“Bonjour, messieurs.”
“Deux bières, s’il vous plaît.”
The bartender brought them a pair of draft beers, then moved on to other customers. Tanner could feel eyes on his back, but he fought the urge to turn around. Probably just curious, he thought. His French was passable in Paris, but too urban for Brittany. The patrons were probably cursing them as early tourists invading their favorite night-spot.
Amid the babble Briggs thought he heard snippets of German. He focused on the voices and tried to filter out the rest until certain of what he was hearing. He turned around, hiked his foot on the kick rail, and began scanning the room, trying to pinpoint the voices.
Four men, huddled around their mugs at a table in the corner, seemed to be arguing.
Long shot, Tanner thought. But, as Bear had said, there was only one way to find out. He turned to Cahil and explained. “In the corner by the window, four men.”
“I see ‘em. What’re you thinking?”
“We don’t dare mention Susanna’s name; if she’s still under, it could burn her.”
“Stephan it is, then.”
“Find a table within earshot of them. I’ll be back.”
Tanner found the bathroom, killed three minutes, then walked back out. He strode to the center of the room and called, “M’excuser … M’excuser!” He waited until the voices died away and all eyes were on him. “Je cherche un ami, un homme a nommé Stephan.” I’m looking for a friend, a man named Stephan.
There were five seconds of silence and then, as though he hadn’t spoken, the patrons returned to their drinking. In the corner, the German group put their heads together and began muttering between one another. Tanner glanced at Cahil, who gave an imperceptible nod: Reaction.
After a few minutes, the Germans finished their beers, stood up, and headed out the door. Cahil rejoined Tanner at the bar. “You got their attention,” Bear said. “I only caught bits of their conversation, but the gist of it was they wanted to know who the hell you were and how you found this place.”
“Good enough for me,” Tanner said. “Let’s go.”
They stepped out the door and onto the street. It was dark, deserted. A wind had come up; mist swirled in the air. Beyond the stone wall Tanner could hear the roar of waves. He tasted salt.
“Either they ran or they’re still around,” Cahil murmured.
“I vote for the latter. We’ll know soon enough.”
They started walking. They’d traveled less than a block when they heard footsteps clicking on the cobblestones behind them. Tanner glanced back. “Two,” he said. Ahead lay the mouth of an alley. As they neared it, the second pair of Germans stepped from the darkness to block their path. Briggs wasn’t surprised by this, but still he felt his heart pound a little harder. He and Cahil stopped and took a few circling steps into the street, now shoulder-to-shoulder.
“Looks like something fell out of the tree,” Cahil murmured.
“Hope it’s worth it,” Tanner replied. “I’d hate to get mugged for nothing.”
The Germans joined ranks before them. “How do you know Stephan?” one of them said in heavily accented English. He wore a black, waist-length leather coat and a green turtleneck. His compatriots stood with their hands deep in their coat pockets.
Probably not guns, Tanner thought. Knives, then.
“Pardon?” Tanner replied in French.
“Your French is like shit. Who are you? How do you know Stephan?”
Tanner switched to English. “I should ask you the same question.”
“No, you shouldn’t. Answer me.” The man took a step forward. His hands, clenched into fists, hung at his sides. His knuckles were crisscrossed with scars. Streetftghter, Tanner thought.
The other Germans were spreading out, flanking them.
“I said, who are you?” the man repeated.
Tanner smiled at him, shook his head. “Go to hell.”
The fist came up startlingly fast, arcing toward Tanner’s head in a roundhouse punch. Tanner ducked it and stepped forward, snapping a short jab into the man’s solar plexus. The man let out a gasp, but closed in and clamped a hand on the back of Tanner’s neck, drawing him in. To his left, Briggs saw a pair of the men rushing toward Cahil.
Tanner’s assailant drew back his head, snapped it forward. Tanner turned his face, took the butt on his cheekbone, and felt the skin split. Warm blood gushed down his face. The butt had been delivered with expertise; had it found its mark, Tanner’s teeth would’ve been sheared off at the gumline.
Tanner stomped down, driving his heel into the man’s foot, then swung a tight uppercut that caught the man on the point of the chin. As he stumbled backward, Tanner shoved him into the next man. They collapsed together in a heap. A few feet away, Cahil had one of his men on the ground as another German rushed him from behind. Tanner saw the man’s hand arcing down, saw a glint of steel in the light.
“Knife!” Tanner called. Cahil glanced up, started moving to meet the assault.
Tanner’s attackers had recovered and were closing again. The one in the leather jacket held a knife in his fist, the blade angled low. His partner circled left. As though exhausted, Tanner let his arms droop. The first man rushed in, knife slashing up and across. Briggs straightened, let the blade sweep past, then grasped the man’s fist in both of his and twisted hard. The wrist bones snapped, sounding like walnut shells crushed under a boot. The man cried out. The knife clattered on the cobblestones. Tanner kicked it away and kept twisting the wrist, walking the man around and blocking his partner’s advance.
From the corner of his eye he saw a shadow rushing toward him. He turned, instantly realized the German was too close, and readied himself for the blow.
“Hey!” came a voice. The German paused, looked over his shoulder.
As though levitating, a steel garbage can rose into the air above the man’s head, stopped for a moment, then slammed down. Even as the man fell, the can-wielding figure barreled through him and charged Cahil’s second assailant. Cahil backpedaled as the can crashed down onto the man’s head, knocking him to his knees, where he teetered for a moment before toppling over.
Chest heaving, the mystery man dropped the mangled can and turned to face them. It was their blond-haired companion from the TGV. He grinned at them. “Hope you don’t mind the interruption, but it looked like you could use some help. No offense, of course.” His English was American.
Tanner smiled back. “None taken.”
“Good. Now: Why don’t you tell me who the hell you are, and why you’re looking for Susanna Vetsch.”
10
At ten a.m., Oliver got the Word: a fingerprint match. The fax was on its way from Quantico. He called McBride at the Root house then spent twenty minutes bending paper clips and sipping cold coffee as McBride drove over.
Joe appeared in the doorway, panting, his hair disheveled. “Well?”
Oliver jerked his head toward the fax machine where a lone sheet of paper sat in the tray.
“You haven’t looked at it?”
“Waiting for you.”
“I applaud your self-discipline, Collin, but read the damned thing. Jesus, you’re killing me.”
Oliver sprang from his chair, snatched the fax from the tray, scanned it. He shook his head in disbelief. “I never thought I’d say this, but there’s one good thing that came from nine-eleven.”
“Huh?”
Oliver handed over the fax. McBride read. The match had come from the Immigration and Naturalization Service. After the World Trade Center and Pentagon were attacked, one of the first changes the FBI and the Office of Homeland Security had lobbied for was an integration of IAFIS at both the state and federal levels. Agencies that had before kept their own in-house fingerprint database joined IAFIS. Of these, the INS maintained a watch list of countries with known links to terrorist groups.