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took the smile off Lovich’s face.
    â€œHe says he’s not interested in selling.”
    â€œAre you going to be around for a few days, or do you have another job?” Amanar asked Mac.
    â€œI’m getting my boat ready for a cruise. I’ll be around.”
    â€œGreat. We don’t have anything right now, but you never know.”
    Mac heard what wasn’t being said: Now get lost.
    â€œYou have my cell number,” Mac said. “I’d like my check. I’ve got some bills to take care of.”
    â€œStop by tomorrow morning,” Amanar said. “The bookkeeper is gone now.”
    Mac nodded, not worried. Blue Water Marine Group had always paid him on time.
    As he started to gather his charts and stow his gear in a red canvas duffel, the three men disappeared down into the engine room. He could hear their murmured conversation. All were speaking the third man’s language.
    Mac heard someone rap a piece of metal on the side of the heavy, sheet-steel fuel tank on the port side. Then Amanar muttered a single word. If his tone could be trusted, it was praise rather than curse.
    Duffel in hand, Mac stepped onto the dock. The marina parking lot was full of empty cars. The nearby streets had the usual traffic for a small town on a working night.
    And Mac felt like he was being watched.
    Shove that along with the memories.
    The back of his neck didn’t listen.
    He paused at the top of the marina ramp and looked around, trying to find a reason for his unease.
    It wasn’t the cement-cold stranger. He was still below decks with the owners of Blue Water Marine.
    Mac swept the front ranks of the parked vehicles on the marina lot, searching out spots where someone could see without being easily seen. There were pickup trucks, a few panel vans, and plenty of rusted-out urban beaters worth less than the gas in their tank. Nothing unusual.
    Except the hair on his neck wouldn’t lie down.
    Get over it. You’re in the good old U. S. of A., not on a mission. You promised Tommy you’d meet him. Quit looking for excuses to stay in town.
    But I need a shower. Fact, not excuse.
    His own boat was docked on the other side of the marina, a mile closer than the little house he owned. Mac cut across a corner of the parking lot, punched in a code at another gate, and vanished down the gangway.

8
    DAY ONE
MANHATTAN
11:30 P.M .
    A mbassador Steele turned away from the wall of television screens in his office/home. A quick push with his hands sent his wheelchair humming across the polished tile floor. He had a motorized wheelchair but preferred the modest exercise he got rolling himself around his large office.
    He hit the button blinking on his phone and spoke so that the microphone could pick up his voice. “Steele.”
    â€œEmma Cross, as requested.”
    â€œThank you, Dwayne.”
    In the next room, his assistant transferred the call and went back to talking in a low voice into the headset he wore.
    â€œYou requested information on MacKenzie Durand, called Mac,” Steele said, forcing himself not to look at his watch.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œI’ll tell Grace as soon as we’re finished, but I wanted you to know right now that Durand could be a valuable ally or a lethal enemy. Until five years ago, he and his Special Ops team were deployed into some of the world’s nastiest places. On the last op, he was the only survivor. He quit and never looked back. Rumor is that the CIA hung his team out to dry with bad intel.”
    At the other end of the line, Emma drew in her breath and stared out over the marina parking lot. “Mac wouldn’t be the first that happened to.”
    â€œOr the last. The political back-stabbing among American intel agencies is St. Kilda’s biggest recruiting boost. That and the built-in lack of competence that comes from political hacks being appointed to high office.”
    Emma wanted to laugh, but it hurt too much.