“I am told you live in Georgia,” the sheik replied, gesturing for them to take seats around a hammered brass table. Mike had seen things like it in bazaars but even in the most ornate homes they were only decorations. From the stains, it seemed the sheik used it as a regular table. There was an ashtray on the table and the sheik reached into his suit to pull out a pack of cigarettes. They weren’t the ubiquitous Marlboros, Mike noticed, but a brand he’d never heard of, Nat Shermans, American or British at a guess.
“Do you smoke?” the sheik asked, offering the cigarettes.
“A cigar from time to time,” Mike said. “I run too much for regular smoking.”
“Then we must get you a cigar,” the sheik said, clapping his hands.
There was a fourth spot at the table and as the sheik pulled out a cigarette and snugged it into a holder, a fucking vision entered the garden through a side door. The girl was in her mid-twenties and so beautiful it was scary. Long blonde hair pulled up at the back to reveal a long neckline, high cheekbones, heart-shaped face, tartar eyes, lovely legs and magnificent breasts. She was wearing a long blue dress just a shade lighter than her dark blue eyes. She was accompanied by two men who carried a tray of coffee makings.
“Anastasia, cigars for our friends,” the man said, not looking around.
The girl looked at one of the men and then leaned forward to light the sheik’s cigarette, taking a seat next to him. The two men laid out the coffee and then retreated as she began to serve.
“Georgia is a lovely country, or so I’ve heard,” the sheik said.
“Very high mountains,” Mike said, trying not to frown. In American society not introducing the lady would be the height of insult but he respected he was just supposed to ignore her. “Very wild in a way. Much wetter than Uzbekistan, obviously, very green. If it weren’t for the mountains it would be a breadbasket. As it is, it’s mostly small farms. A small seacost on the Black Sea. I’ve never been there but I’m told it’s pretty.”
“Do you live in Tbilisi?” the sheik asked, picking up a small cup of coffee and sipping at it.
Mike lifted the coffee that was offered to him by the girl and sipped at it as well. It was incredibly thick and sweet, more like a syrup than coffee.
“No, my home is much like this,” Mike replied. “I happened on it, got lost in a snowstorm if you can believe it. Rather liked the old fort and it came with a farm so I bought it.”
“A small farm?” the sheik asked. “They are rarely profitable.”
“Errr,” Mike temporized. “Rather large, actually. Right at a thousand hectares. One of the larger valleys, quite fertile. There’s a small town next to it and some tenant farmers. The caravanserai is much like this house; I felt right at home as soon as I entered.” Mike noticed that the girl looked up at that and frowned. He wasn’t sure what he’d said wrong.
“There’s a serious security situation in Georgia, I’m told,” the sheik said. “I, of course, am more interested in internal matters of Uzbekistan, but I hear rumors, read the news.”
“The Chechens are a problem,” Mike admitted. “The Ossetian problem doesn’t really touch on us; we’re on the other side of the country.”
“The Chechens are a scourge,” the sheik said, shaking his head. “They use Islam as a shield for the most vile of crimes. Breslan was an atrocity.”
“They’ve killed more people than that in Georgia,” Mike said. He paused as one of the servants came back in the room bearing a cigar box. Mike didn’t recognize the brand but did see the word “Cuba” on the side. The girl extracted two cigars, snipped them and started them with a lighter, then gave one to Mike and the second to Wangen. “They say they’re freedom fighters but in Georgia they’re more like bandits. I’m trying to do something about that in my area, forming a small militia from the tenants who work the farm.” Mike puffed on the cigar and found it to be incredibly strong. He caught the smoke in his mouth and let it back out carefully, unsure of exactly how you smoked something this strong. And foul. He preferred much lighter cigars.
“Such men rarely make decent soldiers,” the sheik said, shaking his head again. “What do peasants know?”
“As you say, Sheik,” Mike replied, shrugging.
“You disagree?” the sheik asked.
“The Keldara are an old tribe,” Mike said, picking his words with care. “And they are warrior stock, that is evident in… well a lot of things. And I’m not just handing them guns; right now there are about twenty former American and Brit spec ops troops preparing to train them. For that matter, I’ve poured about two million dollars into equipment. If they can’t outdo the Chechens with that level of training and equipment, well, I’ll go find some Gurkhas to replace them.”
The sheik chuckled at that, leaning back and handing the cigarette holder to the girl.
“You have your own security concerns I think,” the sheik said as the girl replaced his cigarette with a fresh one.
“There are people who would very much like my scalp on their wall,” Mike said, shrugging again. “Thus far they haven’t managed. Generally it’s been the other way around.”
“You are capable?” the sheik asked.
“Competent,” Mike answered.
“Let me interject if I might,” Wangen said. “In American culture, understatement is the norm when you are trying to make a point. To say that you are competent means you are, in fact, very good. Mr. Jenkins is more than competent; he is among the very best in the world at what he does.”
“Among the very best?” the sheik asked, raising an eyebrow.
“There are some CAG that are better,” Mike said, shrugging. “Those guys are freaks of nature.”
“CAG?” the sheik asked, looking at Wangen.
“Delta Force,” Wangen translated.
“And, let me be plain about something,” Mike said. “I occasionally do favors for the American government. Sometimes I do those favors before they know they need them done. But I’m not a general contractor.”
“That is understood,” the sheik said. “Your house is much like this one?”
“Except for entering directly on the garden and the fact that the foyer has a dome, practically identical,” Mike admitted. “I suspect that it’s much the same layout. It’s been rebuilt a couple of times. The last major rebuild appears to be Turkish.”
“And it is well guarded?” the sheik asked.
“At the moment it’s guarded by American and Brit former special operations personnel,” Mike said, smiling. “I think their reputation precedes them. When they are gone, it will be guarded by the Keldara or better. And then, of course, there’s me,” he added, smiling faintly. “We had a recent problem with the Chechens not getting the word that there was a new sheriff in town. They learned the error of their ways.”
“And you had a hand in that?” the sheik asked, interestedly.
“Mostly in stopping their van,” Mike said, shrugging. He looked over at Wangen and raised an eyebrow. He received a nod in return. “It was headed down the valley. Catching it would have been a pain in the… would have been a problem. So I took it down from the caravanserai.”
“How far?” Wangen asked, interested in spite of himself.
“About two klicks when I got the engine block,” Mike said. “The angle was pretty steep.”
“A moving van?” Wangen asked, raising his eyebrows.
“Doing about forty,” Mike said, shrugging. “Barretts are good at light material engagement.” He had to put that in English since it went outside his Russian.
“I didn’t catch that,” the sheik said.
“The gun is good at killing vehicles,” the woman said, quietly. “The Ba-rette.”