice called out, “Il est clair…aller,aller.” The truck’s gears engaged and they lurched forward again.
Now Tanner felt the truck descending. With a hissing of air brakes, the truck slowed to a stop. Tanner glanced over the rear lip. On either side lay a dirt berm beyond which he could see trees backlit by the morning sun. The nearest truck was half a mile behind, but closing the gap quickly. They jumped down, sprinted across the road, and scrambled up the embankment. At the top, they hunched over and headed for the trees.
Twenty minutes and three taxi switches later they checked into a motel in Caudan, one of Lorient’s suburbs. Tanner called Oaken and gave him an update; Dutcher got on the other line. “I can’t be sure about the roadblock,” Briggs said, “but no one gave us a second glance in town.”
“Reports still have you in the Saint Servant area,” Dutcher replied. “Sylvia’s people are looking at ways to encourage that.”
“That would help,” Tanner replied. Though it was nothing new to him and Bear, the sensation of being hunted was one Briggs had never gotten used to. Every random glance, every police car, every lingering gaze was enough to set the heart pounding. Even now, he could feel his muscles twitching with excess adrenaline.
“How was the ride?” Oaken asked.
“Bear liked it; said it reminded him of one of those beaded seat covers. What did you find on Litzman’s phone?”
“I’m still working on it. He’s layered himself under multiple plans. So far all I’ve managed to get is billing codes, most from over there, but some in the U.S.”