When she hit speed dial, she glanced over her shoulder. The Zodiac had backed out into open water and was now heading south, toward its dock next to the ferry terminal.

Blackbird had turned into the marina four hundred yards to the north and disappeared.

“Where are you and what are you doing?” her cell phone demanded.

It had become Faroe’s standard greeting when one of his operators called in. As operations director of St. Kilda Consulting, he had a lot to do and no time to waste doing it.

“Blackbird is on the wing,” she said, “headed for Belltown Marina.”

“For the night?”

“That’s what I’m going to find out.”

“Get aboard somehow. Before our guy in Singapore vanished, he left a scratch on the inside of the electrical panel cupboard. Given the dither factor on the satellite beacon, it’s a low-tech way to be certain that we’re talking about the same boat.”

Emma called up the interior of Blackbird from her mental file, located the panel, and said, “Will do.”

“Any bogies?” Faroe asked.

“So far, so good.”

“Said the skydiver as he reached for the ripcord.”

Weaving her way through herds of tourists, Emma half-smiled at the gallows humor. Vintage Faroe.

“If Blackbird is what we’re told it is,” he continued, “somebody is keeping tabs on her. Could be the man running her. Could be the man behind the tree. Find out.”

“Still getting the pings?” she asked.

Faroe covered the phone and said something she couldn’t hear.

Holding on to her backpack strap, Emma checked over her shoulder as she walked north. Old professional habits. She’d thought that quitting the Agency would strip away her professional paranoia.

It hadn’t. Maybe just being a woman alone in modern cities kept the reflexes alive. Maybe it was simply who she’d become. Whatever. It was part of her now, like dark hair and light green eyes.