a uniform hat from beneath the counter, and came through the swinging gate.
“Your boat must be inspected,” he told Mac without meeting his eyes. “Come with me now.”
Like Mac had a choice. “Sure.”
As he followed the small bureaucrat, Mac cursed the FBI’s middle-finger salute. Wasted time.
They didn’t have it to waste.
Deliberately Mac didn’t do the math in his head, the countdown to disaster that beat in his brain and blood and heart. He did the only thing he could do at the moment, which was to follow a Canadian border bureaucrat down the short ramp to
Emma was standing in the cockpit, talking on Mac’s phone. She took one look and ended the call with a terse, “Later, babe.”
“You are the passenger?” the inspector demanded. He consulted the two passports in his hand. “Emma Cross?”
Emma nodded. “Yes, is-”
“Come with me,” he interrupted, leading the way off
She looked at Mac, shrugged, and stepped onto the dock to follow the inspector. As she walked, she quickly organized her thoughts for a more formal interrogation than they had been expecting. Agency training had focused on border crossings and customs inspections because those were the areas that most often tripped up agents and handlers. St. Kilda had already composed a backstory of her relationship with Mac that told the truth whenever possible.
Emma approved of that. The truth was much easier to remember than an intricate web of lies.
“Miss, uh, Cross,” the inspector began, checking her face against the photo in her passport. “Where do you live?”
“Seattle, Washington,” she said.
Though she had an address memorized and documented, thanks to St. Kilda, she didn’t offer any more information because Singh hadn’t asked for it.
Truth and lies, separation and balance.
Survival.
“Where are you going in Canada?” he asked quickly, watching her eyes and body language for signs she might be lying.
“I don’t know. It was one of those spontaneous things. We’re just heading north up the Inside Passage for as long as it works for us.”
“What is your relationship to”-he checked the other passport in his hand-“Mr. Durand?”
Emma wanted to make a smart remark about Adam and Eve, but she knew better. “He’s the captain. I’m training to be a first mate.”
“How long have you known Mr. Durand?”
She smiled like a woman remembering a satisfying, steamy night. “Not long. We met at a fuel dock in Seattle, liked what we saw, and decided to hook up as long as it lasted.”
The inspector’s eyes changed. He gave her an up-and-down look that suggested he might enjoy hooking up with her. Then he blinked and his training kicked in.
“Are you bringing any alcohol or firearms with you?” he asked.
She frowned. “I haven’t seen any, but you’ll have to ask Mac. He’s the owner. I’m just along for the ride.”
“I saw you handling the lines when you arrived at the dock. You seemed too competent for a recent ‘hook up.’”
“Mac is a good teacher,” she said with a slow smile. “He doesn’t yell or anything. I’d never even been on a boat this size, but he makes everything easy. All I have to do is listen and follow instructions.”
Again, the truth…as far as it went.
“Wait here,” Singh ordered, handing her passport over.
He marched down the dock to confront Mac and, undoubtedly, ask the same questions all over again.
Emma examined her manicure, which was being rapidly deconstructed by handling lines. She didn’t worry about what was happening at the other end of the dock. Mac was a solid partner. In an odd way, they were closer than if they were simply vacation lovers. They clicked under pressure, anticipating one another’s moves like cops in a squad car.
She shoved her passport into one hip pocket and pulled her cell phone out of the other. She dialed into the St. Kilda secure network. Faroe answered on the first ring.
“How’s it going?” he asked.
“Hey, girlfriend. I told you not to worry. Mac’s one of the good guys. Even if we have to stand on the dock for a few hours while they look for whatever we shouldn’t have on board.”
“Girlfriend?” Faroe made a sound that could have been a laugh. “So the customs dude is still hassling you?”
“You know Canada’s motto: Good government and plenty of it.”
“Given that one of you is supposed to be a rich yachtie, you probably won’t get a body cavity search.”
“Aw, that’s so sweet,” she said, making sure she was loud enough to be heard at the other end of the dock.
“Obviously you’ve never had one,” Faroe retorted.
“Wanna compare notes?”
“No,” he said. “We found out from back-channel sources, not Alara’s, that, among other no-nos, Temuri is an active member of the suitcase nuke trade. Especially in the last three years.”
“Gee, where have I heard that before?”
“And you didn’t want to go back to hearing about portable nukes. That’s why you quit the Agency.”
“April Fool on me,” she said, watching Mac and the inspector from the corner of her eye.
Neither one looked upset.
“The same source that mentioned suitcase nukes floated the idea that you’d never really left Uncle Sam.”
Emma got the point very quickly. Someone was trying to separate her from St. Kilda, in trust if not in fact.
“You have to stop believing the Internet gossip sites,” she said. “Pretty soon you’ll believe that Elvis was Michael Jackson’s son.”
There was a beat of silence, then swallowed laughter. “Um, I think you have that the wrong way around.”
“Actually, I think the sites do.”
“I know they do. St. Kilda backs their people, Emma. All the way to the wall.”
“And if you find out you’re wrong?” she asked cheerfully, smiling at Mac.
“We bury our mistakes under that wall.”
“I hear you, girlfriend. Sounds good to me.”
Mac and the inspector went aboard
Emma stopped calling her boss girlfriend. Turning so that no microphone or lip-reader could gather information, she spoke quickly.
“If the Agency thought there was a radioactive threat moving through Canada to the U.S.,” she said, “they’d add as many layers of deniability as they could, and then they’d flat clean house, no matter which side of which border.”
“That kind of robust foreign policy is out of favor right now.”
“Only in public.”
“Alara mentioned something about that,” Faroe said drily. “She’s outmaneuvered the FBI for now, but they really want Temuri. Alara is more polite-”
Emma snorted.
“-but she’d like Temuri’s ass on a spear. Steele said Temuri’s ass didn’t interest him, but if St. Kilda’s operatives got hurt by any of Uncle Sam’s players, he’d air some political underwear that would make Watergate look like a potluck at a small-town Lutheran church.”
“Okay, I’m impressed. St. Kilda’s version of nuclear detente. Mutual annihilation.”
“You’re quick. So is Alara. She’s no longer kicking our butt every half hour. And she’s sending less bullshit files. The Cover Your Ass part of the program is over.”
