"Never heard of "The Purloined Letter," Little Joe?" asked Rattus.
Joe didn't answer immediately but instead looked around at the various businessmen, jet setters, and do-gooders flying to or from the latest conference at some luxury resort. "Well, we're mostly the right age to fit in, and the suits help, but old as we are, Rattus, not a one of us has a gut to match most of these fuckers. And most of them have cell phones glued to their ears."
"Point," Hampson conceded. Then he pointed with his chin at a well dressed blonde with prominent breasts. "But then again, she has neither a gut nor a phone."
"Point. You figure they're natural?"
Hampson, though a former "delta," or Special Forces medic, shook his head. "Out of my league, training-wise. But probably not. There is no such perfection in nature."
"Terry," Little Joe said, nodding his head in the direction of a short and prosperous looking businessman, approaching with one underling in tow and a newspaper tucked under one of the businessman's arms. He had thin lips, long earlobes, a flat, wide nose, and the somewhat subdued epicanthic fold often found among the Burmese.
"I see our Mr. Nyein, Joe," Terry answered. "Split up, per plan."
Little Joe and Rattus Hampson cut right without another word, except to each other, heading to the lounge's bar. The other members of the team were already waiting, scattered about in ones and twos. Nyein's flunky headed towards the bar to link up with Little Joe and Rattus, and lead them to their hotel. When the other team members saw the flunky shake hands and then leave with Hampson and Venegas, they began to follow in a loose gaggle, Buckwheat taking up the rear. The flunky dialed a number on a cell phone, said nothing, then put the cell phone away.
Terry, meanwhile, took the nearest seat. Mr. Nyein sat down next to him.
Nyein opened his paper and began to read, or to seem to. His cell phone rang. He put down his newspaper, answered the call and began to speak. "Our friend Pugnacio," he said, referring to Boxer, "asked me to lend you a hand."
Terry took out his own cell and pretended to make a call. "And we appreciate this," he answered.
"The problem is, however, that the entire situation is much more complex than Pugnacio led me to believe."
"This doesn't surprise me, somehow," Terry said.
Still seeming to speak into the phone, Nyein said, "I will get up and leave. Wait two minutes and follow me but no further than the pickup ramp. I will swing by to get you in a blue BMW 328. After that . . . "
Nyein made the introductions. "Captain Welch, Major Konstantin, Mr. Naing. Captain Welch, Mr. Naing is Mr. Inning's attorney here. Major Konstantin is a . . . "
"I am a business associate of Victor's, Captain Welch," said the major in almost accent free English.
Terry took one look at Konstantin, heard his spoken English, and said, "You're Spetznaz."
"Not precisely," the Russian corrected. "Once upon a time I was in a somewhat similar group. Now I work for Victor. It pays the bills."
"And you are here to get him out?"
Naing, as typically Burmese looking as Nyein, answered, "Everyone wants Victor freed, Captain Welch. Since Myanmar is an outcast state, the government needs him out there feeding us arms. Major Konstantin has not the connections to keep the business going . . . "
"Victor is very cagey and clever that way," Konstantin said, stone faced.
"You need what?" Nyein asked. "Arms? Transportation somewhere?" The Burmese shrugged. "No matter. While Russia itself doesn't seem to care about Mr. Inning, certain interests within Russia want him back to doing the work he does so very well. And I need to be paid."
"Which you will not be," Konstantin said, "until my principal is free." The Russian turned toward Terry, asking, "What is it you need with Victor?"
"I don't have the full list," Welch answered, though that was only true insofar as he didn't have the full requisition on his person. "In general terms, from him we need arms and ammunition for a small battalion, plus some special equipment, radios, night vision, and some light armored vehicles. Perhaps some few other things in his purview."
"I don't even know where he stockpiles the ammunition," Konstantin said. "I only know that he does and that he's got at least several regiments' worth of arms, to include eight hundred Abakan rifles, stashed away."
"They any good?" Terry asked. "I've never fired one."
"The Abakans? Yes, Captain, they're quite good in terms of accuracy and reliability though the ergonomics are suboptimal. My team has them here along with our version of those nonlethal electronic pistols your people seem to like. As for the Abakans, mechanical training is . . . difficult. And the sharp edges on the metal? Ouch! Not to mention the peep-"
Mr. Naing ahemed. "I hate to interrupt your professional discussion, gentlemen, but we do have a problem to solve."
"Well my people had a solution," Konstantin said, "until our helicopter broke down. Fortunately, we were not in the air at the time." The major sighed at the depravity of man. "Time after time I've told Victor, ‘You must maintain the aircraft.' But would he listen? No. And we were ready to launch in three days. My men have been spending the last two weeks rehearsing, to include driving in this miserable excuse for a city."
"You have a solution provided you have a helicopter?" Terry asked.
"With Mr. Naing here, along with a certain amount of interested indifference on the part of the government, yes, we do. Why?"
Terry smiled, "Well as it so happens . . . "
What a sadness, Mr. Naing thought, that though we were a part of the British Empire, and to a considerable extent inherited the English legal system, we did not, however, opt to keep up British integrity.
On the other hand, he added, with a mental shrug, at least we can say we have honest judges who, when bought, stay bought.
Naing stood and bowed, reaching across the judge's desk to shake hands. The leather satchel he'd brought with him to the judge's office remained on the floor, even when the barrister turned to leave.
The judge could count the money in the satchel later.
D-113, Insein Jail, Yangon, Myanmar
The money had been for nothing more than to get the judge to agree to a hearing on a particular day. The money being adequate to something not outside of bounds anyway, the judge had agreed. Of course to get to the court, Victor would have to be taken from the jail where he was being held, pending trial.
Located, for the most part, within a sixteen sided, walled complex, perhaps three hundred meters in diameter, the jail was about six hundred meters from the Irrawaddy River. Insein tended toward the primitive, with most waste functions being handled by pot and bucket rather than via plumbing. It stank far, far more than the surrounding rice paddies. Insein-pronounced "insane"-was also notorious for torturing, holding, dumping, and on occasion hanging political prisoners.
There were, however, better and worse conditions. At least one Burmese prodemocracy dissident had had a complex specially built to house her under approximately civilized conditions. Victor Inning, as someone considered by the government to be a past and potentially a future asset, had also been given rather better than normal treatment.