St Kilda Consulting 02 - Innocent as Sin

said.
    “It’s not your fault.”
    “Isn’t it?” he asked against her hair. “I brought you to St. Kilda.”
    “It’s not St. Kilda’s fault. They’re just the messenger.”
    “Yeah, well, we all know what happens to messengers.”
    She smiled sadly at him, sighed, and took the controller back. But when she moved to separate from him, he held her close.
    “I’m okay now,” she said.
    “I’m not.”
    She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry some more. So she leaned against him and started the DVD again.
    “How can you stop it?” Thomas asked seriously. “You’re a very small nation whose supposed allies are very close to Andre Bertone.”
    “Camgeria and some of the other small African nations victimized by Bertone have come together to establish the West African Regional Tribunal.”
    “How will that help?”
    “The tribunal is an investigatory body that is accumulating evidence against Bertone and his ilk. We will prove that the peoples of WestAfrica have been victimized by some of the most unscrupulous men on the face of the earth. Then world opinion will force that money to be returned to the people from whose blood and bone it was squeezed.”
    “That sounds like a huge job.”
    “It is. Interviews like this are just the beginning. We need help. We need friends. We need people who haven’t been purchased by Andre Bertone.”
    The DVD ended with the stylized logo of the channel.
    Kayla let out a long sigh, relieved that no more images of suffering would be burned into her conscience. “How did I miss this show? I’m a fan of The World in One Hour.”
    “This segment is still in production,” Rand said, tossing the controller aside. “It won’t air at all unless we get more evidence against Andre Bertone.”
    “More? What I saw was devastating. Bwana-suited gunrunner becomes Phoenix socialite and benefactor to state, national, and international politicians.”
    “You and the guy who took that picture are the only ones on earth who can link Bertone to the bwana suit.”
    “You’re kidding.”
    Rand looked at her.
    “You’re not,” she said quickly. “I knew that. I just didn’t want to know it.”
    She swiped the back of her hand against her eyelashes, taking the last of her tears, wondering if she’d really felt Rand’s lips moving so gently over her skin.
    “Pictures are powerful, but they can be Photoshopped,” he said. “Anybody who saw President Bush supposedly giving the world the Roman salute knows all about digitizing photos.”
    She started to object, then sighed. “And the first thing Bertone’s lawyers would scream is Photoshop.”
    “Yeah.”
    “So even if The World in One Hour airs that show, Bertone will still have deniability.” Kayla’s mouth turned down. “Like my bank, shifting the responsibility somewhere else.”
    “That’s where you could help.”
    “How? After what Bertone did to me, I’m already compromised. And my boss. Let’s not forget the golden bastard.”
    “I’d rather bury him,” Rand said under his breath.
    “What?”
    “Your reputation will survive if The World in One Hour beats Bertone’s lawyers to the press.”
    “Big if.”
    “Not as big as it was before you signed on with St. Kilda.”
    “How so?”
    “Easy. Under the charter of the West African Regional Tribunal, Neto can seize any money, anywhere, that’s connected to illegal activities. But first he has to know exactly where said dirty money is.”
    She got it. “Cue Bertone’s private banker.”
    “Bingo.”

34
    Phoenix
Saturday
10:01 P.M. MST
    T he Jumping Cholla bar on Indian School Road was as close to home as it got for Gabriel Navarro. The taste of beer was mother’s milk. Tequila was the sting of his father’s hand across his mouth. The smoky air was a familiar blanket. Taverns, cantinas, blue-collar bars in white-trash neighborhoods, they were all places where men were men and any women present ran from soft hookers to hard pros.
    When Gabriel had been a kid, men in his knee-breaking line of work had to hang out in beer bars and strip clubs and sports joints. If he was a regular, he could give clients the phone number and know that the bartender would put his calls through or take a message.
    For a price.
    Cell phones had really cut into a bartender’s income. With his own phone, Gabriel was never more than a ring away from his clients, no bartender required. But he still liked to hang with his Phoenix homies in the bars north of downtown