“I still don’t have a suit,” Mike pointed out, hanging his head in his hands.
“There are tailors in Tbilisi,” Wilson said. “Hey, that alliterates.”
“I’ve seen the suits they make,” Mike said, sitting up. “Yours is nice, where’d you get it?”
“Harrowgates on Bond Street,” Wilson said, turning out the lapel.
“Think they do house calls?” Mike asked, yawning.
“You look like hell, Mike.”
“Two hours sleep,” Mike said. “And the sort of stresses I’m not used to. And I can’t believe a bed in a God damned Hilton would be that uncomfortable. The designers should be shot. No, that’s too good for them. Hung up by their balls over a shark tank and handed a rusty knife.”
“Get some rest,” Wilson said, standing up. “If you haven’t got have your health, you haven’t got anything.”
“An ambassador who watches The Princess Bride,” Mike said, smiling. “Will wonders never cease.”
“And I can walk and chew gum at the same time,” Wilson said, nodding as he left.
Mike was half asleep when he heard a throat clear.
“Kildar?” a woman said.
Mike looked up, rubbing sleep out of his eyes, to see a Keldara woman loaded with parcels standing in the corridor. She could have been anywhere from thirty to sixty but she still had some of the same lean good looks as Irina overlaid with years of stress and wear.
“You would be Irina’s mother?” Mike asked, standing up and yawning.
“Yes, Kildar,” the woman said, nervously.
“I’ll take the bags,” Mike replied. “She was awake the last time I checked. She’s down the hall, second door on the left. I’ll take the stuff back to the hotel. When you get thrown out, visiting hours are almost over, get a taxi and come to the Hilton. I’ll arrange for the doorman to pay for it. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Kildar,” the woman said.
“On the being alone with Irina and Lydia,” Mike said. “I’ll take it up with the Fathers. There will not be a problem or there’s going to be a huge problem. For them. Don’t worry about that.”
“Very well, Kildar,” the woman said, unhappily.
“I’ll see you at the hotel.”
“Thank you for calling Harrowgates of Bond Street, how may I help you?” a chipper female voice said.
“There are problems in life that cannot be solved by throwing money at them,” Mike said, philosophically. “And then there are problems that can. I’m trying to figure out which this is. I’m in Georgia, the country not the state, and I need a suit to meet with the President of Georgia day after tomorrow. How much money do I need to throw that problem to get one of your suits by then?”
“Sir,” the woman answered, tautly, “we have a number of clients and at the moment our wait time is…”
“Ten thousand euros?” Mike asked. “For one suit? I’ll arrange a business jet to fly in one of your tailors or whatever…”
“Haberdashers, sir, please,” the woman said. “And, frankly, some of our suits sell for ten thousand euros…”
“I’ll skip the bidding and go straight to thirty, then,” Mike said. “I’m medium build. Around a forty-four-inch chest, about thirty-four waist. Thirty-inch inseam and sleeves, more or less. I’ll put him up at the Hilton. Fly out, get me fitted, fly back. Anything you have around my size and in decent style. Thirty thousand euros. And I’ll need some more, I guess. Figure that out later.”
“I think we can arrange something sir,” the woman said after a moment’s pause. “If I could have your name and how you’re planning on paying for this… ?”
Chapter Ten
“President Svasikili,” Mike said, shaking the President of Georgia’s hand. “It is a pleasure to meet you.” The president was a round man, slightly shorter than Mike, with a firm handshake and affable smile that stopped at his eyes. Typical third world politician in a nominal “democracy” one each.
“And you as well, Mr. Jenkins,” the president said. “Might I present General Umarov, the Chief of Staff of the Army.”
The meeting was taking place at the presidential palace, an ugly structure that dated to the Soviet period. Since the president of Georgia regularly had to travel in a massive convoy to prevent assassination, it was a security and ease measure for him.
The American ambassador traveled in nearly as large of a convoy, but he was, apparently, more expendable. As was Colonel Osbruck, the senior American military attaché. They were both present and everyone nodded then proceeded into the conference room.
“Do you think there will be a thaw, soon?” the president asked Mike after everyone had gained their seats and tea was served. The woman doing the serving was a serious looker, like a supermodel, and had a sway to her that said that more than tea was available. The tea was served in traditional glasses with metal holders. These were silver and transmitted the heat of the tea straight to the handle making it too hot to hold. It was a silly design and Mike had always wondered what idiot came up with it in the depths of time.
“You’d know better than I, sir,” Mike replied, quickly setting his tea down and waiting for it to cool. “This is the first time I’ve been to Georgia.”
“I do hope it warms up soon,” the president said. “My old bones hate the winter. When I retire I’m going to move somewhere very warm.”
Possibly straight to hell if an assassin gets through, Mike thought. Svasikili had run on a platform of cleaning up the graft and ending the war in Ossetia. Since then negotiations had been stalled, the Ossetians were terrorizing western Georgia, the Chechens eastern Georgia, and taxes seemed to disappear into a black hole. The hole, of course, was called “Svasikili’s cronies” and funds to prop up his primary voting base, which was among organized labor. The military, despite the conditions, had just sustained another cutback. At least part of that was in fear that they’d perform a coup. It wouldn’t work out, it never did, but Svasikili had to know that if the military took over, he’d be lucky to leave with his shirt.
“But in the meantime, I’m forced to try to make bricks without straw,” Svasikili said, sighing. “This country is impossible to govern. Dozens of different interests, all vying for power, the clans in the mountains always feuding, the Ossetians, the Chechens, just impossible.”
“Lovely place, though,” Mike pointed out. “It’s why I decided to settle here. And the people are very nice as well. The Keldara are grand fellows.”
“So it was the beauty of the country that caused you to settle here?” the president asked.
“And the women,” Mike admitted, smiling at the joke. “The Keldara beer isn’t half bad, either.”
“I can call for a beer if you would prefer,” the president said, waving at the untouched tea.
“This is fine, sir,” Mike said, picking it up despite the handle and taking a sip while glancing at the ambassador. He wasn’t trained or interested in diplomacy at this level but he was afraid he’d just insulted the country of Georgia by not sipping the damned tea. “I’ve become quite a tea drinker since moving overseas.”
“The question, of course, is why an American would want to settle in Georgia,” the president said, nodding at the comment. “There are less than a thousand American ex-patriates in the country and almost all of those are here for one company or another. There are a scattering of people who just find this country conveniently inexpensive. But you are not short of money. Your ambassador has assured us that you are not wanted by any international agency. So the question is why you would want to settle down here. Especially in that forsaken wasteland of the Keldara. Then there’s the question of why you are forming a little army out of them.”