Death Echo

in American waters, Blackbird had resumed its northerly course. But if the big American had found the bug that had been put aboard in Asia, he hadn’t disabled it. Moscow Center was locked on Blackbird ’s locator signal. Everything was on track.
    Demidov was locked on the location of a sleeper who had been under so long he wondered if she still spoke Russian. To find her address, he followed the electronic maps on a device attached tothe dashboard. It was amusing to have so much accurate, on-the-ground information about local roads at his fingertips. Even where the technology existed in Russia, his country wasn’t nearly so helpful to visitors.
    Some things never changed. Paranoia was one. Staying alive was another. Demidov understood the necessity of the first for the second.
    The colorful little display panel on his dashboard directed him to a small, weather-beaten house in a grove of cedar and alder trees overlooking Nanoose Bay. Demidov lowered the window, turned off the ignition, and simply sat, letting the sounds of the place wash over him.
    Birds.
    Whisper of sea breeze edged with salt and cold.
    Engine ticking.
    More birds.
    Silently he got out, eased the door shut, and looked through the trees toward the saltwater. A big, gray-hulled service vessel with a large white number painted on its side slid through the chain of islands at the mouth of the bay. There were other boats on the water, smaller boats, civilians rushing around, ignoring the official naval installation that had become an accepted, if sometimes irritating, part of their daily lives.
    The sweeping view on the cliff was the reason for putting a sleeper in place at this spot. The ships coming and going were mostly Canadian naval vessels, with regular visits from U.S. vessels for joint actions in Whiskey Gulf. Each ship that paid a visit to the wharves tucked into the blind end of the bay had to pass beneath the wooded bluff. The sleeper logged the movements and duly reported to her homeland.
    Or she once had. The reports had stopped a few years after the government stopped sending payments to her Hong Kong account.
    Demidov walked to the other vehicle that was parked beneath the trees. He touched the hood of the car. Cold.
    He listened for a time and finally picked out the sound of a radio or television underneath the natural sounds. It was coming from the cabin. Swiftly, silently, he walked up the overgrown path and knocked on the door.
    Footsteps approached. The door opened.
    The trim, aging woman with the unlikely red hair wasn’t the same as his memories, but there was no doubt of her identity. The female wearing a gray fisherman’s sweater and lightweight wool pants was the same agent he had put in place a lifetime ago.
    The world had changed a lot since then. But not enough to free Galina Federova, known to her Canadian friends as Lina Fredric.
    She stared at him for a long three count. Understanding—and a deep current of wariness—darkened her blue eyes.
    â€œGalina,” Demidov said. “Invite in an old friend.”
    She started to slam the door. Then she noticed his left hand deep in his jacket pocket, sensed as much as saw the deadly weight his fingers were wrapped around. Fear streaked through her, followed by anger.
    So many years.
    So many, and still not enough.
    She had finally believed she was free. And now he stood in front of her, holding a weapon hidden in one pocket.
    â€œAnd what do you have in your other pocket, Taras?” she asked coldly. “Money? Another weapon?”
    â€œA different kind of shot, Galina.” He smiled, deepening the lines in his face. “Vodka. Much preferred, yes?”
    â€œMy name is Lina.”
    â€œBut of course. Let me in, Lina.”
    The dark hair she remembered was steel gray now, thinner, but the deadly grace of the man himself hadn’t changed. In a physical confrontation with him, she would lose.
    Without a word she turned her back on him and walked into her small house, leaving him to stay or follow as he wished.
    It is always what he wishes, she thought bitterly. So much changes, but that never changes.
    Damn Taras for the devil he is.
    Demidov shut the door and followed his unhappy hostess down a short hallway into a living room with three big picture windows that faced out onto the water. The gray ship entering the harbor was in the middle of the view.
    â€œI see the Americans are still using the torpedo test range,”