Echo of War

by Grant Blackwood

  Finally the Zodiac’s engine died and didn’t resume. Tanner counted sixty seconds, then swam out and surfaced beneath the stern. He sidestroked around the curve of the hull. At midships, Litzman was climbing up the accommodation ladder as two crewmen hauled the Zodiac onto the platform.

  Tanner pressed himself against the hull and waited. Five minutes passed. He felt the hull shudder, then heard a rumble. Beneath him the water began boiling as the propeller turned over.

  He took a deep breath, flipped over, and dove. He swam hard for thirty seconds, resurfaced, snatched a breath, dove again. When he’d covered what he guessed was three hundred yards, he surfaced again and glanced back. The Sorgia’s stern light was fading into the darkness. He watched until he could no longer make out the curve of her stern, then turned toward shore.

  The lights along the coastline seemed close, but he knew better. At best, he had a ten-mile swim ahead of him. On the plus side, the water was warm, the current negligible. If he paced himself and kept his bearings, he could make it in four or five hours.

  Which way, then? He was somewhere off the coast of Spain’s border with France. Unless his geography was off, Saint Sebastian was the biggest city in the area.

  He picked out the two biggest clusters of lights. The one to his northeast would be the French resort town of Biarritz, so the one south of him must be Saint Sebastian. Of the two, he preferred the latter. He had to assume the French authorities were still looking for him and Cahil. If the worst happened, he’d rather face the questions of the Spanish police. Saint Sebastian, then.

  He started swimming.

  Time passed smoothly, if slowly, as he fell into an easy sidestroke that steadily ate up the distance to shore. Every half hour he would stop, take another bearing on Saint Sebastian, then allow himself a few minutes’ rest before resuming.

  Twice he felt a curious surge in the water beneath him, followed each time by the fleeting brush of something against his leg. Heart pounding, he stopped swimming, tucked himself into a ball, and went still. He stayed that way, hovering motionless as his imagination conjured up images of ghostly gray shapes circling in the darkness beneath him. Was he bleeding? Had he cut himself on one of the barnacles and not realized it? No. If he were bleeding, sharks would have found him long before now—and they wouldn’t have announced their presence with a brush. You’re not bleeding; you’re okay; it was nothing.

  He lowered his legs and began treading water. His every sense was piqued, waiting for another brush, a bump, anything. Nothing came. After another five minutes he started out again.

  Four miles from shore he spotted a piece of driftwood and swam to it. It was roughly twice the length of his body and shaped like an outrigger for a canoe. Using it as a kickboard, he continued on.

  Two miles from shore, exhaustion overtook him. Each stroke became a monumental effort, as though his arms were encased in lead and he was paddling through oil. His head began to ache, dully at first and then more sharply, spreading outward from the point where the rifle butt had struck him. Worried he’d suffered a concussion and might slip into unconsciousness, he took a few minutes to use his belt to lash his shoulders to the driftwood before swimming on.

  After a time he heard the distant rush of waves. He lifted his head. Ahead he could see a faint line of churned water. Breakers … the beach. He dragged himself belly-first across the driftwood until he was astride it and began paddling.

  After another ten minutes, a wave rose beneath him, lifted him onto its crest, and broke. He tumbled end over end into the shallows. Dragging the driftwood behind him, he crawled forward until his hands touched dry sand.

  Mindful of Dawn’s approach, Tanner allowed himself five minutes to catch his breath, then unhooked himself from the driftwood, struggled to his feet, and headed inland.

  At the top of the beach stood a chest-high stone wall and a set of stone steps. To his left was a sign. It took several seconds for his brain to register the words: “Accueillir à Corniche, Population 1,936.” He blinked, read the sign again.

  “Accueillir à … ?” Briggs murmured. The words were French. Welcome to … Oh no.

  Whether from exhaustion, the concussion, unseen currents, or simply bad navigation, he’d missed Saint Sebastian altogether. He’d come ashore in Corniche. He was still in France.

  27

  Corniche, France

  He had two choices, neither of them pleasant, but one less so than the other.

  He’d mistaken the lights of Hendaye Plage—which lay five miles to the south, around the Viscaya peninsula—for those of Saint Sebastian. By water he was twelve miles from the Spanish border. Assuming he had the strength for another five-hour swim—which he doubted—the sun would be up by the time he reached Saint Sebastian.

  Having assumed the Spanish coast would be heavily patrolled at night by anti-ETA units, Tanner had intended to pick his way ashore under cover of darkness. Strolling out of the waves in broad daylight was certain to land him in the hands of military interrogators, who wouldn’t likely be burdened with the finer points of civil rights and due process.

  Even so, his chances were worse here. That left one option: Go inland and try to slip across the border while it was still dark.

  The street of Corniche were quiet. The homes were cottage style, with dormer windows, slate roofs, and rough-hewn bricks. Most of the shops—which ranged from bakeries and candle makers to a Nokia cell phone distributor—were fronted by canvas awnings in shades of blues and reds. Corniche was, Tanner decided, the essence of quaint; he found himself wishing he had time to linger.

  Trying to maintain a generally eastern course, he headed up the main boulevard, then turned up the next side street. He saw a few lighted windows above the streets, but nothing was moving. He kept an unhurried pace—a local out for a stroll—but he was under no illusion: If he were seen up close, his appearance alone would raise suspicion: He was shoeless, soaking wet, and his hair had dried into a wild, salt-encrusted mop. Moreover, he had no identification and his French wasn’t good enough to pass muster under prolonged questioning. The sooner he could get out of Corniche and into the foothills of the Pyrenees, the sooner he could find a way across the border.

  What had Susanna said? Trieste, five days. What was in Trieste? he wondered. Was the Italian-resort city just another waypoint for Litzman, or was it his ultimate destination?

  He turned the comer and saw a figure standing at a telephone booth on the far sidewalk. It wasn’t a telephone booth, he realized, but a callbox—a police callbox. New millennium or not, many smaller towns in France still used such boxes for patrol cops. Parked beside the curb was a compact black-and-white Simca.

  Wonderful, Tanner thought. Of all the people he could run into, it had to be a cop. Keep walking … act like you belong. Maybe Corniche had a healthy population of vagabond beach bums with Tina Turner hair; perhaps the cop—

  “Bonjour, le monsieur!” the cop called. “Arrêtez-vous, s’il vous plaît.” Stop, please.

  The tone was polite but firm. Tanner kept walking.

  “Vous devez vous arrêter!”

  Insistent now, Tanner thought. Decide, Briggs. Run or bluff it out?

  He stopped and turned. “Pardon?”

  The cop strolled over, hand resting on the haft of his truncheon. “May I ask where you are going?” he said in French.

  “Eh?” Tanner replied.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m trying to find a friend. I think I’m lost.”

  “What is his address?”

  Tanner named one of the streets he’d just passed.

  “You’re going in the wrong direction,” the cop replied, his eyes traveling up and down Tanner’s body. “Are you well, monsieur? Have you been injured?”

  “No, I’m fine, thank you.”

  “May I see your identification?”

  “Of course,” Tanner replied. He rummaged in his back pocket and
pretended to pull something out. He swiveled to his right, as though looking for better light. “I can’t see. Do you have a flashlight?”

  On instinct, the cop reached toward the flashlight on his belt with his free hand.

  Tanner’s hand shot up, thumb extended, and jabbed the man in the hollow of his throat. The cop let out a gasp and clutched at his throat while struggling to free his truncheon. Tanner stepped close, palm-butted him in the chin, hooked his heel behind the man’s foot, and swept his leg. The man collapsed onto his butt, then rolled onto his side, unconscious.

  Tanner crouched beside him, looked around. Nothing was moving; no lights, no sounds. He checked the man’s pulse and found it strong and steady; he’d have a headache and a bruised trachea, but he’d survive.

  Briggs hefted the man onto his shoulder and waddled across to the Simca. He opened the rear door, dumped the man inside, cuffed his hands behind his back, then shut the door. He collected the man’s cap from the sidewalk, tossed it through the window, then turned away.

  He stopped. The kernel of an idea formed in his mind. He glanced back at the Simca, mulled over the plan for a few moments, then decided. Better to ride than walk. He trotted to the callbox and checked to make sure the cop had removed his key—he had—then climbed into the Simca’s front seat, settled the cop’s hat on his head, turned on the engine, and pulled away.

  He drove west until he found the outskirts of Corniche, then pulled over. In the glovebox he found a road atlas, which he studied until certain of his course; then he drove on. Five minutes and two miles later he pulled onto the D658 and headed southeast until he reached the N10, which he followed to Bariatou, the last French town along the border.

  After several missed turns and some backtracking he found a sign pointing to Chemin d’Oundidarre, which took him into the foothills of the Pyrenees. Soon the road turned into a narrow gravel tract. He pulled off the road into a stand of trees and doused the headlights.

  The cop was still unconscious in the backseat. Tanner stripped off his uniform and donned it. The cop was shorter than he was and slightly plump, but the fit was close enough. He uncuffed one of the man’s hands, rolled him onto the floor, looped the cuff chain around one of the seat supports, and recuffed his other hand.

  How much time did he have? Tanner wondered. How long before Corniche police headquarters realized they were missing a man, and how quickly would they sound the alarm?

  He was in the heart of Basque-ETA territory now, the area of northern Spain and southern Aquitaine the terrorists called Euskal Herria. The frontier would be patrolled by the French border police, Spain’s civil guard, and GAR antiterrorism teams. He had two factors in his favor: First, ETA border crossings involved entire teams, their equipment and vehicles, whereas he was a lone man; and two, the terrain was rugged, which meant patrols were often conducted on foot and far from reinforcements.

  If he chose his time and place carefully, he had a chance.

  He drove for twenty minutes, following the road as it meandered deeper into the foothills and forests along the border. He passed two French patrols in Laforza SUVs, each time tossing a hand salute out the window and each time getting one in return.

  At an ancient cobblestone bridge, he stopped the Simca, got out, took a quick peek over the edge, then climbed back in. He spun the wheel hard over, squeezed through a gap between the bridge’s piling and a tree, then shifted into neutral and coasted down the embankment. The Simca jerked to a stop as the front tires sank into the mud on the bank. He doused the headlights.

  The cop groaned. His eyes fluttered open. He tried to sit up, but fell back. “You!” he said in French. “What have you done?”

  “How are you feeling?” Tanner asked.

  “You attacked me! I’m a police officer!”

  “I know. How’s your head?”

  “It hurts, damn you!”

  “Apologies.”

  “What are you going to do to me?”

  “I’m not going to do anything to you.” Tanner climbed out, opened the back door, and began stripping off the uniform—save the boots—and putting his own clothes back on. “I’ll let someone know where you are.”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  Tanner stopped, thought about it. “I already told you: I’m trying to find a friend.”

  He started jogging, following the creek southeast, which he assumed was an offshoot of the Bidasoa River, part of the natural border between Spain and France.

  After a mile the creek split into three tributaries. Tanner flipped a mental coin, chose the left bank, and kept jogging. The creek continued to widen until, half a mile later, it merged with the Bidasoa. He climbed up the bank, stripped half a dozen branches from the brush, then tucked the ends into his belt so the foliage covered his torso. He waded back into the water until it reached his chest, then stroked out into the channel. The current took hold. He began drifting.

  He floated for roughly two miles, then stroked to the opposite shore and crawled out onto a narrow beach headed by a tree-lined berm. To the east, the horizon was brightening into shades of orange. The river gurgled softly at his back.

  Suddenly to the north came the chatter of automatic weapons, followed by a few seconds of silence, then more firing. Had either the French or Spanish border forces intercepted an ETA border crossing? Tanner wondered. If so, their timing couldn’t have been better. He heard the distant wail of sirens. Downriver a helicopter appeared out of the darkness over the treetops and swept toward him, rotors thumping and navigation lights flashing.

  HU-21 Cougar. Spanish special forces. For me, or the ETA?

  He had the sudden urge to scramble back into the water, but he forced himself still. Hold, hold … If the Cougar were here for him, he was caught; running would make no difference. He watched, heart pounding, as the helo thundered overhead, banked sharply, then disappeared around the bend in the river.

  He leapt up, sprinted for the berm, dropped to his belly in the trees. Ahead lay a two-lane asphalt road with a yellow centerline. Civilization, Briggs thought.

  A pair of military jeeps, each carrying half a dozen soldiers, screeched around the next corner, raced past the berm, and disappeared around the next corner. Tanner sprinted down the embankment, across the road, and into the trees beyond.

  A quarter mile later he reached another tree line and yet another road, this one a four-lane highway. A sign on the shoulder read, “Autopista 121a/01aberria, 1 km.” An arrow pointed to an off ramp across the highway. Here the traffic was heavier, with clusters of early morning commuters passing every ten seconds or so. Over the treetops Briggs could see the glow of city lights; beyond them, the orange rim of the sun.

  He couldn’t dash across the road unseen, so he opted for boldness. He stood up, brushed himself off, and straightened his clothes. At the next gap in traffic, he walked down the embankment and trotted across to the median. A Renault buzzed past him; the driver didn’t give him a second glance.

  He strolled across the remaining two lanes, down the next embankment and into a meadow of knee-high grass across which stood a row of buildings with red tile roofs. When he reached them he found a road lined with shops. He picked the nearest one, a cafe fronted by a dark green awning, and walked over.

  The elderly man sweeping the sidewalk smiled. “Buenos dias, señor.”

  “Buenos dias. Habla usted Ingles?”

  “Yes, I speak English.” He glanced at Tanner’s clothes and hair, then said. “Are you tourist? Are you lost?”

  “You could say that. May I use your phone?”

  “Of course. And, senor, pardon if I insult, but I also have a bathtub.”

  Tanner smiled. “No insult, señor. I accept.”

  28

  Trieste, Italy

  McBride and Oliver’s plane touched down at Trieste’s Ronchi dei Legionari airport shortly after six P.M. local time. They collected their luggage and hailed a cab that took the
m into Trieste proper, thirty-five kilometers away.

  According to Oliver’s source—a CIA analyst friend at the Intelligence Directorate’s Europe desk—Root’s last credit card purchase showed him having checked into the Grand Duchi D’Aosta two days earlier. There had been no activity since, which suggested to McBride he was either using cash or he hadn’t left his hotel since his arrival.

  Oliver had initially balked at approaching his Langley friend, but his FBI contacts were out of the question. With the Root case now firmly in the hands of the FBI’s Criminal Investigative Division, any query involving Root would have brought the wrath of God down on him. Hearing this, the closet cynic in McBride wanted to cry conspiracy, but the truth was the FBI hierarchy was simply protecting Root’s legacy. From the White House down, the word was the same: The former DCI has been through enough; find those responsible, but leave the man to his grief.

  Nothing beats grief like a hasty trip to Italy, McBride thought. What in God’s name is Root up to? With a little luck and a healthy dose of gall, they might soon find out. If this adventure of theirs proved folly and Root’s reasons for being in Trieste proved benign, they could only hope Root would be forgiving. If not … For McBride, the stakes were not as dramatic; Oliver, on the other hand, could find himself fired and charged with God-knew-what by a vengeful FBI.

  The taxi dropped them off at the Hotel Italia, which Oliver had selected from the Fodor’s guide for its proximity to the downtown area’s train stations, taxi hubs, and airport shuttles. “Easier to move about,” he explained.

  “Easier to gather our luggage and run home with our tails between our legs.”

  “That, too.”

  Bracketed by white limestone cliffs and the blue waters of the Adriatic, Trieste’s proximity to the Slovenian and Croatian borders—three miles and fifteen miles respectively—made it the last stop between “Continental” Europe and “Slavic” Europe.