nodded.
Atwater said, "By Feds, you mean the National Marine Fisheries Service?"
Freeman nodded again.
NMFS was a division of the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, the government agency responsible for carrying out more than three dozen federal statutes designed to protect fish stocks from depletion and marine mammals from extinction.
"She'll want a necropsy done too," Freeman added. "To understand howand why Samson contracted this fatal disease. And a proper burial, of course."
Savannah set the photo down on Freeman's desk, her displeasure with the entire affair written all over her face. "Yeah, well, given this plan Mitchell's cooked up, we need to persuade her otherwise, don't we?" She glanced at her watch. "And there's no time to waste. We've got less than thirty hours left, not nearly enough to get done what needs to get done."
Freeman stared at his feet. "I'm just saying ..."
Atwater spoke up. "So, who else knows about the whale's death, Colby?"
"Our senior vet and Samson's head trainer, Leanne. That's it."
"And they're not talking, right?"
"Not a chance," Freeman said. "The vet's actually an ex-marine buddy of Mitchell's. Long story short, let's just say I inherited old Big Boy and leave it at that. He's as loyal as a sheepdog though, so no worries there. Now Leanne, she—"
"She's a friend of Dr. Kincaid's," Savannah interrupted, her voice icy cold. "Which means they talked. It's what girls do. They love to talk. Unlike you men who sit around shooting the shit... and saying nothing."
Freeman jumped in, ignoring the dig. "Actually, I've already spoken with Leanne. She gave me her word she wouldn't tell a soul, including the doc."
"And you believe her?"
"Yes. Her daughter's ill and the treatments cost a fortune. No way she can possibly afford them without good health coverage."
"I can appreciate that," Savannah replied. "Even so, we're running out of time."
"Then let's pay the good doctor a visit," Atwater said, tongue-in-cheek. "Suggest to her, in a nice way of course, that she needs to back away from all this, give us some breathing room. And I know just the man for the job."
Savannah threw him a look. "Let me guess, the same guy you sent to San Diego last summer to keep that cocky journalist quiet. What's his name?"
"Iago," Atwater replied.
Freeman was hardly a Shakespearean scholar, but he knew Iago was one of the Bard's more sinister knaves, a soldier and close confidant of Othello. "What am I missing here?" he asked.
Atwater explained. He said he'd grown up in Ashland, Oregon, the only child of two company actors with the town's famed Shakespeare Festival. In deference to his parents, he'd code-named all Black Stallion operatives after prominent characters from Shakespeare's plays, adding, "Iago's got the fiercest eyes I've ever seen and I swear he's got ice water running through his veins. Navy man, recruited back in the first Gulf War to be part of a secretive counterterrorist unit known as Seal Team Six. It's a quick-strike team with a single-minded mission—kill terrorists and rescue hostages. Same bunch that took down Bin Laden, they're that good. After leaving the Navy, he was recruited by a clandestine CIA unit and trained as an assassin. He's been with us for over three years now."
Freeman felt a small knot form in the pit of his stomach. He'd been raised in a white-collar suburb north of Chicago, the only son of a soft-spoken jeweler and an elementary school principal. He knew nothing of the dark world of mercenaries, men who trained in the shadows and jumped out of airplanes in the middle of some godforsaken jungle. His mind was now catapulting from one looming disaster to another. "C'mon, how much muscle do we need? I mean the woman's a marine biologist, not some bomb throwing maniac from al Qaeda."
"Relax, Colby," Atwater said with a perfect poker face. "Nobody's going to get hurt. The guy's a real pro. He'll be in and out and make his point before the woman has
Atwater said, "By Feds, you mean the National Marine Fisheries Service?"
Freeman nodded again.
NMFS was a division of the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, the government agency responsible for carrying out more than three dozen federal statutes designed to protect fish stocks from depletion and marine mammals from extinction.
"She'll want a necropsy done too," Freeman added. "To understand howand why Samson contracted this fatal disease. And a proper burial, of course."
Savannah set the photo down on Freeman's desk, her displeasure with the entire affair written all over her face. "Yeah, well, given this plan Mitchell's cooked up, we need to persuade her otherwise, don't we?" She glanced at her watch. "And there's no time to waste. We've got less than thirty hours left, not nearly enough to get done what needs to get done."
Freeman stared at his feet. "I'm just saying ..."
Atwater spoke up. "So, who else knows about the whale's death, Colby?"
"Our senior vet and Samson's head trainer, Leanne. That's it."
"And they're not talking, right?"
"Not a chance," Freeman said. "The vet's actually an ex-marine buddy of Mitchell's. Long story short, let's just say I inherited old Big Boy and leave it at that. He's as loyal as a sheepdog though, so no worries there. Now Leanne, she—"
"She's a friend of Dr. Kincaid's," Savannah interrupted, her voice icy cold. "Which means they talked. It's what girls do. They love to talk. Unlike you men who sit around shooting the shit... and saying nothing."
Freeman jumped in, ignoring the dig. "Actually, I've already spoken with Leanne. She gave me her word she wouldn't tell a soul, including the doc."
"And you believe her?"
"Yes. Her daughter's ill and the treatments cost a fortune. No way she can possibly afford them without good health coverage."
"I can appreciate that," Savannah replied. "Even so, we're running out of time."
"Then let's pay the good doctor a visit," Atwater said, tongue-in-cheek. "Suggest to her, in a nice way of course, that she needs to back away from all this, give us some breathing room. And I know just the man for the job."
Savannah threw him a look. "Let me guess, the same guy you sent to San Diego last summer to keep that cocky journalist quiet. What's his name?"
"Iago," Atwater replied.
Freeman was hardly a Shakespearean scholar, but he knew Iago was one of the Bard's more sinister knaves, a soldier and close confidant of Othello. "What am I missing here?" he asked.
Atwater explained. He said he'd grown up in Ashland, Oregon, the only child of two company actors with the town's famed Shakespeare Festival. In deference to his parents, he'd code-named all Black Stallion operatives after prominent characters from Shakespeare's plays, adding, "Iago's got the fiercest eyes I've ever seen and I swear he's got ice water running through his veins. Navy man, recruited back in the first Gulf War to be part of a secretive counterterrorist unit known as Seal Team Six. It's a quick-strike team with a single-minded mission—kill terrorists and rescue hostages. Same bunch that took down Bin Laden, they're that good. After leaving the Navy, he was recruited by a clandestine CIA unit and trained as an assassin. He's been with us for over three years now."
Freeman felt a small knot form in the pit of his stomach. He'd been raised in a white-collar suburb north of Chicago, the only son of a soft-spoken jeweler and an elementary school principal. He knew nothing of the dark world of mercenaries, men who trained in the shadows and jumped out of airplanes in the middle of some godforsaken jungle. His mind was now catapulting from one looming disaster to another. "C'mon, how much muscle do we need? I mean the woman's a marine biologist, not some bomb throwing maniac from al Qaeda."
"Relax, Colby," Atwater said with a perfect poker face. "Nobody's going to get hurt. The guy's a real pro. He'll be in and out and make his point before the woman has
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