by John Ringo
Okay, that placed Bureaucrat Two. Some of the discussion had to have been electronic and he was from the National Security Agency, the group that handled electronic intercepts and analysis. It had once been so secret it was called "No Such Agency" but had come a bit more out of the closet in the last couple of decades. They still were very low profile, but very very good.
"The Georgians can't or won't get troops into the area," Mr. "Mannly" said. "And they freak out if Russian troops violate their border."
"Can't," Mike said, definitely. "They've tried and gotten handed their ass every time. And I think Svasili would probably turn a blind eye to Spetznaz over this. Spetz might be able to penetrate."
"They won't," Pierson said, unhappily. "We asked. At the highest level. Nor will they let us take care of it."
"Did you ask about this thing in particular?" Mike asked, frowning. "Svasili is not, in my experience, that much of an asshole."
"No, just to let us quietly send some spec ops into the Pansiki," Mannly said. "Or let the Russians go in. We were willing to let the Georgians have all the credit if it worked and we'd go black if it went south."
Which made "Mannly" the CIA case officer managing the investigation. There were various covert ops groups that "Mannly" could use for this mission, but clearly they'd been ruled out. Probably at the level of the White House. The problem would be inserting and extracting them without the Georgians even knowing they were there. Things were too touchy in the area to piss off the Georgians. Among other things, they had gotten close to the US over the Russians for various reasons. And what with one thing and another, nobody wanted to drive them back. Whether it would be worth it over nukes was a question much higher than Mike's paygrade.
"And they didn't bite," Mr. "Mannly" said. "But we just happen to have the precise rendezvous point and time," he added, removing a CD crystal case from the folder and sliding it across the table.
Mike looked at the CD as if it was snake then picked it up.
"Two questions and a comment," Mike said, flipping the crystal case open and looking at the unmarked CD inside. "First the comment: There's a reason that I created a tidily little militia in the first place. It's called 'security.' Who's going to watch the store while the Keldara are gone for from a week to a month?"
"This shouldn't take a month," Tennis Pro protested.
"I wasn't asking you," Mike said, looking at Pierson.
"We can do Rangers again," Pierson said. "The usual company. Good enough?"
"That should do. Now for the questions: Was this discussed at a higher level? Specifically, at a high enough level?"
"Yes," Pierson replied, definitely. "It was."
"Question two: what's my take?"
"Standard recovery on a nuke is five mil," Mannly said. "If you recover the full shipment, the vig is twenty-five mil."
"Okay," Mike said, blowing out his breath. "I hate to sound mercenary but this is going to cost like crazy; that will do nicely. Nice to have never met you, gentlemen."
* * *
"The shipment of copra is ready for delivery," Rashid said, slipping into a chair.
The coffee shop in Docklands—a recently gentrified section of London—was a multi-ethnic stew of "traditional" English, islanders, Africans and every version of "brown" from Hindu to pale Berber North Africans. Set close to a major financial district, most of the patrons were business clothes but a few college students from nearby UEL in distressed chic added color. As did the occasional flash of "native" dress.
Two vaguely Arabic gentlemen in business suits were hardly out of place.
Mohammed Al-Kariya looked up from his laptop and tapped pudgy fingers together thoughtfully.
"Allah is benevolent," he replied. "The copra is first quality?"
"Impossible to tell until we examine the shipment," Rashid replied. "I have the proper reagents They were difficult to obtain. But I found them."
"As Allah wills," Al-Kariya breathed. "The umah shall be secure. Forever. The payment side is arranged, all as agreed. Arrange the transportation. With all due care."
* * *
"Copra?" The technician leaned back in his chair and looked around. "We got a code-link for copra?"
"Situational," the analyst across the van said. "Could be anything. He's bloody happy, though. Hard to tell with Kari-Lad but he is. Whatever it is it's big. And Rashid is not one of his usual middle-man. Says he mostly works with KLA and sometimes the Chechens."
"I hope somebody has a clue," the tech said, spinning back around and fiddling with the filter on the shotgun mike. "Because I'm sodding clueless."
* * *
Mike took a sip of his mocha and then flipped a page without looking around.
He wasn't sure if it was good trade-craft or lousy but he was, as instructed, sitting at an outside table at the Perk's Coffee Shop on N. Fairfax Street in Alexandria, Virginia, reading a book called "Spy Dust" about intelligence operations and methods during the Cold War.
As far as he could tell from the book, the tradecraft was lousy. On the other hand, he didn't expect the KGB to come arrest him. Or the FBI for that matter.
"Mr. Jenkins?"
Mike looked up and nodded as the businessman sat down. Nice suit, good shoes, great tie. Middling height, thin, ascetic face, brown eyes, light brown hair. Could be anywhere from forty to sixty. He looked like a thousand other guys wandering around Alexandria. The eyes really got caught by the tie. Bright yellow. Silk, for sure. Probably Thai. And one purchased overseas. Not the sort of thing you could pick up even in an expensive shop in the US.
"Mr. Jay?"
"Just Jay, please," the man said with a winning smile. "And may I call you Mike? Or would Kildar be more appropriate?"
"Mike works," he replied. "The whole Kildar thing is a little strange."
"Not really," Jay said with a shrug. "An international security specialist needs shooters. I understand that the Keldara are coming along nicely. I suppose you could hire Ghurkas, but the really good ones are getting very expensive these days. But I understand that Vanner isn't getting the job done."
"Not the way I'd say it," Mike said with a frown. "Vanner's sigint. I need humint. Vanner is probably at your level on sigint or very close. Less of a rep, admittedly, but he's very good."
"I accept the clarification," Jay said. "I take it, though, that if I work with you I won't be working for him."
"No," Mike said. "I'm not even sure exactly how a chain would look. I'd suggest that you two work it out. Frankly, I'm sure that there are plenty of times Vanner would prefer somebody with more experience around. But try to work together. If you start working at cross purposes we'll have a problem."
"Agreed," Jay said. "Payment?"
"Hard to say," Mike replied. "I can give you a salary number if you wish, but what I think would work better is to just say: Tell me what you want. That is, besides your salary, you're going to have expenses. I'm not going to nit-pick those. All I ask for is results. You tell me what kind of money you need and if I can't afford it I'll lay out my books and show you why. I'm running a very expensive operation. I make quite a bit of money on ops, enough to run it so far, but there's an upper limit. However, I'd put the upper limit on a million a year. I'd prefer that you tell me what you want to get paid, but understand that that is part of the budget. And if you don't use it all, that's fine too. I'm not going to ask why you paid some guy twenty-grand. You're not doing this for the money, anyway, or I wouldn't be talking to you. You're doing it for the fun, the excitement, the professional challenge and because you're a patriot."
"I am, am I?" Jay said with a slight smile. "You're sure."
"Yeah, I'm sure," Mike replied.
"Very well," the man said, smiling more broadly. "What are the parameters? Be aware that there are reasons DC hates humint. For one, it's slow. You have to take time building networks. For another, it's uncertain. You're depending upon what people tell you. People lie. Everyone lies all the time and especially in the
intelligence world. So I may get a piece of information that looks good and it will be terribly wrong. For a third, any intel is a two-edged sword. If you use it, you're often going to burn a source. That, in fact, was why I quit. I got tired of the State Department under our last president using my intel in negotiations and burning my networks."
"You ought to hear Vanner some time when he's going on about Clinton revealing we had OBL's satellite phone number and were listening in every day. I mean, the guy called his step-mom every damned day he could. And naturally she wanted to know what he was doing to further the jihad. And then our lovely president goes and talks about it on national TV."
"And, of course, there was the Chechen attack because the Russians revealed you were intercepting their calls," Jay said, nodding.
"You have good sources," Mike replied. "You going to stay out in the cold or you want to come to Georgia?"
"I wouldn't necessarily say that Georgia is in the warm," Jay replied.
"You'd be secure," Mike pointed out. "As secure as anywhere forward and arguably more secure than here. You're also going to need support. I'm not sure how much the Keldara can do along those lines, but they're there. I don't know what kind of support, exactly," he added, holding up the book, "but I keep realizing how much I'd depended on support staff back when I was working for Uncle Sam."
"But there's that long damned drive to the airport," Jay pointed out, smiling very slightly and quickly. The smile was just with the lips, not the eyes, and come and gone so quickly it was almost invisible. "However, I understand that the perks are great."
"I'm eventually going to get a helicopter," Mike said. "I don't like the drive, either."
"Oh, yes, now that would be covert," the man replied, snorting. "But your comment about support staff is germane. I don't suppose they sew?"
"All their own clothes," Mike said, nodding.
"I'll need to get some stuff to set up a shop," Jay replied. "Initial outlay may be high."
"I've spent better than four million outfitting the Keldara," Mike said with a grimace. "Higher than that?"
"Uh, no," Jay said with another fleeting smile. "I see a vast number of issues, however. I know just about every skill or task related to supporting my job. Except some of the more esoteric chemistry. However, passing those skills on will require time on my part."
"You want another body?" Mike asked.
"Again, no," the man replied. "I know a number of people who could provide support but none I would care to actually put my life in their hands. For the time being, I'll simply provide my own when necessary. There are professionals, as well, I can call upon for individual items."
"How's your Rolodex?" Mike asked. "Those tend to get out of date fast."
"For the technical items it is, in fact, up to date," Jay said. That smile again. "There are even a few... associates, a very few, on it that were not burned during my tenure or after I left. Notably in Iran and Syria. I'm not sure I can reactivate those networks, but I can look into it. Alas, I haven't anyone on the Chechen side. Those I had were all rolled by either the Russians or, in two cases, the Chechens. Okay, I just wanted to check you out in person. I'm in. Three hundred kay for me. And budget up to a million a year. I'll try to keep it much lower than that. Most of the time it will be well under. Works?"
"Okay," Mike said, shrugging. "I'm planning on going back tomorrow if you want a ride..."
"I'll make my own way," the man said, standing up.
"I'd be surprised if you didn't know this," Mike said, frowning, "but the valley is in a Georgian military controlled zone. You can't just waltz in and out. There are a slew of checkpoints to get through."
"Excuse me?" Jay said, the smile reaching his eyes this time. "Exactly why are you hiring me?"
"Oh," Mike replied. "Brain fart. Good point."
"I'll see you in Georgia," Jay said, walking into the shop.
Mike just had to do it. He sat out in the Alexandria sunshine for the next two hours, flipping through the book and not really reading while keeping an eye on the only entrance. But Jay never reappeared.
Chapter Ten
"At a certain level, there is no such thing as a storefront; the people it pays to shop with simply do not advertise."
Mrs. John J. Weston was a spare woman in her late fifties, much shorter than Anastasia. She seemed to never hurry, but made her way through the crowds like a lioness parting gazelles. People simply, instinctually, stepped out of her way.
Anastasia was simultaneously trying to take in the city, trying not to get overwhelmed and simply absorb Amelia Weston. She hoped that by the time she was a hundred she might have half the grace and just amazing aura the woman exuded.
Mrs. Weston was definitely not "Amelia." The First Lady, despite the fact that they were clearly friends, referred to only as "Mrs. Weston." That was fine by Anastasia; having to call the wife of the President of the United States "Amanda" had nearly killed her. She was much more comfortable with Mrs. Weston. She was not going to think of telling her, but Mrs. Weston reminded her, very much, of the first manager of Otryad's hareem she had served under, Salah. But Salah with a cosmopolitan background.
Samarkand? That had been a lovely stationing. Mrs. Weston named shops that Anastasia knew, and a list of shopkeepers, by name, that she only vaguely recalled. Details of meals and meetings in a calm, unhurried voice.
Tbilisi? Only for a short time when the General, capital letters, was an envoy. Lieutenant Colonel, then. Still Soviet, of course. Pleasant town but...gray. She understood from friends who wrote her that it was much more gay now.
No name dropping, no one upping, no "well, when the General was running arms negotiations for the SALT II Treaty..." No, all the mentions were small things to put Anastasia at her ease, to make her feel as if she had found a friend, a confidante. A highly formal one but a friend nonetheless.
In a hundred years...maybe.
"You have to know where to go," Mrs. Weston said, nodding at the bellman of what looked very much like a sprawling hotel.
"And here is where to go?" Anastasia asked. "This is a hotel, yes, Mrs. Weston?"
"It is indeed," Mrs. Weston said. "The Watergate of infamy and legend. But it has some places worth visiting as well. David has his hair cut here. All Good Republicans do."
"I am unfamiliar," Anastasia said. "I apologize."
"Oh, water under the gate, my dear," Mrs. Weston replied. "But quite famous."
The lady made her way to a back elevator, nodding to various people who obviously knew her and chose the fourteenth floor.
"It helps," she said, "if you think of it as a very large souque. I have to make the assumption, you will forgive me, based on the First Lady's request, that you have not done significant travel in cities."
"I have not, Mrs. Weston," Anastasia admitted. "I think you have seen more of Samarkand than I have. And Tbilisi, for that matter. I have not even been in the souque very much. Only twice that I recall."
"Hmm, hmm."
Anastasia wasn't sure exactly what "Hmm, hmm" meant but she suspected that a very sharp and cosmopolitan mind was putting some clues together.
They exited the elevator and turned down the corridor, stopping at a door that looked very much as if it went to a hotel room or possibly suite. It had a number but below that was a discrete brass plaque that simply said: G. Groome, Clothier.
Mrs. Weston didn't bother to knock. She just opened the door and swept in.