John Ringo: Kildar

“It’s more than just getting handed guns,” Mike said. “I was an instructor for American commandoes, what are called SEALs—”

“Navy commandoes,” Genadi said, his eyes narrowing. “I have heard of them.”

“If, and I say if , I form a militia, I’ll expect them to train to American methods and standards,” Mike said, his face hard. “That’s a cultural thing as much as anything. It might require change in the way they do things, how they think about fighting. For one thing, it requires being able to handle it when someone tells you you’re wrong and changing to the way that they tell you. Fighting and training with discipline. Will they be able to do that?”

“I think so,” Genadi said, carefully. “The Keldara… I think they can, honestly. They are disciplined. They’re prickly about their rights and duties, but not that way.”

“Okay, I’m not going to promise anything to them,” Mike said. “I don’t think that it’s good to make promises that you’re not sure you can keep. But you can assume I’ll make changes. The first is that you need some decent clothes. I’ll take the cost out of your pay. And I’ve got to figure out how much to pay you and where to stash you until it’s time to tell Otar he’s redundant.”

“Be careful,” Genadi said. “The man can be vindictive.”

“Well, I’m one person he won’t want to cross.”

Mike had stashed Genadi at the caravanserai, telling him to lay low, and settled back into the tavern in the meantime. The next evening he was contemplating his glass of beer, listening to Otar bragging, when he realized that there was one aspect of the village he’d neglected to check out: the brothel.

He dropped a ruble on the table and walked out into the night, crunching through the snow as he walked down the street to the building Vadim had pointed out. He paused as he was leaving the parking lot of the tavern, then doubled back to his car, getting some materials out of it and putting them in a bag. Then he resumed his evening walk.

When he got to the brothel he knocked on the door and was greeted by a short, fat man with a beaten look.

“Good evening,” Mike said in Russian. “I understand that this is a place a weary traveler can find friendship.”

“You must be the American,” the man said, waving him into an entry hallway. “I am Yakov Belyayev. I have not heard your name?”

“Mike Jenkins,” Mike said as the man opened the inner door.

The building was obviously a house since the entry area was a sitting room. There was one man in the room sitting on a couch with a gorgeous blonde on his knee. As Vadim had mentioned, the girls, three brunettes, a redhead and the blonde, ranged from very good looking to, in the case of the blonde, just spectacular. They also were, uniformly, young; the youngest looked as if she should be playing with dolls, not sitting around shivering in a teddy.

“Very nice,” Mike said.

“You may have your pick,” Yakov said, dispiritedly. “Business is very slow. It always is very slow.”

“You have very pretty girls for a slow place,” Mike said, looking the group over. The blonde looked at him and lowered her eyes demurely but he’d gotten just enough of a flash to know it was a total act. The eyes that had tracked to him were as cold as a shark’s, cold enough that they were a little frightening. Not just resigned cold but the sort of look you saw on someone who’d seen too much combat and discovered they enjoyed killing people and breaking things. Mike occasionally saw the same look in a mirror and knew it was the outward expression of something he didn’t want to get involved with. The blonde was a flat killer waiting for her chance.

“Most of the girls are local,” the man admitted. “I could sell them to the Chechens, I suppose, and sometimes I think I should. They eat more than they make most of the time. But it is the only business I know.”

“The blonde?” Mike asked, curiously.

“Katya,” the man said, sighing. “She was on her way to Eagle Market. I don’t know how she ended up here. The man wanted to sell her for too little money for me to pass up. Spectacular, no? She could make good money in Bosnia, but she is here where all men can afford is a few kopeks. I have tried to sell her before, for her own good, but no one would take her. I don’t know why, she is beautiful. And quite well trained. You like her?”

“Pass,” Mike said. “Besides she’s with someone.”

“That is Marat, my doorman,” Yakov said with another resigned sigh. “Why I have a doorman I don’t know; I always answer it.”

“Being polite,” Mike said quietly, turning away from the girls, “I understand there is a bit of problem with, well, body bugs.”

“It is hard to keep the girls clean,” the man said, shrugging. “Hot water costs money, you know. And the price they want for the shampoos, it is terrible.”

“I see,” Mike said, sighing. “Is there somewhere we can talk, quietly?”

“This way,” Yakov said, walking slowly to the back, his head down. He led Mike into the kitchen, which was dirty and deserted. Mike wasn’t about to eat anything cooked in the place, that was sure.

“I’m going to be staying for a while, as it turns out,” Mike said. “The weather and all. And I’d like to have my ashes hauled, but not at the cost of lice and bedbugs and fleas. Not to mention the pox.”

“No pox,” Yakov assured him. “The girls all use rubbers.”

“As you say,” Mike said, not looking at the kitchen. “The point is,” he said, starting to pull out stuff from his bag, “I’d be willing to front you the material to clean the girls up. Hell, I’ll even pay you a few euros to make sure they have access to hot water and to make sure they use it. I’ll be a major patron of your…” he paused and choked at the words “fine establishment,” “… house. If the girls are clean. If not, I’ll just stick to rosy palm and her five fingers.” By this time he’d laid out six bottles of lice shampoo, bedding spray and pubic hair cream. “Do we have a deal?”

“You are giving this to me?” Yakov asked, frowning.

“Yes,” Mike said. “And if I find out you resold it rather than using it, you won’t have to worry about losing money. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes,” Yakov said, nodding dispiritedly.

“And make sure the girls have all the hot water they want,” Mike said, pulling out a hundred-euro note. “This stuff works on first use. I’ll be back in a day or two. If I see lice, I’ll know you double-crossed me. You don’t want to double-cross me.”

“Some of the girls may be… resistant,” Yakov argued.

“You’re a pimp,” Mike said, standing up. “That’s your problem.”

It was three days before everything was arranged. He picked Genadi up on the morning of the third day, having him wait in the back seat of the Mercedes while Mike went in the bank. It was a lovely clear day, the last storm having just cleared off and leaving the sky a washed blue.

In Mr. Mironov’s office he found Vadim and Otar waiting, the latter looking puzzled.

“Mr. Jenkins,” Mr. Mironov said, standing up as he entered. “All of the transfers have been verified.” He pulled out a thick sheaf of papers and slid them across the desk. “This includes an up-to-date inventory of all the materials entailed on the farms. That includes, by the way, the Rover of the overseer.”

Mike glanced at the inventory and then nodded.

“And the deed?” he asked.

“Here,” Mironov said. “You sign here, taking possession, and I sign below, turning it over for the sum of one million euros. I took the liberty of escrowing that in one of our accounts and on your signature it transfers.”