Chapter Eight
Mike hit the answer button on his phone and threw the estimates for the convention booth costs on the desk. He hadn't realized it would be that much. Just getting electric run was a minimum of two hours at $175 per hour. Thank God he didn't need internet connection! At least the photo shoot had worked out well. He had some killer shots that had been worked into three different brochures and a poster of Katrina that was sure to be a big hit. But the more he looked at the rest of his plans, the more he realized he was going to need some pull in D.C. ...
"Go."
"Kildar, there is a call from the United States," one of the Keldara women said over the speaker phone. "An officer in the State Department."
"Put it through," Mike replied, picking up the handset. Speak of the devil ...
"Mr. Jenkins?" a cultured voice said a moment later.
"The same," Mike growled. The only thing worse in the U.S. government than IRS agents, in his opinion, were the Northeastern Liberal brahmins that ran the State Department. And this guy sounded like a classic case.
"Mr. Jenkins, my name is Wilson Hargreave Thornton, I am a desk officer for the Moldava section in the State Department."
"I don't suppose that's located in Minot, North Dakota, is it?" Mike asked. Moldava was the poorest country in Europe, with no major exports except blonde hookers. It was hardly the France desk.
"No, Mr. Jenkins," the man said, laughing dryly and quite falsely. "The Moldava desk is hardly Siberia. It has had some serious action of late. And it's about that that I wish to talk to you. I was asked to do a favor for a senior member of the legislative branch. However, I've exhausted my sources in this matter. When I so informed him he, quite out of the blue, asked if I knew you and if I would contact you for him. I will say you're a hard man to find."
"I like it that way," Mike said.
"So I understand," the man said, chuckling again. He had the dry chuckle of a person who had had their sense of humor surgically removed but tried to act as if it was still intact. "I would like to ask you to come to Washington for a few days and meet with the member I was referring to. He needs someone with your ... background."
"I don't think so," Mike said. "I don't go around taking orders from 'senior members of the legislative branch.' I don't even take them from senior members of the executive branch."
"Mr. Jenkins," Wilson Hargreave Thornton said seriously, "you have many enemies both internationally and, frankly, within the government. Having a senior senator that owes you a favor is in your best interests. I might add that the senator has already been instrumental in helping you. I believe you recently received a grant from the International Monetary Fund?"
"Yeah," Mike said, grimacing. "I'd thought they were being pretty friendly with the taxpayers' money."
"Nonetheless," Thornton replied, clearly smiling.
"And what the hell does a senator have to do with the IMF?" Mike asked.
"Mr. Jenkins," the State Department officer answered, chuckling, "there are senators and senators. And then there are the ones that can quietly suggest that stalled paperwork be unstalled. Or, for that matter, permanently stalled I might add."
"My ... background is generally lots of dead bodies," Mike said bluntly, ignoring the implied threat. "Senior senators have a remarkable way of forgetting past favors when bodies turn up."
"Not this time," Thornton said, just as bluntly. "I'll tell you that it involves a young lady who is in trouble. And you are, frankly, the only name that came to mind to fix that problem. Given your ... background."
"Crap," Mike muttered. They knew his hot buttons, that's for sure. "When?"
"The senator can set aside tomorrow evening for a quiet and discreet discussion," Thornton replied. "Would that work for you?"
"If I can get a plane," Mike said. "And this is not going to be a freebie unless it's dead easy."
"Understood," Thornton replied. "Check in to the Washington Sheraton. The senator will contact you there."
"And you'll disavow any connection to me, right?" Mike said, grinning.
"I'm glad you understand," Thornton said, cutting the connection.
* * *
"Anastasia," Mike said, sticking his head in the harem manager's office. "Could you do me a favor and pack me some bags. I have to go to D.C. Enough for a few days. No uniforms. Some casual clothes and a few suits with sundries."
"Very well, Kildar," Anastasia said. "When will you be back?"
"Not sure," Mike admitted. "But that will do for as long as I'll need those clothes. And call that charter company in England and get me a jet. I might as well travel in style."
* * *
Mike hated D.C. It wasn't anything personal, just a formless resentment. When he'd been a SEAL, D.C. was synonymous with the "brass," the medal-bedecked bastards, most of whom had never heard a shot fired in anger, who sent the teams out to work miracles and then bitched when they failed. Or performed the miracles but caused a bunch of bad press over dead tangoes.
Now, somehow, he'd ended up being brass. Or close enough as made no never mind. He didn't walk the corridors of power, but if he picked up the phone he could be having a quiet dinner with the President this very evening. Or the secretary of state or defense or the national security adviser. That made him, de facto, a Washington "player," even if he spent his time staying as far away as he could.
And at the moment he was particularly pissed. He was just hanging out waiting for a phone call. He hadn't even brought one of his "ladies" with him to pass the time. All he could do was watch Fox News and kick his heels.
He got up and walked to the minibar, preparatory to just getting stinking drunk and telling the "senior senator" to go stuff his mission, when the phone rang.
"Jenkins," he growled.
"I've set aside a meeting room on the third floor," a faintly familiar baritone replied. "The Sherman Room. Follow the signs."
"I'll be there in a few minutes," Mike said. Might as well find out what the fucking senator wanted.
* * *
There were two heavies outside the room. They had the look of Secret Service, which made the "senior senator" very senior indeed. As Mike approached the door a man in coveralls came out carrying a black instrument bag. The "senior senator" had had the room swept before the meeting, which was rather unusual.
"Jenkins," Mike said, stopping at the door and ignoring the technician.
"Cell phone, pager and PDA, please," one of the men said, holding out a canvas bag with a zipper lock.
Mike pulled out his cell phone and dropped it in the bag, then shrugged. The other agent pulled a magnetic wand and ran it over him as the first agent zipped the bag shut and handed Mike the key.
When Mike was swept, the agent knocked on the door and opened it to a faint call from inside.
Mike instantly recognized the "senior senator" when he entered. He couldn't quite place the name, but he'd seen him on TV a few times.
"Mr. Jenkins," the man said, getting up from his seat at the conference table and walking over to the door to shake Mike's hand. He had a a commanding presence and a firm handshake and looked Mike right in the eye. He was a guy you trusted immediately. Just like any good con artist or politician. Speaking of redundancy. "I'm Senator John Traskel."
"New Jersey," Mike said, nodding his head. "You're the guy they're saying's going to be the next minority leader."
"And I'm the senior minority member of the Senate Foreign Relations committee, which is more to the point," the senator said, waving him to the a seat. "But please call me John."
"Mike," Jenkins said, sitting down. "You've got a problem."
"One of my constituents does," the senator said, nodding sagely. He was a tall guy with prematurely gray hair that was perfectly coiffed and his suit hadn't come off the rack. Mike also remembered that there was serious family money behind the senator, something in excess of a hundred mil. Come to think of it, he was also one of the few members of the Democratic party who was a tad right wing on social issues. Which was why he was also being bruited around for a presidential candidate in the next election.
"His daughter has gone missing," the senator continued, opening up one of the folders and sliding a picture of a girl in a bathing suit across the table. She looked about fourteen and filled the suit well. Blonde and very pretty.
"Natalya Fedioushina," the senator continued. "Fourteen."
"Call America's Most Wanted," Mike said, sliding the pic back to the senator.
"She went missing in Moldava," the senator said seriously.
"How the fuck did that happen?" Mike asked, aghast.
"The gentleman is a native Ukrainian." The senator sighed. "His wife was visiting relatives in Moldava when the young lady was kidnapped. Presumably for, well ..."
"To be sold as a sex-slave," Mike said. "It's Moldava's only real export. And you want me to find her? Do you have any idea what sort of task that is?"
"Yes," the senator said, nodding. "I do. I've seen both the open and the classified data on the sex-slave industry. But we do have one lead."
"Go," Mike said, shrugging.
"This man," the senator continued, sliding another picture across. The pic was taken of a man exiting a small foreign car, a Lada Mike thought from the roofline. Heavyset, dark, he had the look of a Balkans pimp type, one each. "Yuri Smegnoff. He is most probably the man who kidnapped her. Unfortunately, we don't know what he did with her."
"How long?" Mike asked.
"Two weeks ago," the senator replied, slipping the pic back into the file and sliding the whole folder across.
"By now she's in Albania or Serbia being broken in," Mike said, flipping the folder open. There were more pics of the girl and of Smegnoff as well as a list of his common hangouts.
"We just want to know where she is," Traskel said.
"That's not going to be easy, even if this pimp is a good contact," Mike replied.
"You very much want to do this mission, Mr. Jenkins," the senator replied tightly. "I need the favor. And you don't want me remembering that you didn't help when I needed it."
"Was that a threat, Senator?" Mike said, smiling but not looking up. "Please. You've got access to some of my files, at least. Any threat from you is hardly going to sway me."
"You're playing with the big boys now, Mr. Jenkins," the senator almost snarled. "This isn't killing a few terrorists on an island in the Bahamas. This is the kindness and consideration, or not, of the United States Senate. You really don't want to piss me off."
"I've been playing with the big boys for a long time, Senator," Mike said bluntly. "Again, water, duck."
"All my constituent wants is his little girl back," the senator said tightly. "Please?"
"Big contributor?" Mike asked, flipping through the file.
"Yes," the senator admitted. "Very large."
"Good," Mike said, closing the file and looking at the senator again. "Because this isn't going to be a freebie. I won't be able to lone-wolf this one. I'll need an intel team and shooters most likely. This is likely to get bloody."
"I believe that you already got a fairly substantial IMF grant ..." the senator said, frowning.
"Hah!" Mike said, chuckling. "That's barely earnest money. You have any idea how much an op like this is going to cost me?"
"I suppose I should," the senator said, nodding. "A million?"
"More like five," Mike said, frowning. "It's going to be expensive on my end. I'll submit a cost sheet at the end. He'd better pay up."
"That won't be an issue," the senator said.
"You want her extracted?" Mike asked.
"Just found," the senator replied. "When we know where she is, we can use other channels to get her out. Legal channels. I trust that I don't have to suggest that my name not come up if anything ... untoward occurs."
"I'm very discreet," Mike replied, standing up. "But when I send you the bill, your friend had better pay it. Because if he doesn't, you will."
* * *
Mike perused the file as the Gulfstream crossed the Atlantic. Finding the girl wasn't going to be easy but that wasn't what was bothering him. The girl in the photos was certainly pretty enough, but she didn't look like a girl having a great time at the beach. And he was sure the picture wasn't taken in the U.S. The rocks along the beach were limestone or something similar. There simply weren't any major beaches in the U.S. that had limestone around them. Not like the stuff in the pic, anyway. He'd put money on the pic being taken on the Adriatic or Black Sea coast. And the bathing suit she was wearing in the one pic and the dress in the other were European, not American.
On the other hand, the unnamed "constituent" was an immigrant. The pics might have been taken in the Old Country. But the girl's eyes ... she was not enjoying having her picture taken. It wasn't teenage surliness. She was resigned and unhappy.
Mike frowned and looked close at the bathing suit pic. He wished he had a magnifying glass with him because it looked very much as if the girl had a large bruise on her abdomen. Like from a punch.
The whole op had a bad feel to it. The minor State Department official contacting him, the senator, the pictures. It just didn't add up.
Well, he'd know he'd found out what was really going on when it started to stink.
* * *
"Well, it would certainly be nice to have some support from the other side of the aisle," Nielson mused as he looked at the pictures. "And the lady is certainly charming enough in a naifish sort of way."
"Tracking her's going to be a stone bitch, though," Adams pointed out. "Most of the gangs running this racket in that region are Albanians. They're right bastards and mostly come from Albanian clans. They all know each other, so we won't be able to insert anyone."
"Not on the runner's side," Mike said, rubbing his chin.
"What are you thinking?" Nielson asked, looking up.
"I'm thinking that we need Vanner and Cottontail in here," Mike replied.
* * *
"That's the op," Mike said looking at Vanner and the Russian hooker. Cottontail was sitting up and apparently paying rapt attention but that could mean anything. Mike had picked her up from the local brothel, very much against his will. The girl was pure poison. Either as a result of her experiences as a sex-slave or from nature she was a vicious sociopath and delighted in making life for everyone around her miserable. Since she'd been living at the caravanserai, Mike had kept her from being too much trouble by keeping her busy, first in studies and then later working with Vanner in the intelligence section. The girl was smart as hell, which was part of the problem; as a whore she'd been underutilized.
But she had the makings of a first class agent. She simply had no soul and was a great actress.
"How are you planning on tracking her?" Vanner asked curiously.
"Well, the first line is that we're going to pay a trip to the pimp and ask him nicely what happened to the girl," Mike said, then looked over at Cottontail. "The other string rests with you."
"You want me to go into that," the girl said, waving at the papers.
"It's not like you don't know the moves," Mike replied flatly.
"What's in it for me?" Cottontail asked, just as flatly.
"Money," Mike said. "Twenty thousand euros for the entire op, assuming you do your job. And you'll get to fuck over the sort of guys that made you a whore. We're going to be having a lot of polite and charming conversation with them."
"Do I get to watch?" Cottontail asked seriously.
"If it fits the mission," Mike said. "And I'll guarantee you that we'll be following. I won't say bad things won't happen to you, but we're going to be on your ass the whole way. I guarantee you won't be stuck back in the system and we'll try damned hard to keep you alive. But mostly it will be up to you. You in?"
Cottontail looked at him coldly for a moment then nodded.
"At the very least, take pictures," she said, suddenly grinning in a way that was truly scary.
"Will do," Adams replied. Of all the men who knew her, Adams was perhaps the only one who liked her. At least in part because he liked right bastards.
"We're going to need to fill out the team," Mike said. "We'll need an intel and operational section and a group of shooters and security. We're going to have to insert across multiple borders, through multiple police jurisdictions and, worse, into multiple gang territories. And after a bit the fact that we're closing on something might become obvious. The intel section ..."
"Tracking devices," Vanner said, looking at the ceiling. "Bugs. Cameras. Shotgun mikes. Body mikes ..."
"You're on it," Mike said, looking at Adams. "The shooters ..."
"Team Sawn is dialed in on entry techniques," Adams said. "Break it down four ways. One team for entry, one for security, attached to each main group. We'll need vehicles ..."
"The white vans the traffickers use," Nielson said, nodding. "Plenty of room and ..."
"The Keldara girls that are handling intel and commo will just look like more whores on their way west," Mike said, nodding. "With the shooters as their guards. We got us a plan?"
"Well," Nielson said with a sniff. "It's a start."