St Kilda Consulting 02 - Innocent as Sin

reading. Neto’s interview made an odd counterpart to the dossiers that clicked by beneath Rand’s fingertips. The Scots-accented English that Neto spoke reminded Rand of his grandfather.
    “How did you come to be in MI-5?” Thomas asked Neto.
    “I was born in Africa, raised there long enough to see the beginnings of the troubles, back when the militias had only machetes.” He raised his artificial hand. “We escaped and made it to Scotland, Glasgow. Strange and wonderful people, the Scots. I came to love their bluntness and pragmatism. That is one of the reasons I sought out St. Kilda Consulting. The island of St. Kilda is—or was—to Scotland what Scotland was to the rest of England, a last frontier.”
    “Have you met Ambassador Steele?” Thomas asked. “His grandfather was the last man to leave St. Kilda when the British forced evacuation of the population and turned the island into a bird sanctuary.”
    “The ambassador and I have had several long conversations,” Neto said, “all in Scots Gaelic. He is one of the few people I have ever met who speaks the mother tongue.”
    Rand paused in his reading. The world was a very odd place when a black man speaking Scots Gaelic—who was also a former British intelligence officer—was presently chief of intelligence of a small African country that was besieged by transnational criminals from Russia, Brazil, Europe, and the UAE. And this man was being interviewed for American TV in a room in British Columbia, Canada, about a murderous Siberian gunrunner presently living the high life of a socialite in Phoenix, Arizona.
    Reed would have laughed his ass off.
    Rand didn’t. A small world wasn’t necessarily a good thing, but it sure was real. Whining about it wouldn’t do anything except waste breath.
    “It was during those conversations that the ambassador provided me with information about the man who is today known as Andre Bertone,” Neto said. “He is the one feeding arms to Uhuru rebels who want to unseat the established government of Camgeria. Thus far they have not been successful, though they have continued to try for many years.”
    “What do the rebels want?” Thomas asked, keeping his face straight despite the inane question. This was a softball interview, designed to make the subject look good, not the reporter.
    “What all barbarians want—conquest, blood, power, wealth. They would replace a thriving black democracy with a dictatorship of violence. All this in the name of righting tribal wrongs that go back hundreds and hundreds of years. I do not want our women and children to be raped and slaughtered in the name of old arguments or new genocides.”
    “What are you doing to prevent it?”
    Neto bowed slightly toward Thomas. “I speak to everyone who will listen about the greed and evil of arms dealers such as Andre Bertone.”
    “The merchant of death.”
    “Yes. He is the one who sold arms to the rebels five years ago. He, or his employees, seek to send hundreds of millions of American dollars in arms to the rebels today. The people funding the rebels are not Camgerians. They are not even Africans.”
    “Who are they?” Thomas asked.
    Rand didn’t need to hear the answer. It was all there in the files on Joe Faroe’s computer. He went back to looking at various pictures of Kayla Shaw. Driver’s license. Employee of the month. Yoga classes three times a week. Regular health-club workouts.Horseback riding. Hiking. Passport up to date. Gave regularly to the SPCA. A stack of long-distance surveillance photos and a few shot so close to her that the photographer must have been within reach.
    Probably Jimmy “Handsome” Hamm with a lapel camera, Rand decided. He’d already read about the St. Kilda employee striking out in his attempts to get Kayla Shaw’s confidence.
    If he can’t do it, why does Faroe’s wife think I can?
    There wasn’t any answer in the photos. Good or bad, all the pictures showed a dark-haired, light-eyed young woman whose cheekbones suggested Scandinavian blood and whose smile was hard to resist. She wasn’t Hollywood gorgeous, but she had a kind of energy and intelligence that intrigued him.
    “…talking about a huge amount of money,” Thomas said.
    “Over two hundred and twenty-five million dollars American,” Neto agreed.
    Rand whistled silently and looked up from the computer. Faroe hadn’t been real definite about the money involved.
    “Where would rebels find that kind of cash?” Thomas