by John Ringo
He hit play and the screen showed a masked but naked man in bed with two women, girls really. One of them Mike recognized immediately as their target, the other was unknown.
"The other female is Ludmilla Seventy-Eight," Vanner said, continuing to let the video stream without sound. The scene was pretty clear. Neither of the women were having fun as the man worked "Ludmilla" over with what looked like a soldering iron and a pair of pliers. The target, Natalya, was simply chained to the bed in a position where she had to watch.
"The video is broken, but the end is there," Vanner continued in a strained voice.
The next snippet showed the same scene, but in that portion Ludmilla was on her face with the masked man apparently taking her anally. From what was visible of her back, she had apparently been whipped in one of the missing segments. As Mike watched, the masked man wrapped a thin cord around the girl's neck and strangled her while he was taking her. When her struggles had ended, permanently, the man got off of her and the video abruptly ended.
"There's no way to tell that that's Grantham," Mike commented.
"Well, there's one corroborating item," Vanner said, backing the video up and turning on the sound while handing Mike a pair of earphones.
Mike didn't really want to watch the video again but he put on the earphones anyway.
"Fucking bitch," the masked man snarled. "Little fucking whore. I'm going to do you in every hole and then fucking kill you. You're playing with the big boys, now! Beg me for your life and you might live, bitch ..."
The video continued in the same vein for some time and Mike finally hit the pause button.
"And?" he asked.
"Here's a video of Grantham talking to the cameras," Vanner said.
Mike watched that video as well and listened to the voice with his eyes closed, then played the snuff film as well with his eyes closed.
"Same voice," Mike said, shaking his head.
"I thought so, too," Vanner said. "But something was bugging me about it. So I took a good look at the video."
He brought up a screen capture in PhotoShop. The capture was of the masked man, stretched out next to the murdered girl and working her over. He'd apparently stretched his back and he was at full height.
"The bed is a standard European double," Vanner said, bringing up a ruler tool. "The height of the bed is seventy-eight inches." He laid the ruler down and got a length off of it. "Senator Grantham is six foot one or seventy-three inches." He laid the ruler down and got the height off of the figure in the video.
"Doing the math," he continued, pulling out a cocktail napkin and sketching the numbers on it, "I get that the guy in the video is only five feet ten inches tall. More like five nine. Max of five eleven."
"So what's with the voice?" Mike asked. Something was nagging at him about the video but he couldn't put his finger on it.
"Various ways it could be cloaked," Vanner said, shrugging as the wheels chirped on touchdown. "There's a device that goes on the vocal cords that can change a voice. Not perfectly, but close enough for this. Not my area of expertise and I don't have the equipment to do a really tight voice compare. But what this looks like is a deliberate frame of the senator by person or persons unknown."
"And you can bet that Traskel is in it up to his patrician eyeballs."
Chapter Twenty-Seven
"Mr. Jenkins," the first man through the door said, holding out a limp hand to be shaken. "Horace Wythe-Harcourt of the Foreign Office. A pleasure to meet you."
"And you, sir," Mike said, nodding as two more men came through the door of the plane.
"Jasper Drake, MI-5," the second man said, nodding. "And my counterpart from MI-6, John Carlson-Smith." Drake was tall and slender with an air of respectability about him that would have done for a banker.
"Pleasure," Carlson-Smith said, shaking Mike's hand firmly. Carlson-Smith was a short-coupled, broadly muscled blond man with a nose twisted from a fight.
"What can I do for you, gentlemen?" Mike asked, waving them to seats in the office compartment.
"To be clear about our intentions," Wythe-Harcourt said, smiling, "we're not going to ask you about the special operations group you have on the plane or your cargo."
"About forty automatic weapons, RPG launchers, ammunition for both and sundry other devices of destruction," Carlson-Smith said, also smiling. "Why'd you leave the Semtek? Certainly not space considerations. We have people in the Zagreb airport, you see."
"So what are you going to ask about?" Mike said, ignoring the question.
"We believe that you have recovered intelligence from a villa outside of the town of Rozaje," Drake replied smoothly. "It has come to our attention that a member of the British government has recently been making decisions that are ... somewhat out or character. Actually, three members. All of whom recently served in the Balkans and all of whom have known proclivities that might have been ... assuaged in that villa."
"Crap," Mike muttered. "You've got yourself a real problem, then."
"You don't have intel?" Carlson asked. "I'm surprised. From the after action report it was a very clean op."
"Cards on the table and no repercussions, then?" Mike said, smiling also.
"None," Carlson-Smith replied, directly. "We just want the take."
"That's going to be a problem," Mike said. "There's three 'takes.' They kept paper records and made videos. But the vids were then burned to DVD and sent elsewhere. There are some remaining snippets on a hard drive. We've got the hard drive and the paper records, which are in Albanian, but not the DVDs. And I'm taking all of it to the U.S. We've got a higher priority problem than a couple of diplomats."
"I'm not sure that will work," Wythe-Harcourt said smoothly. "The problem is that there may or may not be other records that are a higher priority problem, as you put it, for Her Majesty's government as well as allied governments. We would very much prefer that the information remain close, if you will."
"So what you're saying is that we're not leaving with our intel?" Mike asked bluntly.
"We assure you that all the information that is germane will be handed over to the American government," Wythe-Harcourt said calmly. "It's simply that we actively prefer that those items of interest to Her Majesty's government not go astray as it were."
"Well, then we've got ourselves a problem," Mike said, still smiling. "You see, there is information that is of very great importance to the people and government of the United States in that intel. So you'll see where I've got an issue with turning it over to you. At least as much of an issue, if not a greater one, than you have with turning it over to the U..S government. I see a very ugly stalemate."
"We need that hard drive," Carlson-Smith said tightly.
"Calmly, John," Wythe-Harcourt said, smoothly. "This is why we are negotiating."
"I'm not sure what the basis of negotiations would be," Mike said, shrugging. "You're not going to let me take off with the intel and I'm not going to turn it over. I didn't get rid of all my Semtek, by the way, and you're going to have a very hard time capturing the data before it's destroyed, given that I've got twenty top-flight troops on the plane. SAS isn't going to do you much good except to get the data destroyed and make one hell of a mess. And an international incident between two countries that have a very special relationship."
"So you're not going to give it up?" Drake asked musingly.
"Over my dead body," Mike said. "Literally. That is how you're going to have to get it. And the bodies of my troopers."
"Calmly, Mr. Jenkins," Wythe-Harcourt said, sighing. "Calmly. As I said, negotiations. Your concern is understandable. Is ours?"
"It's a matter of relative concern," Mike said. "There is data in there, that we have found, that is uncontrovertible proof of crimes committed by a senior member of the U.S. government. That's not going anywhere but a very secure facility in the US. And we're not sure we have all of it. Further, there may be other data as dangerous. This data is extremely sensitive but right
now all you have is the Sword of Damocles hanging over a few of your minor diplomats. That's a world of difference from what the U.S. is looking at. Relative concern."
"We have information that there may be a higher degree of concern for Her Majesty's government," Wythe-Harcourt said, deadpan.
"How high?" Mike asked carefully.
"Very high," Carlson-Smith practically snarled. "Very damned high."
"Stalemate again," Mike said, shrugging. "Anybody? Because I'm not planning on going home empty-handed. And Gatwick Airport is a lousy place for a firefight, I'll also admit. People would ask questions and there'd be all sorts of media and ..." He shrugged and smiled. "For that matter, they'd ask questions if the plane simply sat here for a few days." He paused for a moment and then shrugged.
"Let me bring someone else into the discussion," Mike said, musingly. "If I may?"
"Someone ... discreet?" Wythe-Harcourt asked.
"My intel specialist," Mike said. "Former Marine intercept specialist. Did time with the NSA. Good enough?"
"I suppose," Drake said.
Mike picked up the phone and hit the connection to the rear. "Send Vanner up. Tell him to bring his computer and notes," he said then turned back to the threesome. "Care for some coffee while we wait? Or, pardon, tea?"
* * *
"Yeah, boss?" Vanner said when he came through the door.
"These gentlemen are from the British government," Mike said, waving him to a seat. "They think there are some Rozaje files that are important to them. Important enough that we're not taking off until we turn over all our intel. I told them over my dead body. And yours, by the way."
"Oh," Vanner said in thought. "Yeah, I guess it would be over mine, too. Hell, even the girls'. Even if they didn't know why."
"So let's discuss the take with these gentlemen and try to come to some sort of arrangement," Mike said.
"So you're saying we don't trust the Brits with this stuff and they don't trust us?" Vanner asked.
"That would sum it up nicely," Drake said dryly.
"I think that's it," Mike said, frowning at the Brits. "I, frankly, don't know any of you from Adam. And strange things happen with intel in bureaucracies. I know the people I'm going to be turning this over to. I trust them not to abuse it."
"And for our part, I must add that we most especially do not trust you," Wythe-Harcourt admitted. "You're a free agent, an international security contractor with a very shady reputation holding the blackmail equivalent of a nuclear weapon."
"There is that," Mike said with a grin. "And I've got copies, moreover. Horrible thing. Vanner, how many video clips did you get?"
"There were a bit over two hundred listed 'scenes' in the files," Vanner said, temporizing. "I haven't translated all of them, but there about the same number of video clips, most of them incomplete. Natalya was listed on three scenes before being translated. I cross-referenced those scene files and found the one we were looking for in the hard copy. But finding the video was more luck than anything. I had to scan through clips of the scenes one by one but I found her on the seventh clip. That was the one I showed you. But I don't know what is on the other scenes and there's no file directory to cross-reference to the hard copy files."
"There were two hundred women killed in that place?" Wythe-Harcourt asked, his eyes wide.
"Approximately," Vanner replied. "Women were not killed in all of the scenes but in a few of them more than one was apparently killed. The highest I found was three. I think that guy needs to be tracked down and taken out; he apparently hardly engaged in rape, just torture and murder."
"Later for that," Mike said. "Gentlemen, what are you looking for? Maybe we can just extract the hard copy files and try to find the video clips and turn them over. Understand, the Albanians still have the DVDs."
"I'm not sure that will be sufficient." Wythe-Harcourt sighed. "And we'd very much like to avoid naming names at this juncture."
"Screw this," Mike said, picking up a phone. "Greznya, get me OSOL on the line."
"Mr. Jenkins," Wythe-Harcourt said, firmly, "I really believe that the fewer people brought in on this ..."
"And I believe that this decision is at the wrong level," Mike replied bluntly. "Like I said, I don't know you guys from Adam and as you said I've got no cred in your eyes. So let's get people with cred involved. This is too high level for us to be dicking around with."
"I'm here at the personal orders of the Foreign Minister," Wythe-Harcourt said, just as bluntly.
"Head of MI-6 for me," Carlson-Smith said.
"Head of MI-5 in my case," Drake added.
"And I've got marching orders from the President," Mike snapped. "I think I trump."
"Parker."
"You're sounding tired," Mike said.
"End of shift," Parker said. "Pierson's supposed to be in in about an hour. What do you got?"
"The Brits are refusing to let us take off with the take," Mike said tightly. "They're afraid that someone senior is on camera. Someone senior in the British government."
"Oh, joy," Parker said with a sigh. "And we have ..."
"We have something very interesting," Mike said. "Among other things, we've got data that tends to disprove our previous intel. The person named previously does not appear to be really present. But there is enough there for a slighly lame frame of said person."
"Interesting," Parker replied. "We need that data."
"That's what the Brits are saying," Mike said. "And they've got the guns to prove it."
"I hope it doesn't come to that," Parker said.
"Yeah, especially since without this take the previous information is out there," Mike said. "We need bigger guns in on this."
"I'll make some calls," Parker said with another sigh. "I'm going to have to wake people up."
"Great," Mike said. "Especially since right now my body has no idea what time it's supposed to be."
Mike ended the connection. "Parker is waking up some of our more senior people," he said, picking up his coffee. "You can hang out here, or you can call your people and tell them to start expecting very important phone calls."
"If you don't mind, we'll stay here," Drake said, pulling out his cell phone. "But we would like to make some calls also."
* * *
"Kildar," Greznya said, sticking her head in the door. "Colonel Pierson for you on line two."
"Got it," Mike said, picking up the phone and hitting the connection. "Jenkins."
"Do you just enjoy kicking hornet nests?" Pierson asked. "There I was, minding my own business, eating my breakfast like a real human being ..."
"Tell it to the Brits," Mike said, glancing over at where Carlson-Smith was scanning the video footage and taking notes.
"I understand that you're going to get clearance soon," Pierson replied. "But we're going to have the Brits 'assisting us in our investigations.' "
"Works for me," Mike said. "As long as I can take off ..."
"Kildar," Greznya said, breathlessly, glancing around the room. "A very important call on Line Three."
"I'm talking to Colonel Pierson," Mike said, covering the receiver.
"More important!" Greznya said, her eyes wide.
"Hang on, Bob," Mike said, putting him on hold and switching lines.
"Do you just enjoy kicking hornet nests?" the President asked, tiredly.
"Jesus, did they get you up for this, sir?" Mike asked.
"Yes, they did," the President replied. "Actually, they got me up to field the call from the prime minister. You're getting clearance to take off if you don't already have it. When you get here, all the data, every snip and dribble, gets carted to a base along with your intel people. The Brits are sending over some people to keep an eye on it at the same time. Since we were on a very secure line, the prime minister told me who was suspected of being in their video and I agree that not letting it become public knowledge is a good idea."
"Bloody hell—" Carlson-Smith snapped, hitting a computer key.
"Was that who I think it is?" Vanner asked, his eyes wide.
"I think they just found what they were looking for, Mr. President," Mike said, at which four heads snapped up, even the two glued to the computer screen. "Is it who you thought it was? The Pres already talked to your prime minister and he'd like to know."
"Yes," Carlson-Smith snarled. "It is."
"They confirm, Mr. President," Mike said.
"Get that intel to the U.S., now," the President ordered.
"Yes, sir," Mike said.
"And don't lose it!"
"Will do, sir," Mike replied.
"Carlson-Smith will remain with the materials for the rest of the flight," Drake said, hanging up his phone. "You're cleared to take off. You're to fly direct to Washington, Dulles Airport, refuel and then direct to Nellis Air Force Base. You will offload your materials there, as well as your intel specialists, and then fly to Las Vegas. The landing in Nellis will not be recorded. We'll brief your pilot on the new itinerary. Mr. Wythe-Harcourt and I will debark and brief our respective bosses."
"Well, I just debriefed the only guy I consider in the category," Mike said, waving the phone. "Who was it, by the way?"
"That's none of your business," Carlson-Smith snapped.
"The British Home Secretary," Vanner replied. "And Jesus does that guy have a tiny dick."
Chapter Twenty-Eight
"Daria," Mike said, sitting down next to the girl. "I'm sorry, I haven't been ignoring you. There's just a lot going on."
A lot was an understatement. Despite the President's assurances, various hoops had to be jumped through. Among other things, it turned out that Carlson-Smith didn't have his passport with him. Mike had offered one of the blank ones from the Georgian embassy, but that had been politely declined. The delay, however, even with no problems in the U.S., was going to make their arrival in Las Vegas tricky at best. Mike had, along the way, managed to convince people that he had a real need to go to Vegas first, so the landing in Nellis had been put off until the Keldara, and Mike, were dropped in Vegas. Which left just a few little details to clean up.
