Death Echo

All she could do was pray that Alara had some trustworthy people on the ground.

Or not.

Leaks were something Emma didn’t want to share.

Josh brought the Zodiac up to the hotel dock, cutting his speed at the last moment and killing all momentum with a short burst of reverse power. Emma stood poised, one foot on the black rubber gunwale, and stepped off just a second before the Zodiac touched the dock.

“Call me if you want a different kind of tour,” Josh said, watching her hips.

With a cheerful wave, Emma went quickly up the ramp that led to Western Avenue. As she walked, she pulled out St. Kilda’s version of a sat/cell phone. The parts she most appreciated were the long-lived battery and built-in scrambler.

When she hit speed dial, she glanced over her shoulder. The Zodiac had backed out into open water and was now heading south, toward its dock next to the ferry terminal.

Blackbird had turned into the marina four hundred yards to the north and disappeared.

“Where are you and what are you doing?” her cell phone demanded.

It had become Faroe’s standard greeting when one of his operators called in. As operations director of St. Kilda Consulting, he had a lot to do and no time to waste doing it.

“Blackbird is on the wing,” she said, “headed for Belltown Marina.”

“For the night?”

“That’s what I’m going to find out.”

“Get aboard somehow. Before our guy in Singapore vanished, he left a scratch on the inside of the electrical panel cupboard. Given the dither factor on the satellite beacon, it’s a low-tech way to be certain that we’re talking about the same boat.”

Emma called up the interior of Blackbird from her mental file, located the panel, and said, “Will do.”

“Any bogies?” Faroe asked.

“So far, so good.”

“Said the skydiver as he reached for the ripcord.”

Weaving her way through herds of tourists, Emma half-smiled at the gallows humor. Vintage Faroe.

“If Blackbird is what we’re told it is,” he continued, “somebody is keeping tabs on her. Could be the man running her. Could be the man behind the tree. Find out.”

“Still getting the pings?” she asked.

Faroe covered the phone and said something she couldn’t hear.

Holding on to her backpack strap, Emma checked over her shoulder as she walked north. Old professional habits. She’d thought that quitting the Agency would strip away her professional paranoia.

It hadn’t. Maybe just being a woman alone in modern cities kept the reflexes alive. Maybe it was simply who she’d become. Whatever. It was part of her now, like dark hair and light green eyes.

Faroe’s voice came back to her ear. “Lane says the locator beacons are still coming through. The government dither must be turned way up on the satellites, because the beacon on the container ship and the one on Blackbird aren’t showing enough separation to set off our alarms.”

“The yacht is getting farther and farther from Shinhua Lotus. God, what if we have the wrong one?”

“That’s why the scratch is there. What’s the transit captain’s name?”

“On my to-do list.”

Faroe grunted. “Description?”

“I’ll get back to you on that along with the name.”

“Soon.”

The phone went dead before she could say anything. She flipped it shut and tucked it into the holster at her waist without breaking stride. She didn’t notice the people around her unless they looked at her for more than a passing glance. Then she memorized them.

Nobody stood out-front, side, or behind.

So far, so good.

Belltown Marina was guarded by a gate with a coded and keyed entrance lock. Given enough time she’d be able to get the combination. But on an unusually warm October day, all she had to do was be a little lucky. People would be coming and going from their boats.

When she spotted two yachties walking up the long ramp from the water, she moved into position. As the gate opened, she caught it, holding it for the couple.

“Great timing,” Emma said. She tapped her cell phone. “I was just going to call my husband to let me in.”

The male looked her over, as if trying to decide whether she really belonged to the boating fraternity that might tie up to the most expensive overnight docks in Seattle.

Smiling, Emma pointed toward Blackbird, which was motoring at dead slow speed down one of the marina fairways, headed for the fuel dock. “We just got her delivered. Isn’t she a beauty?”

“Yeah,” the male said, still looking at her.

Emma’s smile stayed bright, even though the man’s eyes had come to a full stop on her breasts. She had dressed to emphasize her assets and lower a male IQ. Tight jeans, tight crop top, and the toned body to make it work. She wasn’t movie-star material, but she was plenty female.

And she’d learned a long time ago that men remembered breasts much better than faces. Telling questioners that the woman they’re asking about had a nice rack didn’t help anyone trying to find her.

“Hap, for God’s sake, get out of the way,” his companion said. She, too, was dressed to catch the male eye.

“I just wanted to make sure she wasn’t some street person.”

“She may be a street person, but not the kind you’re worried about.”

Emma slid through the gate and shut it behind her, leaving the couple to their practiced bickering. When she reached the interconnected docks at the water, she stopped, caught by the sight of Blackbird maneuvering in close quarters. Next to the container ship, the yacht had looked dainty, almost tiny. In the crowded fairways of the marina, she looked big.

Slowly, elegantly, the yacht turned in its own length. The man running her seemed almost motionless, but she could tell he was fully in control of the boat. She enjoyed watching that kind of skill at work.

Quickly she closed the distance to the fuel dock. Even if it hadn’t been her assignment, she would have been intrigued by the grace and restrained power of the black yacht.

And the captain. He was a big, rangy male with a saltwater tan and a dark, closely cropped black beard. His hair was equally short beneath a battered baseball cap. A faded black T-shirt tucked into his close-fitting, worn jeans.

For all his threadbare clothes, he was perfectly at home on the obviously expensive Blackbird. He touched the controls on the flying bridge with calm expertise, nudging a throttle for a second, then tapping it back to neutral and waiting for a moment to gauge Blackbird’s momentum and direction. He brought the yacht parallel to the fuel dock, letting the residual thrust slowly take the flared starboard bow over the edge of the dock without brushing the hull against the heavily tarred wood and rub rail.

The dockhand grabbed the mooring line that was draped over the yacht’s bow rail. She took a turn of the line around the steel cleat, and nodded up at the man on the bridge.

A propeller kicked for a second, then quit. The stern slid sideways and eased toward the dock. The inflated fenders dangling protectively from the yacht’s rails barely kissed the dock before Blackbird was at rest. The dockhand made a “cut it” motion with the side of her hand over her throat as she walked quickly back to the stern line.

Bounced, really. She wasn’t old enough to drink, but she wasn’t jailbait, either. Tight shorts and T-shirt aside, she knew exactly what she was doing on the fuel dock.

The engines stopped.

Emma knew just enough about boats to be impressed with how easy the captain made docking the big boat