John Ringo: Kildar

“Heh,” he said after a moment, grinning faintly.

“What?” Vadim asked, curiously.

“In the U.S. military, one of the euphemisms for dying is ‘bought the farm,’ ” Mike said, thinking. “I just used the phrase in my mind and realized what I’d thought. How big is that thing, anyway?”

“About thirty square kilometers,” Mironov said. “Including the mountainsides which are useless except for the wood on them. Excellent woodstands; you could make money simply by lumbering them off.”

“Last thing I’d do,” Mike said distantly. “Although, there are a few spots that would make dandy ski runs.”

“I think we’re a little remote for a ski resort,” Vadim said, watching him.

“I wasn’t thinking about tourists, I was thinking about me,” Mike said. “Just how stuck in their ways are the Keldara?”

“They can be very stuck in their ways,” Vadim admitted. “But… I did mention that the caravanserai is generally owned by foreigners. That person is referred to as the Kildar. The Keldara consider the current owner as their lord. Not one like Mr. Mironov, when he’s working for the bank, but they even called the commissar the Kildar. They… tend to be more understanding about changes from the Kildar. He’s just another in a string from their perspective. And, of course, you can toss them out on their ear if they anger you or don’t do what you want them to. You even own the houses.”

“Crap,” Mike said, thinking about what he’d seen in those houses. “Those places are hovels.”

“They’re no worse, and in fact much better, than most homes in the mountains,” Mr. Mironov pointed out. “And you have to be careful about changes; the Keldara are very prickly about debt. I suggested putting in gas heat and stoves and they asked how they were supposed to pay for it. They realized that it would mean being in debt to the bank and they flatly refused. The same thing happened with suggesting that they take loans to buy tractors. They have the right to cut wood in the mountains and some of their animals are their own, for which they have pasturage rights. They live within those constraints very carefully.”

“Okay, so let me get this straight,” Mike said. “You want a million euros for a valley with Neolithic, okay, medieval-style farms, a run-down castle and pig-headed farmers.”

“There is a reason we haven’t been able to move it, yes,” Mr. Mironov said with a sigh.

“And let’s not forget the security situation,” Mike added, grimacing. “Vadim, any idea how well those guys can fight? Could they be a militia?”

“The Keldara rarely leave the valley,” Vadim said, shrugging. “And they were specifically exempt from draft during the Soviet era; one of Stalin’s odder legacies and one that was never explained. So there’s no recent record to tell what they’re like. However, during the Great Patriotic War many of them fought in the Red Army and acquitted themselves well. At least, so I’ve heard. There were quite a few Heroes metals sent home, posthumously, and a few that made it back with them. For what it’s worth, the other groups in the mountains say they’re the best fighters around. I don’t know, personally.”

“Say that again?” Mike said, shaking his head. “ Stalin exempted them from draft?”

“Yes,” Mr. Mironov said. “No one knows why. He wasn’t even from around here.”

“Okay,” Mike said, blowing out. “Let me take another look around. I’m not too sure about this. Buying a farm wasn’t on my list of things to do this week.”

He left Vadim with the banker and went out to get his Mercedes unburied. It took about fifteen minutes but he finally managed to get it out of the snowed-over parking lot and through the drifts thrown up by the snowplow.

He made his way back down the defile to the valley and drove along the road, looking out at the snow-covered fields. As he did he thought of the work that had been done to the road; it was an amazing undertaking if all they used was the draft horses he could see in the fields. And they were cleared before he and Vadim had driven down. Admittedly, he hadn’t been up at dawn, but it was still impressive.

He stopped the car at the far end of the valley and turned around, driving back towards town slowly. As he reached the turn for the caravanserai he followed his impulse and went back up. He drove into the courtyard and looked around, for what he couldn’t tell. There was something about the architecture of the lower floor that was bugging him. The blocks of stone were uniform, about a half meter long and a quarter meter high. Many of them had carvings, especially along the base. Near the stairs there was one that had what might have once been Roman numerals. He realized that what he really needed was some tracing paper and a carbon stick.

He walked into the caravanserai and through the foyer, examining the large formal dining hall and the massive, extremely messy, kitchen that supported it. He took a stroll through the harem quarters, just for the frisson. It would be easy enough to fill the quarters with girls from Eastern Europe. Not that he would; he’d come too close to his demons once. But it still had a bit of a tingle. The rooms had Soviet era military beds in them and Russian graffiti. Easy enough to fix. At least if he had a lot of visitors, he’d have somewhere to put them.

He realized he was thinking in terms of ownership and grimaced. Buy the farm. Yeah, I bought the farm . It just had the wrong ring to it. Like speaking from beyond the grave.

The house was wired for electric, which was something. The service this far out from major areas was probably spotty. Get that fixed with some big generators. Hell, there were three or four streams that would do for decent hydroelectric, which could be fed to the Keldara… And that lovely, lovely girl would finally have electricity. Maybe even running water.

He walked out of the house, whistling.

“I’ll take it,” Mike said after he’d been ushered into Mr. Mironov’s office and the secretary had left. “I’d like some help and a few conditions, however.”

“What conditions?” Mironov asked. “And how will you be arranging payment?”

“There’s more than enough in Zurich Mercantile,” Mike said, sliding over a slip of paper with his account number on it and a release code. “Go ahead and arrange a transfer of three million euros. One will go to pay for the farm, the other two into an operating account. I’ll probably need more in time, but that will do for starters.”

“Very well,” Mironov said, looking at the number as if it were fairy gold.

“I have some arrangements to make, separate from the sale,” Mike continued. “So until the final papers are signed, I’d like to keep my interest quiet. Will that be a problem?”

“Not in the bank,” Mironov promised. “I’ll have the papers drawn up this afternoon by Mrs. Chizhova; she’s very discreet. When the transfers come through, the place will be yours.”

“Until I’m ready, I’d like the sale to remain quiet,” Mike noted. “I suppose I need to go talk to Captain Tyurin.”

He eventually found the captain in the tavern, playing a game of cards with a few of the regulars. Tarasova and his cronies were already ensconced by the fire and well into their beer. Mike ignored them as he made his way to the captain.

“Give me a moment of your time, Captain?” Mike asked as the round drew to a close.

“Of course, Mr. Jenkins,” Vadim said. “I was losing anyway.”

“I’m shocked, shocked to find gambling in this establishment,” Mike said, chuckling.

“You enjoy Casablanca as well?” Tyurin said, following him over to a table in the corner.