Elizabeth Lowell
Death Echo
The fifth book in the St. Kilda series, 2010
To Jan and Bill Croft
And the inimitable
Dong Shui
Prologue
DAY ONE
MANHATTAN
9:00 A.M.
You must believe me. St. Kilda Consulting is our best hope.”
Ambassador James Steele pinched the bridge of his nose and wished he had never met the woman who now sat opposite his desk. “Alara…”
“I’m no longer called that.”
Steele blew out a hard breath and wheeled his chair back from his desk. Very few people on earth could make him uncomfortable. The woman no longer called Alara was one of them.
And one of the most dangerous.
“Just as I no longer work for the government,” Steele said.
“We established that years ago.” Alara smiled almost sadly. Her silver hair gleamed, hair that once had been as black as her eyes. “In the shadow world, St. Kilda Consulting has made quite a reputation for itself. Trust is rare in any world. Even more so in the shadows.”
“You’re asking him to break that trust,” Emma Cross said, speaking up for the first time in fifteen minutes.
Steele and Alara turned sharply toward Emma, telling her what she’d already guessed-they had forgotten she was there.
All emotion faded from Alara’s expression. It was replaced by the frightening intelligence that had made her a legend within the nameless, anonymously funded government agencies whose initials changed frequently but whose purpose never changed.
“I came in soft,” Alara said coolly, “requesting, not threatening. I don’t have time for games with disillusioned children.” She looked at Steele. “According to our intelligence, America could lose a major population center in less than seven days. We need St. Kilda to prevent that. We will have what we need.”
Without looking away from Alara, Steele said, “Emma, summarize the facts as they were presented to us.”
Emma’s light green eyes watched her boss for a moment. Then she began speaking quickly, without emotion. “As given to us, no questions asked or qualifications offered. Ms. Alara’s department or departments have been following various overseas entities. One of those entities is suspected-”
“Known not suspected,” Alara cut in.
“-of stealing and reselling yachts,” Emma continued without pause. “One of the stolen yachts was specially modified to hold contraband-chemical, biological, and/or radioactive. Motives, whether the actors are state or nonstate, weren’t part of Alara’s presentation, which will make finding and stopping who or whatever is the enemy before time runs out just this side of impossible.” She looked at Alara. “No surprise the bureaucrats and politicians want to dump this steaming pile on St. Kilda’s doorstep.”
Steele almost smiled. Emma Cross had a pretty face and a bottom-line mind.
“The excuse for said dumping,” Emma continued, turning back to Steele, “is that St. Kilda has an agent who has been investigating missing yachts for an international insurer. The yacht,
Alara’s still-black eyebrows rose, but she said nothing about Emma’s coolly mocking summary. The older woman simply sat in her crisp business suit and pumps, looking like an employee of a middle-management team, back when women were called secretaries rather than administrative assistants.
“Satellite tracking and other intel confirm that a yacht believed to be
“Had,” Alara said. “Past tense.”
“You have a leak,” Emma said bluntly.
“Always probable,” Alara said. “St. Kilda has carefully and repeatedly distanced itself from any traceable connection with any U.S. intel agency. The targets won’t be looking for you. They sure as bloody hell are looking for us. We don’t have anyone on the ground who isn’t being followed.”
Emma kept her mouth shut because she hated agreeing with the other woman. Nothing personal. Just past experience. The officers and agents she had worked with all over the world had been decent people…at the lower levels. The further she went up the food chain, the less trustworthy the bosses became. Again, nothing personal. Just the Darwinian facts of survival in a highly politicized workplace whose rules changed with every headline.
“Do you have anything else you can tell St. Kilda?” Steele asked.
“Not at the present time,” Alara said.
Emma made a rude sound.
Steele didn’t bother.
“You aren’t required to help,” Alara pointed out.
“But it sure is hard to do business in the U.S. when everyone who works for St. Kilda is audited quarterly,” Emma said, “when St. Kilda personnel are stopped at the border, or their passports are jerked, or their driver’s license is revoked, their spouse fired, and every business that approaches St. Kilda is warned not-”
Steele held up his hand.
Emma swallowed the rest of her rant and waited. Steele knew how harassment worked. Good old Uncle’s bureaucrats could hound St. Kilda to death. Literally.
“That’s the price of living in a society you can’t fit around a campfire,” Alara said to Emma. “Cooperation is required in reality if not in law. Ambassador Steele knows this. Why don’t you?”
Emma hoped her teeth weren’t leaving skid marks on her tongue. She really wanted to unload on the older woman.
Because Alara was right. “Reality is a bitch, and she is always in heat,” Alara said. “When all else fails, you can count on that.” She glanced at her watch. “In or out?”
Steele rolled his chair to face Emma. “You’re off the hook on this one. Be prepared to brief another St. Kilda
