believed only in good.
Demidov enjoyed working with a culture that believed in God but not in the Devil. Americans were so genuinely surprised when flames burned through their flesh to the bone.
Unfortunately, the world wasnât made up of Americans. The so-called nations of the Former Soviet Union understood about the reality of evil. Some of them contributed to it at every opportunity.
A movement in the marina caught his eye. He lifted his camera again, bracing the long lens on the railing. A light touch of his finger and the automatic focus homed in on the brunette who had reappeared from the cabin of Blackbird. Even though he knew that he wouldnât be able to identify her at this distance, he took a series of quick pictures. Digital cameras were useful for fast transmission ofimages, but they just didnât have the resolution of a good, slow film camera.
But tourists carried digital cameras. As long as he appeared to be a tourist he could vanish among the crowds. He was pushing it by having a long lens on the digital frame, something few tourists had. He wasnât particularly worried. People saw what they expected to see. If anyone asked him a question, he would answer it in genial American English.
To the crowds around him, Demidov was just one more sightseer enjoying Seattleâs long summer days.
That startling, useful naïveté about strangers hadnât changed since Demidov had first come to the U.S. many years ago, as a young commercial attaché in the Russian Consulate in San Francisco. He had been amazed then at his freedom of movement from city to city, state to state. He was still amazed. His movements were unwatched, unmarked, anonymous. As long as he stayed away from any Russian Federation consular buildings, he didnât have to worry about FBI counterintelligence watchers.
All he had to do was wait for Shurik Temuri to 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 captainâs âfriend.â 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 enoughfor a useful shot. He held his breath, waiting, waitingâ¦.
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 didnât want to give away his identity to strangers.
When he turned back, camera and hands shielding his face, he couldnât 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 didnât 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.
Demidov enjoyed working with a culture that believed in God but not in the Devil. Americans were so genuinely surprised when flames burned through their flesh to the bone.
Unfortunately, the world wasnât made up of Americans. The so-called nations of the Former Soviet Union understood about the reality of evil. Some of them contributed to it at every opportunity.
A movement in the marina caught his eye. He lifted his camera again, bracing the long lens on the railing. A light touch of his finger and the automatic focus homed in on the brunette who had reappeared from the cabin of Blackbird. Even though he knew that he wouldnât be able to identify her at this distance, he took a series of quick pictures. Digital cameras were useful for fast transmission ofimages, but they just didnât have the resolution of a good, slow film camera.
But tourists carried digital cameras. As long as he appeared to be a tourist he could vanish among the crowds. He was pushing it by having a long lens on the digital frame, something few tourists had. He wasnât particularly worried. People saw what they expected to see. If anyone asked him a question, he would answer it in genial American English.
To the crowds around him, Demidov was just one more sightseer enjoying Seattleâs long summer days.
That startling, useful naïveté about strangers hadnât changed since Demidov had first come to the U.S. many years ago, as a young commercial attaché in the Russian Consulate in San Francisco. He had been amazed then at his freedom of movement from city to city, state to state. He was still amazed. His movements were unwatched, unmarked, anonymous. As long as he stayed away from any Russian Federation consular buildings, he didnât have to worry about FBI counterintelligence watchers.
All he had to do was wait for Shurik Temuri to 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 captainâs âfriend.â 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 enoughfor a useful shot. He held his breath, waiting, waitingâ¦.
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 didnât want to give away his identity to strangers.
When he turned back, camera and hands shielding his face, he couldnât 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 didnât 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.
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