Death Echo

by Elizabeth Lowell

“Lock down the electronics. Redhead II slowing.” Mac gave her the code on his computer and locked his cell phone himself.

  Emma hit keys quickly on her computer, did the same for his, and went below to shove both computers under the mattress in the master stateroom. Not proof against a real thief, but all she wanted was to minimize the chances of “accidental” discovery by a guest on the boat.

  By the time she came back to the main cabin and locked down her cell phone, Mac had turned on the joystick and was inching closer to Redhead II. The water was almost as calm as a backyard swimming pool—with teenagers performing cannonball dives. But much nicer than the open strait.

  “Lee of the island,” she said, sighing. “I think I’m in love.”

  “Would you rather handle the talk or the joystick?” was all Mac said.

  She decided that the water wasn’t all that calm. “Talk.”

  “Put out fenders on the starboard side so that they’ll protect us from the Redhead II.” Without looking away from the other boat, he handed her one of the headsets. He was already wearing the other.

  She yanked the headset into place and turned it on. “You there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “With Demidov, I’m going for total arm candy with just enough brains so a man knows the difference between me and a blow-up doll,” she said.

  “Can’t wait for you to try out that act with me,” was all Mac said.

  “That way, I have a fallback position,” she added. “With him, not you.”

  She put four fenders overboard in record time before she looked up to check their position.

  Redhead II was breathtakingly close.

  “Good god. Why don’t I just throw him a headphone?” she muttered under her breath.

  “We may need it later,” Mac said. “If you can keep him off the boat—”

  “I’d rather drown him than let him aboard,” she said quickly.

  “Get his info first, then do whatever you can get away with.”

  She laughed. “I knew there was a reason I liked you.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah, just what every mother wants for her daughter.”

  “No. Just what every daughter wants for herself.”

  Emma stepped outside.

  Like Mac, Lina was at the wheel, working to keep the two boats close enough, but not too close. Demidov was standing on the port side, waiting. He had his hands in the pockets of his jacket, staring across to Blackbird.

  At that moment, Emma believed every word in the files about Demidov that she had just scanned. Her pulse jumped, but not in a happy way.

  That is one really hard piece of work, she thought. If you’re fooled by the gray hair, you’re dead.

  She moved her microphone a few inches to the side. No use shouting in Mac’s ears. This way, he might be able to hear both conversations.

  “Hi, I’m Emma,” she said, pitching her voice to reach across the boats. “Who are you?”

  “I would rather come aboard to talk,” Demidov said.

  His face was angular, lean, fined down like that of a ballet dancer still trying to hold center stage with dancers half his age.

  It made him look all the more dangerous.

  Discipline, experience, and talent all in one package, she thought unhappily.

  Then she got down to work.

  “The captain told me he would rather talk over the sides. Gunwales?” she asked, going for nautically clueless. “Is that what you call them?”

  “I wish to make a business proposition,” he said, ignoring her attempt to engage him in getting-to-know-you chatter.

  “That’s the captain’s department,” she said. “I’m just a first mate in training. But I know he doesn’t like strangers on board. He’s really touchy that way.”

  If Demidov was surprised or angry, it didn’t show in his body language. “We don’t need to be strangers.”

  Emma pretended to be listening to her earphones. “Babe, I can’t follow two people at once,” she complained. Then she glanced at Demidov. “I didn’t mean you. I’m listening to Captain Babe.”

  A strangled sound came through her earphones—Mac trying not to laugh out loud.

  “All right, all right, I’ll ask him,” she said with a whiny edge in her voice. A few seconds later she looked back to Demidov. “Captain Babe wants to know if coming aboard is, uh, required.” Then she held up her hand before Demidov could answer. “Captain Babe says he’ll waste some fuel out of curiosity, but he won’t risk the boat.”

  Demidov thought about it for two seconds. “Shurik Temuri may be a covert actor, but he is not one of ours.”

  Talk about cutting to the chase, Emma thought, but she kept her game face on. “Is that supposed to mean something?”

  “To you?” Demidov’s upper lip almost curled. “No. To your Captain Babe, yes.”

  She looked blank. “Uh, he wants to know who ‘ours’ is.” She shook her head and asked Demidov, “Does that make sense?”

  This time the Russian didn’t bother to conceal his contempt. “I work for the Russian Federation. Shurik Temuri is Georgian.”

  “Georgia?” she asked. “As in really yummy peaches? Shurik doesn’t sound like a Southern name. I’m getting confused, here.”

  Mac made another strangled sound in her ear.

  “What?” she whined into her microphone. “Everyone knows about Georgia peaches.”

  “Quit teasing him or he’ll demand to come aboard,” Mac said.

  “Can your captain hear me?” Demidov asked impatiently.

  “Can you?” she asked the mic.

  “Yes.”

  “He says he can.” Her voice was doubtful.

  “Excellent,” Demidov said. “Then you will shut up and let us talk.”

  “Well, that’s just rude,” she said.

  “Emma,” came through her headphones.

  “Oh, fine, just see if I handle your lines again,” she said into the microphone. Then she waved at Demidov. “Talk. Captain Babe is listening.”

  Demidov looked past her and pitched his voice to carry into Blackbird’s cabin. “Temuri was once a citizen of Russia. Now he is its enemy.”

  “And the captain cares…because?” she muttered.

  “Good question. Why do I care?”

  Demidov waited.

  Emma pushed. “He said, why should he care?”

  “That is something he shouldn’t discuss through an intermediary,” Demidov said.

  His expression told her that he had a much less polite word than intermediary in mind. Whore, probably. Or worse. Temuri certainly had been creative.

  She turned to Mac, silently questioning.

  “I want to get to Campbell River tonight,” he said, covering his mic.

  “He says—”

  “I heard him,” Demidov cut in. “Shurik Temuri is a relative of Stan Amanar and Bob Lovich.”

  Very quickly Mac came out on deck, holding the joystick. Emma gave him a look and stepped back, well out of the way.

  “Keep talking,” Mac said. “Tell me why I wasted fuel on you.”

  “Have you told your so-called first mate that she is a party to smuggling?”

  Emma let her eyes go wide. “Über kewl! What kind?”

  Both men ignored her.

  “No contraband is on board,” Mac said. “I made sure of it. The Canadians double-checked.”

  “You are only on the first leg of the smuggling trip.”

  Mac waited, watching the Russian with no expression.

  “I hadn’t taken you for a fool.” Demidov glanced toward Emma. “But that would account for your companion.”

  “I don’t screw her brain,” Mac said. “What am I supposed to be smuggling if the owner doesn’t show up—”

  “He won’t,” Demidov cut in.

  “—and I take Blackbird back to the States?”

  “You’ll be smuggling death,” Demidov said.

  “In what form?” Mac shot back.

  “Temuri trades
in weapons, whether biological, nuclear, or conventional.”

  Mac shrugged.

  “You don’t care about your country?” Demidov asked sharply.

  “Why do you?” Mac asked.

  “Temuri is a traitor.”

  “To Georgia?”

  “If he was, I wouldn’t be here,” Demidov said. “He wants to hold an American city for political ransom. Or worse.”

  Emma was glad she had already talked to Alara. Otherwise she would have jumped over the railing and landed on Demidov with both feet and a sharp knife, demanding information.

  He spoke the words so calmly, as if terrifying and then wiping out a large city was a perfectly normal way to go about international politics.

  “Why?” Mac asked, nudging the joystick.

  Demidov hesitated, shrugged. “My people—”

  “The Russian government?” Mac cut in.

  “Yes. We assume Temuri plans to blame the entire episode on Russia.” Demidov connected the dots for Emma. “Then the U.S. would side with Georgia more forcefully on the Russian-Georgian border disputes.”

  “If we lost a city, we’d probably do a hell of a lot more than take sides,” Mac said.

  “If you could prove guilt, yes. Or perhaps, no. International politics is never what it seems.”

  “No shit.” Mac nudged the joystick, waited to see the result, and asked, “What do you want from me?”

  “We don’t know all of Temuri’s plot, just his goal, but we are certain that Blackbird is key to the matter.”

  Where have I heard this before? Emma thought. When even the bad guys don’t know who’s on first, the game is beyond lunatic.

  But she didn’t so much as glance at Mac to find out how he’d taken the non-news.

  “So where do I come in?” Mac asked.

  “It’s quite simple,” Demidov said. “I will transfer fifteen thousand dollars to whatever bank account you give me. In return, you will tell me when you are contacted and what you are told to do. At that time, I’ll transfer another fifteen thousand dollars to your account. That will more than cover any loss you have from Lovich and Amanar.”

  Mac thought about it. “Do Lovich and Amanar know what’s really going on?”

  “Unlikely. They are too soft.”

  Mac hated to agree with Demidov, but he did. “What if I take your fifteen thousand and blow you off?”

  “I will kill you.”

  “Figured that,” Mac said.

  “Do we have a deal?”

  “Keep talking.”

  47

  DAY FOUR

  MANHATTAN 7:15 P.M.

  Dwayne tapped on the door of the suite that was part of Ambassador Steele’s top-floor offices and residence.

  Harley opened the door instantly. Behind him Manhattan blazed across the windows like a 3-D light show.

  “Alara is here,” Dwayne said very softly.

  “He just got to—” began Harley.

  “I’m awake, Harley,” Steele called from the darkened room. “Help me into my chair.”

  Dwayne winced. Steele must be really tired. Usually he only needed Harley’s help with stairs or narrow doors. Steele might be retirement age, but his arms and chest were strong from hauling the rest of him around.

  “Has he eaten?” Dwayne asked Harley in a low voice.

  “No.”

  “Bring some omelets and fruit, toast, crackers, cheese, whatever. And tea. You could try herbal—”

  “You’d end up wearing it,” Steele interrupted impatiently.

  “On Harley it would look good,” Dwayne said. He watched as the big, muscular, bodyguard-nurse walked to Steele’s bed. “Is your partner still out of town?”

  “Yes.” Harley bent and lifted Steele easily. “His mother is sick, so he stayed in Kirkland to help her.”

  “Washington?” Dwayne asked.

  “Isn’t that close to Seattle?” Steele asked at the same time.

  “Right next door, why?” Harley said.

  Steele hesitated.

  “When your partner gets back,” Dwayne said quickly, “let me know. My girlfriend likes you better than she’s liking me lately. We’ll have both of you for dinner.”

  “She cooking?” Harley asked, carefully settling Steele into his wheelchair.

  “If both of you come,” Dwayne said, “you’ll get Cajun guaranteed to smoke your eyeballs black.”

  “Stop,” Steele said. “I’m drooling like Pavlov’s dog.”

  “I’ll get the recipe, boss,” Harley promised. “Meanwhile, I’ll start cooking those omelets.”

  “Thank you,” Steele said. “On nights like these, you’re better to me than I deserve.”

  “I’ll be sure to bring that up around bonus time,” Harley said mildly. “Do you want your tie back?”

  Steele straightened the collar of his dress shirt. “No. Just a sweater. It’s a bit chill tonight.”

  Dwayne and Harley exchanged a glance that Steele didn’t see. Harley went to the closet, took a soft charcoal pullover from the top shelf, and handed it to Steele.

  A few moments later, Steele rolled his chair out to meet Alara.

  “It would be terribly convenient to communicate by phone,” he said by way of greeting.

  “As I told you the first time you brought it up, for some communications I don’t trust phones or computers,” Alara said crisply. “They’re too easily compromised. My hotel room has been bugged four separate times in the past few days.”

  Steele made a sound of disgust, then shifted to ease the legs he wasn’t supposed to feel. “If only our various government agencies would stop fighting one another and concentrate on the designated enemy.”

  “That will happen about the time lions become vegans.”

  Steele would have smiled if he wasn’t so tired.

  “We agree with the ID of Taras Demidov as a Russian shooter,” Alara continued. “The woman, Galina Federova, is one of the many abandoned sleepers gone to earth beyond the shores of former empire. She was a minor player. Demidov ran her along with his other numerous agents. The files are so old, they should be classified as historic rather than active.”

  “So should we, but we live on anyway.”

  Alara’s smile was swift and real. “Demidov may or may not know what Temuri is smuggling.”

  “I hope you didn’t leave your hotel just to tell me what I already know.”

  “Temuri’s family is Georgian and Ukrainian, raised in Russia. He works for whichever side pays him best.”

  “Did you learn anything new?” Steele asked bluntly.

  “Ah, old friend, you are in pain.”

  “That’s how I know I’m alive. Answer my question.”

  “The sum of fifteen thousand dollars has been transferred from an account funded by one of the many arms of Russian intelligence to a St. Kilda Consulting account. Demidov has the connections to move very quickly, as apparently the order came through barely an hour ago.”

  Steele’s black eyebrows rose. “Impressive. Your connections, as well as his.”

  “Thank you.”

  “So Demidov is indeed working for some aspect of the Russian government.”

  “They are paying him,” Alara said. “It isn’t always the same thing. You will tell me immediately if your agent calls about contact by or from Shurik Temuri.”

  Steele waited for several beats, then nodded. “As we agreed. Speaking of which…”

  Alara waited, poised like a falcon ready to fly.

  “Since when are Russia and the United States working the same side of the street?” Steele asked. “Did I miss the memo? Or is it the usual case of politics making ridiculous bedmates?”

  “We have cooperated with Russia in the past, when both parties had the same goal.”

  “Do you trust Demidov?”

  Alara laughed in genuine amusement. “Do you?”

  Steele rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Have Demidov and Temuri ever worked together in the past?”
>
  She looked thoughtful. “Possible, but unlikely. Demidov is of another generation, political not criminal. Temuri came up through the mafiya. His family is rabidly against Russia. Temuri is simply rabid.”

  “He has a lot of competition,” Steele said.

  “That is the nature of life among the ruins. It suits Temuri. The most recent intel we have puts him with Chechen separatists, many of whom draw support from Wahabbi fundamentalists in the Middle East. Money, to be precise. A great deal of petro dollars.”

  “Is Temuri selling them nukes?” Steele asked.

  “Not the finished product. Not yet. Fissionable materials only. More suited to blackmail than to bombs. He is the middleman for more ordinary weapons, as well. We also believe he is responsible for at least one of the outbreaks of bubonic plague that have occurred on the fringes of former empire. One instance of plague served to keep the Russians out of a strategic area.”

  “What if we take Temuri alive?”

  “The Russians have offered a million dollars American to anyone who turns him over to them alive,” Alara said. “Dead? Perhaps he would be useful to Russia as fertilizer, nothing more.”

  “Does Uncle Sam have any preferences about Temuri?”

  “We would…enjoy…talking with him. But it is not required. Proof of death is. He has several rewards on his head. In fact, he is worth more dead to us than alive to Russia.”

  “I’m not a bounty hunter.”

  “Yet St. Kilda has collected bounties in the past.”

  “Any bodies on our ticket were made on the way to a different goal,” Steele said. “Did you trace the telephone number Demidov gave our agent as a contact?”

  “Useless. The phone was probably recently purchased and won’t be in anyone’s electronic files for a week or so. Too late to do us any good.”

  “Do you know any more about what is actually at risk than Demidov does?”

  Alara’s mouth tightened. “No. We are unhappy to find out he knew that much. It means there are more loose ends than we thought.”

  “And the time limit?”

  “Unchanged.” She stood up. “I wish your agents luck. We all will need it.”

  48

  DAY FOUR

  STRAIT OF GEORGIA

  4:50 P.M.

  Blackbird rose on the breast of the creaming wave. Wind combed salt spray from the sea and dashed it over the windshield. Hands light on the wheel, Emma held the yacht’s bow into the weather, enjoying the swell and rush of water. Mac was at the dining table, awash in charts. He kept them corralled with a casual ease she envied. She was just learning to be at home on the restless strait.