by John Ringo
"Mr. Jenkins," the American said. "I'm David Wangen. A pleasure to finally meet you in person."
"Likewise," Mike said, shaking the intel officer's hand. "Bob Steinberg sends his regards."
"And this is His Excellency Sheik Abdullah Otryad," Wangen said in Russian, gesturing to the host.
"A pleasure to meet you, Excellency," Mike replied in the same language, bowing slightly. "Your fame, wisdom and knowledge is renowned throughout the world."
"As is yours, Mr. Jenkins," the sheik said, bowing in turn. "I welcome you to my house and invite you to take refreshment with me."
"I gratefully accept," Mike replied. "The hospitality of the sheik is as famous as his wisdom." Mike had a hard time with the latter word in the sentence and substituted what he thought was the right Arabic instead.
"You know the language of the prophet?" Otryad asked, waving the two of them towards the garden.
"Only a bit," Mike replied in Arabic. "Very little."
"We will continue in Russian, then, if you don't mind," the sheik said. "My English is much like your Arabic."
"I am sure you surpass me in every way," Mike said, looking over at Wangen and rolling his eyes. He knew that the higher you got in Islamic cultures the language got more and more florid, but he was running out of buttery phrases.
"I am told you live in Georgia," the sheik replied, gesturing for them to take seats around a hammered brass table. Mike had seen things like it in bazaars but even in the most ornate homes they were only decorations. From the stains, it seemed the sheik used it as a regular table. There was an ashtray on the table and the sheik reached into his suit to pull out a pack of cigarettes. They weren't the ubiquitous Marlboros, Mike noticed, but a brand he'd never heard of, Nat Shermans, American or British at a guess.
"Do you smoke?" the sheik asked, offering the cigarettes.
"A cigar from time to time," Mike said. "I run too much for regular smoking."
"Then we must get you a cigar," the sheik said, clapping his hands.
There was a fourth spot at the table and as the sheik pulled out a cigarette and snugged it into a holder, a fucking vision entered the garden through a side door. The girl was in her mid-twenties and so beautiful it was scary. Long blonde hair pulled up at the back to reveal a long neckline, high cheekbones, heart-shaped face, tartar eyes, lovely legs and magnificent breasts. She was wearing a long blue dress just a shade lighter than her dark blue eyes. She was accompanied by two men who carried a tray of coffee makings.
"Anastasia, cigars for our friends," the man said, not looking around.
The girl looked at one of the men and then leaned forward to light the sheik's cigarette, taking a seat next to him. The two men laid out the coffee and then retreated as she began to serve.
"Georgia is a lovely country, or so I've heard," the sheik said.
"Very high mountains," Mike said, trying not to frown. In American society not introducing the lady would be the height of insult but he respected he was just supposed to ignore her. "Very wild in a way. Much wetter than Uzbekistan, obviously, very green. If it weren't for the mountains it would be a breadbasket. As it is, it's mostly small farms. A small seacost on the Black Sea. I've never been there but I'm told it's pretty."
"Do you live in Tbilisi?" the sheik asked, picking up a small cup of coffee and sipping at it.
Mike lifted the coffee that was offered to him by the girl and sipped at it as well. It was incredibly thick and sweet, more like a syrup than coffee.
"No, my home is much like this," Mike replied. "I happened on it, got lost in a snowstorm if you can believe it. Rather liked the old fort and it came with a farm so I bought it."
"A small farm?" the sheik asked. "They are rarely profitable."
"Errr," Mike temporized. "Rather large, actually. Right at a thousand hectares. One of the larger valleys, quite fertile. There's a small town next to it and some tenant farmers. The caravanserai is much like this house; I felt right at home as soon as I entered." Mike noticed that the girl looked up at that and frowned. He wasn't sure what he'd said wrong.
"There's a serious security situation in Georgia, I'm told," the sheik said. "I, of course, am more interested in internal matters of Uzbekistan, but I hear rumors, read the news."
"The Chechens are a problem," Mike admitted. "The Ossetian problem doesn't really touch on us; we're on the other side of the country."
"The Chechens are a scourge," the sheik said, shaking his head. "They use Islam as a shield for the most vile of crimes. Breslan was an atrocity."
"They've killed more people than that in Georgia," Mike said. He paused as one of the servants came back in the room bearing a cigar box. Mike didn't recognize the brand but did see the word "Cuba" on the side. The girl extracted two cigars, snipped them and started them with a lighter, then gave one to Mike and the second to Wangen. "They say they're freedom fighters but in Georgia they're more like bandits. I'm trying to do something about that in my area, forming a small militia from the tenants who work the farm." Mike puffed on the cigar and found it to be incredibly strong. He caught the smoke in his mouth and let it back out carefully, unsure of exactly how you smoked something this strong. And foul. He preferred much lighter cigars.
"Such men rarely make decent soldiers," the sheik said, shaking his head again. "What do peasants know?"
"As you say, Sheik," Mike replied, shrugging.
"You disagree?" the sheik asked.
"The Keldara are an old tribe," Mike said, picking his words with care. "And they are warrior stock, that is evident in . . . well a lot of things. And I'm not just handing them guns; right now there are about twenty former American and Brit spec ops troops preparing to train them. For that matter, I've poured about two million dollars into equipment. If they can't outdo the Chechens with that level of training and equipment, well, I'll go find some Gurkhas to replace them."
The sheik chuckled at that, leaning back and handing the cigarette holder to the girl.
"You have your own security concerns I think," the sheik said as the girl replaced his cigarette with a fresh one.
"There are people who would very much like my scalp on their wall," Mike said, shrugging again. "Thus far they haven't managed. Generally it's been the other way around."
"You are capable?" the sheik asked.
"Competent," Mike answered.
"Let me interject if I might," Wangen said. "In American culture, understatement is the norm when you are trying to make a point. To say that you are competent means you are, in fact, very good. Mr. Jenkins is more than competent; he is among the very best in the world at what he does."
"Among the very best?" the sheik asked, raising an eyebrow.
"There are some CAG that are better," Mike said, shrugging. "Those guys are freaks of nature."
"CAG?" the sheik asked, looking at Wangen.
"Delta Force," Wangen translated.
"And, let me be plain about something," Mike said. "I occasionally do favors for the American government. Sometimes I do those favors before they know they need them done. But I'm not a general contractor."
"That is understood," the sheik said. "Your house is much like this one?"
"Except for entering directly on the garden and the fact that the foyer has a dome, practically identical," Mike admitted. "I suspect that it's much the same layout. It's been rebuilt a couple of times. The last major rebuild appears to be Turkish."
"And it is well guarded?" the sheik asked.
"At the moment it's guarded by American and Brit former special operations personnel," Mike said, smiling. "I think their reputation precedes them. When they are gone, it will be guarded by the Keldara or better. And then, of course, there's me," he added, smiling faintly. "We had a recent problem with the Chechens not getting the word that there was a new sheriff in town. They learned the error of their ways."
"And you had a hand in that?" the sheik asked, interestedly.
"Mostly in stopping their van," Mike
said, shrugging. He looked over at Wangen and raised an eyebrow. He received a nod in return. "It was headed down the valley. Catching it would have been a pain in the . . . would have been a problem. So I took it down from the caravanserai."
"How far?" Wangen asked, interested in spite of himself.
"About two klicks when I got the engine block," Mike said. "The angle was pretty steep."
"A moving van?" Wangen asked, raising his eyebrows.
"Doing about forty," Mike said, shrugging. "Barretts are good at light material engagement." He had to put that in English since it went outside his Russian.
"I didn't catch that," the sheik said.
"The gun is good at killing vehicles," the woman said, quietly. "The Ba-rette."
"Ah," the sheik said, nodding. "The American .50 caliber rifle. I have one myself. But . . . two kilometers?"
"He is, as I mentioned, very good," Wangen noted.
"Formidable," the sheik said. "And does this formidable American have ladies to keep him formidable?"
"That was what the van was carrying," Mike said, shrugging. "Girls who had been picked up from farms to be sent to town as they say. To be whores in other words." He looked at the woman for a moment, then averted his eyes. "It's nearly impossible to find their farms and the families would not accept them back anyway."
"Of course not," the sheik said, frowning. "Are these the women you intend to make up your hareem?"
"Nothing else to do with them," Mike said, shrugging. "We hit the impact point of our two cultures. In your culture they are considered damaged goods. In mine they are considered specially protected. I intend to land somewhere in the middle. I considered various things to do with them. The most obvious, from my perspective, is to bring them into my household as concubines." He'd used English for the word since he hadn't figured out the right Russian term.
"Keeping teenage girls is not easy," the sheik said, smiling and handing over his finished cigarette again. "I suggest the stick on regular occasions. It reminds them who owns the home."
"I will take the suggestion to heart," Mike said, smiling faintly and taking another sip of coffee syrup. "However, neither Georgian culture nor my own has a background for exactly what I've ended up with. There are whore masters, of course, but . . ."
"Pimps are unworthy to approach a true hareem," the sheik said, shaking his head. "The hareem is a place of peace and contemplation; pimps would turn it into a place of sex, pure and simple."
"Well, I'm not going to discount the sex aspect," Mike said, wrinkling his brow.
"Of course not," the sheik said. "But the hareem is far more than sex. A hareem that is well run is where the lord goes to regain his sanity from the day of stress. There is much that he can delegate, but the ultimate responsibility lands upon the lord. That is day-to-day stress that, also, is unknown in your society. Very few have that sort of stress laid upon them. For the lord must not talk about his problems to his followers, lest they lose faith in him. He must hold it all in, all upon himself. The hareem is where he goes to escape that. It is only in the hareem that he can discuss his problems, for the women of the hareem are closed from the outside. They do not talk outside the hareem and thus the fears and problems of the lord stay safe. Thus the women of the hareem must be trained in far more than simply sexual arts. They must be trained to soothe and please their master, to remove the stress, not add to it. Thus, we have the problem of teenage girls, who are a problem all of their own."
"That they are," Mike said, thinking about Katya and then inserting Katrina in addition.
"You need an assistant," the sheik said.
"Agreed," Mike replied, raising an eyebrow. "I seek your wisdom in that."
"Anastasia?" the sheik said, looking at the woman. "You are over time to leave the hareem."
"Yes, my lord," the woman said, nodding and keeping her eyes down.
"This would be a good choice for you, I think," the sheik said. "You will go with him."
"Yes, my lord," the woman said, nodding.
"It is done," the sheik said, waving his hands. "Go and prepare to leave."
Mike started to open his mouth and then froze at a small gesture from Wangen. It seemed like a hell of a cold way to get sent out of the only life the girl had known for . . . probably a decade at least.
"She will be ready to leave shortly," the sheik said, dismissing the girl with another wave. "Her replacement has already been trained. This is better for her, I think. She is educated, but after living in the hareem it is hard to adjust to the outside. She would probably have found work managing girls for a pimp in some brothel. This is much the better course. She is old, of course, but she will be adequate for some time to come."
"My thanks," Mike said, letting out a breath that held much unsaid.
"I may have need to call upon you at some time," the sheik admitted. "Nothing that the American government would find amiss, I assure you. But I have my own security concerns, concerns that also concern the American government. Having a man who is . . . good with his hands, who owes me a favor is useful."
"A friend in need is a friend in deed," Mike said, noncommittally. "I take it you have my number."
"I do," the sheik said. "And American military scrambler codes."
* * *
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Mike wasn't sure of the protocol when Anastasia came out the door but he boarded the car, first followed by the girl, then Wangen. Her bags, three, had already been loaded in the trunk so they pulled out with a last wave to the sheik.
"Back to the Hilton, Tom," Wangen said, letting out a breath as the car cleared the gates. "Drop Mr. Jenkins and his friend off, then to the embassy."
"Airport," Mike said, getting out his sat phone. "I have to get back to Georgia. If that's okay?"
"Fine," Wangen said. "It's closer than the Hilton. What about your luggage?"
"I had it sent to the plane," Mike said. "I'm on a bit of tight schedule."
"Problems at home?" Wangen asked, curiously.
"A festival," Mike replied, shrugging. "Then we're starting training on the militia. They're starting issue today. Nielson and Adams have that well in hand, but I'd like to be around in case there are problems. And I definitely need to be there for the festival."
He called Hardesty and made sure they were ready for a late take-off, then leaned back in the seat as the limo bumped over the roads to Samarkand.
"What can we talk about?" Mike asked.
"I dunno," Wangen said. "How much are you going to be discussing around your new harem manager?"
"Otryad wants to be president," Anastasia said. "He knows that he'd get American backing if the choice is him or Dulmaa."
"Probably," Wangen admitted. He looked at Mike and shrugged. "Dulmaa is . . . well, he runs as an Islamic fundamentalist, but not as fundamental as, say, the mullahs in Iran. He's more of a conservative in the local sense. The usual riff about cleaning up the corruption but he's as deep in the take as anyone. But he's not a friend of the U.S. He'd be hard pressed to toss us out, but he could make things harder for us. We'd much prefer Otryad over Dulmaa."
"I'm not going to take out a major presidential candidate," Mike said, shaking his head. "Ain't gonna happen. Wouldn't be prudent."
"Otryad is not going to ask for help with that," Anastasia said. "Dulmaa has to live. But he is closely supported by others, including the Dar Al Islami party. Their head is Farhad Bazarhuv, also untouchable. But they are a front for the Islamic radicals. It is those he fears and wants help with."
"Islamic radicals I do," Mike said, breathing out. "I take it you're not going to assign Delta or Army of Northern Virginia on it?" ANV was known by a half a dozen acronyms, all of them false, but it was the blackest of black ops units, existing in a nebulous world somewhere between the military and CIA. Mike had ended up in its hospital, twice, a place where the patients didn't even have a name, just a number. The personnel for ANV were drawn from the military, but after they left they
never returned. Even Deltas came back in when they had too much rank for the relatively small force. ANV operatives just disappeared into the night and fog.
"No way," Wangen said. "Maybe if we get a sniff on somebody like Rabah Batatu; he's connected with Al Qaeda or at least a supporter. And he's probably connected to the Dar Al Islami in some nebulous way. But the radicals that Otryad has a problem with are internal matters to Uzbekistan. They're not in our sights at the moment. Even for a 'friend.' Not even for ANV."
"Dulmaa will use the radicals to disturb the election," Anastasia continued. "They will intimidate candidates and attack rallies. There are a few key members, Ju'ad Puntsag comes to mind, who are better off dead. Certainly from Otryad's point of view."
"Puntsag we've got a sheet on," Wangen said, nodding. "More of a street thug than a terrorist, but nobody would miss him, not even his mother. But since he's a street thug and not a terrorist, he's definitely not in our sights. CAG and ANV is out."
"Otryad has his own people," Mike pointed out.
"They are big and can hold guns," Anastasia said, shrugging. "I don't know that they are . . . formidable."
"Christ, all I wanted was a damned harem manager," Mike said, sighing. "I take it this didn't get discussed at the highest levels in a very specific 'didn't' way."
"Absolutely not," Wangen said. "I definitely did not get a disk delivered by courier from the NSA discussing the ramifications of you meeting with Otryad."
"Great," Mike grumped. "God damn that bitch. If they want to do black ops they have plenty of people available."
"But it won't be as black as this," Wangen pointed out. "The U.S. government has absolute deniability on it. Real deniability. We gave you a ride to meet the guy and an intro. What happens from there is not our deal."
