“Get aboard somehow. Before our guy in Singapore vanished, he left a scratch on the inside of the electrical panel cupboard. Given the dither factor on the satellite beacon, it’s a low-tech way to be certain that we’re talking about the same boat.”
Emma called up the interior of Blackbird from her mental file, located the panel, and said, “Will do.”
“Any bogies?” Faroe asked.
“So far, so good.”
“Said the skydiver as he reached for the ripcord.”
Weaving her way through herds of tourists, Emma half-smiled at the gallows humor. Vintage Faroe.
“If Blackbird is what we’re told it is,” he continued, “somebody is keeping tabs on her. Could be the man running her. Could be the man behind the tree. Find out.”
“Still getting the pings?” she asked.
Faroe covered the phone and said something she couldn’t hear.
Holding on to her backpack strap, Emma checked over her shoulder as she walked north. Old professional habits. She’d thought that quitting the Agency would strip away her professional paranoia.
It hadn’t. Maybe just being a woman alone in modern cities kept the reflexes alive. Maybe it was simply who she’d become. Whatever. It was part of her now, like dark hair and light green eyes.
Faroe’s voice came back to her ear. “Lane says the locator beacons are still coming through. The government dither must be turned way up on the satellites, because the beacon on the container ship and the one on Blackbird aren’t showing enough separation to set off our alarms.”
“The yacht is getting farther and farther from Shinhua Lotus. God, what if we have the wrong one?”
“That’s why the scratch is there. What’s the transit captain’s name?”
“On my to-do list.”
Faroe grunted. “Description?”
“I’ll get back to you on that along with the name.”
“Soon.”
The phone went dead before she could say anything. She flipped it shut and tucked it into the holster at her waist without breaking stride. She didn’t notice the people around her unless they looked at her for more than a passing glance. Then she memorized them.
Nobody stood out—front, side, or behind.
So far, so good.
Belltown Marina was guarded by a gate with a coded and keyed entrance lock. Given enough time she’d be able to get the combination. But on an unusually warm October day, all she had to do was be a little lucky. People would be coming and going from their boats.
When she spotted two yachties walking up the long ramp from the water, she moved into position. As the gate opened, she caught it, holding it for the couple.
“Great timing,” Emma said. She tapped her cell phone. “I was just going to call my husband to let me in.”
The male looked her over, as if trying to decide whether she really belonged to the boating fraternity that might tie up to the most expensive overnight docks in Seattle.
Smiling, Emma pointed toward Blackbird, which was motoring at dead slow speed down one of the marina fairways, headed for the fuel dock. “We just got her delivered. Isn’t she a beauty?”
“Yeah,” the male said, still looking at her.
Emma’s smile stayed bright, even though the man’s eyes had come to a full stop on her breasts. She had dressed to emphasize her assets and lower a male IQ. Tight jeans, tight crop top, and the toned body to make it work. She wasn’t movie-star material, but she was plenty female.
And she’d learned a long time ago that men remembered breasts much better than faces. Telling questioners that the woman they’re asking about had a nice rack didn’t help anyone trying to find her.
“Hap, for God’s sake, get out of the way,” his companion said. She, too, was dressed to catch the male eye.
“I just wanted to make sure she wasn’t some street person.”
“She may be a street person, but not the kind you’re worried about.”
Emma slid through the gate and shut it behind her, leaving the couple to their practiced bickering. When she reached the interconnected docks at the water, she stopped, caught by the sight of Blackbird maneuvering in close quarters. Next to the container ship, the yacht had looked dainty, almost tiny. In the crowded fairways of the marina, she looked big.
Slowly, elegantly, the yacht turned in its own length. The man running her seemed almost motionless, but she could tell he was fully in control of the boat. She enjoyed watching that kind of skill at work.
Quickly she closed the distance to the fuel dock. Even if it hadn’t been her assignment, she would have been intrigued by the grace and restrained power of the black yacht.
And the captain. He was a big, rangy male with a saltwater tan and a dark, closely cropped black beard. His hair was equally short beneath a battered baseball cap. A faded black T-shirt tucked into his close-fitting, worn jeans.
For all his threadbare clothes, he was perfectly at home on the obviously expensive Blackbird. He touched the controls on the flying bridge with calm expertise, nudging a throttle for a second, then tapping it back to neutral and waiting for a moment to gauge Blackbird’s momentum and direction. He brought the yacht parallel to the fuel dock, letting the residual thrust slowly take the flared starboard bow over the edge of the dock without brushing the hull against the heavily tarred wood and rub rail.
The dockhand grabbed the mooring line that was draped over the yacht’s bow rail. She took a turn of the line around the steel cleat, and nodded up at the man on the bridge.
A propeller kicked for a second, then quit. The stern slid sideways and eased toward the dock. The inflated fenders dangling protectively from the yacht’s rails barely kissed the dock before Blackbird was at rest. The dockhand made a “cut it” motion with the side of her hand over her throat as she walked quickly back to the stern line.
Bounced, really. She wasn’t old enough to drink, but she wasn’t jailbait, either. Tight shorts and T-shirt aside, she knew exactly what she was doing on the fuel dock.
The engines stopped.
Emma knew just enough about boats to be impressed with how easy the captain made docking the big boat look. Even a lightweight aluminum rowboat had a mind of its own. The mass involved in a yacht Blackbird’s size was measured in tons. A lot of them.
The captain climbed down the steep fly-bridge stairs like a cat and vanished into the boat’s salon.
Swiftly Emma sorted through available strategies. She decided to stick with the IQ-lowering crop top. The lace inset between her breasts was a bigger tease than bare cleavage. The oldest approach in the world might be a hip-swinging cliché, but it was still around because it still worked. She tucked the left earpiece of her sunglasses into her cleavage, pulled out the colorful band that held her hair in a ponytail, shook her hair free, and sauntered forward.
Time to brighten the captain’s day—and get an invitation aboard.
4
DAY ONE
BELLTOWN MARINA
AFTERNOON
Mac stepped out of the cabin and walked to the stainless-steel fuel plate that was flush with the deck. He went down on one knee to open up for fueling. Two prongs of the metal tool he held fit into indentions in the flat, circular fuel plate. A hard twist loosened the big, stainless-steel screw. While he turned the plate on its threads, he glanced at the fuel dock.
The lithe woman strolling down the ramp was older than the bouncy little line catcher who’d been hired by the fuel dock as eye candy for the yachting set. The woman with the small backpack over one shoulder moved with easy confidence. He liked that in a person, male or female.
But he wondered if he’d like the reason why she was interested in Blackbird.
Stop being paranoid. Yachties love to look at what’s on the water. Just because her hair is the same color as the woman on the Zodiac, there’s no reason to be wary. Lots of women have dark hair long enough to be pulled back in a ponytail or left free to fall to her shoulders.
&
nbsp; And nice breasts. Real nice, not a bra line in sight.
His neck hairs ignored sweet reason and kept on voting for paranoia.
“That’s one beautiful yacht,” the woman called out to him.
Mac looked at her. There was only appreciation in her voice and in her expression. No reason to get upset. Blackbird was indeed a fine boat.
And the female wasn’t bad, either. Not fat, not skinny, with a spring to her stride that came from some kind of athletic activity. She was probably a few years past thirty. Her eyes were clear, light, and direct. Everything he liked in a woman.
Too bad she’s the one from the Zodiac.
It was in the line of her jaw, the curve of her ear, the narrow nose and full mouth. Dark hair now ruffled by the wind. The lacy gap in her top should have been illegal.
He didn’t know the game, but she was one intriguing player. “Thanks,” Mac said, standing up. He braced his arms on the railing, looked down, and drawled, “She’s very responsive.”
Her head tilted up toward him. She could have been friendly. She could have been measuring him for a coffin. Her eyes were a green that reminded him of the color of big ocean waves in the midst of breaking over the bow. Clear. Light green. Powerful. A warning a smart man listened to.
Oh, I’m listening.
Looking, too.
Damn, she just might be worth the trouble.
And Mac knew she was trouble.
“You handle her well,” she said. “Have you had her long?”
Hell. She’s the wrong kind of trouble. She knows just how long I’ve been aboard this boat.
He glanced at the dock girl. She was waiting with a fat fuel hose. The nozzle was green.
“Diesel,” he said. Double-checking.
She nodded.
He took the nozzle and lifted the heavy fuel line aboard. The area around the deck’s fuel tank feed was protected by a white square of absorbent padding. He had cut a hole in the center to allow fueling. When the nozzle was in place, he looked at the dock girl.
“One hundred in each tank,” he said.
“One hundred diesel each,” she said, walking back to the pumps. “Fast or slow?”
“Fast.”
Emma watched the fueling process and chewed over the fact that she’d made a mistake. Obviously he’d seen her aboard the Zodiac, and taken a good enough look through binoculars to know her even without her ponytail and Mustang gear. His dark eyes had gone blank the instant she asked how long he’d owned Blackbird.
He enjoyed her crop top, but it didn’t affect his IQ. A hard man in every way that counted.
Time for Plan B: Honesty.
Yeah. Right.
“So much for light conversation,” she said clearly. “I’m Emma Cross and I’ve got a qualified buyer for Blackbird.”
“She’s not mine,” he said without looking up from the diesel nozzle. “I’m just delivering her.”
“So the owner is in Seattle.”
Mac didn’t answer.
“News flash,” Emma said crisply. “Being rude will just make me more pushy. I have a job to do and I’m going to do it, with or without your charming help.”
Mac almost smiled. “Charming, huh?”
“Yeah. Bet no one has ever accused you of that.”
This time Mac did smile. “No bet.”
Emma almost stepped back. The difference between this man with and without a smile was enough to make a woman think about doing whatever it took to keep the smile in place.
“Wow. You should try smiling more often, Mr. Whoever.”
He shook his head and decided he was going to find out just what kind of trouble this woman was. Give her enough rope and she might just tie herself up.
Now that was an intriguing thought. “MacKenzie Durand,” he said. “If you want me to answer, call me Mac.”
“One hundred!” called out the dockhand.
Mac loosened his grip on the nozzle, replaced the tank cover, and walked around the stern to the tank on the other side. The dockhand leaped forward to feed more hose aboard.
Emma looked at the thick hose, stepped behind the dockhand, lifted a few coils to help, and almost staggered.
Heavy. Who knew yachting was hard work?
Silently she revised her estimate of the captain’s physical strength. He was handling the stuff like it was garden hose. That rangy frame of his was deceptive.
“Hey, no need to get that cool top dirty,” the dockhand said. “I can handle it.”
“That’s what washing machines are for,” Emma said. “Do you do this all day?”
“Every day. The other dockhand quit. But I’m making a lot of money toward my degree.”
“In what?”
“Engineering.”
“That’s a lot of hose hauling,” Emma said.
“Beats waiting tables. I love being outside with boats.”
“Ready,” Mac called from the other side of the yacht.
“Coming on,” the dockhand said as she flipped a lever on one of the pumps. The dial began to spin, fast.
Another smaller yacht nosed in behind Blackbird. The dockhand went quickly to catch the lines.
Emma watched the dial on the fuel pump for a time. She was just reaching for the shutoff lever when the dockhand appeared, turned off the pump, and went back to feeding hose to the second boat.
“One hundred,” Emma called to Mac.
Moments later he appeared with the nozzle and heavy hose trailing. “New job?” he asked Emma.
The dockhand teleported into place, took the nozzle, then began dragging hose back and coiling it out of the way.
“Just a helping hand,” Emma said. “Poor kid has her work cut out for her.” She rubbed her hands on her jeans. “Permission to come aboard?”
“I’m on a short clock, but I can spare a few minutes.” He called out to the dockhand. “Go ahead and take care of the other boat. I can wait for the fuel ticket.”
She waved and looked grateful. The other customers were fishermen, eager to get out on the water.
Short clock.
Emma noted the military phrase as she headed for the stern of the boat. She grabbed the yacht’s stainless-steel rail, felt the grainy residue of salt spray, and lowered herself to the swim step. Her weight was nothing compared to that of Blackbird; the boat didn’t bounce or jerk as it accepted her.
Yet she sensed immediately the difference between dock and deck. Blackbird was alive with subtle motion.
Years peeled away and she was ten again, fishing with her father on the Great Lakes. She shook it off and concentrated on the mission.
“You aren’t staying in the marina?” she asked Mac.
He’d already decided to tell her the truth, because she could easily find it out anyway. Nothing like appearing helpful to catch someone off guard.
“I’m a transit captain,” he said, waving her toward the steps leading up to the deck. “I’m being paid to deliver this boat to the commissioning yard in Rosario.”
She walked onto the deck and looked around. “What’s a commissioning yard?”
“The hull and most of the interior of the boat is built in Shanghai. The navigation electronics, water maker, satellite linked chart plotter, TVs, radar, computer uplink, speakers, dishwasher, washer-dryer, stove, microwave, refrigerator, freezer, CD, DVD, and all the other expensive toys are added in the commissioning yard.”
She glanced at him. “So what kind of navigation system are you using to get to Rosario?”
“Paper charts and experience.”
He gestured her into the main salon.
“How long will the final work take?” she asked, looking around at the covered furniture—and the open panel on the breakers.
He shrugged. “Depends on how jammed up the commissioning yard is. Why?”
Emma stuck to the role she had developed over the last year on her St. Kilda assignment. “Have you ever worked for someone really, really, really rich?”
“
No.”
“That kind of money makes people impatient,” she said. “My client wants a yacht like Blackbird and he doesn’t want to wait a year or more for it. That’s how long the list is. A year, minimum, no matter what kind of money you have.”
“So he’s going to make the owner an offer he can’t refuse?”
She rolled her eyes. “Nothing that physical. Just a lot of green. Bales of it.”
Mac decided it was barely possible that her story was true. “Nice finder’s fee for you?”
“You bet.” She wandered toward the open panel. “The boats I’ve handled have been from one to eight million.”
“Relatively modest, for the kind of wealth you say your employer has.”
“He has five other boats,” Emma said, running her hand over the beautiful teak wheel. The cover story came easily to her lips. All those years of lying for a living, people dying, everybody lying, and no one gave a damn. “His wife saw a picture of a boat like Blackbird in a yachting magazine and decided that she had to have it. Yesterday.”
“Why?”
“Blackbird is small enough for the two of them to handle alone. Roomy enough for a captain if she changes her mind. And luxurious to the last full stop. You can get bigger boats for the money, but you can’t get better.”
Emma crouched down, rubbed her hand over the glorious teak, and glanced casually at the electronics panel.
The scratch was right where it should be, which meant Blackbird’s twin was still missing.
Good news or bad?
Both, probably. Luck seems to go that way.
Mac said nothing while Emma straightened and moved on to the galley. He decided he could get used to watching her.
“I doubt that Blackbird would go for much more than two, maybe three million after she’s commissioned,” he said. “Depends on the electronic toys and the demand in the marketplace.”
“And on how stubborn the present owner is about selling.” She shrugged, then faced Mac. Nice wasn’t getting the job done. Time for something else. “Price isn’t my problem. Getting the boat is. So just who owns Blackbird and how do I get hold of him? Make my life easy and I’ll see that you get paid for your time. That’s what you do, isn’t it? Sell your time?”
Death Echo Page 3
