“Go on.”
“I have the feeling Litzman doesn’t really know Svetic,” Susanna said. “If he does, they’re not close. When they’ve talked about him, it’s somehow distant … unfamiliar.”
“How so?”
“For one thing, they use the formal version of ‘he’ and ‘him.’”
That was significant, Tanner realized. The German language is fussy about personal pronouns, using different forms of “he” or “she” for strangers and friends.
“What about the crate?” Briggs asked her. “Is it still aboard?”
“It was, but now I’m not sure. We took a detour, I think somewhere south of here. Litzman told me to stay in my cabin. When we started north again, the crate was gone.”
Litzman had either delivered it to someone, or left it somewhere for later pickup. “Do you have any idea if this is his last stop?”
“No.”
Tanner asked, “We think he’s been talking to someone in Austria. Could it be Svetic?”
Susanna shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t know. I’m sorry.”
They talked for a few more minutes, then discussed methods of communication, meeting places, and how they would signal her: a red chalk mark on a pillar along Rive Tralana. “You’ll be able to see it from the afterdeck,” Tanner said. “One diagonal line for a meeting; two vertical for the dead drop.”
“Got it.”
“One of us will try to keep an eye on the Barak when you’re aboard. If you go ashore, make your first stop one of the meeting sites. One of us will be there.”
She nodded.
He grasped her shoulders and stared into her eyes. “You’re okay?”
She smiled, and again he saw the bright and warm Susanna of old. “Stop mothering me. I better go.” She held up the scarves. “Which one?”
“The blue. It’s your color.”
“Good choice.” She kissed him on the cheek and went out.
Tanner waited until she’d paid for the scarf and disappeared down the sidewalk. As planned, he and Cahil met two blocks away at a corner pasada. He recounted the meeting.
Cahil said, “Svetic, huh? Yet another cast member in our little drama. I’m thinking it’s time we have a chat with Jonathan Root.”
“You read my mind.”
They returned to the Italia, collected McBride and Oliver, then walked separately to the Grand Duchi. Outside Root’s room Tanner stopped and turned to McBride and Oliver. “We’re running out of time, so I may have to push him.”
“You think he’s holding something back?” Oliver asked.
“Up until a few days ago, Root had been playing a shell game not only with you, but with the FBI. He’s been living on nerve, desperation, and pretense since the kidnappers contacted him. He’s also a retired spook. All this stuff — it’s what he did for a living.”
McBride said, “You can take the spy out of the business, but not the business out of the spy?”
Tanner nodded. “If there’s a connection between Litzman and his wife’s kidnappers, the sooner we find that out, the better chance we have of dealing with it.”
Both Oliver and McBride nodded. “One warning,” McBride said. “He’s wired tight. Be careful how and where you push, or it might backfire.”
“Understood.”
McBride knocked and Root opened the door. He looked apprehensively at Tanner and Cahil. “They’ve come to help,” McBride said, then made the introductions. “Can we talk inside?”
Root led them to the suite’s sitting room. It was painted in faux finish tones of amber and cream, with heavy brocade drapes, overstuffed chenille chairs, and an Eames rosewood coffee table.
Once everyone was seated, Tanner said, “Leland Dutcher asked me to send his regards.”
Root was unshaven, his face lined with exhaustion, but hearing Dutcher’s name, his expression brightened. “You’re one of Dutch’s?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then, you can’t be all bad.”
Tanner smiled back. “I hope you think so in a few minutes.”
“Pardon me?”
“Mr. Root, what you’re going through right now probably feels like a nightmare. I understand that. Whatever happens, you have my word we’re going to do what we can to get your wife back.”
“I appreciate that.”
“The problem is, her kidnapping may be a part of something bigger.”
“How so?”
“Before I answer that, I’d like to ask you some questions.”
“I’ve already told Joe and Collin everything I know.”
“Humor me.”
Root shrugged. “Go ahead.”
Briggs took a few moments to gather his thoughts. Working mostly in the dark, he would have only Root’s responses and reactions to guide him. “Do you know a man named Stephan Bolz?”
“No.”
“When was the last time you went to France?”
“What? France? I don’t know … ten, fifteen years ago.”
“How about Bosnia?”
Root frowned, thinking. He leaned back in the chair and clasped his hands in his lap. Something, Tanner thought. Root said, “It would’ve been back in the eighties while I was still at Langley.”
“Do you have any regular contact with anyone from Bosnia?”
“No.”
“Croatia? Serbia?”
“No.”
“Have you ever heard the name Karl Litzman?” Tanner asked.
“Yes … yes, I think so. His name came across my desk a few times. Who is he?”
“He’s German — former Russian Spetsnaz.”
“Yes … that’s right. Freelance, wasn’t he?”
“Still is,” Tanner replied. “How much money did the kidnappers ask for?”
“Why do I get the feeling I’m being interrogated?”
“Please answer my question.”
“Twenty million dollars in bearer bonds.”
“Do you have that kind of money?”
“Yes.”
“Where did you get it?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“It’s my understanding Selmani asked for five million, not twenty.”
“I can’t explain that. Joe said he was probably a patsy. Maybe he got confused.”
“Mr. Root, I’ve done a little checking. The truth is, you don’t have twenty million dollars.” This was a lie, but as with most of the questions, Tanner was more interested in Root’s body language than his words.
“You’re wrong,” Root snapped.
“How many times have the kidnappers made contact?”
“Here?”
“Yes.”
“Once.”
“You’re sure it wasn’t twice?”
“I’m sure.”
That’s the truth, Tanner thought. “Do you know a man named Svetic?”
Root pursed his lips, thinking. He unfolded his hands, refolded them. “I don’t think so.”
“You’re sure.”
“Yes.”
There it was, Tanner thought. Faced with a name he didn’t recognize, someone Tanner was pushing, Root, the desperate husband, should have asked the question: This man Svetic … you think he’s involved in my wife’s kidnapping?
“Think about it,” Tanner said. “Be careful with your answer. You’re sure you’ve never heard of, or met, or talked to a man named Svetic?”
“Christ, how many times are you going to ask me that?” Root growled. He stood up and began pacing. “Why are you doing this? My wife’s been taken, for god’s sake!”
“I know that.”
“Then act like it!”
Tanner stared at him, said nothing. Thirty seconds passed … a minute. Finally Root plopped down on the edge of the bed. “What do you want from me?”
“Tell me how you know Svetic, why he took your wife, and what he wants from you.”
Briggs could see Root’s lower lip quivering; the muscles of his jaw pulsed. “I’ve had enough of this. I’d like you to leave. Joe, get them out of here.”