“I’m missing something,” Mike admitted.
“The Albanians have been working with the muj for some time,” Carlson-Smith said dryly. “Nothing that the bloody media is willing to bring up, but they trade information among other things. I’d give odds that our friend General Robisseau has been feeding information to the targets in France. Probably because he was ‘encouraged’ to do so by his Albanian friends.”
“Crap,” Mike muttered. “Any Georgians in there?”
“Not as far as I can tell,” Carlson-Smith said with a chuckle. “But there’s more than one American and quite a few Japanese. Check this one out,” he added, hunting in the files for a moment.
Mike watched the resulting playback for a moment and then turned away.
“So?” he asked. “I’ve seen a couple.”
“Didn’t recognize the gentleman?” the MI-6 agent asked, smiling thinly. “One of your bloody liberal strategists, mate. Been on TV any number of time. Big money collector.”
“Cleaning this up is going to be a nightmare,” Mike admitted. “Multiple countries, multiple jurisdictions. And all people that could afford the squeeze, which means either rich or powerful or, generally, both. Who bells the cat?”
“Who indeed, mate,” Carlson-Smith said, jumping to another file. “Bloody hell, another one. Junior member of the Foreign Service. Works with the UN in Kosovo. Refugee relief. Rich liberal poofter. I’d have guessed him for being under the whip, not holding it.”
“I’d think he’d be getting his pussy from refugees,” Mike noted.
“He probably was,” the MI-6 agent admitted. “But getting rid of the bodies is tough. And when you abuse them beyond a certain point, they go talking to the press. That gets your career sidetracked. You have to leave the Foreign Service and go work for an NGO, which doesn’t have benefits nearly as good, does it?”
“Point,” Mike said. “What are the benefits of working for MI-6?”
“You get to look at really nasty porn,” Carlson-Smith said darkly. “And you get to deal with lowlifes and drug dealers. Then there’s the terrorist informers, most of whom don’t actually know anything, but are more than willing to take cash for nothing. On the other hand, it’s got great dental.”
“Sounds great,” Mike opined. “James Bond and all that.”
“People think that,” Carlson-Smith said with a sigh. “But it’s more like your CIA, isn’t it? I mean, yes, we get weapons training in class and all that, but we never bloody use the things. I haven’t drawn my weapon in my whole career and very rarely carry anything for that matter. Very few of us do. Neither do your CIA intel fellows, believe me. The paramilitary types like NVA are a different story, of course. They’re the wet-work fellows.”
“So what do you do?” Mike asked, curiously.
“As I said, run around dealing with lowlifes and trying to get someone to tell us something true,” the MI-6 agent said, shrugging. “You build up a group of contacts and get information in any way that you can. It’s more glad-handing than running around with beautiful women and killing supervillains. Most of it’s quite boring, really.”
“Sounds that way,” Mike said with a snort. “I’ll take James Bond any day.”
“I’d rather be doing that than this, mate,” Carlson-Smith said. “Among other things, there are things that man is not wot to know or something like that. And this is one of them. Something you’d best keep in mind.”
“What do you mean?” Mike asked, frowning.
“There are going to be quite a few very powerful and very unhappy people when this particular ant-pile gets kicked over,” the Brit said, shutting down the video program. “I’m covered since I’m just a dumb bureaucrat doing my job. Except for those IRA bastards, nobody personally cares about one agent or another. Sure, the odd muj will have a whack at us, but that’s just business. You they’re going to hold personally responsible. The people on these files, they’re going to lose and lose big. But so are their supporters and sponsors. And they’re still, mostly, going to be in power, either directly or indirectly. Even if parties fall as the result, which they just might. Just by finding these files, you’ve made some powerful enemies.”
Mike thought about that and shrugged.
“Let ’em come.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“Everybody has their customs and immigration form filled out,” Adams said as Mike waited nervously for the inspectors from BCIS to board the plane. They’d stopped at Dulles to take on fuel and for clearance and Pierson had assured him that clearances were taken care of. But after the stop in Britain, Mike was half anticipating being taken into custody along with the whole team.
The plane had docked to a tubeway. Mike wasn’t in a position to see down the hallway but he could hear the footsteps approaching and was surprised by the degree of reaction. He’d gotten shot to ribbons on more than one occasion, but for some reason this meeting was filling him with dread. Probably as a result of the conversation with Carlson-Smith. The MI-6 agent was calm as toast, however. As he’d said, nobody was going to hold him personally responsible for the files. Hell, the data on the computers was illegal, forget the guns and ammo in the cargo hold!
The customs inspector stepped through the door and shook Hardesty’s hand and it took Mike longer than it should have to process the face.
“My name’s Pierson,” Colonel Pierson said, smiling at Hardesty disarmingly. “I’ll be processing your crew and passenger’s manifest while my associate does a quick check of your cargo hold.”
“A pleasure to meet you,” Captain Hardesty said, swallowing nervously.
“Pierson?” Mike asked, his eyes widening at the sight of the Army colonel in the uniform of a custom’s agent.
“Ah, Mr. Jenkins, I presume?” Pierson said, smiling. “Let me just check on the crew’s documentation and I’ll be with you and your… group in a moment.”
“Yes, BCIS is shitting a brick,” Pierson said when he’d sat Mike down with a stiff bourbon. “And State is shitting a brick. And the National Security Council is shitting a brick. Which is why I’m here instead of a regular inspector and why a Navy commander from OSOL is carefully ignoring the contents of the hold. Satisfied?”
“I should have trusted you when you said it’d be taken care of,” Mike admitted, smiling finally. “But that’s not the only reason you’re here.”
“No,” Pierson admitted, looking over at the MI-6 agent who was watching him carefully. “And, as agreed, all the original files are going to Nellis for your review, Agent Carlson-Smith. But you said Grantham wasn’t the culprit and the President wants that data as soon as possible.”
“Let me get Vanner,” Mike said, picking up the phone.
It took Vanner a few minutes to run through his song and dance again but when he did Pierson leaned back and nodded in satisfaction.
“Grantham’s been acting weird, lately,” Pierson said. “I mean, yes, he’s his own man and he works the Senate as he needs to, cutting deals, concentrating on what he thinks is important. But the decisions, the votes and actions he’s been taking, are completely out of his normal line.”
“The Supreme Court nominee?” Mike asked.
“That’s just the most noticeable,” Pierson replied, nodding again. “But that’s the big one. He’s stalling the guy in the Senate. It’s the first changed vote that the President has had a chance to place on the bench, a conservative for a liberal. The news media is screaming, the liberals are screaming and Grantham should be acting decisively. Instead, it’s like he’s trying to run out the clock or something.”