Fear left her along with choice. She would do whatever he wanted. All that remained was waiting for orders.
“I was raised on the water,” she said. “That’s why I was given this assignment. As for the rest, a woman alone does what she must to survive. The training passed on to us from Lubyanka Street was rather useful in my new life, at first. Today, my boat isn’t a racehorse. I chase salmon, not outrun police.”
Demidov reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out the bottle of Grey Goose that he had purchased in the duty-free shop on his ride north. He held the bottle by its neck with his thumb and forefinger. In his other fingers he held a fan of photos. They showed a modified trawler style boat with a black hull.
“If you would just produce two glasses, my old love,” Demidov said, “we will toast one another as we used to do. So much more civilized. Then I will tell you why I request your help.”
Lina stared at him for a long time, seeing the young wolf beneath the older, harder exterior. If anything, he was more dangerous than he had been so many years ago.
“You’re very good,” she said. “I almost believe my cooperation is a voluntary matter. Almost.”
Demidov waited, one hand holding out the vodka and photos, the other in his pocket holding a knife.
“Two glasses,” she agreed. “I prefer vodka to blood.”
33
DAY FOUR
LANGLEY
MORNING
Timothy Harrow hadn’t personally met the FBI agent in front of him until two minutes ago. That didn’t keep the man from chewing out Harrow’s ass.
“-bad enough, don’t you think?” the agent demanded.
Harrow didn’t have a chance to answer, because the agent kept on speaking with hard, clipped words.
“No, you had to go and keep Temuri’s presence on U.S. soil from us, when you bloody well knew we’ve been chasing him for seven years!”
Harrow told himself that he wouldn’t show his impatience by fiddling with his pen, his notebook, or anything else on his desk.
The ranting FBI agent was wearing a sports jacket, open-necked shirt, jeans, loafers, and an expression of acute irritation. He looked like he’d been hauled in from the relaxed West Coast through a wormhole and then plugged into a live electrical socket.
Harrow felt the same way, but hid it better. Old School versus New Wave.
“We’ve been chasing Temuri ever since we busted a shipment of vials headed for Afghanistan,” Harrow said evenly.
“Vials? Biological stuff? Not nukes or chemicals?”
“He’s an equal opportunity vendor,” Harrow said. “You need it, Temuri will deliver it. For a price.”
“What he is or isn’t selling overseas is no excuse for not telling the FBI that Temuri was in the U.S. where he could be detained and questioned!”
Harrow looked at the younger man. Still eager. Still a believer. Every agency and bureau needed them, but Harrow just didn’t have time or patience for the dance right now.
The interoffice phone buzzed, reminding Harrow of his next appointment-a senator fishing for a headline to shove up the present administration’s ass. Harrow’s boss hadn’t decided whether to play or pass, so effusive stalling was in order. Harrow could do that half-asleep. In fact, he often did.
After the interview he was packing for a fast trip to western British Columbia, Canada. At least, he hoped it would be fast.
Slow would mean the end of careers and lives.
“Your department will have a formal apology as soon as I find the proper security clearance for it,” Harrow said.
“That’s not-”
“The op,” Harrow cut in, “has moved out of the U.S, as your boss already knows. It has been turned over to us. If we discover anything we can share, you’ll be right behind Congress on our show-and-tell list.”
The agent got the message. It was one he had passed out a lot on his own turf. That didn’t mean he liked getting it.
Vibrating with anger, he stalked out of the office.
When the senior senator from Minnesota walked into Harrow’s office, passing by a tight-lipped FBI agent, Harrow was mentally plotting various approaches to former CIA officer Emma Cross.
It would help if he knew what the soured op had been about, but all Duke had told him was to be prepared to fly out on a moment’s notice.
Harrow rose to his feet, smiled, and greeted the senator.
34
DAY FOUR
SAN JUAN ISLANDS
MORNING
Emma sat in a swivel armchair on the flying bridge next to Mac. She watched the radar sweeping over the electronic chart on the computer’s wide screen. Nothing-land, boat, or seaplane-was close enough to worry about, yet Mac’s dark eyes kept probing the blue water ahead.
“What are you looking for?” she asked.
“Floating debris, logs, deadheads, clumps of seaweed, anything that can put a dent in my day.”
She frowned and looked out at the water. “Is there a lot of that going around?”
“It’s worse in spring, when the melt comes and scours the riverbanks and vomits out dead forests to clutter up the sound. But we’ve been having big tides, the ones that lift centuries-old logs off beaches and send them out in the currents to play with anything else that floats.”
She glanced at the various boats within sight. “I can see why the ferry and the big freighter aren’t worried about a few random chunks of wood, but why are all those pleasure craft racing around? And I do mean racing.”
“Some of the captains are playing the odds. Most are watching as carefully as I am. Even then,” he shrugged, “shit happens. That’s why pleasure boats don’t run at night out here, unless they have a steel hull and skegs protecting their props. Pod drives like ours just have to take their chances.”
“No protection?”
“We have skegs, but no guarantees. Like commuting on a freeway-sooner or later there will be a wreck. You just hope it’s not yours, because you have to keep on driving to make a living.”
“The waterhole theory of life at work,” Emma said.
He looked at her in silent question.
“Think of grazers approaching a waterhole at the end of the day,” she said. “They know lions are lying in wait, but there’s no choice. Water is just behind oxygen in our drive for life. So the grazers sweat and snort and shy and sidle closer to the water, knowing an individual blood sacrifice must be paid so that the rest of the herd can drink. Can survive.”
Mac smiled like a hungry lion. “And everybody’s hoping it isn’t his turn to die.”
“Yeah.” She frowned and rubbed her hands over her arms. “I just wish I didn’t feel like
