Oliver said, “I can picture him sitting here: killing time, waiting for the call.”
Kneeling beside the mattress, McBride studied the notebook, flipping pages with a gloved index finger. “If he was a scrounger, he’s probably got a storage locker somewhere,” he said. He was about to turn another page when something caught his eye. He lifted the notebook up to the overhead light. “Huh.”
“What?”
“Get me some print powder.”
Oliver went into the living room and returned with a vial. McBride laid the notebook on the floor, uncapped the vial, and sprinkled some powder onto the page. Using the tips of his fingers he jiggled the notebook back and forth, spreading the dust into every corner, then gently blew off the surplus. He lifted the notebook to the light again. In the center of the page was a ghostly scribble:
Bob 7.5. 9
Oliver knelt beside McBride and peered at it. “What the hell is that?”
“Not sure,” McBride replied. “But I’ve got an idea.”
11
“Never mind,” the stranger told Tanner. “Not here.” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and tossed it to Tanner. “Your cheek is bleeding.”
The stranger knelt beside one of the unconscious Germans, pulled back his sleeve, studied the skin briefly, then dropped the arm and started frisking him. Tanner and Cahil searched the others but found nothing — no IDs, no credit cards, no paperwork. A few feet away, the man whose wrist Tanner had broken groaned and began crawling away. The stranger placed a foot between the man’s shoulder blades and shoved him down.
“Bewegen Sie nicht!” he ordered. He heel-kicked the man in the back of the head and he went limp.
In the distance came the wail of police sirens.
“Follow me,” the stranger said, and took off jogging.
Tanner and Cahil exchanged glances, shrugged, and followed.
He led them southeast through the streets, moving confidently through the alleys and empty courtyards. Twice they ducked into the shadows as police cars swept past, blue strobes flashing. After twenty minutes’ travel they reached the Hotel du Louvre on Rue des Marins.
He led them through a back entrance and down the hall to his room. Once inside, he tossed the keys onto the credenza, opened the liquor cabinet, and poured himself two fingers of bourbon, took a gulp. He dropped into an armchair beside the window. “Help yourself,” he said.
“No, thanks,” Tanner replied.
In better light, Tanner realized their rescuer’s hair was not blond, but white. The man was in his mid-forties. His face showed a week’s worth of stubble and his eyes were bloodshot. As he lifted the glass to his lips, his hand trembled. Whoever their rescuer was, he was on the edge of exhaustion.
“The truth is,” the man said, “you didn’t look like you needed help, but I figured what the hell. It seemed like the thing to do.” He gave a weak, almost manic, chuckle. “Sit down, sit down.”
Tanner and Cahil sat on the edge of the bed.
“So, who the hell are you?” the man asked.
“We’re friends of Susanna’s,” Tanner replied.
“Not just friends. Friends would’ve talked to the police, friends don’t wander around Paris’s nastiest neighborhood; friends don’t serve themselves up to four German knuckle-draggers hoping to find a lead. Friends, maybe, but that ain’t all you are. You’re on the job, aren’t you?”
“After a fashion.”
“Yeah, who? DEA? Nah, you don’t look it.”
Interesting, Tanner thought. The tone of the question sounded exclusionary. He’s not DEA, either. Who then? “We know her father,” Briggs said. “He’s worried about her.”
The man gave another chuckle. “Yeah? Well, he can join the club. What do I call you? No, forget it … I don’t wanna know.” He took another gulp of bourbon. “You can call me Jim. Okay, so we’re all looking for Susanna. How’d you end up here?”
“Something we found in Susanna’s apartment. What about you?”
“I picked you up in the Pigalle.” Jim noted Cahil’s frown and said, “Don’t feel bad. I’ve been here for two years. I’ve learned how to blend in. I’d been staking out her neighborhood, seeing if she’d turn up. Instead, you guys did. It was the only lead I’d gotten for a week, so I followed you.”
“You already had a hotel here,” Cahil stated.
“Susanna had mentioned St Malo before, so I came here last week, but couldn’t find her. I hopped the TGV back to Paris. I had something I wanted to try.”
“What?” Tanner asked.
“Nope. Your turn. You guys are damned resourceful for concerned friends. What’s your story.”
Tanner thought it over. It seemed unlikely they knew anything Jim didn’t. Maybe some good faith on their part would break down the wall.
He gave Jim the same pitch he’d given Slavin: Susanna’s assignment with the FCI, her alias, her code name, the flurry of coded radio traffic between Paris and Washington around the time of her disappearance. “And now I’m getting the feeling she wasn’t DEA.”
“I didn’t say that”
“You implied it”
“Big leap.”
“It’s all we’ve got Look, we don’t know where she is, you don’t know where she is. Maybe between the three of us, we can do what none of us has been able to do alone.”
Jim exhaled heavily, then tugged at his lip with his thumb and index finger. He got up, refilled his glass, and plopped back down in the chair. “Jesus, I’m tired. You know? Really tired.”
“I can see that,” Tanner replied. “Jim, sometimes you’ve got to trust somebody — sometimes you’ve got to make that leap. That’s what I’m asking you to do.” Tanner waited until Jim met his gaze. “You can trust us.”
Jim squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them again. “Okay … yeah, okay. I guess you could say I’m her … supervisor.”
Closer, Tanner thought, then went with a hunch: “Case officer, you mean.” Jim simply stared at him. He’s CIA... a goddamned CIA case officer. They had stumbled into a CIA operation buried within a DEA operation. Wheels within wheels. Briggs said, “Are you telling me Susanna was moonlighting?”
“Yeah. For a good cause, believe me. You have no idea.”
“Give me an idea.”
“You know who those four Germans were?”
Cahil said, “Cohorts of Stephan’s?”
“Jesus, how’d you—”
“A couple friends we met in the Pigalle.”
“Yeah, I saw them: Trixie and Sabine. Susanna mentioned them a couple of times.”
“What about the Germans?” Tanner asked. “What were you looking for under his sleeve?”
“A tattoo — a wolf’s head superimposed on a parachute canopy. You know it?”
“I know it. Spetsialnoye Nazranie.”
Jim nodded. “Spetsnaz.”
Cahil groaned. “Oh, boy.”
Spetsnaz soldiers — literally, “troops of special purpose”—were the cream of the Russian special forces community. Trained and commanded by the GRU, the intelligence branch of the General Staff, Spetsnaz were trained in weapons handling, tracking and camouflage, surveillance techniques, hand-to-hand combat, sabotage and demolitions, prisoner interrogation, and combat swimming. Tanner had encountered his share of Spetsnaz on both friendly and unfriendly terms. Of the two, he preferred the former. They were superbly trained, ruthless, and dedicated.