Death Echo

31

DAY FOUR

MANHATTAN

10:38 A.M.

Ambassador Steele frowned at one of the many electronic screens that filled all but the doorways and window walls of his oddly shaped office. His silver hair gleamed in the room’s full-spectrum lighting.

“Is research saying that all of these bugs came from different sources?” Steele asked.

The ruby in Dwayne’s pinky ring gleamed with each movement of his elegant, dark hands over the computer keys. The digital photos Faroe had sent weren’t museum quality, but they got the job done.

“Not all of them,” Dwayne said. “The one we planted on Blackbird in Singapore came from the good old U.S. of A. The others didn’t. Of course, someone could have bought any or all of the bugs at some second-world spy bazaar or first-world swap meet. Two of those trinkets are almost old enough to vote.”

Steele looked at him sharply.

“Joke,” Dwayne said without looking away from his computer. “The bigger they are, the older they are. One of these is downright clunky. Of course, it will still work when the newer, thinner, more finicky models go dead.”

“Basically,” Steele said, “anyone could have planted the bugs on Blackbird at any time since the engines and tanks were put in place.”

“Pretty much.”

Steele muttered something in Urdu.

Dwayne winced. When Steele started talking in tongues, some asses were going to get chapped.

“I’ll let you tell Joe Faroe how little we have,” Steele said.

One of those chapped asses would be Dwayne’s. Faroe never had taken failure with grace.