After several missed turns and some backtracking he found a sign pointing to Chemin d’Oundidarre, which took him into the foothills of the Pyrenees. Soon the road turned into a narrow gravel tract. He pulled off the road into a stand of trees and doused the headlights.
The cop was still unconscious in the backseat. Tanner stripped off his uniform and donned it. The cop was shorter than he was and slightly plump, but the fit was close enough. He uncuffed one of the man’s hands, rolled him onto the floor, looped the cuff chain around one of the seat supports, and recuffed his other hand.
How much time did he have? Tanner wondered. How long before Corniche police headquarters realized they were missing a man, and how quickly would they sound the alarm?
He was in the heart of Basque-ETA territory now, the area of northern Spain and southern Aquitaine the terrorists called Euskal Herria. The frontier would be patrolled by the French border police, Spain’s civil guard, and GAR antiterrorism teams. He had two factors in his favor: First, ETA border crossings involved entire teams, their equipment and vehicles, whereas he was a lone man; and two, the terrain was rugged, which meant patrols were often conducted on foot and far from reinforcements.
If he chose his time and place carefully, he had a chance.
He drove for twenty minutes, following the road as it meandered deeper into the foothills and forests along the border. He passed two French patrols in Laforza SUVs, each time tossing a hand salute out the window and each time getting one in return.
At an ancient cobblestone bridge, he stopped the Simca, got out, took a quick peek over the edge, then climbed back in. He spun the wheel hard over, squeezed through a gap between the bridge’s piling and a tree, then shifted into neutral and coasted down the embankment. The Simca jerked to a stop as the front tires sank into the mud on the bank. He doused the headlights.
The cop groaned. His eyes fluttered open. He tried to sit up, but fell back. “You!” he said in French. “What have you done?”
“How are you feeling?” Tanner asked.
“You attacked me! I’m a police officer!”
“I know. How’s your head?”
“It hurts, damn you!”
“Apologies.”
“What are you going to do to me?”
“I’m not going to do anything to you.” Tanner climbed out, opened the back door, and began stripping off the uniform — save the boots — and putting his own clothes back on. “I’ll let someone know where you are.”
“Why are you doing this?”
Tanner stopped, thought about it. “I already told you: I’m trying to find a friend.”
He started jogging, following the creek southeast, which he assumed was an offshoot of the Bidasoa River, part of the natural border between Spain and France.
After a mile the creek split into three tributaries. Tanner flipped a mental coin, chose the left bank, and kept jogging. The creek continued to widen until, half a mile later, it merged with the Bidasoa. He climbed up the bank, stripped half a dozen branches from the brush, then tucked the ends into his belt so the foliage covered his torso. He waded back into the water until it reached his chest, then stroked out into the channel. The current took hold. He began drifting.
He floated for roughly two miles, then stroked to the opposite shore and crawled out onto a narrow beach headed by a tree-lined berm. To the east, the horizon was brightening into shades of orange. The river gurgled softly at his back.
Suddenly to the north came the chatter of automatic weapons, followed by a few seconds of silence, then more firing. Had either the French or Spanish border forces intercepted an ETA border crossing? Tanner wondered. If so, their timing couldn’t have been better. He heard the distant wail of sirens. Downriver a helicopter appeared out of the darkness over the treetops and swept toward him, rotors thumping and navigation lights flashing.
HU-21 Cougar. Spanish special forces. For me, or the ETA?
He had the sudden urge to scramble back into the water, but he forced himself still. Hold, hold … If the Cougar were here for him, he was caught; running would make no difference. He watched, heart pounding, as the helo thundered overhead, banked sharply, then disappeared around the bend in the river.
He leapt up, sprinted for the berm, dropped to his belly in the trees. Ahead lay a two-lane asphalt road with a yellow centerline. Civilization, Briggs thought.
A pair of military jeeps, each carrying half a dozen soldiers, screeched around the next corner, raced past the berm, and disappeared around the next corner. Tanner sprinted down the embankment, across the road, and into the trees beyond.
A quarter mile later he reached another tree line and yet another road, this one a four-lane highway. A sign on the shoulder read, “Autopista 121a/01aberria, 1 km.” An arrow pointed to an off ramp across the highway. Here the traffic was heavier, with clusters of early morning commuters passing every ten seconds or so. Over the treetops Briggs could see the glow of city lights; beyond them, the orange rim of the sun.
He couldn’t dash across the road unseen, so he opted for boldness. He stood up, brushed himself off, and straightened his clothes. At the next gap in traffic, he walked down the embankment and trotted across to the median. A Renault buzzed past him; the driver didn’t give him a second glance.
He strolled across the remaining two lanes, down the next embankment and into a meadow of knee-high grass across which stood a row of buildings with red tile roofs. When he reached them he found a road lined with shops. He picked the nearest one, a cafe fronted by a dark green awning, and walked over.
The elderly man sweeping the sidewalk smiled. “Buenos dias, señor.”
“Buenos dias. Habla usted Ingles?”
“Yes, I speak English.” He glanced at Tanner’s clothes and hair, then said. “Are you tourist? Are you lost?”
“You could say that. May I use your phone?”
“Of course. And, senor, pardon if I insult, but I also have a bathtub.”
Tanner smiled. “No insult, señor. I accept.”
28
McBride and Oliver’s plane touched down at Trieste’s Ronchi dei Legionari airport shortly after six P.M. local time. They collected their luggage and hailed a cab that took them into Trieste proper, thirty-five kilometers away.
According to Oliver’s source — a CIA analyst friend at the Intelligence Directorate’s Europe desk — Root’s last credit card purchase showed him having checked into the Grand Duchi D’Aosta two days earlier. There had been no activity since, which suggested to McBride he was either using cash or he hadn’t left his hotel since his arrival.
Oliver had initially balked at approaching his Langley friend, but his FBI contacts were out of the question. With the Root case now firmly in the hands of the FBI’s Criminal Investigative Division, any query involving Root would have brought the wrath of God down on him. Hearing this, the closet cynic in McBride wanted to cry conspiracy, but the truth was the FBI hierarchy was simply protecting Root’s legacy. From the White House down, the word was the same: The former DCI has been through enough; find those responsible, but leave the man to his grief.
Nothing beats grief like a hasty trip to Italy, McBride thought. What in God’s name is Root up to? With a little luck and a healthy dose of gall, they might soon find out. If this adventure of theirs proved folly and Root’s reasons for being in Trieste proved benign, they could only hope Root would be forgiving. If not … For McBride, the stakes were not as dramatic; Oliver, on the other hand, could find himself fired and charged with God-knew-what by a vengeful FBI.