Death Echo

29

DAY FOUR

ROSARIO

5:35 A.M.

Grace Silva-Faroe leaned back on the uncomfortable motel couch. Annalise lay in her arms, drooling on her momma’s dark green blouse, blissed out and blowing bubbles.

Faroe scrambled eggs in the kitchenette, sent the toast on another round trip, and watched the computer he’d set up next to the tiny stove. Information scrolled by at a speed that would have made a lot of people dizzy. Faroe just read, absorbed, and made breakfast. When there was a break in the information stream, he looked over his shoulder.

“Nice work, amada,” he said, grinning at Grace and his relaxed daughter.

Grace just smiled and stroked Annalise’s silky, wild mop of hair.

“Will she sleep long?” he asked.

“Should be out for hours,” Grace said. “She spent most of yesterday and last night exploring for forbidden fruit.”

“I like her priorities. Want to snuggle her some more or should I put her in the playpen?”

“Did the long-distance shot you got of the dude yesterday morning-what’s his name-the guy with the cousins get any hits?”

Faroe fielded the change of subject without hesitation. “Temuri. Research ran it through St. Kilda’s magic computers. Because he’s playing nice, Steele sent a digital copy to Alara and the FBI as soon as we knew.”

Grace’s lazy stroking of Annalise’s relaxed body stopped. “The FBI? What did Alara think about that?”

“No backwash that I know of. Hell, she probably did the same herself. Think of it as a bit of polite ass-covering. The FBI is still doing push-ups over that rez execution. Since St. Kilda just happened to be here on a different matter, we felt duty bound to point out to the FBI a possible connection with the new killer in town.”

The judge that Grace had once been couldn’t help pointing out, “We don’t know he’s a killer.”

“I’ll take Mac’s word for it. That boy has the training to sort out the wannabes from the shooters.”

She sighed and didn’t disagree. “What did research find on Temuri, under all spelling variants?”

“His first name is Shurik-street name of Sure to his fellow thugs who happen to speak some dialect of English. He’s a snake-mean son of a bitch who appears in the top fifteen of nearly all the international shit lists.”

“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.