In the early eighties there had been rumors that the GRU, anticipating a major ground war in Europe, had started expanding the Spetsnaz program and were recruiting soldiers from all corners of the Soviet bloc for inclusion in divisions that had thus far been restricted to native Russian troops.
If the mystery man named Stephan and the four Germans from the Black Boar were Spetsnaz, Tanner’s search had just taken a disturbing tack. What in god’s name had Susanna gotten herself into?
“All four — five, including Stephan — are from the same unit,” Jim said.
“Present tense?” Cahil asked.
“Past. They’re freelance now.”
“Maybe you better tell us the whole story,” Tanner said.
“Right. It started about ten months ago. Susanna was on a—”
Behind Jim, the window shade bulged inward slightly. Tanner caught the scent of cigarette smoke. Backlit by the streetlamps, a man-shaped silhouette filled the shade.
Cahil saw it: “Light!”
Tanner leapt forward, reached for the table lamp.
Jim looked around. “What’s—”
There was a deafening roar. The shade blew inward. The lamp exploded. Tanner dove for the ground. The back of Jim’s head dissolved in a halo of blood. His face frozen in an expression of confusion, Jim toppled face-first onto the carpet.
“You okay?” Cahil called from the floor.
“Yeah, you?”
“Uh-huh.”
Tanner craned his neck upward. The window was empty.
From the street, voices began shouting. “Faites attention … Au secours,police!”
“We’ve gotta go, Briggs.”
Tanner thought he saw a brief flicker of movement in Jim’s dead eyes, then nothing. The man was gone. Briggs tore his gaze away and looked around. Did we touch anything?”
“No, no, we’re okay. Come on!”
Tanner pushed himself upright and ran for the door.
They left the way they’d come in, sprinted across the street and into the adjoining alley. As they came out the other end, a police car screeched around the corner and slowed beside them.
“Hotel Louvre! Un homme avec un fusil!” Tanner yelled in French, pointing.
The officer in the passenger seat nodded and the car sped away.
They slowed their pace to a stroll and headed northwest toward the Bastion and Porte St. Pierre, one of the main gates on the seaward side. Once outside the gate, they walked to Chaussee Boulevard and hailed a taxi.
Tanner focused on putting some distance between themselves and the murder scene. He ordered the driver to take them to Quai Solidor a few miles down the coast. Once there, they walked five blocks to the ferry terminal, where they bought a pair of tickets for Dinard, St. Malo’s sister city across the Rance Estuary. Forty minutes later they disembarked, walked downtown, and checked into a discount hostel.
With the door shut and locked behind them, Tanner plopped down on the bed, flipped open his cell phone, and dialed. It was shortly before ten P.M. in Washington. Oaken was awake, watching CNN.
He said, “You’re up late, or is it early?”
“Feels like both,” Tanner replied. “I need a conference with you and Leland.”
“Now?”
“No, office.” What he had to report was best said over a secure line. “I’ll find a pay phone and call you. How long do you need?”
“One hour.”
Tanner found the hostel’s lobby deserted. The house phones were of the traditional European style, each an enclosed cubicle with a glass door. Tanner sat down on the bench, closed the door, then reached up and twisted loose the fluorescent bulb before it could sputter to life. He dialed the long-distance prefix, swiped his credit card, then waited through sixty seconds of clicks as the call was routed first to the U.S., then to Fort Meade, where Holystone’s secure encrypted lines were maintained. There was a brief squelch as the call was electronically scrubbed. The line started ringing.
Dutcher answered: “Holystone.”
“It’s me. Sorry for waking you.”
“No problem. I was tinkering.” Dutcher’s hobby was restoring antique pocket watches.
“Which one?”
“German, circa 1750.”
“Sun and moon flyback?” Tanner asked.
“That’s the one. Actually, you saved its life. I was about ready to take a hammer to it. What’ve you got?”
“A mystery,” Briggs replied, then recounted his and Cahil’s movements since leaving Paris, ending with their meeting of the mysterious Jim and his murder. “I think Langley just lost one of its own.”
“You suspect the Germans?”
“Unless he had other involvements we don’t know about. The timing is too coincidental.”
“Could they have followed you to the hotel?”
“When we left they were all semi-unconscious. They might have come around before the police got there, but they were in no shape for pursuit.”
“If so, it means they were on to Jim before you met him,” Oaken said.
“I agree,” said Dutcher. “Are you safe?”
“So far,” Tanner said. “We’re going to move again after I hang up.”
“Good. I’ve got some calls to make. Give me ninety minutes, then call back.”
They left the hostel, hailed a taxi back to the TGV station and recovered their duffels.
In the distance, from within the walls of the intramuros, Tanner could still hear the warble of sirens. They saw no gendarmie in the station, however, which meant the authorities were still trying to sort out what had happened at the Hotel du Louvre and the Black Boar. A connection would be made, of course.
Petty crime in St. Malo was rare; assault and murder would set the town ablaze. While their departure from the hostel had been clean, the Black Boar was another matter. They had to assume their descriptions would soon be circulating. With any luck, one or all of the Germans would be detained for Jim’s murder, perhaps averting a manhunt beyond St. Malo. Until that was confirmed, however, they would assume the worst.
As Cahil waited outside, Briggs went to the station’s gift shop, bought a short-brimmed fedora and a pair of nonprescription reading glasses, then proceeded to the Avis counter. He rented a Renault using his backup credit card and passport, then proceeded to the car.
He pulled to the curb and Cahil climbed in. On the eastern horizon they could see the faint glow of sunlight. “Remember the panhandler from the train?” Cahil asked. “The girl?”
“Yes.”
“Look in your rearview mirror.”
Tanner did so. Standing at the curb, staring after them, was the magenta-haired girl. As Briggs watched, she turned away and walked back inside the station.
12
Once the evidence response team was done processing and returning the apartment to its original condition, Oliver called in the surveillance team, made sure everything was in order, then called ahead to Quantico with news of the indented writing from Selmain’s notebook. When he and McBride arrived, a technician from Questioned Documents was waiting.
McBride had worked with his share of QDs before, most of which had come in the form of ransom notes and bogus statements, so he knew the process well.
For indented writing, there are two primary recovery methods. The most complex, which is reserved for indentations too faint for the human eye to see, is ED, or electrostatic detection. The document in question is covered with a transparent Mylar sheath which is drawn tight to the paper with a vacuum and then exposed to repeated high-voltage charges that allow static to accumulate in microscopic indentations. Once done, the Mylar is “misted” with powdered toner which settles into the charged indentations. The document is then photographed and converted into a negative image to highlight the indentations.