“Where exactly?”
“Some to Paris, some to Marseille, a couple to Morocco. As for here, in the past ten days he’s made six U.S. calls: one to Virginia, one to Maryland, two to New York City, and two to somewhere in southern Pennsylvania. I’m working on narrowing it down, but don’t hold your breath.”
“How long were the calls?”
“The longest was two minutes; the shortest, forty seconds.”
Tanner doubted Litzman was big on keeping in touch with friends, so the calls were probably business related. Nor would he leave anything significant on an answering machine, which seemed to suggest he’d been talking to a person on each of those calls. Under two minutes … just enough time to exchange information, and to give and/or receive orders.
“I crosschecked Susanna’s phone records against his,” Oaken added. “No matches.”
Dutcher asked Tanner, “When’s your meeting with her?”
“Tonight, the Lorient docks. Leland, how bad does Sylvia want Susanna to stay on Litzman?”
“Pretty bad. Unless Susanna’s gone over the edge, Sylvia sees her as their best chance to get him. His own crimes notwithstanding, he could be a gold mine. He’s got more info on the European terrorist community than Interpol. Either way, it’s your call.”
The surrogate father in Tanner had already made his own decision: Grab her and send her home. If only it were that easy. If only Susanna hadn’t managed to get herself entangled with one of the world’s most wanted terrorists. What was the best course? Rescue Susanna and let Litzman slip away, or keep her in place and pray Litzman doesn’t find her out?
“I hope I’ll know,” Tanner replied.
“You’ll know,” Dutcher replied. “Until then, keep your heads down and stay out of sight.”
19
Oliver had been on the phone to FBI headquarters for much of the afternoon. McBride had little trouble guessing the topic: Did they negotiate with Selmani or attempt a rescue? Having come to know his temporary partner fairly well over the past week, McBride assumed Collin was arguing for the former. It would be in vain, McBride feared.
Selmani was a foreign national, ostensibly Albanian but probably Bosnian; his apartment in Westphalia was obviously a safehouse/maildrop; his connection to the attack on the Root estate was clear; and finally, he’d murdered four U.S. citizens and kidnapped the wife of a former DCI. In Washington’s eyes, Hekuran Selmani was a terrorist. There would be no negotiation.
At five in the afternoon, a red-eyed Oliver wandered into the break room at the Erbs Mill police station, where McBride and Nester were sharing a cup of coffee. He plopped down in a chair and sighed. “They want to go,” he announced. “As soon as it’s dark.”
McBride nodded. “I know.”
Thirty minutes after nightfall, with Oliver and McBride watching on and waiting for their turn, Scanlon and his team waded back across the inlet and began moving into position around the shack. Oliver and McBride were crawling toward Scanlon’s command post when a red flare arced into the sky above their heads. They froze. The flare hung in the dark sky for a few seconds, then sputtered and died. They hurried into the command post.
Scanlon crouched over the monitor, earphones pressed to his head. McBride snatched up his own pair and put them on. “Command, Sierra One … Subject is at window … I have a shot. Request permission to — disregard, disregard, he’s gone.”
“Roger,” Scanlon replied. “All units hold position. Report any movement.” He slipped a headphone off one ear and turned to Oliver and McBride. ‘Trip wire,” he explained. “He must’ve done it during the day. One of the scouts stumbled over it.”
“Can anyone see Mrs. Root?” McBride asked.
“No, he dragged her away from the window and doused his lantern. We’ve got shadows, but nothing else. He won’t go near the window again.”
If Selmani was going to press the button, it would happen now, McBride knew.
“Command, we’ve got movement … the front door is opening.”
“Anyone have a shot?” Scanlon called.
“Sierra One, negative … two, negative … three, negative.”
Then, from the direction of the cabin: “I know you are out there! Do not come any closer!” The voice was heavily accented — Slavic or.Eastern European, McBride thought. “If you come any closer, the woman is dead! Do you hear me?”
Oliver glanced at McBride. “Not much choice now. Whether Washington likes it or not, you’re on.”
McBride nodded. As he stood up, he could hear Scan-Ion on the radio: “All units, negotiator is in play. I say again, negotiator in play. Stay sharp.”
McBride was surprised to feel his knees trembling. He took a deep breath, cupped his hands to his mouth, and called out, “We hear you. No one will come any closer without your permission.”
“Who are you?”
“My name is Joe. I’m here with the FBI. May I come closer so we can talk?”
There were ten seconds of silence.
“Yes, but only you — anyone else and she dies. Come forward carrying a flashlight. Hold it in your left hand and shine it on your right. No weapons.”
“I understand. I’m coming now.”
McBride accepted a flashlight from Scanlon, who said, “Okay, listen: We’re working on the clock system. Approach from the front; keep the door at your twelve o’clock. Stay on that line and don’t stray. I’ll have snipers at your seven and five. If there’s any shooting, drop to your belly and don’t move. You’ll be covered.”
“Christ, Gene, lemme talk to the guy first. Maybe we can—”
“I’ve got my orders. If we get a clear shot, I’m taking it.”
“On my call,” Oliver said. Scanlon started to shake his head. “On my call, Gene. Give him an earpiece.”
Scanlon grabbed an earpiece and portable radio, set the channel, then handed it to McBride, who fit it into his ear and clipped the radio onto the waistband at the small of his back. Scanlon keyed his microphone, “Hear me?”
McBride nodded.
Oliver said, “Nice and easy, Joe. No chances.”
McBride tried to smile; his mouth was so dry his lips stuck to his teeth. “Yeah, sure. Do me a favor?”
“Name it.”
“If you call for the shot, don’t warn me.”
“You bet.”
Five years earlier in Minneapolis McBride had been staring into the eyes of a knife-wielding crackhead when a sniper put a bullet into the man’s left eye. Not knowing any better, McBride had asked for a pre-shot warning; instead of making it easier, the foreknowledge had made the event unimaginably worse.
Scanlon said, “You and I are the only ones on the channel.”
“Okay.”
McBride stood up, clicked on the flashlight, and walked out of the bushes.
He followed the path to the front of the shack and stepped into the clearing. He stopped. It was eerily quiet. He could hear the blood rushing in his ears, and he realized he was holding his breath. He let it out and gradually became aware of the sounds around him: the scratching of crickets; the croaking of frogs; the crunch of the sandy soil beneath his feet.
Directly ahead of him lay the shack’s porch. Its overhang, long ago rotted through, sat canted to one side on tilting columns. McBride could just make out the dark rectangle of the door. As he watched, a sliver of light appeared around its edges. The door swung inward a few inches and stopped. Through the gap Joe could see a man-shaped shadow.
Scanlon’s voice: “Movement at the door, Joe.”
McBride felt his vision tunneling, constricting until all he saw was the door … the gap … Hekuran Selmani … Amelia Root. Nothing else.