“His first name is Shurik-street name of Sure to his fellow thugs who happen to speak some dialect of English. He’s a snake-mean son of a bitch who appears in the top fifteen of nearly all the international shit lists.”
“Good thing your daughter is asleep.”
Faroe smiled. “No matter how much we shelter her, her peers will tell her all the forbidden words by the time she hits first grade.”
“In several languages,” Grace agreed wryly. “Anything useful on Temuri, besides his likelihood of going directly to hell?”
“He’s either Georgian or Ukrainian, depending on if you’re talking about his mother or his father. Like a lot of men who made fortunes in the wild economic frontier of the Former Soviet Union, he comes from a long line of former KGB turned businessmen/crime bosses.”
“I’m shocked,” Grace said, kissing her daughter’s soft cheek.
“Me, too. Daddy Temuri picked the wrong side of the Putin/Georgian wars, so son Temuri got an early start in the killing business. He’s good for seven hits that we know of, and suspected of a whole lot more. Did I mention that he’s as smart as he is deadly? Rich, too, with enough cash in offshore accounts that if/when Russian tanks start rolling into Georgia, he’ll be positioned to disappear or become a nuclear thorn in Russia’s flesh. Dealer’s choice, and the guys with the nukes do the dealing.”
“In other words, one more region with a grudge backed up by thugs with nukes. Sweet. How did he get his radioactive toys?”
“Probably the usual way-theft from failed Soviet-era nuclear installations and/or purchase on the international arms black market. Ditto for chemical and biological weapons. Anyone who thinks all those goodies are under lock and key is living on Planet Denial.”
Grace sighed. Time to leave Denial and reenter the other world, the one beyond the warmth of her family. She gave her daughter’s hair a final stroke.
Before Grace could shift to her feet, Faroe gently scooped up their daughter, put her in the portable bed/playpen, and covered her with her favorite snuggly blanket. She sighed and blew bubbles into the fuzzy, zebra- striped cloth.
“If Temuri’s family had swung the Putin way,” Faroe continued, “Shurik would probably be in the top tier of Russian government or industry or crime. Same thing, a lot of the time.”
Grace went to the tiny dinette table. “What are two homeboys like Lovich and Amanar doing hanging out with that kind of international weight?” she asked between bites.
“Business,” Faroe said, sitting next to her. “The black kind.”
“Big duh moment. Is Alara still ‘helping’ St. Kilda with information?”
“Reams of it, from every U.S. intelligence agency, named and unnamed, plus a few that Steele hadn’t heard of until now. Problem is, she isn’t giving us much that we couldn’t have found out on our own, even in the time we have.”
Grace shrugged. “We knew she would hold back. Or have people holding back from giving her necessary intel until the last possible instant-if they give it away at all.”
Faroe wished he could argue with her, but he couldn’t. He’d gone to jail for a politician’s photo-op. Nothing personal. Just the way things were. Until there was no other choice, politicians and bureaucrats would rather bury the dead and have live-broadcast Senate committee investigations of nothing useful than put their own assets on the line.
Public theater, the politicians’ way to get around campaign spending limits. Ring the publicity bell with TV and Internet instant coverage, all in the name of public service, of course.
“I gave Lane the go-ahead to enter some closed databases,” Faroe said as he loaded eggs onto his own toast. “We should know more soon.”
“Sometimes I worry about what we’re teaching our son.”
“You mean what
“You, Steele, me, and now he’s got a thing for Mary.”
“St. Kilda’s Mary? Our very own long-gun specialist?” Faroe asked.
“Aka sniper,” Grace said.
“Really? Since when?”
Grace gave him a startled look. “Earth to Joe. Mary has been St. Kilda’s sniper since before I-”
“No, I meant Lane. Since when?”
“Since she’s been training him on the gun range.”
“Huh.”
“She says he’s a natural shot. Steady hands, great eyes-yours, by the way. Hands, too, come to think of it.”
Faroe grinned. “That’s my boy.”
“Has your temper, too.”
“Nope. Can’t take credit for that one. I’m even tempered.”
Grace gave him a dark, sideways look. “Yeah. All bad, all the time.”
“It’s a miracle you married me.”
She smiled over her coffee cup. “It’s all in your hands.”
“All?”
“With our daughter in the room, I only talk about your hands.”
“You finished with breakfast?” Faroe asked.
“Almost. Why?”
“Got some handwork I want to show you.”
Grace smiled and ate faster. In this world, she had learned to take her desserts whenever they were within reach. Life’s only guarantee was that no one got out alive.
30
DAY FOUR
JAMES ISLAND
5:45 A.M.
Mac fired up the winch and lowered the small anchor into the dark, restless water. When the sun made a swift appearance among the low, racing clouds, fir trees were reflected in rippling green lines on the surface of the water. In the background, the engine-room blower whined as it cleared heat away from the big diesels.
When he was sure the anchor would hold for as long as it had to, he turned his attention back to Emma, who had been watching closely his every move. If she had to, he’d bet that now she could do a creditable job of setting a lunch hook.
“So Stoneface-Temuri-doesn’t think a lot of you?” Mac asked softly.
“Pretty much,” Emma said, her voice as low as his. There were other boats nearby on the water, and sound carried way too well. “To call me female plumbing with two feet and three openings comes close.”
Mac made a choked noise.
“But his accent is different from his cousins,” she continued. “Much more modern Russian, with a solid whiff of breakaway Georgian when he’s angry.”
“You must have a really good ear.”
“That’s what every language instructor I ever had said.” She shrugged. “To me, it’s like breathing, only easier.”
“My team’s language tech was like that. Spooky.”
“As in CIA?”
“As in scary good,” he said.
“The CIA isn’t good?”
