Either way, Blackbird needed a captain.
“I was told that the Indian was shot twice in the back of the head,” Amanar said. “Then the murderers doused the trailer with kerosene and lit it off. Any real evidence was destroyed in the fire.”
“Murderers? More than one?” Temuri asked.
“Uh…that’s what the police chief said.”
Another crescent of nail shaving hit the carpet. “One child with balls could have executed the Indian and burned the place down.”
“Look, I’m just telling you what I was told.”
Temuri grunted.
Amanar kept talking in his out-of-date dialect. “The body was almost burned beyond recognition. The assumption is that it’s Tommy. Considering that he isn’t answering his cell phone and can’t be found, we’re going with Tommy as the corpse. Even if he’s alive and running, we can’t count on him anymore. My cousin and I are really, really unhappy with how this is turning out.”
“Yeah,” Lovich said in English. “This talk about an execution isn’t making me feel the love.”
Temuri gave him a hard look for speaking in English. Then he turned his attention back to Amanar. “Is there a problem?”
“The chief didn’t say anything about any execution,” Amanar said. “He thinks it was some kind of ongoing, uh, argument about fishing rights or something among the Indians.”
“Why, then, is your Federal Bureau of Investigation involved?” Temuri demanded, his dark eyes glittering with temper.
“They always investigate crimes of violence on reservations. That’s what the chief said, anyway.”
Temuri spit on the rug.
Amanar winced but didn’t say anything.
“Amateurs,” Temuri said.
The knife flashed so quickly Amanar couldn’t see much beyond a metallic blur. He swallowed hard and didn’t ask just who the amateurs were that Temuri spit upon.
“You are telling me a cheap murder on a tribal reserve that is mostly scrub timber and blackberry bushes is worth the attention of no fewer than fifty federal agents,” Temuri said with a deadly lack of inflection.
“Fifty? Are you sure? The chief never said anything about that many feds.” Amanar shook his head in disbelief. “How did you find that out?”
“I drove by the tribal headquarters building and counted the shiny four-door sedans parked there. That is called intelligence work. I know Chechens who can drive by a Russian barracks and tell you within five men the number of soldiers housed there. It is how we determine the number of bullets issued to our freedom fighters.”
Amanar started sweating. “I don’t like this talk about soldiers and attacks. You told us this was a simple smuggling operation, like dope or cigarettes. That’s all we signed on for. We’re Americans, not freedom fighters or terrorists.”
“Yet you smuggle the narco to sell to children and addicts?”
“It’s not the same,” Amanar said impatiently. “It’s just a game. Dope doesn’t hurt anybody. Guns do. My cousin and I don’t want anything to do with anyone else’s wars.”
Temuri stared at him, then tested the edge of the knife on Lovich’s wooden desk.
Lovich worked hard on ignoring him.
“What of the people of yours who disappeared at sea years ago?” Temuri asked. “Was that all part of the game that hurt no one?”
The two boat brokers traded startled glances.
“You stupid son of a bitch,” Lovich said in English. “Why the hell did—”
“I didn’t tell him,” Amanar said in the same language. “Now shut up. He knows more English than he lets on.”
Sullenly, Lovich returned to staring out at the bay.
“Look, I don’t know who you’ve been talking to or what they’ve been saying,” Amanar said. “We never killed anybody. Accidents happen, especially when you’re in a small boat on big water.”
“I know precisely what happened and why,” Temuri said. He carved another groove in the desk. Wood shavings fell on the rug next to neat slices from his nails. “So would your police, if they ever decided to investigate. Yet death at sea is a federal matter, is it not? I am told death has no limitation in the United States.”
Amanar got the point: Temuri knew that the statute of limitations on murder had no end date.
“And then the monies owed—taxes, yes,” Temuri said. “Is there a limitation on them?”
Amanar and Lovich exchanged a long look before Amanar gave in, turned away, and asked the question whose answer neither cousin would like.
“What do you want?” he asked Temuri.
“A captain for my Blackbird. You have until tomorrow at dawn.”
Neither Lovich nor Amanar asked what would happen if they failed Temuri. They really didn’t want to know.
23
DAY THREE
ROSARIO
10:45 A.M.
Taras Demidov swallowed the last of three hamburgers, squeezed the final drops in the tenth packet of ketchup over a pile of fries, and took a sip of the surprisingly awful coffee. No amount of sugar smothered the bitterness.
But it did take the smell inside the van off his tongue.
Eating fries, Demidov listened through his ear bug while the two cousins continued arguing over possible replacements for the Indian who had been taken out of the game. Demidov didn’t bother to sort out the voices. Only the topic mattered to him.
“And I tell you, your wife’s nephew isn’t up to a boat that size.”
“Stupid shit deserves to die. He knocked up his own cousin.”
“Second cousin.”
“Still a cousin. I say we use Durand.”
“Too risky.”
“Who’d miss him? No family, no friends except maybe Tommy, not even a regular hump in town.”
“Tommy was stupid. Durand isn’t.”
“If Durand’s so smart, why ain’t he rich?”
Demidov laughed soundlessly as he stood and walked the few steps to the slops bucket. The cousins came from families that had lived in America so long they had absorbed the culture whether or not they wished to.
“Temuri wants Blackbird out of here by tomorrow at dawn, no later. None of the other captains we use are available right now. You want to drive that boat yourself?”
“Fine. Whatever. If no one else can take the job by this afternoon, I’ll call Durand. Temuri won’t like it. He didn’t take to Durand.”
“So let Temuri drive the boat.”
“He’d make us drive it. Better we get Durand. He doesn’t have kids.”
“You don’t know anyone’s going to die.”
“You want to bet your life on it?”
Listening to the cousins wrangle, Demidov shook off the last drops and zipped up. It was time to message his boss and make him smile.
Blackbird wouldn’t be going anywhere today.
24
DAY THREE
ROSARIO
12:35 P.M.
If I tie any more ropes—lines—to this cleat,” Emma said, wiping sweat off her forehead, “I’m going to yank it out of the dock and put it where your sun don’t shine.”
Mac hid his smile by reaching into the grocery bag and pulling out a chocolate bar. “Truce?”
“You have a sandwich to go with that?”
“And chips.”
“Truce.” She jerked the line tight, leaving two neat, secure figure-eights of line lying on the cleat. “Is it always this hot in October?”
“No,” he said. “It won’t last. You want to take a turn at the computer?”
She looked at him blankly. “Did something, um, new come in?”
“I’m talking about the other computer. You know, chart-plotting and navigation and—”
“No, thanks. Knock yourself out.”
She stretched her back muscles. Handling fat lines and big fenders—always at strange angles that increased the stress of leverage on her body—used more strength than she would have guessed.
“A
fter lunch, then,” he said.
She looked at his expression and knew she was going to learn more about boat handling than she’d ever wanted to. At least Faroe and his magic electronic machine had been by before dawn, assuring them that Autonomy was still without bugs. They could talk freely, if carefully.
“Sure,” she said, concealing a sigh. “Can’t wait.”
Mac took her hand, drew her close, and nuzzled her neck. “You’ve got to learn enough so that if I’m out of commission you’ll be able to do whatever has to be done. Both our lives could depend on it.”
“I hear you.” She bit his ear. “Now feed me.”
“Tongue sandwich?”
She laughed, hugged him hard for anybody who might be watching, and was tempted to take him up on his offer.
So she did.
He tasted fine, coffee and salt air and man. A lot of man, covering her from lips to knees, settling in for a good long kiss. She told herself she wanted to pull away, then gave up lying and returned as good as she got. Everywhere she touched him he was hot, way too hot. From the feel of the erection pressing against her stomach, he felt the same way about her.
Hot.
Slowly, very slowly, they separated.
“Whew,” she said against his lips. “That should have melted anyone’s binoculars.”
“Sure set my jeans on fire.”
“I noticed.” She smiled. “I’d show you how much I appreciate it, but we’d get arrested.”
Her stomach growled.
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 c
ase, 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.