Death Echo (14 page)

He laughed and shook his head. “Lunch? Normal kind?”

“Lunch,” she agreed. “Boring kind.”

Emma followed Mac inside, grabbed the local newspaper out of the grocery bag and sat at the banquette.

It was that or grab Mac right where his jeans fit so well.

Down, girl. Think work. Work.
WORK
.

She skimmed the headlines while he unwrapped sandwiches and took out bottles of iced tea. Nothing new on the rez fire. Not that she expected anything. Once the feds got involved, usually chatty sources took a vow of silence.

St. Kilda hadn’t been a whole lot of help in the information department either. Reams of Alara’s background briefings had appeared on Emma’s computer along with conclusions that varied from bureau-babble to useless. A lot of words wasted when two words would do it: We’re trying.

Very trying.

Mac wedged more fresh vegetables into the small fridge and folded the paper bag for reuse. Between the check from Blue Water Marine Group and St. Kilda’s “petty cash” advance, he wasn’t worried about paying for his next meal.

He made a point of not noticing that Emma was back to wearing one of her eye-candy outfits. Her short shorts and tight crop top told him what he already knew—playing her lover was going to be hard on him. Literally.

Get your mind out of your pants and into the game.

Good advice. He was trying hard to take it.

Hard. Really hard.

Sex was easy to ignore only when you were getting some regularly. Having Emma close by reminded Mac that he’d been on short rations recently. He shut the fridge door.

Hard.

Warily, Emma watched him from the corner of her eye. The waves of testosterone were thick enough to float on. Problem was, she was tempted to dive right in.

Hey, at least I don’t have to worry about the temperature of the water,
she thought wryly.
It would be hot.

She took a bite out of her ham sandwich, chewed, and wished she was sipping on him rather than on iced tea.

Mac settled onto the bench seat opposite her, unwrapped his sandwich, and said, “Anything new?”

Emma opened her bag of chips. “Not in the last half hour.”

“Tell me more about
Black Swan
. Damn little was on your computer.”

“Blue Water Marine Group franchises yacht dealerships,” she said, “mainly on the West Coast. The hulls are laid in Malaysia and the fancy teak work is done there. The boats are mostly finished by the time they go on a container ship.”

Mac took a big bite from his meatball sub.

“Several other high-end boat names also have the major work done in Malaysia,” she said. “Costs less and the craftsmanship is better than good.”

He nodded. “I’ve picked up more than one overseas boat in Seattle for Blue Water.”

“There’s one you didn’t pick up. About a year ago, there was a yacht called
Black Swan
.”

He waited, chewing an oversize chunk of meatball sub.

“We don’t know where it was hijacked off the container ship,” Emma said. “Irkutsk or Vladivostok are most likely.”

“Was
Swan
really identical to
Blackbird
?”

“In every way we’ve been able to confirm.”

Mac chewed on that for a while. Then he opened his tea. “St. Kilda has been working this for a year?”

“Investigating yacht thefts? Yes.”

“Are the thefts tied together?”

“No pattern has been found beyond the fact of the luxury yachts themselves. Every major American shipbuilder in Malaysia has been hit. If one of the Russian
mafiyas
is running the scam, we can’t find names.
Black Swan
was the loss that pulled the pin on the patience grenade of the insurance arm of IYBC—that’s International Yacht Builders Consortium to non-native speakers.”

“Were all the missing boats about the same size?” he asked.

“So far, nothing smaller than forty-one feet or bigger than seventy-three has been hijacked. The smaller boats are the really high-end ones.”

Mac nodded.

“Within that size range, the estimates are that at least two yachts a year have been lost in the last decade from container ships departing Malaysia. It adds up to a lot of millions, and that’s just from the boats covered by the Consortium’s insurance program. Other insurers have losses as big or bigger. They’re all tired of paying without really playing.”

Mac ate and turned over pieces of the puzzle in his mind. “Unless you dupe in a bunch of undercover agents along various water-fronts, the insurers have a hard slog ahead. All a hijacker needs is one crooked shift on harbor duty and a big-ass hammerhead crane.”

“That pretty much describes any of the big ports along Malaysia and the Pacific coastline of the
FSU
. Excuse me, Russian Federation. Wonder what they’ll be called a year from now?” She shrugged.

“But I’d lay good money on hijacked yachts being used to shuttle
mafiya
brass around the Caspian Sea. When it comes to bare-assed naked thievery, I’ll put the
mafiyas
against anything the globe can offer.”

“How did the insurance claims explain the losses?”

“Rogue waves. Each and every one of them.”

Mac raised dark eyebrows. “With all the satellites in orbit measuring changes in height of the ocean surface, and the amount of traffic in the shipping lanes, there should be plenty of warnings on the air about rogue waves in the containership transit zones.”

“You’d think,” Emma agreed wryly. “But, damn, those sneaky mountains of water just keep rushing up and washing really expensive yachts into the drink. Nothing cheap, mind you. No wannabe yachts need apply.”

“Is there a chance that the Consortium is some kind of stalking horse for the opposition?” Mac asked.

“If they are, St. Kilda couldn’t find it. And yes, we looked. We’re real picky about our clients.”

When we have the choice.

For a few minutes there was nothing but the small sounds of lunch being devoured.

“Is
Blackbird
going to the same owner who commissioned
Swan
?” Mac asked.

“Not on any documents we could find.
Swan
was on her way to Portland, Oregon. Owner was a really pissed-off class-action attorney whose bouncing buddy spent just
hours
on the boat’s design.
Hours
, I tell you. Getting a black hull and matching swim step cost buttloads of money.
Buttloads,
I tell you.”

Mac smiled. “Bent your ear, did she?”

“He,” Emma said. “Before I was assigned to the case, he chewed on insurance agents while his lover threatened class-action suits in all possible venues, known and unknown.”

“Class action for yachties?” Mac shook his head and laughed over his vanishing sandwich.

She smiled. “You and Faroe think alike.”

“I know those yacht hulls come off the production line like big cars, only in much smaller numbers,” Mac said. “But what are the chances of two rich yachties going to Blue Water Marine Group franchises in two states and insisting on identical interior design and black on the hull and swim step? And throwing in whacking great oversize engines just for kicks and giggles?”

“Same questions Faroe asked. Their son is still trying to calculate the odds, and Lane is some kind of math-computer guru.”

Silently Mac finished his sandwich, took a big swallow of iced tea, and rapped his knuckles slowly, gently, on the table.

Emma could tell when a man was thinking hard. She shut up and waited.

“If it wasn’t for the built-alike thing,” Mac said finally, “I’d say that the thefts were probably done by unrelated gangs in various Malaysian and
FSU
ports that were lifting anything they could get a sling under.”

“The identical-twin thing is why I was assigned up close and personal to
Blackbird.
Faroe really hates coincidences.”

“Smart man.”

“Very. People who believe his easygoing, howya-doing act deserve what they get. Then there’s the name of the first ship.”

“Black Swan?”
Mac shrugged. “I know the term—something that is believed to be impossible until it happens.”

“The name got popular after the World Trade Center was brought down by terrorists. We were like the Europeans who had never seen a black swan until they discovered Australia. Black swans were an event impossible to forecast, therefore impossible to prepare for.”

“Like winning a lawsuit based on the fact that people who drink coffee are too stupid to know that coffee is hot?” Mac asked dryly. “Could be the lawyer who ordered the yacht has a really twisted sense of humor. A name like that deserves hijacking.”

“I know. But I just…”

“Don’t like it?” Mac finished.

She shrugged. “Sort of like a raised middle finger.”

“Like I said. Twisted. And yes, I read a book called
The Black Swan
. Along with about a million other people in the U.S.”

“Pretty much what St. Kilda said.” She sighed. “Wish Blue Water would call and hire you.”

“Don’t like your little bunk?”

He’d offered to share the stateroom with her, but she’d had an attack of common sense and taken the tiny second cabin with its cramped bed.

“I don’t like waiting,” she said. “I’m used to it, but I’ll never enjoy it.”

Before Mac could answer, his cell phone rang. He looked at the incoming message ID: Blue Water Marine Group.

“Your wait just might be over,” Mac said.

ROSARIO

1:08 P.M.

D
emidov watched Temuri pace the dock, his very presence driving the techs to work faster. Temuri was a muscular, silent shadow ensuring that no one slacked off or lifted a few expensive electronics for individual profit.

Watching Temuri was like looking in a mirror.

Once, we would have worked together,
Demidov thought.
Now…

The world had changed. Temuri was on the other side of a deadly divide running through the Russian Federation like an earthquake fault. So far the pushing, shoving, strutting, and killing among former satellite regions had stopped short of outright civil war.

Demidov’s job was to see that didn’t change.

Temuri’s job was the opposite.

Since Blue Water Marine had lost their captain, Temuri was pushing to finish the installation of the same electronics he’d been willing to leave ashore before Tommy died.

Demidov smiled. Temuri was making the best of a situation he didn’t really control. More than once, Demidov had done the same. It was called surviving in a game whose rules changed without warning or apology.

Now that the delay his boss had wanted was accomplished, there was little left in Rosario to interest Demidov. Mentally he went through his pre-departure checklist. It had come down to a simple choice. He could go north now and wait for
Blackbird,
or he could stay here and watch
Blackbird
leave. Then he would chase her northward sea passage, but he would be on land. Roads wound around mountains and bays and waddled through towns. The course over water was as the crow—or seagull—flew.

When presented with the choice of staying or leaving, Grigori Sidorov’s message had been terse.

Go north.

Demidov put a lid on the bucket, changed all of his ID to that of a Canadian national who had been stamped through U.S. customs eight days ago, and drove out of the parking lot. He dumped the bucket in a vacant lot, left the van in long-term ferry parking, and effectively vanished.

Until Sidorov ordered otherwise, he was headed north.

ROSARIO

1:30 P.M.

R
eady?” Mac asked, squeezing Emma’s shoulder and pulling her closer to his side.

She slid her left hand into his left back jeans pocket and leaned into him. The radiation patch he had in his jeans poked her finger. “More than.”

Just a game,
Mac told himself.

Yeah. Right.

He settled Emma’s lithe body closer against him, and envied the patch she wore inside her bra.

I’ll enjoy the fringe bennies of our cover,
Mac thought.
But not too much.

That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

Emma rubbed his butt lightly.

“Watch it, woman,” he muttered.

She tilted her head back and glanced down to where her hand was in his pocket. “Worth watching.”

Mac set his back teeth.

She pinched him. “Loosen up, big guy. We’re supposed to be friends, remember?”

“Friends?” he retorted.

“With benefits.”

She gave him a look that made his jeans feel tighter. But then, she always made him feel that way.

“You’re good at this,” he breathed into her ear. “Too good.”

“You make it easy. The last dude I had to play the benefits game with was twice my age, four times my weight, and had breath like a donkey fart.”

Mac fought it, but he laughed.

And relaxed.

She stood on her tiptoes and breathed in his ear. “Much better. When you smile, it’s easy to see how you hooked up so fast with a woman who doesn’t have donkey breath.”

Still smiling, Mac punched in the marina gate code, ushered her through, and let the metal gate clang loudly shut behind them. Down on the dock, Lovich and Amanar looked up and waved.

The third man just stared at them.

Mac dropped a nibbling kiss on Emma’s bare neck. “Watch Stoneface. He’s murder on two feet.”

“Got it. I’m all big eyes, big smile, and tiny mind.”

“Keep your mouth shut and they just might believe that.”

Making like Siamese twins, Mac and Emma strolled down the gangway.

The three men waiting for them were the only people on the dock near the
Blackbird
who weren’t moving fast. A half-dozen technicians and riggers swarmed over the boat like pirates on a prize. On the flying bridge, two men shoved electronics leads down through the stainless-steel tubes of the radar arch. A flat ten-mile radar antenna and domes for satellite television and telephone were already in place. Inside, at the helm, a tech installed the multipurpose screen for a chart plotter, radar receiver, and depth sounder.