side wasn’t nearly as close.
Instead of asking why they were scraping an islet when there was plenty of water on the other side, she studied the chart and their projected course.
“Yikes,” she said.
“Yeah, it’s a narrow channel out of the north end of the harbor, but it saves time and dodging ferries coming in from the strait.”
Silently she looked through the windows, comparing the electronic chart to what she could see. Nearby, just off the bow, a bright buoy swung in the current at the end of its anchor chain.
“What’s that?” she asked. “A weird channel marker?”
Mac punched a button, zooming in on the chart symbol for the buoy.
She leaned in to look at the chart, then looked outside, and listened to Mac. She could learn from books, but she’d discovered long ago that she was what was called a “directed” learner-if she experienced it physically as well as intellectually, she learned much faster.
“That marks Oregon Rock,” he said. “At low tide, it’s only a few feet below the water, right at the entrance to the Nanaimo Yacht Club,” he said. “There’s another rock forty yards north. I could run us over it-”
“No thanks,” she cut in.
“-but I’d like to stay afloat.”
“Good plan.”
On the islet that crowded the narrow channel, trees bent to the wind. Watercraft of all sizes poured into the far end of the channel, chased off the strait by the growing wind. She stood on tiptoe, peered into the water, and saw a shadow beneath the surface. The buoy was connected to it by a slimy green chain.
“I prefer deeper water,” she said, measuring the size and closeness of the hazard. “And plenty of it.”
Mac’s smile flashed beneath his short beard. “I hear you.”
“You’d think an ohmygod-rock like that one would be marked with bells, whistles, bonfires, and brass bands,” she said.
“The farther north you go, the less bells and whistles there are. You have to pay attention to your charts and whatever nav markers exist. Go far enough north, and you’re lucky to find nav markers in a harbor, much less away from it.”
“Are the electronic charts as good as paper?”
“Mostly. Often better. But like paper, it’s all information that someone on the ground-or water, in our case-has supplied.”
“Good intel, good result,” she said. “Bad intel, or none, and you’re hung out to dry.”
Mac went still, fighting memories. It took a few moments to shove the bloody past back into the basements of his mind.
“Nice thing about paper charts,” he said, “is they don’t go down if a circuit trips.”
“Where is the paper chart of this channel?”
“In my mind. I’ve done this a few times,” he said.
“What if I have to do it by myself?”
“Top chart.” He pointed.
She went to the pile of folded charts that were to the left of the galley sink, took the first chart, and started to orient herself. Since the electronic chart was on the “heads-up” mode-whatever was on the chart in front of the triangle that represented the boat was also what was visible beyond the bow-she turned the chart until it showed what was in front of her, rather than true north.
The channel looked even more narrow on paper.
“Tell me this is safe,” she said.
“What is?”
“Shoving this whacking great boat through the eye of a small damn needle.”
“Bigger boats go through without problem.”
“Knowing there are bigger fools on the water isn’t comforting.”
Mac laughed. “Have I mentioned that I like you, Emma Cross?”
“That’s me, Ms. Congeniality.”
But she smiled at him before she stared at the water swirling around the nearly exposed tip of the second rock in the channel. She told herself that it was all good. If Mac wasn’t worried, she wasn’t worried. And he wasn’t worried.
Alert, yes. Worried, no.
The second shadow slid by beneath the water, chained to another buoy. She let out a relieved breath when the channel opened up in front of them. They dodged through the flotilla of small craft running for harbor.
As soon as they were out of the lee of the islet, the wind whooshed over the yacht and the water changed, becoming rougher. Out in the strait, whitecaps were turning over.
“In a few minutes we’ll be using the fourth chart,” Mac said. While she replaced the chart she’d been looking at with a new one, he stepped close to her and added, “Faroe passed on a blast from Alara. Temuri is very well connected to Georgia’s most-secret service.”
Her hands stilled as he stepped back to the wheel. “About all this sweet talk, Mac. I don’t think my heart can take it.” But even as she spoke, she was running possibilities in her mind. It was one of the things she did best. None of the possibilities made their life easier.
“Bloody hell,” she said as she smoothed out the chart.
“Yeah.”
“Mac…”
He looked at her.
She closed her eyes for an instant, then met his dark glance. “I’d rather have dealt with international crime lords.”
“Why? Killers are killers.”
“With crime, motivation is a lot easier to discover. Money is the primary mover. Everything else follows, including power. If you know motivation, you know your enemy’s weak point and can plan accordingly. But politics is like building something on the tip of a flame. Every breeze changes the lay of the land. Motivation follows the breeze.”
The curve of his mouth changed. “Pretty much how Faroe and I feel about it.”
“God, I hate politics and politicians. Give me a gang-banger any day. How good is Alara’s intel?”
“Your guess is better than mine. You were in the business more recently than I was,” he said, coming up on the throttles.
Open water lay ahead.
She fiddled with her phone. “Has Steele put Alara through research?”
“I didn’t ask.”
Emma hit speed dial.
“Got a problem?” Faroe asked by way of greeting.
“What do St. Kilda’s data banks say about Alara?”
“Nothing you couldn’t get by searching a few very academic magazines and some former State Department types who have online blogs.”
“What does the gossip side of research say?” Emma asked.
“Twice divorced, various lovers at various times, never married a third time, three children, eight grandchildren, career government in departments whose names mean nothing and whose funding isn’t questioned by Congress. Retired nine years ago.”
“Someone’s file needs updating.”
“Someone didn’t retire,” Faroe agreed.
“What did Steele tell you?”
“That she’s one of the shining ones still left playing a tarnished game.”
“Huh.”
“Yeah, huh. Grace thinks that any ambitions Alara has are related to making sure her grandchildren don’t inherit a world where every balcony has a dictator with a suitcase full of secondhand nukes.”
