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back even though I went through multiple systems. Hell, they tracked me
through satellites. And about half of the boat's screened against electronic
penetration. Unless we get somebody on the inside, forget it. I
don't even know, for sure, what they've got in there. But the traffic level,
both directions, is massive. And they've been running stuff through
distributed servers a lot. I've gotten the data but without the encryption
scheme it's just ones and zeros. Mostly zeroes."
* * *
"Mr. Michael Jenkins," Gonzales said, walking over to a man in Bahamas
Constabulary uniform, "Colonel Horatio Montcrief, regional constabulary
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commander."
"Colonel," Mike said, shaking the man's hand. "It's a pleasure to see you
again!"
"And you, Mr. Jenkins," the colonel said, grinning. "The last time was. . . in
Andros wasn't it?"
"Bimini," Mike said, shaking his head. "The blonde and the redhead."
"Ah, yes, them," the colonel said. "Whatever happened to them?"
"Back at school I presume," Mike said, shrugging. "How is Deirdre?"
"Just fine, Mike," the colonel said. "Just fine. I understand you have
minions, now."
"Friends," Mike said, shrugging. "Associates. Buddies. I could hardly call
them minions. And if I could introduce Miss Harder?"
Britney's eyes were wide as she shook the constable's hand. For all the
reports she'd read the sight of a senior member of the constabulary sharing a
friendly drink with a noted drug dealer was hard to take.
"Call me. . ."
"Bambi," Mike interjected. "She likes that."
"Bambi," she said, shooting Mike a glare.
"A pleasure to meet you, Miss Harder," the colonel said, grinning again.
"Sir," a waiter said, holding out a tray of champagne glasses.
"Dom Perignon '96," Gonzales said.
"Nah," Mike said, waving at the tray. "But could you get me some of the
Mountain Tiger? Dom you can pick up in any liquor store by the case. I brought
the pure quill, Mother Mahona's brew. That you can only get from the Kildar!"
The waiter shot a glance at Gonzales then scurried away with his tray at the
expression on his boss' face.
"Nice boat," Mike said, looking around. "Bit smaller than mine, though, I
think."
"Ah, but mine is owned, not rented," Gonzales pointed out.
"Point," Mike said, shrugging. "But, hey, I hardly get a chance to get down
here anymore. I just brought the harem down for a vacation. Georgia's cold as
a witch's tit in the winter."
The waiter had returned with four pilsner glasses filled with a rich brown
beer.
"Ah," Mike said, picking one up and taking a sip. "Nectar of the Gods."
Gonzales picked up one of the beers, a frozen expression on his face, and took
a sip. His face cleared
instantly as he pulled the glass back to look at it.
"I take it back, Mr. Jenkins," Juan said, nodding. "I confess to having your
Mountain Tiger beer one time and finding it. . . good. This is. . ."
"Amazing," Mike said. "And that's just Mother Mahona's. The boys have been
trying the stuff we ship out for export and laughing their ass off. No
comparison."
"This is very good," Colonel Montcrief said. "But I think. . . Did you say
'harem?'"
"Do not all rich men have a harem?" Juan asked, waving at the girls that were
scattered through the crowd.
"Absolutely," Mike said, raising his glass. "But I'm a traditionalist. It
started off as a bit of a joke, tell the truth. Some Chechen pimps thought
they'd snatch a daughter of one of my. . .associates. Well, I mean, what would
that have done for my reputation? So I had to explain to them that that was
unwarranted.
When we'd cleaned up the blood, I had seven teenaged virgins on my hands that
were no deposit, no return. A harem seemed like the natural thing to do at
that point."
"Of course," Colonel Montcrief said, taking a sip of his beer. "I take it that
the young ladies here in the
Bahamas are. . ."
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"My official wards by the grace of the Georgian government," Mike said. "Poor
orphans that I took in out of the goodness of my own heart and feed and clothe
by my own expense. I've got the paperwork if you'd care to see it?"
"Not at all," Montcrief said, smiling.
"The poor homeless waifs," Mike said, shaking his head and wiping a mustache
of foam off his lip.
"What could I do but take them in and. . .train them."
"Of course," Gonzales said, trying not to snarl.
"So I make the best beer in the world," Mike said. "What pays for your yacht,
Juan?"
"Oh, buying and selling," Gonzales said. "A bit of manufacture."
"Mr. Gonzales is a drug dealer," Colonel Montcrief said, taking a sip of his
beer. "And a very good one.
Good enough that neither the government of the Bahamas nor the US government
have ever found enough information to prosecute."
"A base canard, I'm sure," Mike said, shaking his head. "You thought much the
same of me once, Colonel and I assured you you were wrong. I refuse to believe
such of Mr. Gonzales. He's far too much the gentleman to be involved in
anything like that."
"Well, I understand you do a bit more than make beer, Mr. Jenkins," Gonzales
said, showing a bit of teeth. "Something about Amnesty International
petitioning the International Criminal Court? Killing wounded or some such. A.
. .base canard I'm also sure."
"Oh, hardly," Mike said. "Actually, I don't think most of them were actually
dead when we buried them."
"So the ICC will be bringing charges," Gonzales said, shaking his head. "I am
so sorry."
"Oh, hardly," Mike repeated. "No, no, rest assured on that stake. The ICC was
presented the information and refused to even view the evidence."
"Why?" Montcrief asked, honestly curious.
"Probably something about the governments of Russia, China, Japan, Germany,
England, France, Germany. . . Oh, it's a long list, telling them to mind their
own business," Mike said, smiling thinly. "The
ICC can only exist with international support. When they considered touching
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