Death Echo

“So the bloodletting begins,” Emma said under her breath.

“Pretty much. Our job is to make sure it’s the bad guys who bleed.”

“Which ones?”

“If they get in our way, they bleed.”

39

DAY FOUR

MANHATTAN

3:15 P.M.

The windows of Steele’s office were guaranteed bulletproof, eavesdropping proof, and weatherproof. He liked staring through the oddly tinted glass at the hive below. The surge and stall of traffic, the amoebic warfare between pedestrians and Yellow Cabs, the frustration of sirens wailing and wailing and not moving at all-the whole metropolitan mess amused and bemused him. So much change since humans first painted cave ceilings in reverence and hope.

Change, yes.

But progress?

Steele doubted it. Just as he doubted the phantom, piercing pain from his nerveless legs would evolve into something useful, such as a precursor to true feeling.

It had been a long time since he’d walked, even in his dreams.

“The woman formerly known as Alara is waiting outside your office,” Dwayne said, his voice rich with irony. “You’re forty-seven seconds late for her appointment. And counting. Should I let her in, or should I leave you wallowing in your whither-humanity moment?”

Steele smiled and looked toward the man who knew him better than his starry-eyed, change-the-world parents ever had. “Wallowing is one of the few human activities that doesn’t require legs.”

Dwayne frowned. “You’re in pain. I’ll call Harley.”

Harley, the big bodyguard-nurse-caregiver, was as much an extension of Steele in private as Dwayne was in public.

There was barely a hesitation before Steele shook his head and said, “This one is too important.”

“They all are.”

“Yes.” Steele sighed. “But this one is. Show Alara in. Then, perhaps, some music, a nap.”

“Food.”

Steele shrugged. “Let her in.”

Dwayne wanted to insist, but knew it wouldn’t do any good. His boss didn’t have energy to waste chewing out a stubborn employee who was also a friend.

Tight-lipped, Dwayne went to the locked door of Steele’s office, opened it, and ushered Alara inside. She was wearing one of her old-school dark suits, dark pumps, dark blouse against dark-toast skin. If her straight, short hair hadn’t been silver, she would have been a study in darkness.

“Coffee, tea, water, soda, something stronger?” Dwayne asked.

“Water, thank you. And privacy.”

“We’ve been through this before,” Steele said. “Unless you know something about Dwayne that I don’t-and have proof-he stays.”

In silence, Alara took a seat across from Steele’s desk and waited until he wheeled into place opposite her. Dwayne put a bottle of water in front of her, refreshed Steele’s water supply, and went back to his own office, which was an extension of the main office whose heavy doors could be shut if Steele required privacy. Steele had made it clear that he didn’t.

Two of the five phones in front of Dwayne showed calls on hold. All three of his computer screens showed message alerts. He put on his headset and went back to work.

Alara listened to the low murmur of Dwayne’s voice and the muted, hollow clicks of his computer keyboard.

“It is a dangerous luxury,” Alara said.

“What is?”

“Trusting your assistant.”

“Again, we have had this conversation before. If you have nothing new to add, I have calls waiting.”

She raised her eyebrows at Steele’s unusually curt manner. She almost asked if he was in pain, then stopped herself. The bullet that had taken Steele’s legs so long ago still echoed through other lives.

So many things that might have been.

But are not.

“Do you have anything new for me?” Alara asked.

“Did I call you?” Steele countered.

She nodded once, conceding the point. “Like pulling hen’s teeth.”

“To pull teeth, there must be teeth to pull.”

“Exactly. Shurik Temuri is a member of Georgia’s most secret government security agency,” she said evenly. “A very high-ranking member.”

“Is his trade in death and destruction private and personal, or an aspect of state business?”

“Unknown. However, most men in his position within the Russian Federation have lucrative quasi-personal sidelines-drugs, extortion, human traffic, and so on.”

“That would complicate, rather than simplify, this matter,” Steele said. “At the very least, it adds a layer of deniability to Temuri’s employer if its employee is caught with his hand in the wrong cookie jar.”

“I noted the same thing.”

“And?” Steele asked.

“Nothing. Just one more piece added to the puzzle we must solve.”

“Delightful. No wonder I anticipate your visits.” He drank from his water glass. “Anything else?”

“Where is Blackbird?”

“In Canadian customs, being vetted.”

She hissed with impatience. “Idiots.”

Steele didn’t ask if she was referring to Canadian customs, the crew of Blackbird, or the FBI agent who had whispered suspicions into an international ear. There was more than enough idiocy to go around.

“Time is wasting,” she said.

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“I loved you once.”

In the sudden silence, the hollow tapping coming from Dwayne’s office sounded like ghostly Morse code.

Alara stood, her smile caught between sorrow and amusement, and said huskily, “It was a long time ago. Call me when Blackbird sails again. We must find those teeth to pull.”

40

DAY FOUR

NANAIMO

1:20 P.M.

The northwest wind had gone from gusty to full-time blow. The only clouds left were those