Echo of War (27 page)

Tanner didn't reply. He signaled Oliver and Cahil,
Emergency
,
tighten up,
then pulled out and started driving. His mind was spinning. They were in trouble, serious trouble. The whys, wheres, and hows were unknown. They needed to get to safety and regroup.

They arrived at the Austrotel five minutes later. Once they were locked in the room, Tanner told the group about the missing canisters. Everyone began talking at once, questions overlapping one another. Briggs held up his hand for silence, then turned to Root: “Explain.”

“I didn't think he would do it. I thought I'd talked him out of it. He said he agreed—”

“Stop,” Tanner said. “Slow down, start from the beginning. Who's ‘he'?”

“Istvan. Until ten years ago, he and I were the only ones left from the group. He was Frenec's grandson. You remember, the Hungarian partisan from my grandfather's team?”

“I remember. Go on.”

“Istvan and I were a lot alike. When my father passed this on to me, I decided I wanted to know everything there was to know about virology and biochemistry. I wanted to understand Kestrel. Istvan was the same way, but he took a different course. He became a doctor. Being the last two of the group, we felt a special bond. It was our job to keep Kestrel safe—or the world safe from it, to be more accurate. We became good friends.

“In November of 1993 Istvan called and asked for a meeting. We met here in December. He wanted to take some of the Kestrel samples back to Budapest. The Soviet Union had collapsed, Hungary was going through a revolution … He was buoyant—flush with freedom. He thought it was time we took Kestrel out of its box and studied it. He'd been specializing in HTV research and had convinced himself Kestrel held the secret to a cure. If we could understand its inner workings, he thought, we could cure AIDS, cancer, multiple sclerosis—any number of the autoimmune diseases.

“I was tempted to say yes, but I couldn't. I thought the risk was too great. We debated it for days. In the end I convinced him—or so I thought. We spent a few more days catching up and sightseeing, then parted company.”

Root sighed and shook his head. “The only thing that makes sense is that he changed his mind and came back. He waited until I was gone, then went to the bank and took two of the canisters.”

“You said you were the last one,” Tanner replied. “If Istvan's dead, who's got the canisters and where are they?”

“You don't understand,” Root said. “Istvan never made it back to Hungary. On his way home his train derailed in the Steiermark Alps. If he had the canisters with him, they're sitting at the bottom of a lake called the Neumvield See.”

The room was silent for a full minute. Finally Cahil said, “Fine, that's the bad news. The good news is, we know where they are and we can be pretty sure they're not leaking. Otherwise … well, we'd know.”

As Cahil had been speaking, Tanner was watching Root's face. “What, Jonathan?”

“It might be nothing.”

“Your expression says something else. What?”

“Anton Svetic's son—the father of the Svetic we're dealing with now—and Istvan were friends. Their families had stayed in touch after the war … visited one another on holidays …”

“You're not saying what I think you're saying. Istvan wouldn't have told anyone else about—”

“I don't know.”

McBride said, “Oh, God.”

Tanner strode to Root and grabbed him by the shoulders. “Jonathan, look at me.” Root did so. “Is there any chance—any chance at all—that Istvan told anyone else what he wanted to do with Kestrel? Could Svetic's father have known about your meeting in ‘?”

Root hesitated. “There's a chance.”

“Christ!” Oliver blurted.

Root said, “You have to understand: Istvan didn't see things that way. He thought I was paranoid—a cynic who saw doom in everything. He knew Kestrel was dangerous, but it never occurred to him anyone would want it for anything but research. He was dedicated to helping people. In his excitement over the possibilities … who knows?”

Tanner walked to the window and stared out.
My god,
he thought.
Could it be
?
Could this be the answer to where Svetic had gone? As a backup to the primary exchange, had Svetic gone after Istvan's canisters? Abruptly Tanner realized it might already be too late. Despite all they'd gone through, Svetic might already have Kestrel.

“We have to assume the worst,” Briggs murmured. “We have to assume Svetic knows, and he's either planning to go for them, or already has them.”

“What do we do?” Oliver asked.

“You, Joe, and the Roots go on to Oberndorf and meet the embassy people. Get on the plane and go home.”

McBride said, “Wait a second—”

“Four out of the six canisters are safe,” Tanner continued. “We have to make sure they stay that way. You and Collin will see the Roots and the case home. Bear and I will chase the other canisters.”

“How?” Root said.

“You're going to tell me the quickest and surest way to find this lake. If Svetic hasn't already beat us there, we're going to head him off at the pass.”

Neumvield See,
Austrian Alps

Tanner's instinct was to return to Trieste for Susanna, but he quashed it. Kestrel had to come first. He'd said it himself: If it became necessary, their lives were a fair price to pay for keeping Kestrel safe. In theory, it was an easy decision; in reality, much harder. If it were his life alone, Tanner would have little trouble with the sacrifice, but this was Susanna. He'd made a promise to see her home safely.

Sensing Tanner's anguish, Bear did his best to reassure him: “I'll take care of her. You worry about finding that lake and the train. We'll be waiting when you get to Trieste.”

As with their hurried trip from Trieste to Innsbruck, Tanner had no timely transportation choices. The next flight to Graz, the largest city near Kulm am Zirbitz and the village closest to the Neumvield See, wasn't until mid-afternoon. If he took the Mercedes, pushed the autobahn's generous speed limits, and didn't get himself lost in the labyrinth of Alpine roads between here and the Neumvield See, he could make the trip in three hours.

It took four, and would have taken longer still if not for the Mercedes's powerful engine, as Tanner's route took him deeper and higher into Austria's eastern Alps with each passing mile.

It was shortly before four when he pulled into Kulm am Zirbitz. The sign on the outskirts—“Hohe 2678 Meters”—put the village at a dizzying nine thousand feet above sea level. Tanner had little trouble believing it as he stared at the peaks, jagged spires of black granite framed by snow-encrusted ridges. The lower slopes were an unbroken carpet of pine and spruce. Here and there Briggs caught glimpses of rivers, veins of silver-blue threading their way through the forests and into the valleys beyond.

As Kulm am Zirbitz was all but unknown to anyone outside of the Steiermark province, Oaken's search for local amenities turned up little of interest to the typical tourist, but Tanner's visit was anything but typical. As it turned out, the village was a favorite spot of local
bergfisch,
or mountain fish, a special breed of divers who preferred Alpine lakes to the oceans. According to Oaken, this village of only twenty-two hundred souls hosted three dive shops.

With daylight rapidly dwindling, Briggs chose the first shop he passed, found a parking spot, and walked inside. A middle-aged man with pale blue eyes and the sloping shoulders of a swimmer came out from behind the counter and smiled broadly.
“Guten tag.
!”

“Guten tag,
”
Tanner replied.

“Ah, English?”

Tanner smiled. “Am I that bad?”

“Not at all, not at all. How can I help you?”

Tanner had decided against an elaborate story to cover his search for Istvan's train. It was probably a draw for local divers, so his interest was unlikely to arouse suspicion. Realizing this, Tanner was curious how Istvan's canisters had remained undiscovered this long. Perhaps they hadn't. Perhaps they were at this moment sitting on some diver's souvenir shelf at home, that pair of curious cylinders they hadn't yet gotten around to inspecting. The thought of it sent a tingle through Tanner's scalp.

“I was hoping to do a little camping tonight, then some diving tomorrow. From what I hear, you're the man to see about rentals.”

The man's smile broadened with the compliment. “Very kind.” He extended his hand. “I'm Jurgen. What kind of equipment do you need?”

“Just diving. I have my own camping gear.”

The owner asked him a series of questions, trying to narrow his needs, before settling on a diving rig. As the owner gathered it from the back, he called, “Where are you headed?”

“Neumvield See.”

“Good choice. Do you need directions? I have good maps.”

“I'd appreciate it,” Tanner replied. “In fact, maybe you can help me with something else. A buddy of mine from Graz told me about this train that went into the lake a few years ago…”

Jurgen walked out of the back room lugging a scuba tank; he slid it into the oversized duffel with the rest of the gear. “The
Geist Zug.
”

It took a moment for Tanner to translate the words: “The Ghost Train?”

“That's what we call it around here. Officially it was the Salzburg-Paal number seven. The lake had started eroding a section of track ballast and none of the inspectors caught it. The whole section finally just turned to quicksand. When the train passed over it, the ties gave way. The railroad people thought she grazed the landward slope, started rocking, then rolled over and went in.”

“Survivors?”

“Oh, no. They guessed the time from when she started rocking to when she rolled over was twenty seconds. She sunk like a stone. Plus, it was December. At that altitude, the water runs at about zero Celsius.”

Thirty-two Fahrenheit,
Tanner thought. The point where water is more slush than liquid. He tried to imagine the scene: the screams of the passengers, the pounding of the train's wheels on the tracks, the shrieking of steel … And then the slow, unrecoverable roll toward the lake's surface, icy water pouring through the windows, filling the passageways as the train spiraled into the deep.

“What I wouldn't give to see her,” Jurgen said. “They took some pictures of her. She's sitting perfectly upright, you know. Like she's still chugging along the tracks. Ach, that would be a dive to remember.”

“Why haven't you gone?” Tanner asked.

“Your friend didn't tell you? The site's off limits. Verboten by the government.”

“Why?”

“The spring after she went in, the railroad sent some divers down to survey her. About twenty minutes later they popped up five miles into the lake—dead.”

“Undertow,” Tanner said.

“Exactly so. It sucked them straight to the bottom and dragged them for five miles before letting them go. They were beaten to a pulp. So what did the government do? They sent a team from the navy. Two more divers go down, two more pop up. There's an underground river, you see. It pumps into the lake and circles the shore like a …” The owner hesitated, then made a circling motion with his fingertip.

“Whirlpool?”

“Yes, that's it.”

“How fast?”

“Four, five knots. No one goes near it. Even the
bergfisch
stay away, and they're
verruckt
—crazy! Besides, since no one survived and no bodies were ever recovered. It has become a
Heiligtwn
—a sacred place. People say, let them rest where they died. It would be almost like grave robbing, you see?”

“Yes.”

“You're not thinking about—”

Tanner shook his head. “No. I'm not that stupid.”

Oh,
but you are,
Briggs thought. Without proof to the contrary, he wasn't willing to believe the Salzburg-Paal's reputation had deterred Svetic in his search for Kestrel. Somehow Tanner doubted a local ghost story would frighten off a man as driven as Svetic.

Now the question was, How did he make the dive and not end up like the four divers who'd gone before him?

“How deep is the water where she went in?” he asked.

“The deepest part is about two hundred fifty meters—for you, eight hundred feet.”

“Eight hundred feet?” Tanner repeated. “But—”

“No, no, you misunderstand. The train hit a shelf at about sixty feet and stopped rolling. There's a nice memorial at the spot she went in. The railroad stopped using that line about six years ago. I can draw you a map.”

Jurgen sketched the map, went over it with Tanner, then finished loading the gear into the duffel. As Tanner hefted the bag onto his shoulder and headed for the door, Horgan said, “It's funny, you know, how thing's happen.”

Tanner turned back. “How so?”

“No one around here talks about the Salzburg-Paal. It's been years since anyone's asked. Now in less than a week I've told the story twice.”

“Pardon me?”

“I had another customer—three of them, in fact—”

“When, how long ago?”

“Three, four days.”

Briggs forced a smile. “I'm sure you talked them out of it.”

“I hope so,” Jurgen replied, then shrugged. “Well, at least I haven't heard of any bodies popping up on the Neumvield.”

Too bad,
Tanner thought. If these mystery customers had in fact been Svetic and his men, a few bodies on the Neumvield might have solved his biggest problem. Now he'd have to find out for himself.

The map took him two miles out of town, through a tunnel cut into the side of the mountain, and into the valley beyond. He turned off the main road and drove another mile before spotting the signs Jurgen had mentioned, then followed them to a small gravel clearing surrounded by forest. A sign with red lettering pointed down a trail: “Salzburg-Paal Zug Stelle.”

He got out and started unloading his gear. The sun was an hour from setting, but the surrounding mountains and thick canopy cast the valley in twilight. Briggs clicked on his flashlight and shined the beam into the tree line. He saw only blackness; it was at once beautiful and forbidding.
Hansel and Gretel,
where are you
?
he thought. With the forests of Germany and Austria as their inspiration, it was little wonder the Brothers Grimm had managed to conjure up such dark tales.

He put the duffel on his shoulder and started down the trail.

After two hundred yards he came to a wooden footbridge that led him over the old rail line, now partially covered in vines and foliage. Lengths of the old track, brown with rust, peeked through the greenery. Across the footbridge a platform had been built on the shore overhanging the water. At the railing stood a squat, black marble obelisk bearing a gold plaque. In German, it listed the names of the dead in alphabetical order.

The surface of the Neumvield See was perfectly calm, a mirror against which the surrounding mountains shined in the dying light. The air was crisp and still. Briggs stared at the trees along the bank, expecting to see them sway with a gust of wind, but they stood frozen, as though painted against the background. Somewhere an owl gave a double
hoot,
then went silent.

He knelt down and dipped his fingers in the water. It was cold, no more than sixty-five degrees. He did some quick calculations in his head. Given the temperature and depth, he could afford at most three ten-minute dives.

He was about to slip into his gear when something near the footbridge caught his eye: a chunk of gray amid the foliage. Flashlight held before him, he stepped over the tracks and knelt down. Half-hidden by the undergrowth was a cinder block. Curiously, it was in perfect condition, unblemished by moss or lichen. He turned it over and found the grass underneath still green.

Tanner glanced back at the shoreline, an idea forming in his head.

He rooted around until he found a branch long enough for his needs, then walked back to the memorial, slipped into his dive gear, and lowered himself off the platform and into the water. Stepping carefully, probing ahead with the branch, he waded out until the water reached his chest. Suddenly the branch plunged downward, almost slipping from his grip. Here was the shelf Jurgen had warned him about.

Briggs slipped the mask over his face, took a deep breath then clicked on his headlamp and ducked under the water. It took just five minutes to find what he was looking for. Driven into the rocky sand was a heavy steel stake; attached to this was a rope that trailed over the edge of the drop-off. Like the cinder block on shore, the rope looked brand-new.

Hand-over-hand, he began reeling in the rope. After six feet, the line jerked taught. Unless he was wrong, knotted to the other end he'd find a second, and maybe third, cinder block—and very close by the Salzburg-Paal
Geist Zug.

Simple but effective.
Tanner thought. Svetic and his men had simply rented a boat and, using the memorial as a starting point, gone fishing, trolling along the shore and dipping the block until they struck something solid. Then, like mountaineers on a fixed line, they had simply followed the anchor to the train and slipped inside—and out of the grasp of the undertow.

With his foot hooked beneath the stake, Briggs resurfaced, tested his regulator, then ducked back under. He grabbed the rope, gave the stake one last tug to be sure it was secure, then kicked once and slipped over the edge.