Death Echo

53

DAY FIVE

NORTH OF CAMPBELL RIVER

10:15 A.M.

A single locator says Blackbird hasn’t left Discovery Harbor,” One said. “The other locator is dead.”

Tim Harrow looked at the hard, well-built man known only as “Team One” or “One.” The other team members were also known by a numeric designation.

Don’t ask.

Don’t tell.

“One” was the leader of the team of five that had met him at public docks connected to a small, deserted resort/campground. The nearby, popular Blind Channel resort obviously siphoned off all the business. At this time of year, the ratty public docks were ignored. In any case, most cruisers were in their winter docks by mid-September. Harrow’s team had told him that fall weather was notoriously unpredictable in northern B.C.

It was hard to believe that today. Steady breeze, a few clouds, water like blue glass with artistic ripples here and there to keep things from being boring. Ringing it all was the endless mixed forest, green on green.

“Thank you, One,” Harrow said. “Let me know the instant that changes.”

“Sir.”

The man went back to his team. Part of the team was aboard the Summer Solstice, a sixty-foot power boat. The rest was in the Zodiac that served as the larger boat’s tender.

Harrow had no doubts about the competence of the team. He’d never met a group of better conditioned, smarter men in his life. Seasoned, too. All of them looked to be in their mid-thirties.

Or maybe they’re in their twenties with a lot of mileage on them, Harrow thought. Hope this assignment doesn’t pile on more.

What the hell are Emma and Durand doing on Blackbird? Polishing the decks with their tongues?

Harrow pulled out his special cell phone. Good satellite signal. He punched in Joe Faroe’s number.

“Who are you?” asked a male voice.

“Emma Cross used to work for me,” Harrow said.

“I care about that because…?”

“She’s working for you and St. Kilda Consulting now.”

Silence.

“Look, Faroe,” Harrow said impatiently. “Blackbird is sitting dead in the water in Campbell River and I want to know what the hell is going on. The clock is running hard. You know it. I know it. Cut the bullshit.”

At the other end of the connection in Rosario, Faroe kicked back in the uncomfortable motel chair and thought hard. Part of him and all of Steele had been expecting this.

And most of Faroe had hoped they both were wrong.

“What do you want?” Faroe asked.

“Blackbird at the coordinates I’ll give you. And I want her there fast.”

“If you don’t get what you want?”

“St. Kilda Consulting is out of business. Permanently.” Harrow listened to the silence stretch. “Look, we’re taking over the running of the op. Help us and you’re golden. If you get in our way-”

“Yeah,” Faroe cut in, “I heard you the first time.” He paused, thought of Alara, and wished he felt better about cutting in a third party. Or was it a fourth?

“Faroe?”

“Give me the coordinates,” he said curtly. “Then call me back in ten minutes.”

As soon as Harrow gave the numbers the connection went dead.

Faroe, you son of a bitch, you’re everything your file told me to expect.