St Kilda Consulting 02 - Innocent as Sin

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 political interests. We aren’t.”
    “Could have fooled me.”
    “Neto’s government has issued a murder warrant for Krout, aka Bertone, which makes this a criminal inquiry,” Faroe said.
    “Steele is skating on a thin edge.”
    “Actually it’s Grace, and she assured us it’s a defensible position. She also assured us that we’d all be a lot happier if we nailed Bertone in such a way that no one would want to make a federal case of it.”
    Rand thought about it, whistled, and said, “That’s some woman you married.”
    Faroe grinned the grin of a well-satisfied male.
    Sun fought to pierce the clouds, failed, and sulked. Rand watched the small skirmish overhead and thought hard. “What do you want from me?”
    “You’re the one man we know who has seen the Siberian close enough to identify him. If you can verify that Bertone is the Siberian by another name, St. Kilda can chip away at his UN creds. At least that’s what the brains of the outfit both say.”
    “Both?”
    “Steele and Grace.”
    “Steele actually listens to her?” Rand asked.
    “At the top of his lungs. And vice versa. It’s quite a show.” Faroe looked at his watch. “Ready to meet Neto?”
    “I thought he was denied a visa.”
    “Here, but not in Victoria, B.C.”
    The wind gusted around the cabin. The branches of a fir tree tapped against the glass. It sounded hauntingly like Morse code from a prisoner.
    Me.
    That’s what I’ve become. Prisoner of the past.
    “What the hell,” Rand said, shrugging. “I need to go to Murchie’s anyway. I’m running out of tea.”
    “If it goes well in Canada, we’re heading straight to Phoenix. Steele doesn’t like what he’s hearing on the Brazilian grapevine. Neither do I. We could be working on a much shorter clock than Neto believed. Pack your painting gear along with whatever else you think you need,” Faroe said.
    “I thought the St. Kilda adage was ‘Pack your weapons and live out of Wal-Mart.’”
    “They don’t have the kind of