by John Ringo
“Yes,” the girl answered.
“Okay,” Vanner said, pulling out a metal packet and tossing it to her. “Put that in your purse. You’re going to plant it for us.”
* * *
“Now,” Katya said when the doctor was laid out flat on the bed and Natalya was using up the hot water. “The money changer I found is near the hotel. I will go to him once per day, as I said. But we must go to the club as well. And I must sleep there late at night, so that they know all their girls are still in town. So, we must either come back here, later, to get the money changed or I change it now.”
“You’re just going to run, aren’t you?” Tom said, sighing in regret. “Take the money and run…” he sang.
“No, Tom,” Katya said, seriously. “Please, look at me. I will not run.” That’s right, look right into these innocent blue eyes you sucker.
“Okay, okay,” Tom said, pulling out his money pouch and taking out the travellers’ checks. “How much?”
“Eight hundred, please,” Katya said, putting her hand on his arm and leaning into him. “I promise. I am only gone…”
“Ten minutes,” Vanner whispered. “Max.”
“Ten minutes,” Katya continued, stepping over his “max.” “And Natalya stays here, yes? When she gets out of shower, she give you good time.”
“Not as good as you, Katya,” Tom said, handing over the endorsed travellers’ checks. “Nobody is as good as you.”
“I be back very soon,” Katya said, standing up. “I do whatever you want. I play little girl, yes?” she asked, pulling her hair into ponytails.
“Do you have a schoolgirl outfit?” Tom asked, breathing hard.
“No,” Katya said, pouting. “I not even have hair ribbons. Is all I have, what you see,” she added, waving at her body.
“I could…”
“If you want send me shop,” Katya said, smiling winningly, “I buy whatever you want. I be whoever you want. Any name you want, any girl you want. You do whatever you want.”
“Can you… resist a little?” Tom asked.
“I be whatever you want,” Katya said, slipping to the door. “Ten minutes.”
* * *
“In ten minutes, with this much money, I could be on my way to Greece,” Katya said as she strode down the hall. “This is the time for me to cut and run, normally. Where am I going?”
“Third floor,” Vanner answered. “West stairwell.”
She rode the elevator down to the third floor and stepped aside for another whore who wordlessly boarded the elevator as she got off. Then she headed for the stairwell.
“Fire hose compartment on your right,” Vanner said as she stepped into the stairwell. “Container under it.”
She pulled the plastic container out and had a moment’s trouble opening it. But when she did, a thick envelope fell out.
“Put the travellers’ checks back in,” Vanner said. “You can’t hold onto them with Boris searching your dress every time you go back.”
“You’re getting off on this, aren’t you?” Katya asked, slipping the checks into the box and replacing it.
“Only when you’re looking in a mirror, honey,” the former Marine said. “Seriously, you’re doing great.”
“Compliments get you nowhere,” Katya said, stepping back into the hallway. “But the Kildar had better come through with the money or he’s going to find out how badly I can scratch these days.”
* * *
“Are we going to be okay?” Tanya asked when she got back to the room.
“We’ll be fine,” Mikhail promised. “As long as you don’t talk about anything you do or are asked. Okay?”
“Yes,” the girl answered.
“I’d like to go back to what we were doing,” he added. “But we’ll have to wait until later. How long have you been in Club Aldaris?”
“Three months,” Tanya said. “Why?”
“Have you spent much time in the club?” Mikhail asked, pulling out some sheets of paper.
“Yes,” she replied. “All the girls spend time working in club. Why?”
“Because I need to ask you some questions about it,” Mikhail said, unrolling the sheets and pointing to a spot on the floorplan. “What is this room used for?”
* * *
“There, you see?” Katya asked when she came back in the room.
Tom was sitting on the bed, looking at Natalya, who was crouched in the corner, rocking.
“Is she okay?” Tom asked, nervously. “She came out of the shower and seemed just fine. Then she screamed and she’s been over there ever since.”
“Bad man,” Natalya was muttering, appearing to draw on her leg with her finger. “Bad man’s going to come…”
“Some girls, they don’t do well here,” Katya said, carefully. “I talk to her, I get her calm down. She still be very good to you.”
“I like her,” Tom said, his face twisted. “She seems so… fragile. So do you, but not like her. I wish I could take both of you away from here.”
“It cannot happen,” Katya said, sighing and approaching the rocking girl. “Natalya?”
“Bad man is coming,” the girl was singing to herself. “Coming back for you…”
“Natalya!” Katya said, sharply. “There’s no bad man, here. Is he the bad man?” she added, darting a glance at “Tom.”
“No, not here,” Natalya said, still drawing on her leg.
“Natalya, go suck on Tom,” Katya ordered.
The girl quickly scurried across the bed and began opening the doctor’s fly.
“She was worried she hadn’t been good enough for you,” Katya said, letting out a sigh of relief that sounded very real because it was. “That was all. She let it worry her too much. If you don’t do well enough for the pimps, well, they beat you and other things.”
“Oh,” Tom said, shaking his head as the hooker began fellating him. “I don’t think I can… you know, right now.”
“Maybe we get some schoolgirl outfits?” Katya asked. “Some makeup? Am told can look very much like Britney Spears… You want rape Britney?”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
“Kildar,” Anastasia said, looking in the door. “Father Kulcyanov wishes to see you.”
“Send him in,” Mike said, trying not to sigh and clearing the screen on his computer. The operation had turned out to be almost nightmarishly complex and making sure all the strands were in place had become a day-by-day struggle. The last thing he needed was to deal with the often long-winded Father Kulcyanov.
It had ended up making more sense to move in stages. The freighter didn’t need much in the way of modification for the mission so, since the one they’d hired had been in the western Med when the deal was made, it had headed directly for Albanian waters.
The helicopter company, Russkiya Heavy Lift, had often operated in and around Macedonia and Albania, supplying implementation forces and humanitarian operations. With a few words in the right ears, getting permission for the helicopters to pick up an “oil rig relief team” hadn’t been hard.
The teams were, thus, to be flown into Hellenica airport, board busses and drive to the Greek coast, then be picked up by the choppers and flown out to the freighter.
The biggest hassle had been getting the equipment to them. This had required the services of another freighter and a mid-ocean transfer managed by Chief Adams.
Pulling it all together had been a constant struggle with logistics while maintaining security. Vanner had ended up going to Spain to arrange the freighter, Chief Adams had put more pages into his passport flying to Turkey and Greece to ensure the arms made it through, and even Nielson had had to fly to Germany for an updated intel brief. Carlson-Smith had smoothed the way in Greece and found a rather respectable looking fellow who knew an enormous amount about the safe industry. He had turned out to be unwilling to actually put his life in jeopardy, but he had determined the actual safe that the Albanians had installed, its location, and carefully drilled some of
the Keldara women in the opening method.
And if it turned out to be the wrong safe, Mike was planning on using the chief’s method and the hell with the contents.
Mike admitted that without the chief and Nielson, not to mention Carlson-Smith, he would have been lost. Hell, even Daria had been doing dog work keeping up with all the paperwork. She had a better ground-level feel for what was where at any time than the rest of them.
This level of organization and support was so far beyond his previous training he half the time had no clue what people were talking about in the, frequent, meetings. But he doggedly asked questions until he understood, came up with a series of checkpoints and times for people to make and then ensured they did. And Daria kept up with those without batting an eye.
Russell had turned out to be a keeper. The big former Ranger had apparently soaked up everything the U.S. Army had to tell about airmobile operations and had drilled the Keldara mercilessly. In less than a week he had every one of the teams fully trained on everything from fast-rope work to sling-lift. They wouldn’t need the latter as far as Mike could tell, but it was nice that they were trained.
If things slowed down for a while he might just get a plane and start training them on parachute work. What the hell.
“Kildar, it is good to see you,” Father Kulcyanov said, entering the office at a dignified pace.
“And you, Father Kulcyanov,” Mike said, pulling a chair around to the coffee table in the office. “How are the crops?”
“They are well, Kildar,” the elder replied as Anastasia directed one of the harem girls to lay out tea. “It is difficult with the young men all engaged in preparing for the mission, but we persevere. This mission is important to the Keldara and to you and we are your followers.”
“And the Family is well?” Mike asked picking up one of the teacups and taking a sip.
“The Family is well,” Father Kulcyanov said, sipping at the tea and nodding. “Well. But to support you and yours through the generations, we must increase, Kildar.”
“I hope that all is well with the women?” Mike asked, confused.
“All is well,” Father Kulcyanov said, nodding sagely. “Women are a trial, but we must have them to support the home, yes?” He nodded at the girl who was still standing by in case the Kildar needed anything.
“And support the militia,” Mike pointed out. “The girls on the mission were invaluable. The Keldara are amazing people.”
“But to have more Keldara,” Father Kulcyanov said, “we must have marriages, Kildar.”
“Oh,” Mike said, shaking his head. “This is the Kardane thing, isn’t it? Thank you, Lida, that will be all,” Mike added, gesturing with his chin for the girl to leave the room.
“The wedding is in only four weeks, Kildar,” Father Kulcyanov said, regally. “You will be gone for two of those, at least…”
“And it’s not a good idea to have the ceremony on the day before the wedding, huh?” Mike said. “Father, we are very busy—”
“We have secured the horses you requested,” Father Kulcyanov said, ignoring the argument. “All is prepared, Kildar. When can you perform the Rite of Kardane?”
“Given what we’re working with, here, the whole ritual makes me uncomfortable,” Mike admitted. “But I think I can still squeeze it in. Hang on.”
He walked to the phone and hit the speakerphone.
“Nielson?”
“Here, Kildar,” the colonel said. “I’m up to my eyeballs, though…”
“When is a good day to close down the caravanserai for a whole night?” Mike asked. “Don’t say ‘never.’ ”
“After the mission?” Nielson asked. “I mean, we move in four days!”
“Not good enough,” Mike said. “Give me a day. One night.”
“Jesus, Mike,” Nielson said but Mike could hear keys tapping. “Tomorrow looks best. I’ll have to shift my flag down to the Keldara, though.”
“Block out three hours in the evening for all the Keldara,” Mike said. “And everybody in the caravanserai gets locked down. If they have to come and go, they use the back door.”
“Will do,” Nielson said. “What’s this about?”
“It’s a Keldara thing,” Mike said. “I’ll get back to you.” He turned back to Father Kulcyanov and shrugged. “Tomorrow night?”
“Very well, Kildar,” the elder said. “We will be prepared.”
“And while I enjoy talking to you,” Mike said, holding out his hand, “I am also up to my eyeballs in work. And now I must finish it faster.”
“I will go and ensure that Lydia is prepared,” Father Kulcyanov said, nodding.
“I’m more worried about Oleg,” Mike said after the door was closed.
* * *
“Mr. Bezhmel?”
“Yes,” the security specialist said, sitting down at the booth. He’d gotten a call from someone he occasionally did business with who had set up the meet in the Moscow hotel bar. No names as usual, which was just the way that the business worked. “You have the need of special security arrangements?”
“I have information that you need,” the man, an American, said in Russian. Then he smiled. “And a special security need. You’ve been investigating the attacks on Rozaje and the Club Dracul?”
“Perhaps,” Bezhmel said, shrugging.
“It is known that you work with the Dejti clan,” the man replied, smiling still. “So I’ll take that as a yes. You might be interested to know that the next target is Lunari, probably the Club Aldaris. Their mission is to extract this girl,” the man added, sliding a picture across the table. “Her name is Natalya. And possibly to capture the DVDs from the Rozaje villa. This wouldn’t be good, would it?”
“No,” Bezhmel said, frowning. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I’m your friend,” the man replied, then laughed quietly and shook his head. “God, I crack myself up. No, the reason that I’m telling you is that I need this girl killed before they get their hands on her. And this man…” he added, sliding another picture across the table along with a thick envelope. “No idea what name he’ll be using but he’ll be near Natalya. There is thirty thousand euros in there. If you kill both, there is another sixty thousand that will be forwarded to you. If you kill only one, that is your pay. If you kill neither… I’ll expect a full refund. There are other security specialists in the world.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Mike looked in the mirror and grimaced.
“I’m not sure about this,” he said, shooting his lace cuffs nervously.
Mike still wasn’t sure about the whole “Kardane” thing. For one thing, he had a very hard time wrapping his head around Oleg being comfortable with it. But since he’d agreed, he decided that it needed to be right.
Part of that was setting the mood. He could, of course, simply pick up Lydia in the Expedition, drive up to the caravanserai, have a good old time and then dump her back at her house. That, however, had far too “casual” a feel for what was an intensely important event. One point that Adams, of all people, had brought up was that the Rite of Kardane was a form of bonding between the Kildar and the Keldara; the Keldara, effectively, provided a maiden sacrifice and the Kildar, presumably, responded by being more closely bonded to the Keldara.
The Right also provided genetic input. Anastasia had done some digging and found old records of the Kildars dating back to the Middle Ages. All of them had been “foreign” soldiers-of-fortune of one race or another, Kurd, Greek, German, French and even British. All of them had attained the position by being superior fighters and commanders. So if Nature had anything to do with culture, the “genetic input” of the Kildars, through the Rite of Kardane, had added to the warrior component of the Keldara, bit by bit over the years.
But he still wasn’t sure about his outfit.
“I am,” Anastasia replied, smiling. “If you’re going to do something, do it right…”
“…Or don’t do it at all,” Mike sa
id, sighing.
According to the Keldara elders, the Rite of Kardane hadn’t been practiced since the time of the Tzars. And the last “true” Kildar had been a German mercenary who had started off as an advisor to the Tzarist Army and eventually worked his way into the nobility and been deeded with the Keldara.
Anastasia, traditionalist to the core, had pointed out that it would only be fitting to dress in a traditional, and formal, manner for the occasion. And she, again, had done the research.
Which was why Mike was dressed in a dark-green, short-waisted velvet coat and a white silk ruffled shirt with matching, very tight, dark-green trousers. The knee-high riding boots completed the ensemble.
“I feel like I ought to have a cap and ball pistol tucked in at my waist,” Mike said, fiddling with the the lace at his collar. “You set?”
“Very much so,” Anastasia replied, straightening out the lace. “By the time you get back, I’ll have gotten dressed and be gone. Speaking of which, it’s just about sunset.”
“Right,” Mike replied, pulling his jacket down to smooth out the wrinkles.
“Time to go.”
* * *
Petro held open the front door of the caravanserai as Mike strode through. Mike, despite trying to remain serious about what was, after all, a very serious event, could not help but play the bars from “Pomp and Circumstance” in his head as he strode down the stairs.
Uncle Latif was holding the gelding by the mounting stand. Genadi had done a good job there. The gelding was an Orlov-Rostopchin “Russian Riding Horse,” a breed dating back to 1845 and the premier riding horse of the Tzarist court. Flat black and about seventeen hands high, the beautifully proportioned gelding was trained for both dressage and “pleasure riding.” According to Genadi, who it turned out had practiced in dressage at the university, he was both an easy ride and quite biddable with “a very smooth gait.” The black leather saddle, with silver accoutrements, was almost invisible on the glossy horse’s back.
