Working in the backseat with his PDA and the phone bill, McBride announced, “I may have something. There’s a couple U.S. calls here. One to his lawyer, I think, the other to an 802 area code — that’s Vermont. Don’t hold me to this, but I think Root has a sister in Burlington.”
Could this be the break they needed? Tanner wondered. Root’s late departure guaranteed he wouldn’t reach the Bank of Tirol before it closed, which meant he’d have to check into a hotel. Tanner doubted he’d make the mistake of using his personal credit card again, which in turn meant he’d be looking for alternatives. The sister or the lawyer? he wondered.
“Let’s check,” Briggs said. He dialed Holystone, explained his theory to Oaken, then recited the names of Root’s lawyer and sister. “Can you run credit and phones for both?”
“Give me twenty minutes.” He called back in fifteen. “It’s his sister. Shortly after you lost Root, she placed an overseas call — Innsbruck, the Hotel Goldene Krone on Maria Theresien Strasse.”
“Bingo. One more favor — a big one.”
“Shoot.”
It took two minutes for Tanner to explain. Oaken whistled softly. “Long shot.”
“It’s all we’ve got. Without it, we’ll have to crash the meeting and hope it goes our way. I’d prefer better odds than that.”
“I’ll see what I can do. I’ll call you from Langley.”
The only edge they had, Tanner felt, was Litzman’s still-mysterious connection to Svetic. For whatever reason, Litzman had been calling either Svetic himself, or someone in his group, beginning in Maryland with the Root kidnapping, then continuing to Austria, where they were awaiting Root’s arrival. Whoever Litzman’s contact was, Briggs hoped to use him. First, however, Tanner had to lure him out.
Forty minutes later, as Cahil was skirting Lenz and heading north on the B108, Oaken called back. He’d arrived at the CIA’s audio lab. “Sylvia called in the Science and Tech chief. Hold on, I’ll put you on speaker.” There were a few clicks, then a woman’s voice: “Mr. Tanner, this is Stephanie Aguayo. Walt’s told me what you want to do. You realize that without a direct sample, we’re not going to get a perfect match.”
“I understand,” Tanner said. “I just need it to be convincing enough for a ten-second call.”
“We’ll give it a shot. Let’s use your voice as a base-line.” She had Tanner recite several phrases then said, “Let’s start with pitch: Deeper or higher?”
“Deeper.”
And so they started building from Tanner’s memory a simulation of Karl Litzman’s voice, from tone and inflection to cadence and clarity. With each addition or change, Aguayo would replay the computer-modified sample of Tanner’s voice, then adjust it before moving on to the next attribute. Finally, after thirty minutes, she played the accumulated sample. “How’s that?” she asked.
“Very close. A little more gravelly.” Aguayo made the adjustment and replayed it. “Good,” Tanner said. “Now all we need is the German accent.”
“We’ll add it when you make the call. It’ll be real time, but with delay of roughly a second.”
“That’s fine. If it goes as planned, I expect it to be brief.”
“Okay, give us thirty minutes to set up the software and the link and we’ll be ready.”
Tanner spent the time rehearsing his script with Cahil and the others until confident it would do the job. However, without knowing the nature of Litzman’s relationship with the contact, Briggs knew he’d have to be ready to improvise.
His phone trilled. Oaken said, “We’re set. When our mystery man answers, just talk normally. We’ll convert the signal en route. We’ve got two translators standing by just in case — Serbo-Croatian and German. If necessary, you’ll get an abbreviated running translation.”
“How much delay will that add?” Tanner asked.
“A few seconds.”
“I’ll try to force him into English. Okay, go ahead and dial.”
Tanner heard a click, a brief hiss of static, then the double-buzz of a phone ringing. On the fourth ring, the line opened and a voice said in Bosnian, “Zdravo?”
“It’s me,” Tanner said.
There was a long five seconds of silence. Briggs closed his eyes and held his breath. Then the voice said, “Da.”
“Speak English. Can you talk?”
“Where are you? Your voice sounds strange.”
“Milan, I’m on my way to the airport. We need to meet; there’s a problem.”
“What?”
“Not on the phone. I’m coming to you. Meet me on the steps of Schloss Ambras lower hall—”
“Where?”
“Ambras Castle. It’s south of the Altstadt. Nine-thirty.”
“That might be difficult.”
“Why?”
“I’ll have to make some excuse—”
Interesting answer, Tanner thought. One of the possibilities he’d considered was that Liztman’s contact was Svetic himself. The answer he’d just gotten seemed to suggest this man was a subordinate. That raised another question: If Litzman was partnered with Svetic’s group, why did his contact need an excuse to make the meeting?
“Then do it,” Tanner snapped. “Be there. Do you understand me?”
Another pause. “I’ll be there.”
Tanner disconnected, then redialed. Oaken picked up on the first ring: “It sounded good,” he said. “We had him on voice analyzer. He was stressed, but I think he bought it.”
“We’ll know in a few hours,” Briggs replied.
They arrived in Innsbruck shortly after six. Sitting astride the Inn River valley, the city lay nestled between the Stubaier Alps to the west and the Tuxer Alps to the east. For Tanner, the Tirolean landscape epitomized the word “alpine,” with ice blue lakes, jagged peaks, lush forests, and deep, hidden valleys. The road into the valley was dwarfed by rolling hills lined with chalets and ski resorts, their signs so plentiful they stood stacked atop one another, arrows pointing higher into the mountains.
“Makes me want to yodel,” Cahil said, keeping one eye on the road, the other on the scenery.
“Have at it,” Tanner said. “Just make sure your window’s rolled up.”
As planned, they drove straight to the Europcar office on Salurner Strasse, where they rented an Opel Astra and Hyundai Starex minivan, then proceeded separately — Tanner and Cahil first, McBride and Oliver following in the new rentals — to the Best Western Mondschein and checked in.
Once settled, they parted ways again, Cahil and Oliver on a shopping trip, Tanner and McBride to the Hotel Goldene Krone on the outskirts of the Altstadt, or Old City. After fifteen minutes of walking the area and watching for surveillance, Tanner decided they were clear. They entered the alley behind the Golden Krone.
Briggs found a door near the kitchen ajar for ventilation and they slipped inside. Somewhere a radio was playing Strauss’s “Alpine Symphony.” A chef working over the stove glanced up. “Kann ich Ihnen helfen?” Can I help you?
“Are you the manager?” Tanner demanded in German.
“Nein.”
“I need the manager!” Tanner growled and kept walking.
He strode past the reception desk, took the elevator to the third floor, and knocked on Root’s door. Root opened it and stared at them, mouth agape. “How did you—”
“Dumb luck,” Tanner replied, brushing past him. McBride shut the door behind them. Briggs turned on Root. “What in god’s name are you thinking, Jonathan?”
Root sighed. He raised his hands to his waist, let them drop. “I’m trying to save my wife.”