Death Echo

by Elizabeth Lowell

  “Wait until you see it above twenty-four knots. Sucks diesel like water flushing down a head,” he said.

  “Expensive.”

  “If you can afford Blackbird, the cost of the fuel it takes to run her is small change.”

  As Mac spoke, he reached across Emma for the binoculars that were held snugly in a grip near the pilot station.

  “Looking for logs?” she asked.

  “If I have to use glasses to find them, the logs are too far away to worry about.”

  “Good to know. I’ve been wondering.”

  He grunted.

  After a moment Emma straightened in the seat and leaned over the wheel, staring into the water ahead.

  “Is that a boat out there?” she asked. “Just to the left of the bow.”

  Mac was already watching the shape through the binoculars.

  “Twenty-eight-foot motorboat. Red gunwale stripe. Fisherman’s special. You want to see something suck fuel? Try opening the throttles on those two big Yamahas strapped to the stern of that boat. Probably go twenty-two knots, maybe twenty-four. Hell of a butt-breaking ride, though. Especially in this chop.”

  “Is that why the boat is going so slow? It’s barely moving.”

  “I noticed.”

  Mac refocused the glasses.

  Redhead II all but disappeared as a wave broke against its side. Someone with wild, wet red hair was hunched over the steering arm of the kicker, getting whitewashed as often as not.

  The boat wallowed like a half-beached log.

  “They’re on the kicker but no fishing gear is out,” Mac said. “Steer an intercept course.”

  Emma started to ask about kickers and fishing gear, but Mac leaned across her and lifted the radio microphone out of its cradle. Before he could use it, the radio crackled to life.

  “…calling the black-hulled yacht off Nanoose,” said a man’s voice. “I have a visual of you.”

  “Blackbird here. I didn’t catch your name. Switch to six-eight.”

  A few seconds later, on the new channel, a man’s voice said, “Blackbird, we’re having trouble with a fuel filter or the electrical system. Hard to be certain in this water. Can you assist us?”

  It wasn’t a request Mac could or would refuse. He was the only boat within sight, he had the skill and the means to aid the smaller boat, and the weather was going downhill. Marine law—and simple decency—insisted he do what he could to help.

  He focused the glasses on the stern of the pitching boat, where her name was written in bold script.

  “Redhead II,” he said, “stand by for assistance. Can you turn her into the wind?”

  “I think—yes, the captain says we can.”

  “That will make it easier. Stand by on six-eight, please.”

  “Thank you.”

  Staring at the boat ahead, Mac held the microphone, then said, “I’ll take it from here.”

  “Good.”

  Emma shot out of the pilot position. The thought of steering Blackbird close to another boat in this water was enough to lift the hair on the back of her neck. Mac, on the other hand, seemed to take it for granted.

  “Call Faroe,” Mac said as he took the wheel. “Have him check the registration on a Canadian pleasure boat, about twenty-eight feet, called Redhead II.”

  Maybe it’s not the idea of getting close to the boat that’s making my neck tingle, she thought.

  “Are you suspicious?” she asked.

  “Aren’t you?”

  “Now that I’m not busy running the boat, yes.”

  “If you can, get a photo of both people on Redhead II,” he said, easing back on the throttles.

  “Dumb arm-candy taking shots for the folks back home?”

  “Better that no one catches you and wonders why you’re taking pictures.”

  “My camera’s zoom will be a snotty bitch to use out here.”

  “I have faith in you.”

  Emma wanted to roll her eyes. Instead, she punched Faroe’s number on her phone.

  A voice answered immediately.

  “Hi, Emma. This is Lane. Dad and Mom are on other lines. Since you didn’t roll over to Steele, he’s busy, too.”

  Emma looked at her phone. “You sound just like Faroe. Can you take a message?”

  She heard a swivel-type office chair squeak and rattle across a tiled floor.

  “Sure,” Lane said. “Ready.”

  “Are you up north pretending to be on vacation?”

  “Nope. San Diego. I’ve got university classes, but not today.” His voice said just how much he loved being left behind.

  Quickly she relayed Mac’s request, and added, “I’ll be sending jpgs ASAP and will want the people in them identified double-ASAP.”

  Lane grunted, sounding so much like Faroe that she couldn’t help smiling. If she could have a kid like Lane…well, the idea of a family suddenly appealed. She wondered idly how Mac felt about it.

  “Processing boat ID as we speak,” Lane said. “Want me to call back with the info?”

  She looked out over the bow of Blackbird. They were closing quickly with the smaller boat.

  “Only if it’s in the next two minutes,” she said. “After that, send to my computer. Or Mac’s. Whatever. Just get it to us.”

  “Gotcha. Dad’s line just opened. If he has any questions, he’ll call in the next two minutes.”

  The connection ended with an abruptness that reminded her of Faroe all over again.

  “Faroe’s son is running the boat’s name for us,” Emma told Mac.

  “He any good?”

  She stared at him, then realized he’d been part of St. Kilda for only a few days. “He’s as good as our researchers. And that means really good.”

  All Mac said was, “Get your camera and be ready to shoot through the window. If that isn’t close enough, show yourself. They might not like it, but they can hardly object. If they’re legitimate.”

  Emma went to the canvas purse she had brought aboard. While Mac cautiously maneuvered closer to the other boat—and then closer still, until Emma held her breath—she turned on her camera. She felt like a witness watching two trains slide toward collision.

  Silently she hoped Mac was as good as she thought he was. Otherwise it was going to get ugly for the little boat.

  Not to mention unhappy for Blackbird and its crew.

  She stood in mid-cabin and focused through the least spray-washed window she could find. The figure of a woman braced next to the small outboard jumped and jittered in the focus.

  Emma switched to the electronic motor drive, hoped her battery could take the hit, and did her best to keep one or another of the two people in the field of focus. The clicking sound that told images were being taken came so close together it was like a single ripple.

  She switched off motor drive, braced her feet farther apart, and reviewed the photos. No single one was good, but there were enough separate parts in focus with all the shots that a good ID program should be able to work its electronic miracle among St. Kilda’s huge databases.

  “I’m sending the jpgs,” she said.

  “Make it fast. I may need you on deck.”

  “Making it fast, Captain, sir!” she shot back.

  He grinned.

  With practiced motions she plugged her camera into her computer, created a new file, downloaded the photos, and sent them MOST URGENT to St. Kilda. In the background she heard Mac try—and fail—to raise the Redhead II.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, closing up the computer and putting away the camera.

  “They’re not answering.”

  “Maybe the electronic problem took out their radio.”

  Mac made a sound that could have meant anything. “You have your good deck shoes on?”

  “Yes.”

  “See if you can shout across to Redhead II.” A wave sprayed against the port windows. “Unless you’d rather sit here holding station with Blackbird?”

  She looked at the scant
yards separating the gunwales of the two boats and said, “No, thanks. It’s all yours.”

  “You’ll need a jacket.”

  “I’ll be fine, Mom.”

  Mac shut up and concentrated on keeping enough, but not too much, separation with the other boat. He could have used the joystick. Probably should have. He just preferred the old-fashioned way. New toys meant new problems as well as new solutions. For now, he’d take the devil he knew.

  He opened the pilot door to let Emma out. The outside air was beyond fresh and bracing. It was cold. The damp edge of salt spray didn’t help.

  Emma ignored the temperature. She braced herself on the railing, remembered her arm-candy role, and called out, “What’s up with your radio?”

  The woman steering with the kicker said nothing, simply looked at her companion. The man stepped up to the rail of the Redhead II. For the first time Emma got a clear look at his whole face.

  I’ve seen him before, she thought. Or someone who looks a lot like him. Mug shots? Long-distance surveillance?

  “What I have to say to you is too sensitive to be put out over a public radio,” he said.

  At first Emma thought she hadn’t heard correctly. Then she knew she had.

  Mac had really good instincts.

  “What?” she yelled.

  “Follow me to calmer water. There we will discuss Shurik Temuri, Stan Amanar, Bob Lovich, and the extreme danger you are in.”

  She gave Mac a do-you-get-this-dude look through the open cabin door.

  He caught the other captain’s eye and made a wind-it-up motion with his hand.

  The woman staggered from the kicker to the cockpit and fired up the big outboards.

  Mac gave Redhead II plenty of room before he followed.

  Emma came back into the cabin. “It’s not like we have a whole lot of choice. Shurik Temuri is someone we have to know more about.”

  “Yeah. An opportunity we can’t refuse.”

  Mac hoped they were doing the right thing. Because the wrong thing was a fast way to die.

  45

  DAY FOUR

  ROSARIO

  3:04 P.M.

  Good work, Lane,” Faroe said over the phone. “Thanks.”

  “I told you I’d be more useful if I—”

  “Get a degree,” Faroe cut in. “Your mother and I both agree on that. Emphatically.”

  Lane groaned or growled. It was hard to be certain.

  “I’ll let you know if I find anything else useful,” Lane said.

  Grumbled, actually.

  Faroe was glad he wasn’t on visual. He didn’t have to hide his smile. He’d felt just like Lane when he was young.

  And Faroe was determined that Lane wouldn’t make the same mistakes his daddy had.

  “Just don’t tell Steele that I whispered through a couple of his databases,” Lane added.

  Faroe came to a point. “You did what?”

  “I’ll make a patch before class tomorrow. When I give it to Dwayne, I’ll tell Steele. No one will be able to use that route again.”

  “I’m impressed. Frightened, actually.”

  Lane snickered. “I had help.”

  “Your ‘swarming’ buddies?”

  “One of them. She’s über.”

  Faroe hesitated, but couldn’t help saying, “She’d damn well better be über quiet.”

  “I didn’t tell her anything that would point to St. Kilda Consulting. We give each other puzzles all the time, then race to see who gets there first, and how. If it will make Steele feel any better, she found the same way in that I did. Usually there are two or three paths, at least.”

  “You’ll be the first to know Steele’s mood. Get that patch made yesterday and talk to him yourself.”

  Faroe hung up and rubbed his eyes. “This ‘vacation’ is going to be the death of me.”

  “What now?” Grace shut Annalise’s bedroom door behind her and hoped their cranky daughter would take a nap. Her sleep schedule was all over the place.

  Sort of like her parents. “Lane hacked into one or more of St. Kilda’s databases,” Faroe said.

  “Mother of God.”

  “That’s one way of looking at it,” he agreed dryly. “Father of Satan is another. But Lane’s making a patch to keep other hackers out, so I’ll give the honors to Mom rather than Dad. Lane sent the information he got to Emma’s computer. And mine.”

  Grace sat down next to him on the couch and sighed. “Have I told you lately that I love you and don’t know how I would have handled Lane alone?”

  Faroe set aside the computer, pulled Grace into his lap, and nuzzled her neck. “You would have done fine, but thanks for sharing him with me. And Annalise. If we survive them, we can conquer the world.”

  Laughing, she settled closer, letting her husband’s warmth sink through to her bones. “Flip you to see who talks to Steele next.”

  “Tails,” Faroe said as he smoothly flipped Grace out of his lap and onto her back on the couch. Head up. “You lose.”

  Her arms tightened around his neck. “Two out of three?”

  “Think she’ll sleep that long?”

  “Let’s find out.”

  46

  DAY FOUR

  STRAIT OF GEORGIA

  3:20 P.M.

  Lane got us a lot of stuff,” Emma said, frowning at her computer screen.

  “Anything useful?”

  “Do you read Cyrillic?”

  “Enough to make out road signs,” Mac said. “Maybe.”

  “It’s been a long time since I’ve read more than memos. It’s coming back, but slowly. Apparently Lane didn’t think to translate it.”

  “So he’s a Russian agent?” Mac asked.

  “Lane?”

  Mac have her a look. “Demidov.”

  “He was a Russian agent. Supposed to be freelance now, though he still has active Russian Federation diplomatic credentials.”

  Mac made a sound that said he was listening.

  “He’s most often known to the English-speaking world as Taras Demidov,” she said, “though he has several other aliases. I have to assume he has all the necessary documentation to back up those identities,” she added. “He’s certainly in a position to get whatever papers he needs.”

  “Welcome to the post-Wall world, where no one works for the name signing his paycheck.”

  “And no one has the same name as the dude cashing it.” She laughed curtly. “I don’t like that world. For all the good it does me.”

  “Now you know why ostriches prefer sand. Much more comfortable.”

  “Until somebody kicks your feathered butt.”

  “Yeah,” he said, “that’s the downside.”

  Emma looked up from the computer. “The water is a lot calmer.”

  “We’re in the lee of a small island. Soon it will be quiet enough to safely take a passenger aboard, which I’m not wanting to do, even if we lock down our cell phones and computers. I’m hoping he’ll settle for shouting across the water.”

  She skimmed content faster, deciding nuances could wait until there was more time. “Demidov is a shooter.”

  “Sniper?” Mac asked.

  “Is that professional interest I hear in your voice?”

  “I used to keep track of the ones that got away. Otherwise they had a nasty habit of turning up in my rearview mirror.”

  “Sorry I asked,” she said. “And no, Demidov is an executioner, not a sniper. Close work. Really close. He has nine confirmed kills and three times that many suspected.”

  “Nice dude.”

  “Yeah,” she said absently. “Just what every mother dreams of for her little girl.”

  “In a lot of places in the world, you’d be exactly right. Having the protection of a mafiya type beats starvation or selling your daughter into the skin trade.”

  Emma let out a long breath. There were aspects of the modern world she really despised.

  Not that things had been much different a thousand years ago
.

  At least most places have laws against slavery now, she told herself tiredly. That’s something.

  “Anything about the female, or is she a local hire?” Mac asked.

  “The woman aboard Redhead II is Lina Fredric, born Galina Federova. She’s the registered owner of the boat.”

  “Sleeper?”

  Emma frowned and skimmed as quickly as she could. “If she’s a sleeper for Russia, she’s been in place so long she’s put roots down and grown moss. No dings on her record. Naturalized Canadian citizen, pays all taxes on time, doesn’t speed, doesn’t get in bar fights, ekes out a good-enough living taking fishermen after salmon. Once rumored to hang with drug runners, but never caught with so much as a whiff of anything contraband.”

  Mac thought of the time when he’d driven a fast boat flat-out in the dark, sure that he’d live forever.

  “A young man’s game,” he said. “Fool’s game.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.” She scanned quickly. “If the birth date is correct, Lina aka Galina just turned fifty.”

  “Demidov?”

  “He’s fifty-seven, if we can trust the stats. And the chances of him just choosing Lina Fredric from one of the what-to-do tourist pamphlets on a Canadian ferry are zero and negative.”

  “So…a sleeper rather than a shooter?” Mac asked.

  “Until we have a reason to think otherwise, yes.”

  “Anything else we should know before Redhead II finds a quiet place to chat?”

  “I’m looking.”

  Mac bit back an urge to tell her to look faster.

  “Demidov often works for a mafiya head turned philanthropist. At least, that’s what some sources say. Others say he’s a kingmaker rather than a rainmaker.”

  “Demidov?”

  “His boss,” Emma said. “Name of Sidorov, according to one source. Others say it’s Lubakov, or his son or brother-in-law or nephew. All names could be aliases. Could be ten other people. The players change too often to keep a scorecard. Whatever, Demidov climbed the ranks by playing brass-knuckle hardball, with extra innings of shoot, shovel, and shut-up.”

  Mac smiled unwillingly. “Demidov and his boss probably work for the national government or the higher ranks of the crime lords.”

  “Often the same people,” she said. “One-stop shopping at its finest.”