Death Echo

by Elizabeth Lowell

  Grace went to the tiny dinette table. “What are two homeboys like Lovich and Amanar doing hanging out with that kind of international weight?” she asked between bites.

  “Business,” Faroe said, sitting next to her. “The black kind.”

  “Big duh moment. Is Alara still ‘helping’ St. Kilda with information?”

  “Reams of it, from every U.S. intelligence agency, named and unnamed, plus a few that Steele hadn’t heard of until now. Problem is, she isn’t giving us much that we couldn’t have found out on our own, even in the time we have.”

  Grace shrugged. “We knew she would hold back. Or have people holding back from giving her necessary intel until the last possible instant—if they give it away at all.”

  Faroe wished he could argue with her, but he couldn’t. He’d gone to jail for a politician’s photo-op. Nothing personal. Just the way things were. Until there was no other choice, politicians and bureaucrats would rather bury the dead and have live-broadcast Senate committee investigations of nothing useful than put their own assets on the line.

  Public theater, the politicians’ way to get around campaign spending limits. Ring the publicity bell with TV and Internet instant coverage, all in the name of public service, of course.

  “I gave Lane the go-ahead to enter some closed databases,” Faroe said as he loaded eggs onto his own toast. “We should know more soon.”

  “Sometimes I worry about what we’re teaching our son.”

  “You mean what I’m teaching him.”

  “You, Steele, me, and now he’s got a thing for Mary.”

  “St. Kilda’s Mary? Our very own long-gun specialist?” Faroe asked.

  “Aka sniper,” Grace said.

  “Really? Since when?”

  Grace gave him a startled look. “Earth to Joe. Mary has been St. Kilda’s sniper since before I—”

  “No, I meant Lane. Since when?”

  “Since she’s been training him on the gun range.”

  “Huh.”

  “She says he’s a natural shot. Steady hands, great eyes—yours, by the way. Hands, too, come to think of it.”

  Faroe grinned. “That’s my boy.”

  “Has your temper, too.”

  “Nope. Can’t take credit for that one. I’m even tempered.”

  Grace gave him a dark, sideways look. “Yeah. All bad, all the time.”

  “It’s a miracle you married me.”

  She smiled over her coffee cup. “It’s all in your hands.”

  “All?”

  “With our daughter in the room, I only talk about your hands.”

  “You finished with breakfast?” Faroe asked.

  “Almost. Why?”

  “Got some handwork I want to show you.”

  Grace smiled and ate faster. In this world, she had learned to take her desserts whenever they were within reach. Life’s only guarantee was that no one got out alive.

  30

  DAY FOUR

  JAMES ISLAND

  5:45 A.M.

  Mac fired up the winch and lowered the small anchor into the dark, restless water. When the sun made a swift appearance among the low, racing clouds, fir trees were reflected in rippling green lines on the surface of the water. In the background, the engine-room blower whined as it cleared heat away from the big diesels.

  When he was sure the anchor would hold for as long as it had to, he turned his attention back to Emma, who had been watching closely his every move. If she had to, he’d bet that now she could do a creditable job of setting a lunch hook.

  “So Stoneface—Temuri—doesn’t think a lot of you?” Mac asked softly.

  “Pretty much,” Emma said, her voice as low as his. There were other boats nearby on the water, and sound carried way too well. “To call me female plumbing with two feet and three openings comes close.”

  Mac made a choked noise.

  “But his accent is different from his cousins,” she continued. “Much more modern Russian, with a solid whiff of breakaway Georgian when he’s angry.”

  “You must have a really good ear.”

  “That’s what every language instructor I ever had said.” She shrugged. “To me, it’s like breathing, only easier.”

  “My team’s language tech was like that. Spooky.”

  “As in CIA?”

  “As in scary good,” he said.

  “The CIA isn’t good?”

  “Their political games killed every man on my forward recon team,” Mac said with a deadly lack of inflection. “Took me three months to get out of the hospital.” He bent over to secure the wind-lass chain. “The CIA are miserable shits.”

  “Guess that makes me a former miserable shit.”

  Mac went still, then straightened hard and fast. “You’re Agency?”

  “I was. I taught English as a second language in some really ugly places while I recruited and ran covert agents. I understand eight languages and am fluent in five. Or used to be. Hard to stay on top of your game when you’re not practicing daily.” She turned toward him and looked up, her expressionless face only inches from his chest. “Is that a problem for you?”

  “Were you ever in Afghanistan?”

  “No.”

  “Then there’s no problem.”

  After she studied him for a few moments, she nodded. “Are we searching for bugs or contraband?”

  “Both. If it’s a voice-activated bug any idiot would have found, it goes to the bottom. Otherwise we leave it until we figure out a believable, ‘accidental’ way to get rid it.”

  “Considering the ambient noise level of those diesels,” she said, “plus the wind gusting and the water splashing and whatever that pump is that runs half the time—”

  “Refrigeration unit,” Mac cut in. “If it was the bilge pump, we’d be in deep water.”

  “What with one thing and another,” she continued, “I’d be surprised if any voice-activated bugs are aboard. Or if they are, they’re pretty much useless unless we’re right on top of them.”

  “Good point. I’m so used to the background sounds, I don’t notice them unless something goes wrong.”

  “If I was the one in charge of this op,” Emma said, “I’d stick in a locator bug or three and let the chatter go.”

  “Contraband aboard now?”

  “I’ll take money on either side of that bet.”

  “So will I. C’mon. Let’s go treasure hunting.”

  He led the way to the engine hatch in the middle of the salon. When he opened it, residual heat from the diesels poured out. Blower noise tripled. He latched the hatch open.

  “We’ll do forward quarters first,” he said against her ear. “Engine room is pretty warm right now.”

  “Another reason not to put a voice-activated bug down there. Touchy electronics. Too hot? Too many vibrations? Paff.”

  “Locator bugs are a lot tougher.”

  “Since they often get stuck inside an engine compartment or under a vehicle chassis, they have to be.”

  Emma searched the obvious hiding places—clothes lockers, cabinets, drawers, under the mattress, inside the pillows, in the anchor locker—while Mac quickly, methodically searched the odd spaces only someone accustomed to boats would think of using. She watched in growing amazement while he unscrewed what looked like solid panels to reveal storage areas or wiring races in the walls and floor. Ceiling tiles shifted to reveal a small safe. Empty. Stairway treads opened to more storage beneath. There was another small safe in the floor of the head. Empty.

  The galley, pilot’s seat, storage lockers, chairs, cushions, second bedroom, and everything else inside were exactly what they appeared to be. Harmless.

  The outside deck storage areas were equally bare of contraband. Same for the flying bridge. The inflatable boat resting on its upper-deck chocks was as innocent as a baby’s smile.

  The water tank and the fuel tanks were next on the list.

  Emma’s stomach began thinking about breakfast. Coffee and a mu
ffin didn’t get it done when she was working. Or maybe just being on the water made her appetite sit up and beg.

  Or it could be that searches were almost as boring as stakeouts. It made watching trees grow look exciting.

  Mac opened the fill ports up on the deck, unfolded a telescoping measuring rod, and probed the water tank.

  “Can’t you just check it visually down in the hold?” Emma asked.

  “Tank is opaque.”

  “Well, that’s dumb.”

  “Gotta love tradition. Wipe this down, would you?” he asked, handing the wet rod to her.

  “How clean?”

  “Just don’t want it dripping water in the fuel tanks.”

  Emma yanked out her pullover, wrapped the hem around the rod, and began wiping. By the time she finished, he had closed the water fill port and opened one fuel port. She handed over the rod.

  “If you think I’m going to wipe diesel off this, you’re nuts,” she said.

  “Did you see where the fuel rags were?”

  “In the back deck locker. But they weren’t rags. They were absorbent white squares, some kind of paper. You used them in Seattle.”

  “You’re more than just a pretty face.”

  She gave him a disgusted look. “If you’re just figuring that out, you’re a lot dumber than I thought.”

  Smiling, Mac probed the starboard fuel tank. The bottom was right where he expected it to be. Same for the port tank.

  “No false bottom,” he said. “Both tanks are the same, but I’d already guessed that from the trim. Fuel tanks are baffled, though, so it’s possible that matching compartments are either equally full or equally empty.”

  “Trim? As in fancy bits?”

  “Trim is how the boat rides in the water.”

  “We’re still floating.”

  “Always a good sign,” he agreed. “But if the boat is badly loaded or designed—or if one fuel tank is holding something that weighs more or less than diesel—the trim reflects that.”

  “Considering how heavy Blackbird is, you’d have to be smuggling gold to tip it one way or another.”

  “Or have a solid gold keel.”

  Her eyes widened. “Do people still do that?”

  “Not so much now. Ounce for ounce, diamonds are worth a lot more.”

  “That’s what I thought. Now what?”

  “Engine room.”

  Her stomach growled.

  “I’ll check out the black-water tank and the tool room while you make something to eat. Sandwiches work for me.”

  “Anything edible works for me.” She skirted the open engine hatch, glanced down into the dazzling white tool room, and went to the galley.

  Mac went below, through the nearly empty tool room and into the engine room. The big diesels crowded the space, telling him what he already knew: some idiot had ordered more power than the boat was designed to handle efficiently. As a result, the engine room was unusually cramped. No matter how careful he was, every single time he changed position he bumped his head, elbows, or knees.

  As he worked his way through the mess, he thoroughly cursed the size of the engines.

  Emma stuck her head into the hatch. “Need any help?”

  “I’m beating my brains out just fine all by myself, thanks.”

  “All I found was cheese and the hard rolls we brought aboard.”

  “Bring it on.” He wiped sweat off his face. “I’ll grill it on an engine.”

  “Water?”

  “In a minute. Right now I’m on my knees thanking God that I don’t have to change the zincs on this bastard.”

  “Should I ask what zincs are?”

  “No.”

  Mac wiped his eyes with his T-shirt, and looked around the engine room. When it came time to change the zincs, frustration would be the order of the day. With those big diesels crowding the space, even something as simple as checking fill levels on various tanks required a contortionist.

  The only good news was that the black-water tank had a clear stripe to let everyone know when it was getting close to time to pump out. He checked the other tanks as best he could, tapping and listening and tapping again.

  The first locator bug was attached to one of the colorful wires snaking from the various subsystems to the breaker board.

  The second beacon was stuck to the back side of the water tank. A third was in a toolbox that held spare fuses.

  A fourth was taped to the bottom side of the duckboards that covered the bilge.

  Talk about redundant systems and overkill, Mac thought as he found a fifth locator bug. Someone really wants to know where this bucket is at all times.

  He pulled out the cell phone that Faroe had given him, took photos of everything, and sent them to St. Kilda. Wiping his eyes again, he hoped that he’d found every bug. He really doubted it, but a man could hope.

  And keep his weapon handy.

  31

  DAY FOUR

  MANHATTAN

  10:38 A.M.

  Ambassador Steele frowned at one of the many electronic screens that filled all but the doorways and window walls of his oddly shaped office. His silver hair gleamed in the room’s full-spectrum lighting.

  “Is research saying that all of these bugs came from different sources?” Steele asked.

  The ruby in Dwayne’s pinky ring gleamed with each movement of his elegant, dark hands over the computer keys. The digital photos Faroe had sent weren’t museum quality, but they got the job done.

  “Not all of them,” Dwayne said. “The one we planted on Blackbird in Singapore came from the good old U.S. of A. The others didn’t. Of course, someone could have bought any or all of the bugs at some second-world spy bazaar or first-world swap meet. Two of those trinkets are almost old enough to vote.”

  Steele looked at him sharply.

  “Joke,” Dwayne said without looking away from his computer. “The bigger they are, the older they are. One of these is downright clunky. Of course, it will still work when the newer, thinner, more finicky models go dead.”

  “Basically,” Steele said, “anyone could have planted the bugs on Blackbird at any time since the engines and tanks were put in place.”

  “Pretty much.”

  Steele muttered something in Urdu.

  Dwayne winced. When Steele started talking in tongues, some asses were going to get chapped.

  “I’ll let you tell Joe Faroe how little we have,” Steele said.

  One of those chapped asses would be Dwayne’s. Faroe never had taken failure with grace.

  32

  DAY FOUR

  NANAIMO, B.C.

  MORNING

  A ctivate sleeper.

  Only two words had been texted to Taras Demidov’s cell phone. Two words that conjured a world long lost, when only two powers ruled the planet.

  Or seemed to.

  And nothing was ever as it seemed.

  Demidov erased the text message and drove his small white Japanese car off the Horseshoe Bay ferry at Nanaimo, Vancouver Island. His wallet was thick with Canada’s modestly colorful currency, his pockets clanked with one-and two-dollar coins.

  Best of all, the last time he had checked the locator numbers, he was still ahead of Blackbird. The cautious captain apparently had done everything but dismantle the yacht to reassure himself that there was no contraband aboard.

  Demidov crawled in a line of vehicles until he got onto the bypass around Nanaimo. He drove north toward Lantzville, a small coastal community that had been buried under the sprawling waves of housing developments and malls surging out from Nanaimo. His destination was just beyond Lantzville, in an undeveloped area overlooking Nanoose Bay.

  When he held down the accelerator, his small rental whined. Reluctantly the car increased speed. In the old days, he would have traveled under diplomatic immunity in a powerful black Mercedes. He still had the diplomatic passport—and the connections to make it stick—but he preferred using the fake Canadian identity.

 
It was more anonymous.

  As a Canadian, his cover would probably hold for the return trip into the United States, where he would disappear back into the loose diplomatic community representing the Russian Federation. Such ease of movement was difficult for people with foreign diplomatic credentials, particularly those from nations who might be unfriendly to the U.S. Unfriendly diplomats were required to seek formal permission to travel more than twenty-five or fifty miles from their consulates or embassies.

  Demidov amused himself by thinking about the multiple copies of his itinerary he wouldn’t be filing.

  Even if he had to blow this cover, he could slip back into the U.S. through the woods east of Blaine, Washington, and return to Seattle with its consular protection. Russian security officers paid professional marijuana smugglers for current maps of the sensors and guard posts on the American side. Despite the Homeland Security Act, illegal passage between Canada and the U.S. was easy. Only legitimate citizens had difficulty and long waits.

  He switched screens on the cell phone he’d left on the passenger seat. Nothing unexpected.

  His target was being slow, if predictable. After a delay in American waters, Blackbird had resumed its northerly course. But if the big American had found the bug that had been put aboard in Asia, he hadn’t disabled it. Moscow Center was locked on Blackbird’s locator signal. Everything was on track.

  Demidov was locked on the location of a sleeper who had been under so long he wondered if she still spoke Russian. To find her address, he followed the electronic maps on a device attached to the dashboard. It was amusing to have so much accurate, on-the-ground information about local roads at his fingertips. Even where the technology existed in Russia, his country wasn’t nearly so helpful to visitors.

  Some things never changed. Paranoia was one. Staying alive was another. Demidov understood the necessity of the first for the second.

  The colorful little display panel on his dashboard directed him to a small, weather-beaten house in a grove of cedar and alder trees overlooking Nanoose Bay. Demidov lowered the window, turned off the ignition, and simply sat, letting the sounds of the place wash over him.