In the end, Steve’s quiet research had turned out to be moot. Others had found out about the blackmail operation and “done something” about it. What exactly the “something” was was unclear. But there was a CNN report about a major battle between Albanian gangs in a small Albanian town known for its prostitution rings along with smaller indicators here and there: a nightclub taken down by what appeared to be a special operations team, a complaint leveled by Fiji about Americans attacking some of their troops.
And then the resignations began. Senator Traskel. Two senior career officials at State. Others in the British Foreign and Home office. A French general. The list went on and on. And none of them came back through the revolving door. It was how it worked. You got out of government service and turned right back around to work for a lobbyist or a defense firm or somebody else that wanted to swill at the government trough. It worked that way in every democracy in the developed world. But not this time, they all just disappeared. “Writing their memoirs.” “Taking some family time.” Not even entering academia. Just… left. Disappeared off the radar screen. In the case of a couple of Japanese officials, they really had disappeared; they went out to go SCUBA diving in Saipan and were “lost at sea.” A few other officials, one Russian, two Chinese and one Italian had “died as the result of injuries.” From street muggings, usually. Well, one in a fall. He’d apparently been out on his balcony taking in the night air at four AM and had managed to land fifty feet away from the building.
Following the resignations and “accidents” were the rumors. There was a man they just called “The Reaper” at first. He turned up in a private jet, met with senior government officials, usually the head of state, and then left. He carried something scary and powerful and wherever he went, careers ended. In a few cases, lives ended. In those cases he had made extra stops. He didn’t require that the local government take care of “the issue.” He would even do that for them. All they had to do was turn a blind eye.
Slowly another name had surfaced: Kildar. Mike Jenkins. Mercenary. Feudal warlord. He had a harem of teenage girls. He had a company of mercenary commandoes. He was a phantom; nobody knew who he was or where he’d come from. You didn’t fuck with the Kildar. You needed dirty deeds done… well, anything but “dirt cheap” and he was the go-to guy. He was the guy that governments used when “deniable” was consideration number two right behind “has to be done, or else.” He wouldn’t hand you a Kleenex for less than five mil and he was worth every dime. Oh, and he made beer. Yeah, that beer.
And the word got around. If anybody asks about the Kildar, you know nada. Unless it’s somebody trying to blow his op, in which case you warn them off, quietly, and spread the word around. You don’t fuck with the Kildar. Too many people owe him, including Senator Grantham and, by extension, the entire conservative side of the Senate. And the liberal side of the Senate and House weren’t going to fuck with him because… Well, he knew something, had something.
Nobody wanted to say what. But senators and ministers didn’t resign over irregularities in campaign finance. As one governor said, it took “a live boy or a dead girl.” The rumors were that it was both. And dead boys. Bottom line, you didn’t fuck with the Reaper.
“Hello, Colonel,” Worrel said, wincing. He wasn’t a big fan of Olds, whom he considered an incompetent asshole. But that description fit a lot of people he had to deal with in D.C. He listened for a moment then blanched.
“Colonel, all I can say is that it’s a good thing you called me,” Worrel replied. “Have you spoken to anyone else about this? Okay, I want you to listen to me and trust me, Colonel. Do not, I repeat, do not try to mess with Jenkins. If something bad goes down, it will be buried and spun into victory on all fronts and you’ll come out smelling like roses. If you do not piss off Jenkins. If you do, if you try to, pardon my language, fuck with him, you will end up sorry and sore. Nobody will know you, no favors will be big enough to cover your ass… No, I can’t discuss why, certainly not over an unsecure line… I guess that’s up to you, but given that you’re in charge of the task force, coming up to Washington might not look too good, especially if anything happens while you’re away from your post… Yes, that’s what I suggest. Okay, we’ll talk about it when you get back. Goodbye.”
Worrel hung up the phone and considered it for a moment. Then he picked it back up.
“Maggie, Steve. I need to talk to the Boss sometime soon.”
Lasko Ferani stepped through a door hidden in a mural and looked around the room.
Cinderella’s Castle was built over a three-year period in the early 1970s. The base structure of the castle, the skeleton as such, was rebar and concrete. But that skeleton was remarkably small, taking up less than half of the castle’s structure. The rest was Styrofoam also on a rebar skeleton. It had undergone a significant renovation for Disney’s twenty-fifth birthday celebration, but that had only entailed changing the Styrofoam. It was a dirty job but somebody had done it.
The room Lasko stood in was original structure in part. The floor and back wall. The side wall, through which he’d stepped, was part of the Styrofoam structure as were the last two walls and the ceiling. The room was littered with small bits of Styrofoam that had flecked off the interior.
But there was a window, and that was what mattered. It was small and oval shaped, but it had a view straight down Main Street.
He dragged a table into the room, then a comfortable chair. He arranged them in front of the window carefully, then went back to get the rest of his gear.
Two sandbags, a mat for the top of the table, a spotting scope with thermal imagery and a bottle of water. He had a packed lunch, and Yakov was planning on coming up and relieving him, briefly, this afternoon. He very much wanted to ride the rollercoaster called “Space Mountain” but he was not sure they would have time.
He settled his arms into the straps, pushed the rifle’s butt into his shoulder, settled his elbows on the mat and leaned forward. He was aware that he was going to have to stay that way most of the day but he’d done it before.
Anastasia stepped out of the Fountain and waved to Vil.
“I’ll be fine,” she said, shaking her head. “I’ll be about an hour.”
“Okay,” Vil said, flexing his jaw. He wasn’t sure that the harem manager should be wandering around Nassau alone, certainly not right now. But if anything happened, well, they were dialed in with the Bahamas government. It could be, as the Kildar would put it, “handled.”
He turned the Fountain away from the dock and motored over to the fueling point. With the extended range tanks he had plenty of fuel, but he’d gotten in the habit.
“Reading departure signs in some big airport…” he sung quietly, perfectly on key. Vil was one of the Keldara’s finest singers and the key of the songs Randy had taught them was perfect for him. Now if he could just find out a.) where “Margaritaville” was and b.) what was with “a lost shaker of salt” and why it seemed so important…
Anastasia had a very specific reason she didn’t want the team leader, or any of the Keldara, following her around. She was working on her agoraphobia. If she had some big strong men to hide behind, it wouldn’t be the same. She needed to be on her own, to face the world all by herself.
She was reminded, though, of the derivation of the word when she reached the market. “Agora” was from the Greek word “to gather” and fear of the outside translated, literally, as “fear of the market.” There were so many people, so many sounds, she had to pause at the entrance and gather her courage.