Echo of War by Grant Blackwood Read Free Book Online

port on the peninsula road; she sits in the second anchorage from shore.
    Stephan tracked the binoculars over the water until he saw the one Nafed had indicated. “Isee it.”
    â€œShe’s called the Barak. Forty-two feet, flying bridge, accommodations for twelve. She can cruise at nineteen knots with a range of thirteen hundred miles. As luck would have it, my sources tell me her owner—has financial troubles. For the right price, I’m sure he would be happy to report her stolen—and even happier to collect the insurance.”
    Stephan scanned the yacht for a few more moments, then nodded. “She’ll do. I’ll need her no later than six days from today. A few days before, I’ll send one of my people to make the final arrangements.”
    Nafed smiled. “Massena beef. Now, let us dispose of the unpleasant business of my fee…”

4
    FBI Headquarters, Washington, D.C.
    McBride had never liked FBI headquarters.
    It wasn’t the Hoover itself that bothered him, but rather the connotation he’d come to associate with it: rules, regulations, stolid tradition. In some irrational part of his brain he worried that such conditions might be contagious. As far as he was concerned when it came to hostage negotiation, formulaic thinking tended to get people killed. Whether it starts out that way or not, a kidnapping eventually becomes an emotionally charged event for both kidnappee and kidnapper. Trying to fit that kind of situation into a box rarely worked.
    Given the seeds from which he was sprung, Joe wasn’t surprised by his independent, slightly rebellious attitude. In fact, his family history was rife with it. According to legend, in the 1850s his great-grandfather was one of the original members of the Robert Emmit Literary Association, the precursor to the Irish Republican Army. During World War Two, a distant cousin working with the French Resistance to smuggle Jews out of the country was captured by the Nazis and summarily executed. On the maternal side of his family, he claimed a long line of relatives in France’s Savoie region, where fierce independence—if not downright orneriness—was the regional pastime.
    Besides, McBride reminded himself as he walked into the lobby and headed toward the receptionist desk, whenever he walked the Hoover’s halls, he could almost feel the implacable gaze of J. Edgar on his back. He absently wondered if they had a file on him stashed in a warehouse somewhere: In sixties, subject McBride known to have chased bra-less hippy girls and listened to Jimi Hendrix albums. Categorize as marginal deviant and continue observation.
    â€œGood morning, sir, can I help you?” the receptionist asked him.
    â€œJoe McBride. I have an appointment.”
    The receptionist typed on her keyboard, then nodded. “Yes, sir. I’ll need two pieces of identification.” McBride handed over his driver’s license and social security card, which were both examined, then photocopied, then handed back. “And sign here, sir.”
    McBride signed the clipboard. The receptionist compared his signature with the photocopies, then handed him a visitor’s badge. She signaled to one of the blue-suited escorts standing nearby, who walked over. “This way, sir.”
    The escort glanced at McBride’s badge, then lifted a portable radio to his mouth: “Guest McBride, ninth floor, coming up.”
    â€œRoger, waiting,” came the reply.
    That’s new, McBride thought. The last time he’d been here there’d been no lobby escorts, let alone two. Then again, much had changed since 9/11. In hindsight, it seemed ridiculous that such measures hadn’t always been pro forma.
    When the doors parted on the ninth floor, a second, similarly dressed escort was waiting. He gave McBride a curt nod, said, “This way, sir,” then turned and started down the hall. Halfway down he stopped at the door.