Death Echo

56

DAY FIVE

NEAR DISCOVERY PASSAGE

3:00 P.M.

Tim Harrow paced the empty public docks. He thought about calling St. Kilda and chewing out whoever answered, but he didn’t. He’d already yelled at Joe Faroe, started to yell at Grace-who disconnected-and fielded calls from his own boss, who he wished he could disconnect.

No one was happy.

Blackbird had fallen completely off the scope.

Rogue agents, my ass, Harrow thought savagely, even as he appreciated the ploy from a strategic viewpoint. St. Kilda Consulting could throw up its hands and deny all responsibility.

It was what he would have done if he’d been in Steele’s place.

That didn’t mean Harrow enjoyed having it done to him. He was fresh out of that valuable commodity called deniability. The feeling of a cold wire noose tightening around his balls made him twitchy.

He picked up the binoculars hanging around his neck and scanned every bit of water he could see.

Nothing but wind and currents. Not a boat. Not a seagull. Not even a clot of seaweed.

Not one damn thing to hide behind.

Nothing to take out his frustration on.

Nothing to do but wait for something that might never happen. And listen to the cracking sound of his brilliant career falling in lethal shards around him.