If Stan had dyed his hair recently. And grown a mustache.
Plastic sheeting and other protective materials had been yanked out of Blackbird and piled up on the dock. Colored wires were coiled on the deck and what looked like electronics were stacked in boxes inside the cabin.
She lowered her small binoculars and remembered what the elusive Mac Durand had said about expensive toys and yachts. It looked like Blackbird was being wired to the max.
Her cell phone vibrated against her waist. She looked at the ID window and almost groaned.
Faroe.
All she had for him was nothing. Oh—and a sore back from the motel bed. Hey, that was something, right?
Too bad it wasn’t anything useful.
“Cross,” she said, answering the phone.
“Where is he?”
“Who?”
“Durand.”
“Good question,” she said. “I’ll get back to you with the answer.”
“Soon.”
“Which is primary—Blackbird or MacKenzie Durand?”
“Both.”
“Then you better send more bodies,” she said. “I can only be in one place at a time.”
“Lost him, huh?”
Emma took a deep breath and a better grip on her temper. “Yes. He ditched me out on the rez last night. There are multiple exits on the rez, so I got a motel room near the marina and had a bad night’s sleep keeping an eye on Blackbird.”
“Did Durand make you?”
“Define ‘make.’”
“ID,” Faroe said impatiently.
“Doubt it. The Jeep, quite probably. Me, no.”
“Steele is on my ass like a rash.”
“Try baby powder.”
Faroe laughed. “We’re flying in to meet Durand personally. We’ll be there tomorrow. Sooner if we can manage it without tripping wires and alarms.”
This going in soft is too damn slow, Emma thought, but didn’t say anything. Faroe knew the time limit as well as she did.
“Have you read Durand’s file?” Faroe asked.
“Three times.” And she’d wondered if Mac Durand had the same kind of nightmares she did.
“Steele wants him. So do I.”
“A hard man is good to find,” she shot back. “I’m working on it. That man you’re interested in is a ghost. He flat vanished into the rez. Early this morning I went by the address in his files. A nineteen-twenties cottage. His truck was in the driveway. By all external signs, he was sleeping at home like a good citizen. Now, I can cover MacKenzie or Blackbird, take your pick.”
“Long night?” Faroe asked.
Emma made a disgusted noise. “Yeah.”
“Anything happening on Blackbird right now?”
“She’s swarming with technicians.”
“So she won’t be leaving the dock in the next hour or two,” Faroe said.
“It looks that way. Want to bet on it?”
“For an hour or two, yes. Go track down Durand and make your pitch.”
“You’re the boss.”
She closed the phone and reached for the ignition key.
The passenger door opened. MacKenzie Durand slid into the seat next to her.
“Breakfast or lunch?” he asked. “You’re buying.”
13
DAY TWO
ROSARIO
11:34 A.M.
The vibration of a cell phone against his ribs woke Demidov from his doze. Without moving anything but his eyelids, he looked around. It was hard to see out through the smoked windows in the front of the van, and the rear door windows were even darker. Demidov approved. People had an even harder time looking in than he did looking out.
The parking lot had tourists and boat owners coming and going. At the moment, nobody was walking nearby.
Most important, Blackbird was still at the dock.
People were still busy ripping things out of the yacht and putting other things in. Binoculars had told him that everything being installed on the boat came from a legitimate commercial source.
The bug in Blue Water Marine Group’s office had told him the same thing. Even so, he’d checked every name on the boxes. His computer told him that each was a common supplier for Blue Water boats.
His ribs vibrated again.
Demidov reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the cell phone. Since only one man had this number, he knew who he would be talking to.
“Yes?” he said in quiet Russian.
“I need more time. Get it for me.”
“How much?”
“The boat can’t leave until after tomorrow, at the earliest.”
“Nothing of interest has been put on board yet,” Demidov said. “Even at night, when you would expect it. They have the ship lit up like a stage. It would take a fool or a very, very clever man to sneak by while anyone could be watching. Temuri is not that clever.”
“My source tells me the exchange will be made in Canada.”
“Where?”
“If I knew that, fool, I wouldn’t need you to follow the ship. Make sure Blackbird does not leave until Thursday. Friday would be better.”
Demidov bit back a curse. He was safer working alone—no one to betray him—but being alone on a job this complex wasn’t easy.
“Then I will sabotage the boat so—”
“No! Too unpredictable. Blackbird must fly. Later than Saturday isn’t acceptable. Earlier than Thursday isn’t acceptable.”
The connection ended, leaving Demidov alone in the sun-struck, stinking van. He didn’t notice the smell or the heat or the random Blue Water Marine Group office noise bleeding through his ear bug. Like a computer programmed to find certain words, he wouldn’t focus on the bug until it said something interesting.
Thinking of various ways to make certain the Blackbird didn’t leave the dock until Thursday, Demidov dozed, catlike, both resting and alert. For a man working alone, death was the most reliable way of carrying out a mission. The only question was whose death would get the job done.
14
DAY TWO
RESERVATION OUTSIDE ROSARIO
11:57 A.M.
Emma drove into the casino’s parking lot in the same silence she’d maintained since Mac had invited himself into the Jeep. She still hadn’t decided whether to slug him for his attitude or hug him for making her mission easier.
She turned off the engine and faced him.
“Dealer’s choice,” she said. “For now, you’re the dealer.”
Mac smiled slowly. “You decided that two seconds after I opened the door. Why the silent treatment?”
“Poor baby. Are you used to nervous chatter?”
“I won’t get that from you, will I?”
“I’m told the food is edible here.” She opened the door and got out. “Breakfast or lunch.”
Mac slid out and faced her over the top of the Jeep. “Food is better at the bowling alley.”
“A local’s place?”
Mac nodded.
“I don’t do local when I’m working a small town. I don’t fit it in.”
He nodded again, as though he’d expected the answer.
“I haven’t been to the casino,” she said, “but I’m guessing I won’t be all that unusual.”
“Good-looking women are always noticed.”
Emma took a mental inventory of herself—jeans, a loose T-shirt, rugged sandals that would have been at home on a hiking trail—and said, “In this outfit, I’ll pass without a second glance.”
“Probably. I liked the crop top better.”
Ignoring him, she locked the Jeep and headed toward the casino entrance, leaving Mac to follow or not, his choice.
He followed, smiling to himself. Ms. Emma Cross didn’t like having the initiative taken out of her hands. He could understand that. He felt exactly the same way.
Mac caught up with her before she reached the casino’s double doors. Unlike Nevada casinos, this one lacked the clamor and clang and razzle-d
azzle of slot machines. Without that kind of relentless, come-and-bet-your-life atmosphere, the casino echoed like the nearly empty warehouse it was. The only action was at the poker machines, where retirees old enough to know better and too bored to care fed the electronic monsters.
“How can they take the excitement?” Emma said under her breath.
“Clean living and constant prayer.”
She smiled in spite of herself. “Good to know.”
“Two,” Mac said to the unsmiling hostess.
The woman waved her hand toward ranks of empty tables. “Sit anywhere you want. Someone will be over to take your order.”
Mac led Emma to a corner and chose a seat next to the wall. She selected a nearby chair and moved it slightly, keeping an eye on the entrance.
“Talk,” she said to him.
“After you.”
“What do you want?”
“Why are you following me?” he countered.
Emma sighed. She’d guessed he wouldn’t make it easy. That didn’t mean she liked being right.
The server appeared and said, “Coffee.”
It was a take-it-or-leave-it kind of offer.
Emma looked at the server. She had the same dark, expressionless face and bad hair that the hostess did, plus all the welcome of a No Parking sign.
“Coffee,” Emma said.
The server started to leave.
“Coffee and menus,” Mac said.
The woman walked off without a word.
“Are they always this friendly or is it a special effort?” Emma asked.
“They’re tribe. They won’t be fired.”
Emma glanced at her watch. The time she could safely ignore Blackbird was ticking away. Since Mac kept pushing the ball into her court, she’d take it and ram it down his coy throat.
“My boss would like to hire you,” she said.
“The boss with more money than sense?”
“Have you ever heard of St. Kilda Consulting?” she asked calmly.
Mac frowned and searched through his memory. “Civilian. Private. International. Kidnap security.”
“Among other things.”
“What do they want me to do?”
Emma looked at Mac’s clear dark eyes and wondered why she kept thinking he was laughing at her.
“You’ll have to ask Joe Faroe,” she said.
“What do you do for him?”
“You can ask him that, too.”
“I’m asking you,” Mac said.
“Do you know if or when Blackbird is leaving port?”
“No.”
“Can you find out?” she pressed.
“Why?”
“Why not?”
Then she closed her eyes and took a better grip on her temper. She knew how to recruit someone.
This wasn’t the way.
“Sorry,” she said. “Perhaps I should—” She stopped abruptly.
The server showed up with coffee, splashed it into their cups, and dropped two menus on the far side of the table.
Emma picked up the coffee, sipped, and grimaced. “Colder than the hostess. Pass the sugar, please.”
Mac’s smile was the warmest thing in the casino.
She enjoyed the vision, then smiled herself.
“If you’re interested in making some honest money,” she said, “I’ll put you in touch with Joe Faroe. Whatever St. Kilda wants from you will be legal in whatever country you do it in.” So far, anyway. “They don’t play politics, they’ve been honest with me, and they pay on time.”
“Do they work for the good guys or just anyone who pays?”
“Find me some good guys and I’ll let you know,” she said. Then she met Mac’s dark eyes. “They’re more trustworthy than the government.”
“Faint praise.”
“In this world, that’s as good as it gets.”
His expression changed. “I left that world.”
She laughed, as much at herself as at him. “Sorry, babe. It’s the only world there is.”
“If you can’t tell me what you’re doing for St. Kilda, I’m not interested in talking to Joe Faroe.”
Emma decided quickly. As long as her existing cover got the job done, she’d stay with it. “Missing yachts.”
“Piracy?”
“Not yet. Just yachts that are made in Asia and ‘fall off the ship’ before they get here.”
“They go through Vladivostok?”
Though Emma’s expression didn’t change, Mac sensed that she had come to a point.
“How did you know?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Anything that transits through the FSU is fair game for the local strongmen. Think of it as paying a toll.”
“The insurance company is tired of that game.”
“What can I do about it?” he asked. “I’m not in Vladivostok.”
“A year ago, a black-hulled, forty-one-foot boat—the exact twin of Blackbird—disappeared in transit from Asia.”
“It happens,” Mac said.
“Somehow only the multimillion-dollar yachts fall off in transit.”
“Shock and awe.”
“We’ve been watching Blackbird since Singapore,” Emma said, ignoring his sarcasm. “We want to keep on watching it until—” She stopped abruptly.
The server strolled up. “You ready to order?”
“Hamburger and fries,” Mac said without looking away from Emma. “Salad with blue cheese.”
“The same,” Emma said. It wouldn’t be the first cold hamburger and fries she’d eaten.
“There’s a fish special,” the server said.
“I smelled it first thing,” Mac said. “I’ll stick with the cow.”
“Whatever. You want beer?”
Idly Emma wondered if they served the beer as warm as the coffee was cold.
“Coffee’s fine,” he said.
“Same here,” Emma said.
The server turned and walked off in sneakers so old they fit like slippers. No socks.
When they were alone again, Emma said, “—Blackbird is delivered to its owner. Then the insurance company is off the hook.”
The continuation of a previous conversation didn’t throw Mac.
She hadn’t expected it to.
“What if the owner isn’t in Rosario?” Mac asked.
“I’ll need a captain and a boat to follow Blackbird until the owner appears and signs off.”
“A thousand a day, plus fuel.”
“Tell it to Faroe.” She held out her cell phone. “Punch two.”
Using his index finger, Mac nudged the phone away. “I don’t work for anyone I haven’t had face time with.”
“You’re going to love Faroe. He feels the same way.”
“When do I see him?”
“Tomorrow, unless he gets lucky and gets here sooner.”
“Here?”
Emma looked around the casino. “Right here? Doubt it. Probably at his motel in Rosario.”
“Which one?”
“You’ll know when I do.”
There must have been a replicator in the kitchen, because the server appeared with two plates of food and two small bowls of salad. She dumped them on the table. French fries leaped onto the cloudy surface. The salad was too heavy with dressing to scatter.
This so won’t be worth the calories, Emma thought.
But she needed fuel. It would be a long day and a longer night.
She picked up her burger and bit down. Not quite as cold as the coffee. Definitely warmer than the fries.
“Ketchup?” Mac asked, holding out a plastic squeeze bottle to Emma.
“Good idea.”
The server dug in her pocket until she found a piece of paper. She dropped the bill on the table and walked away to talk to the hostess.
Emma finished slathering ketchup over her food before she looked at the bill. Without a word she dug a ten and a twenty out of her wallet and put them on the check.
“I can make change
,” Mac offered.
“No need.”
He lifted black eyebrows. “Fine tip for lousy service.”
“Her ankles are swollen.”
He bit into his own hamburger, chewed, and swallowed. “I think I like you.”
“Same goes.” She lifted a limp, ketchup-drenched fry. “I think.”
Mac’s slow smile transformed his face. “Get back to me when you know for sure.”
“I’ll have to find you first.”
“I’ll be nearby.” He looked at her expression and knew she wasn’t happy. Fair enough. Neither was he.
He couldn’t wait to see what a sober Tommy had to say for himself.
15
DAY TWO
ON THE RESERVATION
1:30 P.M.
As Mac turned onto Tribal Road, he kept watching his mirrors. Apparently the intriguing Ms. Cross was more interested in hanging out at the marina than she was in following him. All he saw behind him was the glorious blue sky and whipped-cream clouds of a San Juan Islands autumn.
The air flowing through the open truck windows was cool, silky, and rich with the smell of intertidal mud flats. The state highway leading past the casino and gas/liquor store deeper into the reservation was lightly, if carefully, traveled. The few vehicles that were out had no interest in anything but getting wherever they were going without getting tagged by the state, county, city, or tribal speed teams that haunted the area.
When he turned off the highway, Mac set the cruise control to equal the ridiculously low posted speed limit on the rez. Zero tolerance for outsiders was the rule. Just one more way of getting even.
Or getting respect, depending on which side of the rez blanket you were born and raised.
Mac turned off onto the rutted, overgrown dirt lane that led to Tommy’s trailer. The truck’s water pump was making the kind of unhappy mechanical noises that told him he’d be lucky to get home without a tow truck. He hoped everything would hold out until tomorrow, when the much-needed water pump would finally be in stock at the Rosario auto supply store.
All around the truck, alder and big-leaf maple competed with cedar for a place in the wet earth. In the mixed forest, twilight was pretty much an all-day thing. He parked behind the old cedar stump, locked up, and walked deeper into the trees. When he reached the clearing, the trash fire and outhouse still flavored the air, telling him that Tommy was probably still around.
Death Echo Page 7
