kept the identity for five years. Something of a record for him.”
“Sounds more French than Russian. Possibly Argentine.”
“It’s the name on his UN passport. He was Nicolas Gregori, aka the Siberian, when he killed Reed. Two weeks later Andre Bertone appeared with a cover story that went back to his mother’s milk.”
“Busy boy.” Rand poured his own tea.
“Oh, yeah. Bertone started out life as Victor Krout, a Siberian-born Russian. He was trained in the usual black arts at KGBU in Moscow. He speaks six languages, flies helos and airplanes, and practices tradecraft like a deep-cover agent.”
“Is he?”
“Doubt it,” Faroe said, yawning and stretching. “The Russians want Bertone’s ass. Something about unpaid taxes.”
“Bet it’s more like unpaid kickbacks.”
Faroe shrugged. “In some countries, kickbacks are just another name for taxes.”
“What’s a former KGB agent doing with a United Nations passport?”
“Ask Libya. Money and guns is my guess.”
“The creds must come in handy for a globe-trotting international gunrunner,” Rand said.
“Supposedly he’s not a gunrunner anymore,” Faroe said. “Now he has a bunch of shell companies and old friends standing between him and the obvious dirty stuff. The new and improved Andre Bertone is a respected and respectable international commodities broker. Oil, coltan, diamonds, timber, whatever one African backwater wants to sell and some first-world country wants to buy.”
Sipping at the strong, murky tea he loved, Rand paced over to the window and stared out. The bright interval of sun had passed. The sky was slate gray and the wind had increased, whipping the daffodils and turning the unsecured rotor of the waiting helicopter.
Faroe fought back another yawn. He’d been pulling twenty-hour days over Bertone.
“I want to read everything you have on him,” Rand said.
“Okay, with the usual reservations.”
“The ones that require me to cut out my tongue before talking, my fingers before typing, and my eyes before seeing?” Rand asked dryly.
“You remember. I’m touched.”
“Who’s the client?”
“An African nation that used the Siberian, got double-crossed, discovered it after the fact, and double-crossed the oil cartel Bertone fronts for in retaliation. Now the cartel is trying to start acivil war so that they’ll get oil concessions from the new government. If the oil-backed rebels get enough arms, they’ll win. But they won’t get arms if they don’t get the money to pay.”
“You’re giving me a headache.”
“Get used to it,” Faroe said.
“Do you trust your Camgerian interface?”
Faroe’s smile was slow and cold. “You haven’t lost a step, have you?”
“I lost a twin. Does that count?” Rand made an abrupt gesture. “Who’s the interface?”
“A man called John Neto. He was born in Africa and educated at the London School of Economics. Someday he’s going to run that oil-rich little country. Right now he’s head of the Camgerian national intelligence service—all three employees. He has a fine jugular instinct and the patience of a leopard. Best of all, he hates the ground Bertone walks on. He’s been tracking him for years.”
“So why does this Neto need St. Kilda?”
“The U.S. government won’t cooperate with him.”
“Gee, that sounds familiar,” Rand said. “So they stonewalled him same as they did me?”
“Yeah. And then they told Neto that he couldn’t come to the U.S. and present evidence against Andre Bertone.”
“Why?”
“‘Not in the interests of the U.S. at this time.’ Visa denied.”
Rand made a disgusted sound. “Same shit, different year.” He took a swallow of hot, bitter, aromatic tea. “So St. Kilda has suddenly become an agent for a foreign power? Even if it’s a tiny African nation that has had more names in twenty years than Andre Bertone, it’s still a little dicey, isn’t it?”
“Only if we’re pursuing another nation’s
“Sounds more French than Russian. Possibly Argentine.”
“It’s the name on his UN passport. He was Nicolas Gregori, aka the Siberian, when he killed Reed. Two weeks later Andre Bertone appeared with a cover story that went back to his mother’s milk.”
“Busy boy.” Rand poured his own tea.
“Oh, yeah. Bertone started out life as Victor Krout, a Siberian-born Russian. He was trained in the usual black arts at KGBU in Moscow. He speaks six languages, flies helos and airplanes, and practices tradecraft like a deep-cover agent.”
“Is he?”
“Doubt it,” Faroe said, yawning and stretching. “The Russians want Bertone’s ass. Something about unpaid taxes.”
“Bet it’s more like unpaid kickbacks.”
Faroe shrugged. “In some countries, kickbacks are just another name for taxes.”
“What’s a former KGB agent doing with a United Nations passport?”
“Ask Libya. Money and guns is my guess.”
“The creds must come in handy for a globe-trotting international gunrunner,” Rand said.
“Supposedly he’s not a gunrunner anymore,” Faroe said. “Now he has a bunch of shell companies and old friends standing between him and the obvious dirty stuff. The new and improved Andre Bertone is a respected and respectable international commodities broker. Oil, coltan, diamonds, timber, whatever one African backwater wants to sell and some first-world country wants to buy.”
Sipping at the strong, murky tea he loved, Rand paced over to the window and stared out. The bright interval of sun had passed. The sky was slate gray and the wind had increased, whipping the daffodils and turning the unsecured rotor of the waiting helicopter.
Faroe fought back another yawn. He’d been pulling twenty-hour days over Bertone.
“I want to read everything you have on him,” Rand said.
“Okay, with the usual reservations.”
“The ones that require me to cut out my tongue before talking, my fingers before typing, and my eyes before seeing?” Rand asked dryly.
“You remember. I’m touched.”
“Who’s the client?”
“An African nation that used the Siberian, got double-crossed, discovered it after the fact, and double-crossed the oil cartel Bertone fronts for in retaliation. Now the cartel is trying to start acivil war so that they’ll get oil concessions from the new government. If the oil-backed rebels get enough arms, they’ll win. But they won’t get arms if they don’t get the money to pay.”
“You’re giving me a headache.”
“Get used to it,” Faroe said.
“Do you trust your Camgerian interface?”
Faroe’s smile was slow and cold. “You haven’t lost a step, have you?”
“I lost a twin. Does that count?” Rand made an abrupt gesture. “Who’s the interface?”
“A man called John Neto. He was born in Africa and educated at the London School of Economics. Someday he’s going to run that oil-rich little country. Right now he’s head of the Camgerian national intelligence service—all three employees. He has a fine jugular instinct and the patience of a leopard. Best of all, he hates the ground Bertone walks on. He’s been tracking him for years.”
“So why does this Neto need St. Kilda?”
“The U.S. government won’t cooperate with him.”
“Gee, that sounds familiar,” Rand said. “So they stonewalled him same as they did me?”
“Yeah. And then they told Neto that he couldn’t come to the U.S. and present evidence against Andre Bertone.”
“Why?”
“‘Not in the interests of the U.S. at this time.’ Visa denied.”
Rand made a disgusted sound. “Same shit, different year.” He took a swallow of hot, bitter, aromatic tea. “So St. Kilda has suddenly become an agent for a foreign power? Even if it’s a tiny African nation that has had more names in twenty years than Andre Bertone, it’s still a little dicey, isn’t it?”
“Only if we’re pursuing another nation’s
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