Death Echo

64

DAY FIVE

MANHATTAN

10:49 P.M.

Alara sat in Steele’s office as she had for hours, talking on her phone, trading favors, calling in IOUs, bribing, threatening careers, and looking more exhausted with each lost minute.

Steele didn’t look any better. St. Kilda had been combing through its own mazes, searching for something-a hint, a tone of voice, a choice of words, something done or undone-anything that would indicate that someone knew more than he or she was telling.

Nothing had come his way.

“Deputy Director of Operations on line four,” Dwayne said to Steele. “Two other calls standing by, but they’re just lower-level screamers.”

Steele nodded. He paid Dwayne very well to sort out important calls; at times like this, he was worth double his salary.

“Switch Duke to my phone,” Steele said.

Alara’s black eyes narrowed as she focused on each nuance of Steele’s expression and words. The image of a dying city haunted her, slicing her soul with the knowledge that her children’s children had inherited a world gone mad.

But when was it ever sane? she asked herself bitterly.

She had four advanced degrees in global history. She was no closer to answering the sanity question than she had been as an eager student whose mind was on fire with the beauty and complexity of the world’s cultures and history.

The complexity, at least, remained.

Even the beauty, sometimes.

Without realizing it Alara shook her head. She had lived too long knowing too much-and not nearly enough.

Steele watched her as he listened to Duke. If her eyes had been open, he would have thought she was warning him against talking to the CIA’s Deputy Director of Operations. But her eyes were like her past, closed.

“Duke,” Steele said finally, “I give you my word that you have everything we have. More. You know what originally kicked this avalanche off the mountain. St. Kilda doesn’t, which places us at a real disadvantage.”

“You’re in a tough place,” Duke agreed. “We all are. This kind of investigation is difficult in the extreme. People won’t, often can’t by the very description of their office, say anything until there is agreement that it’s necessary to reveal highly, highly sensitive secrets. Decades of careful placement of agents and officers is at stake.”

“If you make Seattle’s memorial big enough, your explanations might fit on the plaque.”

“Damn it, Steele. It’s not only our people at risk. Our allies-”

“Will pass the hat for the plaque,” Steele said. “So will our enemies. When it comes to sharing real information, there’s little difference.”

“We have sat intel people working 24/7,” Duke said. “Problem is, there’s a storm moving down the northwest coast from Alaska. It’s already hammering the Queen Charlotte Islands. Northern Vancouver Island will feel it tomorrow, but the clouds are coming in right now.”

“I’m certain your satellite intelligence technicians are capable of penetrating a few clouds.”

“Whether or how much is classified,” Duke said.

Steele bit off a particularly vicious oath. It seemed that the only thing unclassified about this steaming pile of shit was the finger-pointing.

“Look,” Duke said, “I’ve given you all that I can and more than I should. Tim Harrow’s diver confirmed that Blackbird is on the bottom. He and the team are standing by for any hint, however unlikely, of Black Swan. Another team has joined them. They are highly specialized and so secret that I’m the lowest ranking officer who knows of their existence. Every sign of Blackbird’s scuttling is being mopped up.”

“The environment thanks you.”

Duke swore. “If I could get away with giving you men and material, I would. But until you give me a Swan sighting, my hands are tied. You sure your agents haven’t really gone rogue and are playing for the other team? You know it happens.”

“Unlike you, I’m very certain of my employees.”

“Hackers, then.”

“I’ll note your suggestions for the feasible deniability file.”

“Steele, if I…” Duke’s voice died.

There was nothing to say.

Both men knew it.