Death Echo

35

DAY FOUR

MANHATTAN

1:15 P.M.

Ambassador Steele rolled his chair from one workstation to another, talking through his headset the whole time. He stopped rolling long enough for his fingers to fly over a computer keyboard. One of the wall screens blinked and showed a close-up of a dirty village whose open sewers festered among glorious mountain peaks.

Dwayne glanced over. The name on the bottom of the screen was Ecuador. But for that, the village could have been in any mountainous country where poverty and villages prevailed.

“The op is compromised,” Steele said. “Evac is on the way to primary location. You have less than ninety minutes to extraction.” He paused. “Good. And if you see that lying toad on the way out, step on him.”

Dwayne winced. Steele was at his most lethal when his voice was neutral. A click told Dwayne that his boss had disconnected.

“Did we get the kidnap victim out in one piece?” Dwayne asked.

“I’ll tell you in ninety-one minutes.”

Dwayne pursed lips that more than one woman had openly lusted after. He blew out a long breath that was also a curse. “So the government was in on it after all?”

“Crotch-deep and still sinking.” Steele sped toward another station, another screen. “That’s why factions are useful, though slippery. It’s the ones that aren’t getting a cut of the ransom money that get chatty.”

“And then they go to another faction and sell the same information.” Sell us out.

Steele shrugged. “If we can buy someone, we can be assured that someone else can and will. Just a matter of who gets to the finish line alive. Has Alara returned my call?”

“Twice.” Dwayne glanced at a bank of lights on his desk. Number Four was still blinking. “Transferring line four to your headset.”

Before Dwayne had finished speaking, Steele was.

“Alara. Thank you for getting back so quickly. What have you discovered?”

The voice on the other end of the line was as clear and precise as Steele’s. “Somebody in the FBI stuck a screw-you flag on Blackbird’s name in the Canadian customs’ computer system.”

“Any reason, other than the usual?”

“An inter-agency pissing contest.”

“That would be the usual,” Steele said.

“The FBI was quite unhappy that they weren’t made aware of Temuri’s presence within U.S. jurisdiction.”

“According to Joe Faroe, Temuri left Rosario shortly after Blackbird did.”

“The FBI was notified as soon as Temuri’s car turned onto Interstate 5, heading north or south,” Alara said blandly. “Our informant couldn’t be certain of the direction. In fact, he wasn’t certain that it was Temuri’s car until we traced the plates back to a rental agency. As soon as we were certain, one of my co-workers shared the information with the FBI.”

“Pity it was too late to catch him,” Steele said, his voice deadly neutral. “Any sign of other computer tags on Blackbird or its crew?”

“None.”

“Any new information?”

“I’ve sent many files to your computer,” Alara said.

“My dear, if I were a farmer, I would be ecstatic at the amount of fertilizer you’ve given to me.”

Alara beat Steele to the disconnect button.