“Nice boat,” Mike said, looking around. “Bit smaller than mine, though, I think.”
“Ah, but mine is owned, not rented,” Gonzales pointed out.
“Point,” Mike said, shrugging. “But, hey, I hardly get a chance to get down here anymore. I just brought the harem down for a vacation. Georgia’s cold as a witch’s tit in the winter.”
The waiter had returned with four pilsner glasses filled with a rich brown beer.
“Ah,” Mike said, picking one up and taking a sip. “Nectar of the Gods.”
Gonzales picked up one of the beers, a frozen expression on his face, and took a sip. His face cleared instantly as he pulled the glass back to look at it.
“I take it back, Mr. Jenkins,” Juan said, nodding. “I confess to having your Mountain Tiger beer one time and finding it… good. This is…”
“Amazing,” Mike said. “And that’s just Mother Mahona’s. The boys have been trying the stuff we ship out for export and laughing their ass off. No comparison.”
“This is very good,” Colonel Montcrief said. “But I think… Did you say ‘harem?’ ”
“Do not all rich men have a harem?” Juan asked, waving at the girls that were scattered through the crowd.
“Absolutely,” Mike said, raising his glass. “But I’m a traditionalist. It started off as a bit of a joke, tell the truth. Some Chechen pimps thought they’d snatch a daughter of one of my… associates. Well, I mean, what would that have done for my reputation? So I had to explain to them that that was unwarranted. When we’d cleaned up the blood, I had seven teenaged virgins on my hands that were no deposit, no return. A harem seemed like the natural thing to do at that point.”
“Of course,” Colonel Montcrief said, taking a sip of his beer. “I take it that the young ladies here in the Bahamas are…”
“My official wards by the grace of the Georgian government,” Mike said. “Poor orphans that I took in out of the goodness of my own heart and feed and clothe by my own expense. I’ve got the paperwork if you’d care to see it?”
“Not at all,” Montcrief said, smiling.
“The poor homeless waifs,” Mike said, shaking his head and wiping a mustache of foam off his lip. “What could I do but take them in and… train them.”
“Of course,” Gonzales said, trying not to snarl.
“So I make the best beer in the world,” Mike said. “What pays for your yacht, Juan?”
“Oh, buying and selling,” Gonzales said. “A bit of manufacture.”
“Mr. Gonzales is a drug dealer,” Colonel Montcrief said, taking a sip of his beer. “And a very good one. Good enough that neither the government of the Bahamas nor the U.S. government have ever found enough information to prosecute.”
“A base canard, I’m sure,” Mike said, shaking his head. “You thought much the same of me once, Colonel, and I assured you you were wrong. I refuse to believe such of Mr. Gonzales. He’s far too much the gentleman to be involved in anything like that.”
“Well, I understand you do a bit more than make beer, Mr. Jenkins,” Gonzales said, showing a bit of teeth. “Something about Amnesty International petitioning the International Criminal Court? Killing wounded or some such. A… base canard I’m also sure.”
“Oh, hardly,” Mike said. “Actually, I don’t think most of them were actually dead when we buried them.”
“So the ICC will be bringing charges,” Gonzales said, shaking his head. “I am so sorry.”
“Oh, hardly,” Mike repeated. “No, no, rest assured on that stake. The ICC was presented the information and refused to even view the evidence.”
“Why?” Montcrief asked, honestly curious.
“Probably something about the governments of Russia, China, Japan, Germany, England, France… Oh, it’s a long list, telling them to mind their own business,” Mike said, smiling thinly. “The ICC can only exist with international support. When they considered touching me they were disabused of their… notion of power.”
“Why?” Montcrief asked.
“Well, they all like my beer, don’t they,” Mike said, taking another sip.
“So you consider yourself untouchable?” Gonzales said, his jaw working.
“Oh, no, I’ve frequently been touched,” Mike said, pulling Bambi into his side. “Isn’t that right, babe?”
“Oh, yes,” Bambi said, giggling. “He gets touched all the time. Why, I once saw him touched by over a dozen—”
“That’s enough, dear,” Mike said, slapping her on the ass. “Why don’t you go see if there’s a dance floor?”
“Okay,” Bambi said, giggling again. “I just love dancing!”
“I, too, have guests I must attend to,” Juan said, setting down his half finished glass of beer. “If you’ll excuse me?”
“Absolutely, Mein Host,” Mike said, picking up the glass and topping off his own. “You go.”
“That’s a very dangerous enemy you just made,” Montcrief said.
“Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, Colonel,” Mike said. “By the way, your wife’s name is Deirdre, right?”
“Yes.”
“This is a very nice party,” Anastasia said as she and Greznya approached the dance floor. Most of the dancers were women and most of those in their early twenties. Most of them had come with the men who were doing business of one sort or another on the rear deck; there were enough trophy brides on the dance floor to host their very own convention. “I used to love to go to the club in Samarkand.”
“I’ve never done this sort of dancing,” Greznya admitted. The two were speaking Keldara, which was close to Georgian but had not only a very different accent but various loan words that weren’t in any database Greznya was aware of. Even if anyone was monitoring over the industrial “club” music, hard to do, it was unlikely they could do a full translation.
“WOOO-HOO!” one of the girls hooted, stumbling out of the crowd. She was obviously drunk off her ass already. Pretty with heavy makeup, she was close to the spitting image of Britney Spears. The large and impossible to cover bruise on her cheek, however, was off-putting. “This is a GREAT party!”
The girl had a bottle of tequila in her hand and handed it to Anastasia.
“I’m Alicia!” she said, happily. “Who’re you?”
“Anna,” Anastasia said, looking at the bottle in her hand blankly.
“You’ve got a funny accent,” the girl said. “Russian?”
“Georgian,” Greznya said.
“Nah, I heard a Georgia accent before,” the girl said in a thick southern drawl. “Ain’t like yer’s a t’all!”
“Oh, Father of All,” Julia muttered. “What is that girl playing at?”
“What?” Olga asked, coming over to look at the monitor. As always, it was jerking around as Katya’s eyes moved, but they settled for a moment on Anastasia’s face and then Greznya’s. “Oh, that is bold.”
“Katya,” Julia said, tapping the transmitter. “We know you’re there. But thanks.”
“Drink up, girl,” Katya said, gesturing at the bottle. “This ain’t yer Russian vodka. That there’s te-queee-la! That’s a pahty drink!”
Greznya took the bottle from Anastasia’s unresisting hand and took a swig. She felt a capsule drop into her mouth and tongued it over to the side, drinking as little of the raw spirits as she could.
“Wooo,” she said, having a hard time with the hoot while holding the capsule in her cheek.
“Come on!” Katya said, taking the bottle back and taking a swig. “Let’s party!”