Amber Beach

by Elizabeth Lowell

  “I’ll bet it sounds wonderful when the other jets kick in,” she said.

  Jake glanced aside, saw her savoring kind of smile, and told himself not to think about how satisfying it would be to make her respond like that in bed. He told himself he was stupid to even think about her like that. This was business, impure and simple.

  But no matter how hard he tried to control his thoughts, images kept sliding into his mind, the kind of images that made his pants fit tighter with every heartbeat.

  “Listen up,” Jake said, increasing the gas feed. “Here goes three and four.”

  The boat surged forward. The sound of the engine changed, becoming both deeper and higher. It ran through Honor’s blood like hard liquor. Her smile widened until she laughed out loud.

  “Gorgeous,” she said. “Eat your heart out, thoven.”

  Jake smiled, too, especially when he glanced over his shoulder. The three boats following him were having to scramble to keep pace. He looked forward again, scanning the water ahead for floating logs, rafts of seaweed, or other navigation hazards. There was nothing in sight but clean, flat water.

  “Might as well see what this puppy will do,” he said.

  Better now than later, when lives might depend on it. But he didn’t say that aloud. He liked the smile on Honor’s face too much to remind her that she had a lot more to fear than cold blue water and the smell of fish.

  Then it occurred to him that maybe, just maybe, she was too innocent to realize her danger.

  Instantly he told himself that was ridiculous, of course she did. But he kept remembering that she hadn’t even noticed when Kyle’s cottage was under surveillance. Yet she was hardly stupid or unobservant.

  That left innocent.

  She certainly had sounded like it when she was talking to Archer. Her older brother had slammed the same kind of doors in her face that he had slammed in Jake’s.

  Savagely Jake told himself he was a fool for even thinking that Honor might be as honest as her clear, amber-green eyes. Not that it mattered—honest or crooked, Honor was his ticket into the closed world of Donovan International. He didn’t have to love, respect, or even dislike the means to an end. He just had to grit his teeth and use it.

  The Tomorrow fled across the flat, cold waters of Puget Sound. The widening white V of the wake spread out from the stern like a fan-shaped contrail. One of the pursuing boats fell back rather quickly. The other hung on. So did the Zodiac.

  Jake eased the power up more. With a throaty roar of delight, the SeaSport hit thirty-four knots.

  “I knew there was a reason Kyle is my favorite brother,” Honor said over the sound of the engine.

  Jake glanced at her. She was smiling dreamily, eyes closed. Whatever fear she had of small boats and big water wasn’t as great as her pleasure in a powerful, well-tuned engine doing what it had been made to do. He couldn’t help smiling back at her.

  While he held the revs at four thousand, he divided his attention between the water ahead and the dials on the console. Nothing changed but the speed of the boat as it skimmed over currents and eddies caused by the slackening tide.

  He nudged the throttle lever higher. The SeaSport had more speed to give. And then more. The motion of the boat became less predictable as a smaller and smaller fraction of the hull actually met the water. He held the boat with a light, relentless touch, finding out what it was made of, what it had in reserve, and where it would fail.

  The gauges remained well within normal range. The Tomorrow sliced cleanly through the water. There were no sheets of spray fountaining on either side of the bow. Jake was too experienced a driver and the hull was too well designed for that kind of inefficiency in calm water.

  Twenty minutes later, satisfied that the engine didn’t have any hidden weakness, he finished a wide loop around an island. As he brought the revs down to thirty-four hundred, he looked over his shoulder to see who was still with him.

  The Coast Guard was hanging back, little more than an orange spot. Jake knew it was Conroy’s choice rather than mechanical necessity; the big engine pushing the light Zodiac could have kept pace with the SeaSport. One of the private boats that had been following was no longer in sight. The other was well behind and making hard work of it, bouncing and smacking down on the water, jolting sheets of spray into the air.

  Jake wondered if the driver was wearing a kidney belt. He certainly needed one.

  “Well?” Honor asked.

  “Nice boat.”

  “Mmm. I begin to understand the lure of fishing.”

  “Fishing? In your dreams. At the speed we were going, you’d have to be trolling for flying fish.”

  “Better and better.”

  “Do you like to eat fish?”

  “Yum!”

  “Fresh fish?” he asked.

  “There’s no other kind worth eating.”

  “I’ll make a fisherman—er, fishersan—out of you yet.”

  “No need. I’ve already buttered up my local fishmonger. He makes sure my fish are fresh.”

  “Nothing is as fresh as when you catch it yourself.”

  Honor gave Jake a sideways look that said she didn’t believe a word of it. “I’d rather learn how to drive the boat.”

  His smile would have made Little Red turn and run. “Okay. First thing you need to know is that the owner always buys the gas.”

  “Is that supposed to worry me?”

  He eyed the half-empty gas gauges. “It will. Until then, listen up. Under good to fair water conditions, the most efficient ratio of speed to gas consumption for this boat is about thirty-four hundred rpm. At that speed, the boat is very responsive to the helm. There’s a direct ratio between speed, trim, and . . .”

  Jake headed back for the dock at a sedate speed, talking the whole time. He kept at it long after Honor’s eyes glazed over, burying her in facts and figures and nautical terms, demonstrating with every relentless word how much he knew about the SeaSport and how little she did.

  It was a lousy way of teaching her how to run the boat. But it was a great way of teaching even a stubborn Donovan female how much she needed one J. Jacob Mallory to help her do what she really wanted to do—find a fortune in stolen amber.

  5

  THE SALTY LOG was an old hangout for the loggers, fishermen, and crabbers of Anacortes. The fortunes of the place had declined along with the local fish stocks, the discovery of the spotted owl, and the rise of Native American fishermen who worked according to tribal rules rather than federal or state regulations. Never an upscale place to begin with, the Salty Log could most kindly be described as “atmospheric.”

  When Jake walked in the atmosphere was stale smoke and old complaints about know-nothing Fisheries bureaucrats, city-born tree huggers, and greedy Natives. The rants were as old as the reality of declining resources and much easier to understand. Jake had heard each of the arguments before, believed in some of them at one time or another, and now took a sour view of all of them.

  Conroy was waiting at a small table in the far corner, away from toilet traffic. Off-duty, he wore gray work pants and a flannel shirt with colors as muted as the bar itself. He looked tired and irritated. The beer in front of him hadn’t been touched.

  Jake picked up a beer at the bar and went over to the table. No one took note of him beyond the uninterested glances regular patrons gave folks who looked local but weren’t part of the Salty Log’s hard drinking fraternity.

  “I told you I was buying,” Jake said, sitting down.

  Neither man had his back to the room. The bar might be long in the tooth but the teeth were still sharp. Fights were common, brutal, and ignored by the local law unless guns or fishing knives were involved.

  Conroy lifted his beer in ironic salute. “Evening, buddy. I’ll buy my own, thanks. From what I can see, you’re way out from shore in a leaky skiff and small craft warnings are flying all over the place.”

  “It could be worse.”

  “How?”

/>   “So far it’s just warnings.”

  “What the hell have you done?” Conroy asked bluntly.

  “Nothing.”

  “Bullshit. I’ve been told to keep the Tomorrow in sight.”

  “I don’t own the boat, remember?”

  “Then stay off it.”

  “Is that official?” Jake asked.

  “No. It’s a hangover from the days we used to fish and tear up bars together.”

  “This whole talk is unofficial?”

  “You have my word.”

  Jake nodded, settled more comfortably, and took a sip of his beer. In the background he heard cigarette-roughened voices arguing over which was worse, tree huggers in penthouses or morons who thought a man could survive fishing seasons that were only open for four hours once every three months.

  “Did your superiors mention Kyle Donovan?” Jake asked in a voice too soft to be overheard.

  “Just as the owner of the Tomorrow.”

  “Did they say what you’re supposed to be looking for when you board us?”

  “Nothing specific, so I assume Donovan is smuggling cigarettes north to Canada or Chinese south to the U.S., or dope both ways, or a combination of all three. Or worse. There are a lot of unsolved murders in Anacortes, particularly for a town this size.”

  “Murder? Is that what the local newspaper is saying now?”

  “Dead man floating facedown with his throat crushed by an elbow or a karate chop, missing Kyle Donovan nowhere to be found, an expensive pile of Russian amber lost somewhere, government of Russia asking for help from its new ally the U. S. of A. to find the amber. The rest is typical infotainment crap to sell ads—insinuations about local boy Kyle Donovan, who might be murder victim or a murderer or both, hard breathing about fabulous wealth up for grabs, short stroking about murder in paradise and oh-ain’t-it-awful.”

  Jake smiled at Conroy’s obvious disgust. “You’re more cynical than you used to be.”

  “I’ve been in charge of search-and-rescue operations that I couldn’t recognize when I read about them the next day. Makes you wonder about the rest of the so-called facts behind the headlines.”

  “I always knew you were bright. You get tired of the Coast Guard, you can work for me.” Jake’s smile faded. “If I still have a business.”

  “Stay off the Tomorrow. Whatever Kyle Donovan did isn’t going to go away. He’s the biggest local interest story since the plywood factory shut down.”

  “I’d love to stay clear of the whole mess. I can’t.”

  “Try harder.”

  Jake took a sip of his beer, decided that the risk of telling Conroy the truth was outweighed by the potential of gaining an ally, and started talking.

  “The amber Kyle stole came from a government mine in the former Soviet Union. Emerging Resources brokered the deal. The amber was being transferred from Emerging Resources’s care to the purchaser, Donovan International. The U.S.—and apparently the Russian government—believes that a piece of stolen art might have been part of the shipment. The Russians want it back.”

  “Why are they breathing on you?”

  “Either Kyle took it or I did,” Jake said flatly. “Donovan International is pointing the finger at me. All I know is that I signed over the shipment to Kyle Donovan. It was the last time I saw him. Donovan International says the transfer never was made.”

  Conroy’s eyes narrowed.

  “The Donovans have a lot more leverage with governments than I do,” Jake said. “My company is being set up to take the blame for the theft of the raw amber and whatever else might have been along for the ride. If I don’t prove my innocence, Emerging Resources goes under and I go with it.”

  Conroy whistled softly through his teeth.

  “The Donovans are slamming doors in my face all around the world,” Jake said roughly. “I’ve already been kicked out of the Baltics and Russia for asking too many questions. I want Kyle Donovan’s ass.”

  “You think he’s still alive?”

  “I was pretty sure he wasn’t. Now I’d bet on either side of the question. Frankly, I’m hoping he’s alive. I’d really like to have a talk with that boy.”

  “You aren’t the only one.”

  “Don’t tell me that he violated Coast Guard regulations,” Jake said dryly.

  Conroy hesitated, then reached his own decision. “I wish it was that easy. This whole thing stinks of politics, the international kind where nobody wins and everybody loses.”

  Jake grimaced and drank more of his beer. “I hear you.”

  “Are you sure you can’t walk away?”

  “I don’t have anywhere to walk.”

  “Shit.”

  Conroy took a drink, pulled out a cigarette, and set fire to it with an ancient Zippo lighter.

  “I thought you quit,” Jake said.

  “Four times and counting.”

  “Try getting off the light cigarettes. From what I hear, they have more nicotine than the regular ones. The better to keep you health-conscious sorts hooked, no doubt.”

  Conroy looked at the cigarette with distaste but no surprise. “Figures.” He took another drag and blew out smoke. “If my superiors find out about this talk tonight, I’ll need that job you mentioned.”

  “Since when is having a beer with an old friend a crime?”

  “Since I ran the registration numbers on the boats that were playing tag with you.”

  In the bar’s dim light, Jake’s eyes glittered like crystal. “You don’t have to say another word.”

  “Just trying to even the odds. Any time nameless men in suits start giving direct orders to men in uniform, I get real nervous.”

  “Politics.”

  With a grunt, Conroy flicked ash into the smudged ashtray next to his beer. “Some Washington type—and I mean D.C., not state of—has been camped by a radio, waiting for me to call in every time you change heading.”

  Without looking away from the other man, Jake took a drink. The expression of distaste he wore could have been due to the lukewarm beer, but it wasn’t. He was thinking about fairy dust and the fabled Amber Room.

  “You don’t look surprised,” Conroy said.

  “I don’t look like anything but what I am—pissed off and interested in equal parts. Did the suit say which branch of the government he works for?”

  “No. He didn’t give me name, rank, serial number, or anything but a code name for this operation you don’t need to know. He could be military. The twenty-two-foot Bayliner hanging on to your wake—the one with the blue canvas—is owned by a navy captain based at Whidbey.”

  “Was he driving it?”

  “Couldn’t tell. The kid at the helm looked too young to be a captain.”

  “Maybe we’re just getting old.”

  Conroy blew out smoke. “Hell of a thought.”

  “Or the boat could be on loan to the suit brigade,” Jake said, “complete with an enlisted navy driver.”

  Abruptly Conroy stubbed out his cigarette, as though impatient with himself for being addicted. “The second boat, the beat-up little Bayliner driven by an amateur, is a local rental. I didn’t get the name of the renter, but I can.”

  “Don’t stick your neck out. Tomorrow I’ll make sure I get close enough to look over the competition. I may recognize him.”

  “A local boy, huh?”

  “I hope so, but I wouldn’t bet a ruble on it.”

  Conroy said something under his breath and looked at the dead cigarette with a combination of irritation and regret.

  “If you have to board the non-navy Bayliner,” Jake added softly, “don’t take anything for granted. The corpse with the Third World dental work was a Russian killer. Where there’s one, there’s usually at least two.”

  “Nice folks you run around with.”

  “It’s a brave new world over there. You work with the survivors. The other people aren’t buying and selling anything anymore.”

  Conroy shook his head. “I can’t wai
t to find out who was driving the third boat.”

  Jake sat up straighter. “What third boat?”

  “The Olympic with the big black dip net hanging next to the radar and the name Tidal Wave on the side. It could have been just a fisherman curious about who else was chasing salmon, but he looked you over with the binoculars real good. He looked over both Bayliners, too.”

  “Who was the boat registered to?”

  “I don’t think you’re going to like this.”

  “Try me.”

  “One of the Russian immigrants who settled around here two years ago. Vasily Baskov. I’ve checked Vasi’s seiner before. I know what he looks like. He wasn’t driving the Olympic.”

  “You’re right. I don’t like it.”

  Conroy picked up the half-smoked cigarette, lit it, and made a face at the taste. Even so, he kept on smoking.

  “What did the driver of the Olympic look like?” Jake asked.

  “Male, about my height and weight, more blond than I am. He had a line in the water but never checked it.”

  “Then he wasn’t a fisherman. Anything else?”

  “There was at least one other person inside the cabin. He was too coy for me to get a good look at and I had orders to keep you in sight.”

  “Anything else?”

  “The guy’s an okay boat driver, but nothing special. He hasn’t figured out how to handle Puget Sound’s short chop yet.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind.”

  “You’re going to shake his fillings loose, aren’t you?” Conroy asked, smiling thinly.

  Jake’s smile wasn’t the one that comforted people. “Did you see anyone else who might have been too interested in me for my own good?”

  “Just the pretty lady. Is she really Kyle Donovan’s sister?”

  “She really is.”

  “Does she know why you’re interested in her brother?”

  “No.”

  Conroy shook his head. “Well, shit happens, I guess. She looked like a decent person.”

  “Stubborn, too.”

  “She likes you.”

  Jake looked at his beer. It was as flat and sour as he felt. “She’ll get over it as soon as she finds out why I signed on to help her.”