Death Echo

47

DAY FOUR

MANHATTAN

7:15 P.M.

Dwayne tapped on the door of the suite that was part of Ambassador Steele’s top-floor offices and residence.

Harley opened the door instantly. Behind him Manhattan blazed across the windows like a 3-D light show.

“Alara is here,” Dwayne said very softly.

“He just got to-” began Harley.

“I’m awake, Harley,” Steele called from the darkened room. “Help me into my chair.”

Dwayne winced. Steele must be really tired. Usually he only needed Harley’s help with stairs or narrow doors. Steele might be retirement age, but his arms and chest were strong from hauling the rest of him around.

“Has he eaten?” Dwayne asked Harley in a low voice.

“No.”

“Bring some omelets and fruit, toast, crackers, cheese, whatever. And tea. You could try herbal-”

“You’d end up wearing it,” Steele interrupted impatiently.

“On Harley it would look good,” Dwayne said. He watched as the big, muscular, bodyguard-nurse walked to Steele’s bed. “Is your partner still out of town?”

“Yes.” Harley bent and lifted Steele easily. “His mother is sick, so he stayed in Kirkland to help her.”

“Washington?” Dwayne asked.

“Isn’t that close to Seattle?” Steele asked at the same time.

“Right next door, why?” Harley said.

Steele hesitated.

“When your partner gets back,” Dwayne said quickly, “let me know. My girlfriend likes you better than she’s liking me lately. We’ll have both of you for dinner.”

“She cooking?” Harley asked, carefully settling Steele into his wheelchair.

“If both of you come,” Dwayne said, “you’ll get Cajun guaranteed to smoke your eyeballs black.”

“Stop,” Steele said. “I’m drooling like Pavlov’s dog.”

“I’ll get the recipe, boss,” Harley promised. “Meanwhile, I’ll start cooking those omelets.”

“Thank you,” Steele said. “On nights like these, you’re better to me than I deserve.”

“I’ll be sure to bring that up around bonus time,” Harley said mildly. “Do you want your tie back?”

Steele straightened the collar of his dress shirt. “No. Just a sweater. It’s a bit chill tonight.”

Dwayne and Harley exchanged a glance that Steele didn’t see. Harley went to the closet, took a soft charcoal pullover from the top shelf, and handed it to Steele.

A few moments later, Steele rolled his chair out to meet Alara.

“It would be terribly convenient to communicate by phone,” he said by way of greeting.

“As I told you the first time you brought it up, for some communications I don’t trust phones or computers,” Alara said crisply. “They’re too easily compromised. My hotel room has been bugged four separate times in the past few days.”

Steele made a sound of disgust, then shifted to ease the legs he wasn’t supposed to feel. “If only our various government agencies would stop fighting one another and concentrate on the designated enemy.”

“That will happen about the time lions become vegans.”

Steele would have smiled if he wasn’t so tired.

“We agree with the ID of Taras Demidov as a Russian shooter,” Alara continued. “The woman, Galina Federova, is one of the many abandoned sleepers gone to earth beyond the shores of former empire. She was a minor player. Demidov ran her along with his other numerous agents. The files are so old, they should be classified as historic rather than active.”

“So should we, but we live on anyway.”

Alara’s smile was swift and real. “Demidov may or may not know what Temuri is smuggling.”

“I hope you didn’t leave your hotel just to tell me what I already know.”

“Temuri’s family is Georgian and Ukrainian, raised in Russia. He works for whichever side pays him best.”

“Did you learn anything new?” Steele asked bluntly.

“Ah, old friend, you are in pain.”

“That’s how I know I’m alive. Answer my question.”

“The sum of fifteen thousand dollars has been transferred from an account funded by one of the many arms of Russian intelligence to a St. Kilda Consulting account. Demidov has the connections to move very quickly, as apparently the order came through barely an hour ago.”

Steele’s black eyebrows rose. “Impressive. Your connections, as well as his.”

“Thank you.”

“So Demidov is indeed working for some aspect of the Russian government.”

“They are paying him,” Alara said. “It isn’t always the same thing. You will tell me immediately if your agent calls about contact by or from Shurik Temuri.”

Steele waited for several beats, then nodded. “As we agreed. Speaking of which…”

Alara waited, poised like a falcon ready to fly.

“Since when are Russia and the United States working the same side of the street?” Steele asked. “Did I miss the memo? Or is it the usual case of politics making ridiculous bedmates?”

“We have cooperated with Russia in the past, when both parties had the same goal.”

“Do you trust Demidov?”

Alara laughed in genuine amusement. “Do you?”

Steele rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Have Demidov and Temuri ever worked together in the past?”

She looked thoughtful. “Possible, but unlikely. Demidov is of another generation, political not criminal. Temuri came up through the mafiya. His family is rabidly against Russia. Temuri is simply rabid.”

“He has a lot of competition,” Steele said.

“That is the nature of life among the ruins. It suits Temuri. The most recent intel we have puts him with Chechen separatists, many of whom draw support from Wahabbi fundamentalists in the Middle East. Money, to be precise. A great deal of petro dollars.”

“Is Temuri selling them nukes?” Steele asked.

“Not the finished product. Not yet. Fissionable materials only. More suited to blackmail than to bombs. He is the middleman for more ordinary weapons, as well. We also believe he is responsible for at least one of the outbreaks of bubonic plague that have occurred on the fringes of former empire. One instance of plague served to keep the Russians out of a strategic area.”

“What if we take Temuri alive?”

“The Russians have offered a million dollars American to anyone who turns him over to them alive,” Alara said. “Dead? Perhaps he would be useful to Russia as fertilizer, nothing more.”

“Does Uncle Sam have any preferences about Temuri?”

“We would…enjoy…talking with him. But it is not required. Proof of death is. He has several rewards on his head. In fact, he is worth more dead to us than alive to Russia.”

“I’m not a bounty hunter.”

“Yet St. Kilda has collected bounties in the past.”

“Any bodies on our ticket were made on the way to a different goal,” Steele said. “Did you trace the telephone number Demidov gave our agent as a contact?”

“Useless. The phone was probably recently purchased and won’t be in anyone’s electronic files for a week or so. Too late to do us any good.”

“Do you know any more about what is actually at risk than Demidov does?”

Alara’s mouth tightened. “No. We are unhappy to find out he knew that much. It means there are more loose ends than we thought.”

“And the time limit?”

“Unchanged.” She stood up. “I wish your agents luck. We all will need it.”