“I just don’t know anymore. God, I’m tired.”
Oliver asked him, “Did they set up the next contact time?”
“No, they just told me to stay by the phone.”
“What about the ransom? What’re they asking for?”
Root hesitated. “Pardon?”
“The ransom.”
“Oh … uh, twenty million.”
McBride said, “Cash?”
“Uhm, yes — well, in a way. Twenty million in bearer bonds.”
“You have the money here?” he asked.
“No, in a bank.”
“Smart,” Oliver said. “Which one?”
“Banca Triesta.” He looked at McBride and Oliver in turn. “What do we do? We have to get her back. I don’t know what I’ll do without her.”
“First things first,” Oliver said. “We call Washington. We’ll get the Italian police and Interpol involved—”
“No,” Root said.
“What?”
“No police. They were clear about that. They’ll know; they’ll kill her.”
McBride said, “Jonathan, that’s a kidnapper’s standard line. Believe me, the Italian cops have forgotten more about kidnapping than most will ever know. They can handle it. We have to call them.”
Root shook his head. “I said no. If you call them, so help me God I’ll queer the deal and do it on my own. You can’t watch me forever.”
“Why are you doing this?” Oliver asked. “Without the police we’ve got no chance of getting her back. Do you understand? No chance.”
Root cleared his throat, lifted his chin. The indomitable spymaster again. “You can go or stay — help me or not — but I won’t change my mind. If we’re going to get Amelia back, we do it without the police.”
Tanner’s call to Holystone immediately put Dutcher on the phone to Sylvia Albrecht at Langley, who in turn started making her own calls. Four hours, a hearty breakfast, and hot bath after walking into the cafe in Olaberria, Tanner was sitting at one of the sidewalk tables with his benefactor, Señor Ivara, when an attaché from the U.S. embassy in Madrid pulled up in a battered red Opel.
“Would you be our wayward tourist?” he said.
“That I am,” Tanner said, standing up and walking over. He extended his hand. “Briggs.”
“Keith Beaumont.”
“Good to meet you. I hate to borrow money on a first date, but I’ve run a tab with Señor Ivara here.”
“No problem.” Beaumont pulled out his wallet and peeled off about fifty dollars’ worth of lira. “The Euro hasn’t quite caught on in these parts.”
Ignoring his protestations, Tanner pressed the money into Ivara’s palm, shook his hand, then climbed into Beaumont’s Opel. As they pulled away, Briggs said, “One more favor: Can I borrow your cell phone?”
“Lemme guess: You’re gonna fire your travel agent.”
Tanner laughed. “No, I’ve got a French gendarme to set free before he starves to death.”
The rickety Opel was faster and tougher than it looked, and three hours later they arrived at the embassy. They were met in the lobby by the deputy chief of mission, a woman named Sandra Dorsey. Beaumont excused himself, and Dorsey escorted Tanner to a conference room where another attaché was waiting. “Toby Kirkland,” he said. “Economic Affairs Division.”
One of Sylvia’s boys, Tanner guessed.
Kirkland was probably the CIA’s station chief. His official title was merely a placeholder to give him diplomatic immunity should he get caught doing something he shouldn’t be doing — though Briggs couldn’t imagine what that might be. The last time Langley had anything but a passing interest in Spain was during the Franco regime.
Kirkland turned to Dorsey. “Sandy, would you mind collecting our other guest?”
“Sure.”
She returned two minutes later with Ian Cahil in tow. Laughing, he and Tanner embraced. Bear said, “You look like hell.”
“Nothing a long nap won’t fix. How was Marseilles?”
“Enlightening. Walt told me about your excursion. Yet another country we can’t set foot in.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it. Give it a year and you’ll be back at that little boulangerie in the Latin Quarter sipping bouillabaisse.”
Cahil laughed. “I think Leland’s expecting us.” He turned to Kirkland. “Are we ready, Toby?”
Kirkland nodded and gestured to the phone on the table. “Line one. You’re in the tank, so speak freely.” In spook-speak, a “tank” was an electronically shielded room that was swept several times a week and equipped with windows designed to deflect laser-directed optical bugs.
Kirkland shut the door behind him. Tanner and Cahil sat down and Briggs pressed the button for line one. A voice said, “Connecting you.”
Thirty seconds later Sylvia Albrecht’s voice came over the speaker. “Good morning, gentlemen. I’ve got Leland, Walt, and my two deputies here: George Coates and Len Barber.” Greetings were exchanged all around. “Briggs, I’m going to have Ian bring you up to speed on what he found in Marseilles, then we’ll hear from you.”
Cahil recounted his visit to Marseilles’s Little Sarajevo and his discovery of Fikret Zukic’s association with the Bihac Istina.
“What do we think about Bob’s hunch?” Tanner asked. “Is the Istina fronting for someone?”
Len Barber said, “The Balkans are rife with them, from charities to newspapers, all involved to varying degrees with one group or another. What exactly each does for whom and how much they know is the big question. We’re checking into the Istina, but my sense is Bob’s right: They’re certainly pro-Bosnia, and probably active. Folks like that aren’t satisfied with writing editorials in a neighborhood rag.”
Dutcher spoke up. “If we make a few leaps, we can assume that whatever Litzman’s up to, he’s doing it at the behest of a Bosnian group. Who, though?”
“And what and where?” Oaken added.
“I might be able to answer the where,” Tanner replied. He recounted his boarding of the Sorgia, Litzman’s return with the mystery crate, his own capture and escape, and finally his crossing into Spain. “Susanna mentioned two locations: the first, Tangier, which is where Litzman’s man had supposedly been before meeting the Sorgia; the second, Trieste.”
“Trieste?” Barber said. “She said Trieste?”
“That’s right; they’re due there in five days — four now.”
“What is it, Len?” asked Sylvia.
“Nothing, I thought — an administrative matter — but now I’m wondering.”
“Tell us.”
“This morning my CRE chief reported one of his analysts came to him with a guilty conscience. It seems an FBI agent — a buddy of his — called the day before and asked for a favor.”
“And?”
“He wanted a RAR/c done on someone,” Barber replied, referring to a recent activity report/credit. “Evidently the analyst is a real cave dweller. He didn’t recognize the name until later: Jonathan Root.”
“Aw, Jesus,” Sylvia groaned. “What’s the agent’s name?”
“Collin Oliver.”
“What the hell’s he up to?”
“Until a couple days ago he was leading the Root investigation. Here’s the interesting part: As of two days ago, Jonathan Root’s RAR/c showed him checked into a hotel in Trieste.”