St Kilda Consulting 02 - Innocent as Sin

served as his studio. He hoped that the ordinary chores would help him get a better handle on the emotions caused by Faroe’s arrival.
    St. Kilda has found the Siberian.
    Five years hadn’t taken the edge off Rand’s rage at holding his identical twin in his arms and watching life fade from his eyes, hearing the last ragged breath, feeling the utter slackness of death.
    It should have been me.
    But it hadn’t been.
    Rand looked at a large, violently energetic painting that nearly filled one wall of the studio. It was a stormy seascape titled Lucky Too Late. He’d created the painting in a drunken rage, a savage good-bye to the hope of a better past.
    Live for both of us.
    Yet Rand hadn’t been living. He’d been hiding in booze and the quest for vengeance. Now he both lived and hid in painting.
    And waited for a chance at vengeance.
    “Hell of a painting,” Faroe said, admiring it. “I never saw any of your art before. You won’t embarrass yourself at the Fast Draw.”
    “The Fast Draw? What’s that, a pistol contest?”
    Faroe laughed. “That’s what I thought when I first heard the name.”
    “How does that connect with the Siberian?” Rand asked bluntly.
    “Money.”
    “One way or another, it’s always about money.”
    “The Siberian made about a half-billion dollars selling arms to both sides of every war he could find,” Faroe said, “plus a lot more wars that he started to keep his business humming.”
    Rand looked from the painting to Faroe. “Keep talking.”
    “After your brother died, Steele quietly, patiently, started picking apart the Siberian’s cover. It took a long time. The man had six identities that we discovered, but every time we got to his last known place, he was gone.”
    “I know.”
    Faroe nodded, not surprised. He’d suspected that Rand was always there, a half step behind, as patient in his own predatory way as Steele.
    “After the CIA blew off your photos,” Faroe said, “you dogged St. Kilda like a bad reputation. In between you came to the Pacific Northwest and started painting again.”
    “Tell me something I don’t know.”
    “The Siberian is a cashiered KGB operator with diplomatic credentials from Libya who speaks six languages and has a brain that would make Albert Einstein envious.”
    “Well, that would explain the way he ran us around in circles,” Rand said.
    “Yeah, he’s one bright boy. He bought about half the small arms in what used to be the Soviet Union, bought the planes and pilots to transport them, and resold the arms at a huge profit to private armies and irregular militias all over the African continent. South America, too, but his real specialty is Africa. He made half a billion dollars ramping up the violence between nations, states, tribes, and villages. Without him Africa would have more stable governments and a lot less human suffering.”
    Rand gave him a sideways look. “Spare me the sermon. I don’t lead with my idealism anymore. Just give me an address and the Siberian is dead.”
    “That could be a problem.”
    “Why?”
    “You might have changed, but St. Kilda hasn’t,” Faroe said. “We don’t hire out as assassins.”
    “No problem. I’m not part of St. Kilda anymore.”
    “You will be if you want that address.”
    For a time there was only the sound of the wind bending trees and flowers with equal ease.
    Rand looked at the scar on Faroe’s head. “I suppose you got that in the International Court of Justice.”
    “No. And I didn’t get it whacking Hector Rivas Osuna from a sniper’s blind. He could have given up anytime. He didn’t. I survived. He didn’t.”
    “If Steele didn’t want the Siberian dead, why did he track him down?”
    “Steele gets downright mean when someone kills one of his employees. In any case, he has dossiers on every international crook and politician and corporation that he might have to work for or against.”
    “So you have a client.”
    Faroe nodded. “The client isn’t interested in extralegal termination. He wants to find the Siberian’s money and seize it before the bastard can start another lovely, enriching African war.”
    “So you’ve become some sort of glorified international assets tracker?” Rand asked in disbelief.
    “Without money, dictators and crime bosses and other bad guys are about as dangerous as an unloaded gun.”
    “Put them in the ground and they’re about as dangerous as a wet dream,” Rand shot back.
    Faroe laughed. “I’m going to