Death Echo

“Fuel tank,” Harrow said.

“Those bills are going to stink of diesel,” Mac said. “Hard to pass skunky bills.”

“Not if you build a sealed trap to hide the money inside the tanks,” Harrow said.

Emma didn’t know about fuel tank dimensions, but she did know about stacks of currency. She’d used a few suitcases of payoff money in her time.

“So,” she said, “the Agency says Blackbird is the mule of choice for a currency- smuggling gig.”

“That’s what we believe,” Harrow said. “Dollars may not be as sexy as diamonds, but they’re a hell of a lot more convertible into sheer leverage in the marketplace.”

Mac didn’t know what Harrow or the CIA really believed, but he knew that counterfeiting was the story they were passing out.

“Considering that you provided the plates for the counterfeiters to work with,” Emma said, “discovery would be seriously embarrassing for some high-up people. Career fatalities all over the place.”

Harrow let out a long breath. “I told them you would understand.”

“Where’s the handover supposed to take place?” Mac asked. His voice was like his face, neither understanding nor skeptical.

“We’re not sure,” Harrow said. “We have information that the goods are coming off a container ship onto a fishing boat off the Pacific Coast somewhere between Port Hardy and Prince Rupert. The fishing boat will come south and make the transfer to Blackbird at their leisure, somewhere in a quiet cove. God knows the Inside Passage is full of deserted places.”

“Can’t argue that,” Mac said. “Especially after summer.”

“When is it supposed to go down?” Emma asked.

“In the next few days,” Harrow said.

“Was Tommy yours?” Mac asked, his voice as unreadable as his face.

“Tommy?” Harrow looked confused.

“The dead man on the rez,” Mac said.

“Oh. He was the Bureau’s. That’s why they were unusually territorial about the case. I looked at the file. Nobody owned Tommy but the last person to put crank or a bottle in his hands.”

“Lucky for you Tommy died,” Emma said. “It gave you a ticket aboard Blackbird.”

Mac had been thinking the same thing.

“Maybe,” Harrow said, shrugging. He narrowed his eyes at Emma. “Tommy was whacked by someone, but it wasn’t the Agency or the Bureau. We would have been happier with him in place.”

“Huh,” Mac said, a word as neutral as his expression.

“But we’re in place now,” Emma said. “What if we don’t want to play nice with you?”

“Even if St. Kilda Consulting wiggles out by playing the rogue-agent card, you and your ex-hotshot captain become international fugitives with serious money on your heads. Award paid on proof of death.” Harrow shrugged. “Doubt if you’d last real long.”

It wasn’t a threat.

It was a fact.

“Where is Blackbird?” Harrow asked again.

“You don’t trust us to play nice?” she asked.

“I don’t trust anyone.”

“Especially not the man in the mirror,” Mac said very softly.

She didn’t argue.

“We need a locator and a data recorder aboard,” Harrow said, “and we’re going to get them. Cooperate or I throw you to the bounty hunters.”

“Who killed Tommy?” Mac asked flatly.

“I told you. I don’t know. Why do you care?”

“Collateral damage pisses me off.”

“Throw a fit on your own time. Are you in or out?” Mac looked at Emma.

They exchanged a long silence.

Then she turned to Harrow and said, “In.”

61

DAY FIVE

VANCOUVER ISLAND

4:15 P.M.

Taras Demidov divided his attention between his cell phone screen and Lina Fredric.

Both required watching. His two coordinates were no longer closing with one another, which was making his boss crazier than usual. He had kept making and countering his own orders, until finally Demidov quit following them. He was waiting for two like orders in a row.

As for the woman, Lina was restless, wanting to go back to her safe little life. Demidov didn’t understand the desire. The grave was safe. Life was for taking risks. Lina had become too soft for anything but death.

Demidov’s boss might be crazy, but he didn’t have a soft impulse in his body.

“Don’t worry, little bird,” Demidov said to her. “This will all be done in a day or two. You’ll be taking fat fishermen out on the water again, and I’ll be another name you’ve forgotten.”

Her expression said everything she was too frightened to voice.

“Why would I kill you?” he asked practically. “You could be of use again. A smart man plans ahead.”

“And you’re a very smart man,” she said, her voice empty.

“I live. Others died.” He shrugged. “That is smart enough, yes?”

His cell phone chimed softly.

A text message appeared on the screen: TARGET ON MOVE. INTERCEPT TOMORROW. NEW COORDINATES TO FOLLOW.

62

DAY FIVE

NORTH OF DISCOVERY PASSAGE

5:11 P.M.

It took Harrow an hour to cover each bullet point that had been passed down the chain of command to him. In that time, Mac remembered all over again why he didn’t miss bureaucracies. The sheen of impatience in Emma’s eyes told him that she felt the same way.

Finally the repetition of the obvious irritated even Harrow. He waved them off and stalked back toward Summer Solstice.

Silently Mac untied the dinghy and stepped aboard. He was carrying a waterproof, spun-metal case that was no bigger than his palm. Inside, nested in foam, were several impressive bugs.

Harrow reluctantly had agreed that Mac could put them in place. The fact that everyone hadn’t scrambled for the Zodiac when Emma and Mac left told him that at least one of the bugs was already live. Probably all of them were.

“Firewall it,” Mac said.

Emma gunned the inflatable away from the dock. In seconds they were flying, little more than the engine’s prop