“You want another body?” Mike asked.
“Again, no,” the man replied. “I know a number of people who could provide support but none I would care to actually put my life in their hands. For the time being, I’ll simply provide my own when necessary. There are professionals, as well, I can call upon for individual items.”
“How’s your Rolo-dex?” Mike asked. “Those tend to get out of date fast.”
“For the technical items it is, in fact, up to date,” Jay said. That smile again. “There are even a few… associates, a very few, on it that were not burned during my tenure or after I left. Notably in Iran and Syria. I’m not sure I can reactivate those networks, but I can look into it. Alas, I haven’t anyone on the Chechen side. Those I had were all rolled by either the Russians or, in two cases, the Chechens. Okay, I just wanted to check you out in person. I’m in. Three hundred kay for me. And budget up to a million a year. I’ll try to keep it much lower than that. Most of the time it will be well under. Works?”
“Okay,” Mike said, shrugging. “I’m planning on going back tomorrow if you want a ride… ”
“I’ll make my own way,” the man said, standing up.
“I’d be surprised if you didn’t know this,” Mike said, frowning, “but the valley is in a Georgian military controlled zone. You can’t just waltz in and out. There are a slew of checkpoints to get through.”
“Excuse me?” Jay said, the smile reaching his eyes this time. “Exactly why are you hiring me?”
“Oh,” Mike replied. “Brain fart. Good point.”
“I’ll see you in Georgia,” Jay said, walking into the shop.
Mike just had to do it. He sat out in the Alexandria sunshine for the next two hours, flipping through the book and not really reading while keeping an eye on the only entrance. But Jay never reappeared.
Chapter Ten
“At a certain level, there is no such thing as a storefront; the people it pays to shop with simply do not advertise.”
Mrs. John J. Weston was a spare woman in her late fifties, much shorter than Anastasia. She seemed to never hurry, but made her way through the crowds like a lioness parting gazelles. People simply, instinctually, stepped out of her way.
Anastasia was simultaneously trying to take in the city, trying not to get overwhelmed and simply absorb Amelia Weston. She hoped that by the time she was a hundred she might have half the grace and just amazing aura the woman exuded.
Mrs. Weston was definitely not “Amelia.” The First Lady, despite the fact that they were clearly friends, referred to only as “Mrs. Weston.” That was fine by Anastasia; having to call the wife of the President of the United States “Amanda” had nearly killed her. She was much more comfortable with Mrs. Weston. She was not going to think of telling her, but Mrs. Weston reminded her, very much, of the first manager of Otryad’s hareem she had served under, Salah. But Salah with a cosmopolitan background.
Samarkand? That had been a lovely stationing. Mrs. Weston named shops that Anastasia knew, and a list of shopkeepers, by name, that she only vaguely recalled. Details of meals and meetings in a calm, unhurried voice.
Tblisi? Only for a short time when the General, capital letters, was an envoy. Lieutenant Colonel, then. Still Soviet, of course. Pleasant town but… gray. She understood from friends who wrote her that it was much more gay now.
No name dropping, no one upping, no “well, when the General was running arms negotiations for the SALT II Treaty… ” No, all the mentions were small things to put Anastasia at her ease, to make her feel as if she had found a friend, a confidante. A highly formal one but a friend nonetheless.
In a hundred years… maybe.
“You have to know where to go,” Mrs. Weston said, nodding at the bellman of what looked very much like a sprawling hotel.
“And here is where to go?” Anastasia asked. “This is a hotel, yes, Mrs. Weston?”
“It is indeed,” Mrs. Weston said. “The Watergate of infamy and legend. But it has some places worth visiting as well. David has his hair cut here. All Good Republicans do.”
“I am unfamiliar,” Anastasia said. “I apologize.”
“Oh, water under the gate, my dear,” Mrs. Weston replied. “But quite famous.”
The lady made her way to a back elevator, nodding to various people who obviously knew her and chose the fourteenth floor.
“It helps,” she said, “if you think of it as a very large souque. I have to make the assumption, you will forgive me, based on the First Lady’s request, that you have not done significant travel in cities.”
“I have not, Mrs. Weston,” Anastasia admitted. “I think you have seen more of Samarkand than I have. And Tblisi, for that matter. I have not even been in the souque very much. Only twice that I recall.”
“Hmm, hmm.”
Anastasia wasn’t sure exactly what “Hmm, hmm” meant but she suspected that a very sharp and cosmopolitan mind was putting some clues together.
They exited the elevator and turned down the corridor, stopping at a door that looked very much as if it went to a hotel room or possibly suite. It had a number but below that was a discrete brass plaque that simply said: G. Groome, Clothier.
Mrs. Weston didn’t bother to knock. She just opened the door and swept in.
“George,” she said to a gray-haired black gentleman. He was seated on a chair looking at a ledger, wearing a striped silk shirt and exquisite wool trousers held up by bracers. “It’s been simply ages.”
The room looked a good bit like a suite, albeit the living room, and was tastefully and expensively decorated. Anastasia was taking more notes.
“Mrs. Weston,” the man said, smiling and revealing very white, very straight, teeth. “As I live and breathe.”
“George, I have a bit of a problem,” Mrs. Weston said, pulling Anastasia forward. “This is Miss Rakovich from Georgia, note that’s the country, George, not the state. Her friend, a Mr. Ford, is visiting the House. Only in town for a day. Old friend of David’s or something. No decent shops in Tblisi as you know and his wardrobe’s gotten quite threadbare. Hawaiian shirts if you can believe! The staff is simply clucking.”
“I understand,” George said, throwing a wink to Anastasia.
“So Miss Rakovich and I would like a spot of tea,” Mrs. Weston said, walking to the divan, hand on Anastasia’s arm. “And perhaps you could show us what London and Paris are messing up this year?”
Mike arrived back at the White House in a taxi. He paid the driver then went up to the side gate. This time he was careful to have the right passport ready.
“Mr. Ford,” the uniformed officer said, nodding.
“I’ve got a bit of a problem,” Mike said, taking back the passport. “I can’t recall exactly how to get to my room, I don’t know where my girlfriend has gotten to — the last time I saw her she was about to get grilled by the First Lady — and I need a shield room with a computer that can run a PDF file.”
“Why don’t I call an escort?” the officer said, trying not to grin. “And Miss Rakovich left about an hour ago in the company of Mrs. Amelia Weston, wife of General Weston, the MDW commander. I believe they were going shopping.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
Mike slid the CD into the computer and opened the single PDF file. It contained photos of the seven known or suspected players on the operation as well as an estimate of opposition forces.
The Chechens had about three hundred fighters in the area, organized in another “battalion” like the one the Keldara had wiped out a few months back. The leader was Commander Bukara, another of the organizers of the Beslan attack as well as others on the Russian heartland. The Russians seriously wanted his ass but had never been able to localize him. It was probable that he’d be at the rendezvous. If Mike could bring back his head the Russians would be very happy.