Echo of War by Grant Blackwood

then on, it became their shorthand for any destination or trip.
    As a teenager, the rebellious and inventive Susanna, certain her overprotective parents were spying on her, had developed a code she’d once revealed to Tanner on one of their “uncle/niece” outings. Boys’ phone numbers, rendezvous times with her girlfriends, and party addresses were all veiled from prying eyes by subtracting from them her favorite number, four. Like “goat,” the practice became second nature for her, a fond attachment to her childhood.
    If Tanner was correct—if he wasn’t groping for something that wasn’t there—the twelve digits on Susanna’s cupboard—translated as 330299554783. Following his hunch, Tanner regrouped them: 33 0 2 99 55 47 83—the twelve-digit arrangement of a French phone number.
    Once back at the St. Beuve, Tanner called Oaken and brought him up to speed. “Was Slavin any help?” Oaken asked.
    â€œAs little as possible.”
    â€œI was afraid of that. He’s coming up on retirement. The last thing he’s going to do is put himself out on a limb. Sorry, Briggs.”
    â€œDon’t worry about it. We paid a visit to her apartment. We might have something.” Tanner recited the decyphered number and explained his theory. In addition to the code, they’d also gotten a lead from Trixie’s questioning of Rene the Gatekeeper, who’d also seen Susanna’s mysterious German. Rene was certain the man’s name was Stephan. It wasn’t much, Tanner realized, but perhaps enough to shake the tree.
    â€œI’ll see if I can get Susanna’s cell-phone LUDs,” Oaken said, then hung up. He called back twenty minutes later. “You might be on to something. That phone number belongs to a tavern in St. Malo called the Sanglier Noir.”
    â€œThe Black Boar?” Tanner translated.
    â€œDownright medieval, isn’t it? Susanna’s cell-phone dump shows five calls there in the last month. I’ve got an address.”
    Tanner copied it down, then said, “One more question: Could you tell whether there’d been any other requests for her cell-phone dump?”
    â€œI thought of that. There weren’t, not in the last six months, anyway. You’d think that’d be one of the first things the DEA would have checked—if they were trying to find her, that is.”
    Oaken’s information told Tanner something. Whether Slavin knew it or not, the DEA was in fact not looking for Susanna, a fact which probably had little to do with apathy, and everything to do with hope. In the shadowy world of special operations, undercover work is the grayest; there are few rules and fewer still were unbreakable. Susanna’s controllers were probably hoping her disappearance was simply her way of burrowing deeper into France’s drug culture and that she’d soon resurface and make contact
    Maybe yes, maybe no, Tanner thought. Either way, it was no way to run an operation. He’d worked both as an undercover operative and as a controller. Of the two, the controller is in a better position to play devil’s advocate, to recognize pitfalls to which the operative may be blind. Chances were, Susanna’s disappearance had been foreshadowed by her own behavior: vague reports, missed check-ins, impulsive behavior. Seeing the signs, her controller should have either pulled her in, or put a tighter leash on her.
    â€œI’m hoping they haven’t written her off,” Oaken said.
    â€œMe, too,” Briggs replied. He thanked Oaken, hung up, and turned to Cahil. “St. Malo.”
    Bear checked his watch. “It’s after ten; let’s hope we can find an all-night Avis,” he said and reached for the phone book.
    As it happened, they found no rental agencies open, but a better arrangement presented itself with the train a grande vitesse, or TGV, France’s high-speed train. They checked