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appear and claim
Blackbird
. Unless the sullen old wolverine was disguised as a supple brown-haired female, Temuri was staying hidden in the background. Shadow man in a shadow world.
    As was Demidov, who tracked the woman through the camera lens. She walked like an American, open and confident. Maybe she was the captain’s “friend.” Maybe she was a player. If she got close enough to the camera, he would find out if Moscow had any record of her.
    Like a hunter slipping from blind to blind, Demidov tried to take pictures of the woman as she approached. If the crowd around him moved, he went with it. He was careful never to be alone against the sky. That could attract attention. Attention was the death of many a careful plan. And man.
    He lined up for another attempt. She was almost close enough for a useful shot. He held his breath, waiting, waiting….
    At the last instant the woman turned away, attracted by the white flash of a seagull diving for food thrown by laughing tourists. Turning away like that was a trick experienced agents had, an instinct that made them duck.
    Or it could be what it looked like. Coincidence.
    Demidov swore silently and turned in another direction, giving her his back as she reached the top of the ramp and slipped into a group of pedestrians. Like the woman, he didn’t want to give away his identity to strangers.
    When he turned back, camera and hands shielding his face, he couldn’t find the woman. His mouth flattened. Thinking quickly, he took more pictures of nothing. He could follow her or follow
Blackbird
.
    Demidov turned back to Belltown Marina. If the woman was a player, she would reappear when the yacht was delivered in Rosario. If not, it didn’t matter.
    All that mattered was
Blackbird
.

6

DAY ONE
    NORTH OF SEATTLE
    4:15 P.M.
    E mma pulled off at a rest stop and sat for a few minutes, pretending to talk into her cell phone. The people in the two cars and one long-haul rig that had followed her off the freeway got out, went into various restrooms, walked dogs, and stretched out cramped muscles. Everyone piled back into the same vehicles and left.
    She watched her mirrors and told herself to stop being paranoid. Herself didn’t listen.
    She blew out an impatient breath and punched two on her speed dial. The outgoing call to St. Kilda was automatically scrambled, just as incoming calls from St. Kilda were automatically decoded by her phone, which could use either satellite or cell connections. All of St. Kilda’s field agents carried the special phone. In a pinch, it could double as a camera, still or video, with or without sound.
    “Faroe’s phone,” said a woman’s voice. “Grace speaking.”
    “Emma Cross. Is he around?”
    “Annalise has her daddy in a chokehold. Anything I can do for you?”
    Emma laughed. “I’d like to see that.”
    There was a brushing sound, then Faroe’s voice said, “Where are you and—”
    “I’m north of Seattle, heading for a Puget Sound waterfront town called Rosario,” Emma cut in. “The captain is about six foot two inches, rangy, stronger than he looks, unusual coordination, maybe thirty-five, very dark brown eyes, short black hair and beard, no visible scars or missing digits or teeth.”
    “Name?”
    “MacKenzie Durand, called Mac, no ‘k,’ according to his card.”
    “Impression?” Faroe asked.
    “Warm smile, cold eyes. Very smart. In the right situation, I bet he’d be damned dangerous.”
    Faroe grunted. “Somebody wasn’t happy to find out that
Blackbird
is the same vessel that left Shanghai.”
    “Somebody will have to be happy with the radiation patch and business card I passed off in Seattle.”
    “Somebody is never happy.”
    “Yeah, I get that. The
Blackbird
is either owned or brokered by Blue Water Marine Group in Rosario,” she continued. “I’d like a fast run on them from research. Mac is a transit captain. Is the research in on him yet?”
    “Still pulling threads. Stay on him and watch your