Death Echo (17 page)

“Good thing your daughter is asleep.”

Faroe smiled. “No matter how much we shelter her, her peers will tell her all the forbidden words by the time she hits first grade.”

“In several languages,” Grace agreed wryly. “Anything useful on Temuri, besides his likelihood of going directly to hell?”

“He’s either Georgian or Ukrainian, depending on if you’re talking about his mother or his father. Like a lot of men who made fortunes in the wild economic frontier of the Former Soviet Union, he comes from a long line of former
KGB
turned businessmen/crime bosses.”

“I’m shocked,” Grace said, kissing her daughter’s soft cheek.

“Me, too. Daddy Temuri picked the wrong side of the Putin/Georgian wars, so son Temuri got an early start in the killing business. He’s good for seven hits that we know of, and suspected of a whole lot more. Did I mention that he’s as smart as he is deadly? Rich, too, with enough cash in offshore accounts that if/when Russian tanks start rolling into Georgia, he’ll be positioned to disappear or become a nuclear thorn in Russia’s flesh. Dealer’s choice, and the guys with the nukes do the dealing.”

“In other words, one more region with a grudge backed up by thugs with nukes. Sweet. How did he get his radioactive toys?”

“Probably the usual way—theft from failed Soviet-era nuclear installations and/or purchase on the international arms black market. Ditto for chemical and biological weapons. Anyone who thinks all those goodies are under lock and key is living on Planet Denial.”

Grace sighed. Time to leave Denial and reenter the other world, the one beyond the warmth of her family. She gave her daughter’s hair a final stroke.

Before Grace could shift to her feet, Faroe gently scooped up their daughter, put her in the portable bed/playpen, and covered her with her favorite snuggly blanket. She sighed and blew bubbles into the fuzzy, zebra-striped cloth.

“If Temuri’s family had swung the Putin way,” Faroe continued, “Shurik would probably be in the top tier of Russian government or industry or crime. Same thing, a lot of the time.”

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.

JAMES
ISLAND

5:45 A.M.

M
ac 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 muffin 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.