“I don’t think so,” Mike said. “I don’t go around taking orders from ‘senior members of the legislative branch.’ I don’t even take them from senior members of the executive branch.”
“Mr. Jenkins,” Wilson Hargreave Thornton said seriously, “you have many enemies both internationally and, frankly, within the government. Having a senior senator that owes you a favor is in your best interests. I might add that the senator has already been instrumental in helping you. I believe you recently received a grant from the International Monetary Fund?”
“Yeah,” Mike said, grimacing. “I’d thought they were being pretty friendly with the taxpayers’ money.”
“Nonetheless,” Thornton replied, clearly smiling.
“And what the hell does a senator have to do with the IMF?” Mike asked.
“Mr. Jenkins,” the State Department officer answered, chuckling, “there are senators and senators. And then there are the ones that can quietly suggest that stalled paperwork be unstalled. Or, for that matter, permanently stalled I might add.”
“My… background is generally lots of dead bodies,” Mike said bluntly, ignoring the implied threat. “Senior senators have a remarkable way of forgetting past favors when bodies turn up.”
“Not this time,” Thornton said, just as bluntly. “I’ll tell you that it involves a young lady who is in trouble. And you are, frankly, the only name that came to mind to fix that problem. Given your… background.”
“Crap,” Mike muttered. They knew his hot buttons, that’s for sure. “When?”
“The senator can set aside tomorrow evening for a quiet and discreet discussion,” Thornton replied. “Would that work for you?”
“If I can get a plane,” Mike said. “And this is not going to be a freebie unless it’s dead easy.”
“Understood,” Thornton replied. “Check in to the Washington Sheraton. The senator will contact you there.”
“And you’ll disavow any connection to me, right?” Mike said, grinning.
“I’m glad you understand,” Thornton said, cutting the connection.
“Anastasia,” Mike said, sticking his head in the harem manager’s office. “Could you do me a favor and pack me some bags. I have to go to D.C. Enough for a few days. No uniforms. Some casual clothes and a few suits with sundries.”
“Very well, Kildar,” Anastasia said. “When will you be back?”
“Not sure,” Mike admitted. “But that will do for as long as I’ll need those clothes. And call that charter company in England and get me a jet. I might as well travel in style.”
Mike hated D.C. It wasn’t anything personal, just a formless resentment. When he’d been a SEAL, D.C. was synonymous with the “brass,” the medal-bedecked bastards, most of whom had never heard a shot fired in anger, who sent the teams out to work miracles and then bitched when they failed. Or performed the miracles but caused a bunch of bad press over dead tangoes.
Now, somehow, he’d ended up being brass. Or close enough as made no never mind. He didn’t walk the corridors of power, but if he picked up the phone he could be having a quiet dinner with the President this very evening. Or the secretary of state or defense or the national security adviser. That made him, de facto, a Washington “player,” even if he spent his time staying as far away as he could.
And at the moment he was particularly pissed. He was just hanging out waiting for a phone call. He hadn’t even brought one of his “ladies” with him to pass the time. All he could do was watch Fox News and kick his heels.
He got up and walked to the minibar, preparatory to just getting stinking drunk and telling the “senior senator” to go stuff his mission, when the phone rang.
“Jenkins,” he growled.
“I’ve set aside a meeting room on the third floor,” a faintly familiar baritone replied. “The Sherman Room. Follow the signs.”
“I’ll be there in a few minutes,” Mike said. Might as well find out what the fucking senator wanted.
There were two heavies outside the room. They had the look of Secret Service, which made the “senior senator” very senior indeed. As Mike approached the door a man in coveralls came out carrying a black instrument bag. The “senior senator” had had the room swept before the meeting, which was rather unusual.
“Jenkins,” Mike said, stopping at the door and ignoring the technician.
“Cell phone, pager and PDA, please,” one of the men said, holding out a canvas bag with a zipper lock.
Mike pulled out his cell phone and dropped it in the bag, then shrugged. The other agent pulled a magnetic wand and ran it over him as the first agent zipped the bag shut and handed Mike the key.
When Mike was swept, the agent knocked on the door and opened it to a faint call from inside.
Mike instantly recognized the “senior senator” when he entered. He couldn’t quite place the name, but he’d seen him on TV a few times.
“Mr. Jenkins,” the man said, getting up from his seat at the conference table and walking over to the door to shake Mike’s hand. He had a a commanding presence and a firm handshake and looked Mike right in the eye. He was a guy you trusted immediately. Just like any good con artist or politician. Speaking of redundancy. “I’m Senator John Traskel.”
“New Jersey,” Mike said, nodding his head. “You’re the guy they’re saying’s going to be the next minority leader.”
“And I’m the senior minority member of the Senate Foreign Relations committee, which is more to the point,” the senator said, waving him to the a seat. “But please call me John.”
“Mike,” Jenkins said, sitting down. “You’ve got a problem.”
“One of my constituents does,” the senator said, nodding sagely. He was a tall guy with prematurely gray hair that was perfectly coiffed and his suit hadn’t come off the rack. Mike also remembered that there was serious family money behind the senator, something in excess of a hundred mil. Come to think of it, he was also one of the few members of the Democratic party who was a tad right wing on social issues. Which was why he was also being bruited around for a presidential candidate in the next election.
“His daughter has gone missing,” the senator continued, opening up one of the folders and sliding a picture of a girl in a bathing suit across the table. She looked about fourteen and filled the suit well. Blonde and very pretty.
“Natalya Fedioushina,” the senator continued. “Fourteen.”
“Call America’s Most Wanted,” Mike said, sliding the pic back to the senator.
“She went missing in Moldava,” the senator said seriously.
“How the fuck did that happen?” Mike asked, aghast.
“The gentleman is a native Ukrainian.” The senator sighed. “His wife was visiting relatives in Moldava when the young lady was kidnapped. Presumably for, well…”
“To be sold as a sex-slave,” Mike said. “It’s Moldava’s only real export. And you want me to find her? Do you have any idea what sort of task that is?”
“Yes,” the senator said, nodding. “I do. I’ve seen both the open and the classified data on the sex-slave industry. But we do have one lead.”
“Go,” Mike said, shrugging.
“This man,” the senator continued, sliding another picture across. The pic was taken of a man exiting a small foreign car, a Lada Mike thought from the roofline. Heavyset, dark, he had the look of a Balkans pimp type, one each. “Yuri Smegnoff. He is most probably the man who kidnapped her. Unfortunately, we don’t know what he did with her.”