The footfalls grew louder and began moving back toward the front of the cabin. Tanner peeked up. The guard strolled past the Audi and down the driveway a few yards, where he paused to scan once more with his scope. He lifted the radio to his mouth. Limited as Tanner’s Bosnian was, he caught only one word—“clear”—but the guard’s posture said it all.
Shoulders relaxed and rifle held loosely in one hand, he started back toward the porch. Tanner ducked down.
So far, their ruse had done its job. Drawing one of the men outside had accomplished two things: First, it improved Tanner’s chances of not having to crash a locked door; and second, the psychological effect of first the trip wire warning and then the relief at finding the alarm false would put the guards at ease.
Of course, Briggs reminded himself, that was all theory. He’d have his proof in a few seconds.
He heard the guard’s foot click on the first step, then the next. He peeked up in time to see the guard raise his hand and knock once on the door. “Otvoriti.”
Tanner closed his eyes, took a deep breath, coiled his legs under him …
There was a click-clack as the lock was popped open.
Go!
Sauer extended before him, Briggs vaulted himself onto the porch and charged the guard. The door swung open. The guard turned, saw Tanner. His eyes went wide. He scrambled to bring his rifle up. Too late. From three feet, Tanner fired once into the man’s chest. As he fell, Briggs caught him by the collar and shoved him through the door.
The door flew inward. Backpedaling from the thresh-old, the second guard was bringing his rifle to his hip. Tanner shoved the first guard toward him. From the corner of his eye he saw movement near the fireplace.
At that moment, Cahil’s bomb landed in the fireplace grate. There was a flash of orange. A cloud of white powder billowed from the hearth and washed through the room like smoke. The guard nearest the fireplace screamed. Tanner sidestepped right, fired two rounds into the second guard, who stumbled backward and crashed over an armchair. Briggs spun left, saw a figure moving toward him through the smoke, fired twice more. The man crumpled to his knees and fell backward.
Behind Tanner, Cahil rushed through the doorway. “Briggs?”
“We’re okay; check that one.”
As Cahil did so, Tanner knelt beside the first two guards. Both were dead. “They’re done.”
“Here, too. Where is she? Do you see her?”
“No, I — Wait …” Tanner held his hand up for silence. The remains of Cahil’s bomb sizzled in the fireplace. Then, faintly, they heard a muffled cry.
Briggs walked the room, trying to locate the sound, until he tracked it to the bathroom. Tanner gestured for Bear to turn on the lights, which he did. Sauer extended, Briggs jerked open the closet door.
Lying on the floor, her wrists and ankles bound by clothesline, was an elderly woman. Jammed in her mouth was a tennis ball threaded with a leather cord. Eyes wide, she stared at them, tried to wriggle deeper into the closet. She mumbled something into the gag.
Tanner handed the Sauer to Cahil and knelt down before her. “Mrs. Root? Amelia Root?”
The woman nodded.
“My name is Briggs. You’re safe.” He extended his hand and smiled. “If you’re ready, we’ll take you out of here. You’ve got a very anxious husband waiting to see you.”
Amelia Root hesitated for a moment, then reached out and took his hand.
38
It was, Walter Oaken knew, both his blessing and his curse. For him nothing was as simple as it looked. Well, that wasn’t quite true, he reminded himself. Occasionally he found that what he saw was in fact what he got, but in most cases he found the opposite true — especially when it came to motivation. Living by the mantra “First know capability, men intention,” purists in the intelligence business tremble at discussing motivation, but Oaken wasn’t a purist. For him, it was, “First motivation, then means.” Understand the first and the rest will fall into place.
The forces that drive people, groups, and nations to do what they do are a mélange of history, conviction, and vision. In Euclidean geometry the shortest point between two points is a straight line, but when it came to human motivation, the line was convoluted.
Knowing this, Oaken had for several days been wrestling with the unmistakable yet mysterious connection between Karl Litzman and Svetic’s group. Was Litzman involved in the kidnapping of Amelia Root? If so, how? As far as Oaken could see, Litzman’s movements in the last few weeks had been unrelated to those of Svetic’s. Did Litzman know about Kestrel or, as Grebo had told Tanner, had Svetic kept the secret to himself? Could it be Litzman was shadowing Svetic, waiting for a chance to steal Kestrel?
Too many questions, Oaken thought. He’d yet to find anything he could use to narrow the possibilities — that piece of the puzzle that would give him a glimpse of the whole. There had to be something.
Oaken raked his fingers through his hair, then stood up, walked to the windows and stared into the darkness. Below, the inlet was shrouded in mist. From the Chesapeake a foghorn groaned, then faded.
His computer beeped. He walked back to his desk and studied the message on the monitor. He smiled. “Is that you?” he murmured. He reached for the phone.
Once certain Amelia Root was not hurt, Tanner helped her out of the closet, wrapped her in a blanket, and walked her onto the porch as Cahil sprinted down the road to retrieve the van. He returned a few minutes later, pulled to a stop beside the Audi, then marched Grebo, still bound and gagged, into the cabin while Tanner settled Mrs. Root into the van’s passenger seat and climbed behind the wheel.
Cahil came out with an SL8 in each hand and climbed in the back. “Done,” he said.
Mrs. Root spoke up. “That other one … he was one of them.”
Tanner nodded. “We know.”
“What are you going to do with him?”
On this Tanner was partially torn. Grebo had lied at least once to them, and part of Briggs wanted to know if he’d led them astray elsewhere. On the other hand, the sooner they could reunite the Roots, collect Kestrel and get it to safety, the better. They’d managed to keep Kestrel out of Svetic’s hands. Beyond that, little else mattered. More importantly, Briggs was anxious to return to Trieste and Susanna.
Tanner said, “We’ll give the Bundespolizei a call in a few hours; he can explain why he’s sitting in a room full of dead men. Meanwhile, we’ll be out of the country.”
Mrs. Root closed her eyes with relief and nodded. “I’d like that.”
They returned to the Goloene Krone just before dawn. Tanner entered first, to find Jonathan Root pacing in the center of the room, McBride and Oliver seated behind him sipping coffee. Root whispered, “Did you …?”
Tanner nodded, then stepped aside to reveal Amelia. Root stopped pacing, stared at her for a moment, then rushed forward and swept her into his arms. Amelia began weeping. Root sat her down on the edge of the bed and held her for several minutes.
Fearing it would sidetrack him, until this point Tanner hadn’t allowed himself to feel — truly feel—the depth of love the Roots had for one another, but seeing them together now brought tears to his eyes. Jonathan and Amelia cherished one another as much today as they had on the day they were married. McBride had been right: Losing Amelia would have destroyed the DCI.
And now they’re back together, Briggs thought. One more job and they can go home.