“I’ve never been a big fan of coincidences,” said Duteher. “We’ve got a freelance terrorist from our Most Wanted list and a former director of Central Intelligence both showing up in the same city at roughly the same time. Is there something we’re not seeing here?”
Sylvia nodded. “Coincidence, complicity, or something in between, we need to get this sorted out — quickly. Len, George, two things: One, dig into the Bihac Istina and find out who’s pulling the strings; two, find the Sorgia and Karl Litzman. Walt, how’re you doing with his cell-phone records?”
“It’s slow going, but I’m getting there.”
“Whatever you need, ask. Also, I want to know what he picked up in Lorient. Whatever’s in that crate, he begged, borrowed, or stole it from someone.”
“Gotchya.”
“Dutch, with your permission, I’d like to send your people on one more trip.”
“No objections. Briggs, Ian?”
Tanner said, “You get us the flight, we’ll be on it.”
29
Tanner and Cahil spent the rest of the first day and most of the next at the Madrid embassy, as Sylvia’s people put together their travel packages, which arrived by diplomatic pouch. Each contained a fresh passport, international driver’s license, sanitized credit cards, and a pair of encrypted Motorola satellite phones that were now standard issue for case officers working overseas. Both of them had used the commercial version of the Motorola before, but Langley’s version had been fitted with GPS (global positioning satellite) transceivers built into the nub antenna.
“As long as you have the phone,” the embassy’s science and tech expert told them, “we can track you to the nearest meter. Depress the nub into the case, give a right twist, and it comes free. Once off the phone’s battery, it can transmit four hours before the internal lithium gives out.”
Cahil frowned. “Down to a meter, you said?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, that’s a little creepy. Any way we can switch it off?”
“Why would you want to?”
“You ever hear of George Orwell? Big Brother?”
“Huh?”
Tanner said to the man, “Don’t mind him. He’s still not convinced the world is round.”
They boarded the afternoon shuttle to Milan, where they changed planes and continued on to Trieste. As Oliver and McBride had done with Root, Sylvia’s people had in turn tracked them by their credit cards, so after hailing a taxi Tanner and Cahil ordered the driver straight to the Hotel Italia.
Tanner had never been to Trieste, and out of habit he found himself picking out the city’s various landmarks as navigation aides: the Victory Lighthouse’s eight thousand tons of white Istrian stone soaring over the main harbor; the boxed turrets of Castle Miramare; the hybrid Romanesque-Baroque cathedral of San Giusto. On the surface of the city were the broad strokes of Italian culture, but underlying it all were touches of the Teutonic influences of the now dead Austro-Hungarian empire. It was as though some ancient and befuddled city planner had taken the best of Germany and Italy and crammed it into this outpost on the edge of the Slavic world.
From every shop window and balcony hung bright banners proclaiming, “Razza!” Race! Tanner asked the driver about it. “It is the Nations Cup Yacht Race,” the man replied. “It starts in four days.” He pointed out the window toward the harbor.
Now Tanner saw them, hundreds of rainbow-colored sails jutting from the blue of the bay. Darting amid the sleek racers were hundreds more small, square-nosed feluccas with truncated sails of hand-painted canvas.
“How many are entered?” Tanner asked.
“One hundred eighty, from all over: Italy, Slovenia, Croatia, Austria, Germany … We even have a boat from Japan this year. You already have a hotel?”
“Yes,” Cahil replied. “Sounds like we got lucky.”
“Ah, only about half those boats are racers; the rest come to watch. They are the die-hard arinaio; they sleep aboard their toys. Hey, watch for pickpockets, eh? The razza always brings them — especially at night when everyone comes ashore to drink.”
“Thanks for the advice.”
The taxi dropped them at the Italia’s entrance. They checked in, settled into their room, then walked to Oliver and McBride’s room. The door opened, revealing the man Tanner guessed was Joe McBride. “Can I help you?” he said.
“I’m hoping we can help each other,” Briggs said, then introduced him and Cahil.
“You’re American.”
“Yes.”
“Well, that didn’t take long. Hoover or Langley?”
“Both and neither,” Cahil replied. “Can we come in?”
McBride nodded. “Sure, come on in. Sorry about the color scheme.”
Tanner said, “Ours is the same. Agent Oliver isn’t here?”
“He’s … running an errand.”
“Give him a call. You’re both going to want to hear what we have to say.”
Oliver returned twenty minutes later. Seeing Tanner and Cahil, he hesitated in the doorway and glanced at McBride, who said, “The powers that be sent them. The good news is, they haven’t mentioned anything about us going to jail yet.”
Oliver strode in and leaned against the chest of drawers. “You’re FBI?”
“They’re a little cagey on that point,” McBride said, then made the introductions.
“Sorry, but cagey isn’t good enough,” Oliver said. “You’ll have to give me more.”
Tanner said, “You know the number to CIA headquarters?”
“Not off the top of my head.”
Tanner handed him the Motorola. “Call directory assistance. When you get through to Langley, give the operator your name and ask for Sylvia Albrecht. She’s expecting your call.”
Oliver did as instructed, got the number, then redialed. “Uh, yes, DCI Albrecht, please….Collin Oliver calling.” A few seconds passed, then he said, “Yes, ma’am, good morning. Yes, they’re here.” The conversation lasted another sixty seconds, during which Oliver mostly listened. “Yes, ma’am, I understand. Thanks.” He disconnected and handed the Motorola back to Tanner. “Jesus.”
Cahil grinned at him. “So, what do you say? Can we be friends now?”
Oliver laughed back. “Yeah, we can be friends.”
Tanner started by giving them the highlights of Karl Utzman’s career, beginning with his induction into the Russian Spetsnaz, then on to his slaughter of the Marines at Zibak, to Tanner’s own encounter with him in Bishkek, and ending with his appearance at Susanna’s ETA drug buy.
“Sounds like a real gem,” McBride said. “This woman — Susanna — I get the feeling she’s special to you.”
“What makes you say that?”
“A hunch.”
Tanner smiled. “Remind me to never play poker with you. Her father and I are old friends. Susanna is my goddaughter.”
“Then I’d say the sooner you get her away from him, the better.”
“I know.”
Oliver said, “How sure are you that Litzman’s headed here?”
“Pretty sure. What we don’t know is why — nor do we have anything suggesting a link between him, Root, or the kidnappers.”
Oliver said, “Not yet.”
“Which brings us to you two. Why are you here? The newspapers say Amelia Root is dead.”
“The woman that died in that shack wasn’t Root’s wife,” McBride said.
“Pardon me?” Tanner replied.
Oliver described the trail of evidence that led to Selmani’s shack and Joe’s revelation about the fake Mrs. Root. “We have no idea who she was, but these are some thorough sons of bitches. They even went so far as to duplicate a scar. From start to finish, the whole thing was designed to take the heat off them and get Root out of the country. Whether Selmani knew he was being served up we don’t know, but he was.”