Death Echo

Alara’s smile was swift and real. “Demidov may or may not know what Temuri is smuggling.”

“I hope you didn’t leave your hotel just to tell me what I already know.”

“Temuri’s family is Georgian and Ukrainian, raised in Russia. He works for whichever side pays him best.”

“Did you learn anything new?” Steele asked bluntly.

“Ah, old friend, you are in pain.”

“That’s how I know I’m alive. Answer my question.”

“The sum of fifteen thousand dollars has been transferred from an account funded by one of the many arms of Russian intelligence to a St. Kilda Consulting account. Demidov has the connections to move very quickly, as apparently the order came through barely an hour ago.”

Steele’s black eyebrows rose. “Impressive. Your connections, as well as his.”

“Thank you.”

“So Demidov is indeed working for some aspect of the Russian government.”

“They are paying him,” Alara said. “It isn’t always the same thing. You will tell me immediately if your agent calls about contact by or from Shurik Temuri.”

Steele waited for several beats, then nodded. “As we agreed. Speaking of which…”

Alara waited, poised like a falcon ready to fly.

“Since when are Russia and the United States working the same side of the street?” Steele asked. “Did I miss the memo? Or is it the usual case of politics making ridiculous bedmates?”

“We have cooperated with Russia in the past, when both parties had the same goal.”

“Do you trust Demidov?”

Alara laughed in genuine amusement. “Do you?”

Steele rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Have Demidov and Temuri ever worked together in the past?”

She looked thoughtful. “Possible, but unlikely. Demidov is of another generation, political not criminal. Temuri came up through the mafiya. His family is rabidly against Russia. Temuri is simply rabid.”

“He has a lot of competition,” Steele said.

“That is the nature of life among the ruins. It suits Temuri. The most recent intel we have puts him with Chechen separatists, many of whom draw support from Wahabbi fundamentalists in the Middle East. Money, to be precise. A great deal of petro dollars.”

“Is Temuri selling them nukes?” Steele asked.

“Not the finished product. Not yet. Fissionable materials only. More suited to blackmail than to bombs. He is the middleman for more ordinary weapons, as well. We also believe he is responsible for at least one of the outbreaks of bubonic plague that have occurred on the fringes of former empire. One instance of plague served to keep the Russians out of a strategic area.”

“What if we take Temuri alive?”

“The Russians have offered a million dollars American to anyone who turns him over to them alive,” Alara said. “Dead? Perhaps he would be useful to Russia as fertilizer, nothing more.”

“Does Uncle Sam have any preferences about Temuri?”

“We would…enjoy…talking with him. But it is not required. Proof of death is. He has several rewards on his head. In fact, he is worth more dead to us than alive to Russia.”

“I’m not a bounty hunter.”

“Yet St. Kilda has collected bounties in the past.”

“Any bodies on our ticket were made on the way to a different goal,” Steele said. “Did you trace the telephone number Demidov gave our agent as a contact?”

“Useless. The phone was probably recently purchased and won’t be in anyone’s electronic files for a week or so. Too late to do us any good.”

“Do you know any more about what is actually at risk than Demidov does?”

Alara’s mouth tightened. “No. We are unhappy to find out he knew that much. It means there are more loose ends than we thought.”

“And the time limit?”

“Unchanged.” She stood up. “I wish your agents luck. We all will need it.”

48

DAY FOUR

STRAIT OF GEORGIA

4:50 P.M.

Blackbird rose on the breast of the creaming wave. Wind combed salt spray from the sea and dashed it over the windshield. Hands light on the wheel, Emma held the yacht’s bow into the weather, enjoying the swell and rush of water. Mac was at the dining table, awash in charts. He kept them corralled with a casual ease she envied. She was just learning to be at home on the restless strait.

He was at home.

Her phone rang.

“I’ll get it,” Mac said, reaching into her purse. “It’s Faroe.”

“So talk to him. I’m busy.”

Mac answered the phone. “We’re about an hour south of Campbell. Where are you?”

“Hello to you, too,” Grace said.

“Sorry. I was expecting your husband. Hello, how are you, how is Annalise, and why are you calling?”

“Faroe is looking at reports from various Canadian marine weather stations on his computer. He’s making unhappy noises.”

“We’re fine. Blackbird may be beautiful, but she’s not just a pretty face. She’s built for this part of the world.”

“How is Emma taking to it?”

“Fish to water,” Mac said. “Quick and smart. You may not get her back.”

“Thinking about keeping her?” Grace asked, amused.

“Yes.”

“What does she think about it?”

“No screaming yet,” Mac said.

“Give yourself time. It doesn’t always happen for new lovers the first few rounds.”

Mac made a choked sound. “Joe wants to know if you’re going to run through the night,” Grace continued.

“No. Even if the water was calm and my first mate had all the appeal of moldy concrete, I wouldn’t run in the dark past all those coastal log yards unless something bigger and meaner than me was closing in fast.”

“See any cruise ships?” Grace asked.

“Four of them so far, but none are headed toward Campbell. You expecting trouble from a bunch of retired folks on their dream vacations?”

“No. I just always wanted to see a cruise ship from a distance. All those lights and glamour.”

“Only at night. Close up in daylight, at the end of a season, cruise ships look like hookers after a hard night.”

“You and Faroe. Not happy unless you’re captain. Let us know if anything changes. We’ll do the same. Hello and good-bye to your first mate.”

Mac closed the phone and answered the question Emma hadn’t asked. “Faroe is following the weather up here and got nervous.”

“Is this the kind of water you call snotty?” Emma asked.

“Getting there,” Mac said. “If I want to use the electronic charts, are you happy steering by compass for a few