Swim and Let Dry Part 1

[x-dominion.livejournal.com]

A tropical paradise, an exclusive resort, and a lot of cleavage. Welcome to the intelligence business.



It was, quite frankly, paradise. Blue sky without a cloud in sight, pristine sand, clear water, and divinely-shaped bodies bronzing under the shining sun. Most people at this point would strip off their clothing and go join them, probably with a drink of fruit juice, rum, and crushed ice in hand. Some visitors, unfortunately, have more important business to attend to.

Mark sighed and gazed longingly at the hollowed coconut serving as a cup for Wanda. For health reasons he still had to remain dry but more likely sobriety was going to kill him rather than keep him alive. He drummed his fingers irritably on the table, his mind lost in daydreams of beaches, parties, and beach parties. It was hard to be serious about a megalomaniacal madman in a pink costume, especially in the Bahamas.

Across from him at the table, Christian Kane said goodbye to his wife and folded his cell phone up. He looked like a rich British esquire, relaxing in a loose white shirt and khaki trousers. His long hair was in a loose ponytail, and a martini sat at his elbow. The hints had lead them down to the Bahamas in search of the reflectors that Zemo's machine required. The trouble was that, according to their sources, they had somehow fallen into the black market, along with the wealth of illegal contraband that still moved through the islands, and the hope was that the resorts would provide a clue.

Unlike your average resort, the Palms catered only to the well connected and well moneyed, a haven for politicians, millionaires, and power brokers of all stripes. If they wanted to find out who might be connected to the big money sales that cleared through, this would be where they would be found. Kane smiled easily. He'd been here when it had opened, and in the last thirty years, they still hadn't learned how to properly serve a martini.

"I remember telling Peter about what the intelligence world was like. The very first thing that I told him was to give up all ideas about glamourous settings and exciting dangers in exotic locations around the world. The thing I forgot to mention was that I liked to keep those cases for myself."

"I guess if someone's got enough money to plan world domination they can afford to do it from somewhere nice. Although I've got to admit, I wasn't expecting to see this many yuppies in a hotbed of criminal activity." Jim navigated around a lemon wedge and took a sip of his iced tea. The red, yellow and black shirt he was wearing hadn't been purchased for the purposes of this mission. He hadn't worn it for some time. Many of his friends had tried to impress upon him the importance of maintaining a neat appearance. In deference to their efforts he usually tried not to draw attention to the fact that, for certain components of his personality, his normal shirt pallet of "basically pale blue" was less predilection than choice.

"I dunno, if we'd just criminalised being a yuppie in the eighties like sensible people would have, it might have saved us a load of fucking hassle." Pete glanced around as his sipped his bourbon, eyes flicking from face to face around the resort. "Anyway, what the senile old man there actually means is by the late eighties when he was spending his two weeks teaching me everything he knew, most people had developed the sense to try and stay hidden, instead of building expensive and easily traceable island bases and stupid fucking satellites. It's only his sodding generation that are sufficiently fucking brain damaged to think this shit is clever."

He leant back in his chair, his eyes lingering for a fraction of a second longer on an attractive brunette in a bikini than they had on her rather older male companion.

"Still, I've got to admit, this is more fun that getting shot at in the middle of fucking Siberia."

Wanda was torn between bemused and unsettled - this was the type of place she could see herself being on a vacation, with a lover (or a cabana boy in a pinch) and not hunting down madmen. Still, Pete did have a point. She finished off her drink and handed the complimentary umbrella that had come with it to Mark. "It's the next best thing to actually having it," she assured him as she turned her face back up into the sunlight. "Half these people look shady, the rest of them just look drunk. And some even look shady and drunk."

"You forgot "sunburned and fake." Marie-Ange said. "I think there is more plastic in some of these people than in the lounge chairs." She played with the straw in her drink, forcing ice cubes down under the juice and watching them bob back up. "And of course, I am sure that one of the young women here is really a nuclear scientist or weapons developer for the Chinese government. Doug has made me watch all of those movies, there is always a girl in a swimsuit who is a nuclear scientist."

"No, but the girl over by the pool used to be a sniper for the Italian Special Forces." Kane said smoothly. "This kind of resort isn't a vacation spot. It's a crossroads for power. Financiers, politicians, and criminals so wealthy as to almost be legitimate. The people not coming here to buy something are those here to sell something, and that is what you all need to find. It helps that you ladies look like the kind of women powerful men want to buy. That will make them want to talk to your creatures. Esteban, you miserable pimp, I know you still know how to find the buyers." He said, gesturing towards the men. "Meanwhile, Wisdom and I have connections in Her Majesty's colony here, which we will put to good use."

Esteban stared flatly at Kane the Elder from under the brim of his ridiculously oversized hat, the black eyes gleaming with a cold and unfriendly light over the rim of his sunglasses. Kane quirked an impatient eyebrow at him and Trotsky scowled, his mojito glass moving smoothly toward the Turkish security detail ranged carefully yet unobtrusively throughout the beach area. Then without losing a beat, Esteban's pinkie jutted out daintily pointing out the surveillance camera affixed to an incredibly gauche marble statue of a Greek God with an apparent glandular problem.

Jim's eyes dragged inexorably towards the blinking diode, and an unfortunate memory from pre-travel briefing surfaced. He lifted his glass to his lips and said in a quieter tone, "Uh, about that. Didn't somebody say Mr. Trotsky's wanted in this country? I'm pretty sure I remember something about him having worked here featuring in the story. Is it safe for him to work this area?"

The now empty cup - which looked far too much like a real coconut - was placed gently on a side table as Wanda stood up, stretching languidly. "Safe?" she murmured back at Jim and gave him a wink. "We cannot really do much about that. Distraction, however? Something can be arranged."

She turned her attention to the person seated across from Esteban and grinned at Marie-Ange before she scooped up a bottle of sunscreen that had been brought out with them. "You look like you're in danger of burning," Wanda said, her voice louder now as she sauntered over to her coworker, running fingers up one arm and then up to her shoulder. "Allow me..." With her height, she was positive that Esteban would be hidden from the camera and, besides, the security guards would probably be a bit distracted by watching Wanda in a bikini massage and rub lotion into Marie-Ange's shoulders.

"I see you trained them well, Pete." Kane grinned at Wisdom, settling back in his chair. "And now, Esteban will make a list of those most likely to provide us the information we need, and point them out to you all. We'll split them up between our teams and get to work. If those reflectors have reached the market, it will be through these people that we trace back to the next level and discover the current real players in the market."

A loud cat call sounded through the air as Betsy Braddock walked towards her companions in a metallic black one piece, the sides completely removed and only a string holding the bikini together. With black shades, a halo of a sun hat and black strappy heels, Betsy placed her hands on Kane, her voice projecting as she wrapped her arms around him. Without a hint of her English accent, Betsy spoke with a Mid-Western tint. "I leave you alone for a few minutes and you start without me? Shame on you."

She moved over to Wanda, her hands lingering on her neckline as Betsy's locked eyes with Pete and then the others slowly, all receiving the same message. The security detail is changing for the night shift in twenty minutes. Time for the fun to begin. I think its time for us to acquire the target.

Mark, Adrienne, and Esteban go looking for a drug dealer.



Mark was understandably twitchy as he and Adrienne sauntered downtown. Not because of the gravity of the situation at hand, but because they were joined by a third companion. Despite Mark's justified protests, Esteban had been sent along with them, since he knew this area like the back of his hand and could lead them exactly where they needed to go. Mark couldn't help but wonder where Esteban was hiding a gun this time. He glanced up at Adrienne and bit back a sigh. Hopefully Emma's cunning and wit were family traits and this scenario wouldn't blow up in one of the thousand ways possible.

Adrienne sensed that Mark felt apprehensive about being sent downtown to feign buying cocaine with herself and Esteban, and she understood and mirrored his feelings completely, cursing herself for having gotten into this mess and being forced to trust these two men who were basically strangers. She caught Mark's glance towards her and glared at him in a way she hope conveyed that she wasn't a big fan of this situation but would do what she'd been recruited to do. "Stop looking so damn nervous," she snapped to Mark. "Everything's going to be fine." She tried to take her own words to heart and swallow her anxiety, but she'd been nineteen the last time she'd dealt with a drug dealer and wasn't entirely sure she still knew the lingo. "You've gotta take the lead here," she added in a hiss, "so find your balls and act like a man."

Mustafa sighed forlornly and slid his shades down the slender nose, looking around. The sun was high in the sky and the heat was becoming faintly unpleasant for a man of his bulk. Also he was, quite frankly, bored. Eliza threw another one of her hissy fit and stormed of somewhere in a huff, to spend a considerable portion of his money no doubt. He sighed again and scratched himself, glowering at a nearby teenager who was observing him with faint disgust. "I can have your parents killed and you sold to a very unpleasant sheik in Bahrain," he informed her in Turkish. Judging by the California drawl she was unlikely to have understood him.

The same could not be said for other people of course. It was never wise to complain about one’s boredom he would later decide. Gods were always listening.

"I see your charm springs eternal and unchanging, Effendi." The depressingly familiar voice intoned behind him and Mustafa sighed for the third time.

No stranger to this sort of meeting, Mark easily slipped into the role of buyer following Esteban's greeting. His body language relaxed and he kept his gaze fixed to belie his anxiety. Let the crazy maniacal "manservant" do his thing first. He briefly allowed a glance at Adrienne to reassure her, as if a Frost needed reassuring.

Mustafa squinted at the coed in the pool appreciatively, resolutely refusing to turn around. "Mr. Trotsy. What a horrible surprise. You do realize that Belinski has ordered his people to shoot you on sight, correct?"

"Yes, I heard about that." Esteban pulled his straw hat slightly lower. "And since you need him for your opium supplies, it probably wouldn't do you any good to be seen with me, would it?"

Mustafa's massive shoulders moved in a fatalistic shrug. "It would slightly inconvenience me, yes. Whether the bother would be worth it to see you shot in the face... that's debatable."

Trotsky's humorless smile could almost be heard in his voice. "Thankfully, there's no need to resort to any of that, Effendi. My friends here only interested in a sample of your wares... Plenty of sun in his vacation, but not so much fun. Know what I mean?"

Mustafa slowly swiveled, the small beady eyes taking in the trio. He glanced at Mark. "How much?"

Mark wrapped an arm around Adrienne's shoulder and pulled her close. "What do ya say, babe?" Mark purred in her ear. "Half a dozen pieces? Should be enough ta party tonight."

Resisting the urge to squirm out of Mark's hold, Adrienne forced a smile and snaked her arm around Mark's waist. "Six sounds perfect, tiger," she said with a simper. "We can have a lot of fun with six." For emphasis, she gave Mark's ass a squeeze and ground her hip against his.

Mustafa snorted derisively and glared at Trotsky. "Why do you insult me, dear boy? What am I, some street-corner pusher from Brooklyn?" he waved the plump hand airily. "Six bits? Please."

Esteban raised his hands placating nearing the Turk. "I've been out of the circulation for a while, effendi and mean no offense. It is simply that you are the only person from the old days that I know who can be counted on to help out a friend in need." He took another cautious step coughing delicately and lowering his voice. "Also my friend here has club opening in LA soon. He was thinking of offering his customers some extra services. Of course I told him, only Mustafa Kemal is the man to approach of one cares at all about the quality product..."

Trotsky's eye flicked rapidly towards Mark. "He was thinking of dealing with Larson, if you can believe it."

Mark fought back a glare at Esteban. "Just tryin' out your wares, my friend. I'm a cautious businessman, y'know, I can't rely just on rumors and hearsay when it comes to somethin' so important."

Mustafa shook his head sadly, the minor movement sending massive fleshy tremors that were slightly horrifying to behind. "Kids today. Where is the trust?" A massive finger crooked and an immaculately dressed man appeared soundlessly and suddenly next to Mark, a tray balanced with elegant nonchalance, in one hand the other already reaching to sweep off the handkerchief covering it..

"Enjoy," Kemal grumbled. "And if you have two brain cells to rub together you'll get Esteban there to contact me for the buy. Although I'd suggest starting with Miami. LA clubs never last."

Mark and Adrienne were huddle next to the tray, their attention completely on the carefully arranged drugs. Which gave Trotsky all the time he needed to sidle up next to Mustafa. There was absolutely no way he was going out there armed only with a 9mm pea shooter.

For all his talk about blatant violation of America's drug and alcohol laws, Mark wasn't much of an experimenter anymore. Sure he knew the culture, but cocaine itself made him a mite uncomfortable. So he mentally braced himself before putting on a show of "inspecting" the goods before letting Adrienne have a look at it.

Adrienne had no qualms about pulling off a glove and taking one of the packages off the tray, fingering it casually and feigning inspection as she keyed in to it.

The reading of the drug's history and future ranked in the psychometrist's Top Ten Most Disturbing Reads Ever even though she tried to focus only on learning the whereabouts of the man they were after. By the time she had what she needed, she felt her skin crawling with disgust and her stomach roiling. It took every ounce of self-control she possessed to keep from visibly shaking or throwing up. Only the small sense of pride she felt for learning the whereabouts of the bad guy's stronghold kept her from whimpering at what she'd seen. She tossed the pill into her mouth, accepting it as a reward for what she'd been forced to witness and gave Mark another smile, though this time it was to inform him that she had what they needed.

Mark gave Adrienne a half-nod, wiped his nose with finger and happily turned back to the dealer. "Make it a dozen for now. We'll definitely be back soon, won't we?"

Adrienne sent Mark a private look that said 'over my dead body' but gave him an emphatic nod in the sightline of the dealer. "I sure hope so," she purred, putting an arm around him so she could lean her unsteady frame against his for the walk away from Mustafa.

Meanwhile, Betsy, Wanda and Marie-Ange engage in some 'hands on' research, while Haller watches.



Wanda paused at the door so she could take her sunglasses off, looking to all the world like she was simply stopping to let her eyes adjust to the light. And not looking like she was scooping out the indoor bar and pool combination. "Mmm, no customers," she said over her shoulder, "just a few employees setting up."

She grinned. Perfect.

Working at the resort wasn't the most enjoyable existence. For tourists it was a haven of sun, sea, booze, and exploits that probably wouldn't be making it into the vacation slides. For an employee, most days held few tips, foreigners speaking unnecessarily slowly without bothering to determine the fact the average attendant was bilingual at the very least, and an uncomfortably intimate knowledge of far more stains than any man should have to know. Any new hire inclined to blame them for acting as discreet connections for certain less-than-legal activities tended to lose this attitude after the first month. Indeed, for a certain clientele it was an added attraction.

Though it was early in the day, Deon was unsurprised to see the tall woman at the door joined by two more women and a man. Customers often defined a vacation as a time to break from normal routines like "no alcohol before lunch." Stubbing out his cigarette, the Deon leaned away from the bar. "Yes, may I help you?" he asked, politely keeping his attention fixed on the man. Though the women were wearing some very attractive swimwear, any tip he received was most likely going to come from the only person in attendance with pockets.

"Yes, excuse me," said the tall man who Deon could only imagine must have purchased his company and from the look on his face was worried his latest check might bounce, "we were wondering if, um . . ."

Playing giggling arm-candy was so much easier when the person you were supposed to be hanging off of was not absurdly tall, Marie-Ange thought. Still, she could lean her head against Haller's shoulder and press a finger to her lips, as though she were deep in thought. "Dave was just wondering if there was somewhere we could find more company. He cannot keep all us of busy at once..." She could almost hear the mental wincing at the nickname.

"How cute," Betsy said, mockingly. She looked intently at Marie-Ange before bringing her attention back to Deon. She took a seat next to Haller and lazily placed her hand on his thigh, drawing swirls on his leg. She brought her left hand around Wanda's waist. "What my friend means is where's a good place to buy a trick or two to help make this more a family affair."

When Wanda leaned against Betsy, the wispy bit of nothing she'd tied to her waist to hide the bikini bottom shifted to show a lot of leg. "Not that we're...bored with each other," she purred, an arm sliding around her friends shoulders, fingers stopping at the collarbone. "But we'd like some extra entertainment." She pouted at Deon. "Can you be of any service?"

Now there was a loaded question. Between that and the way the women were touching one another, for a moment Deon wondered if he was on Erotic Candid Camera.

The bartender cleared his throat and advanced carefully. "Perhaps," he said, trying not to be sidetracked by the way the tallest woman's fingers had begun toying with the purple-haired woman's suitstrap. "What sort of entertainment did you have in mind -- fleeting, or exclusive?"

For any warm-blooded male of the appropriate orientation, being fondled by three women was a great place to be. As it turned out, this situation proved somewhat more awkward for one who'd been a latecomer to the game of Life. He was almost wishing telepathy was an option, but without any idea how much experience the staff had with mutants they weren't going to risk it unless it was absolutely necessary. And, just to make the event the epitome of uncomfortable, Jim couldn't believe he was actually going to have to say what came next.

"An investment," the telepath said, forcing his eyes to remain on the bartender while his peripheral vision informed him Marie-Ange seemed to be doing some kind of stretch. "The kind that, if it works out, we could bring home as a. . . souvenir." It was strange, but despite the fact he hadn't been raised to believe in Hell Jim could have sworn he felt himself slipping into it.

"Ah. So, in the interest of keeping it a family affair you may be open to adoption." Now Deon was on firmer ground. He wouldn't have taken this guy to be the sort who was into the skin trade, but somehow he doubted it would have mattered even if he wasn't. He had to be the purse, with the women taking turns at jerking the strings. Then again, for three women like that Deon thought he could put up with a little jerking himself. He rubbed his chin. "I could recommend a few places around town--"

"A few -places-?" Marie-Ange tilted her head to the side, frowning. "And of course, I suppose that all of those places take the dregs from the supplier. They always do, you know." She said this with an unerring confidence, rolling her eyes just slightly at the idea of going through a middle man. "I would prefer - we would all prefer - not to have to see second-hand selections. It is just a waste of everyone's time and money..." And now her role as the 'cold' member of the trio was firmly established, but someone always have to be the bitchy one.

They were going to have to tread carefully with this part. If the guy suspected they were playing him, he might assume they were cops, local or international take your pick. Wanda gave him a look that, really, could only have been described as dirty right as she leaned over to place a kiss on Betsy's cheek that was far closer to the mouth than the cheek. The fact that her hand was now entrenched in Haller's hair just played up their ruse that much more.

"You would not happen to have someone who sells directly, would you?" she asked, looking and sounding hopeful. That she didn't have to fake. "The less time we have to spend running around, the more time we get to spend playing."

"We would, um, appreciate the opportunity to browse," Jim said from beneath Wanda's hand. Marie-Ange was still on his other side, but he circled his arm tighter around Betsy's waist. It was the only one he felt confident touching, and he feared that if he let go he'd lose track of who he was groping. With his other hand he reached into his pocket and brought his wallet into view, leaning forward slightly.

"Please," he said quietly, simultaneously trying to appeal to the man's male camaraderie and his bank account, "they're very . . . insistent, and we haven't had any luck finding anything up to their standards. If you know a place, I'd be willing to throw in for a finder's fee."

Deon hesitated. He could get in trouble for directing tourists to the drop-off point, and he had no idea if human cargo was due to come through this week, but . . . well, why not let them roll the dice? Perhaps they had enough money to assuage the traders' misgivings, and if not, well, he certainly wasn't going to give them his name, and any number of informants worked the resort.

Besides, he wanted these people to leave so he could leave. The sooner this was in the past the sooner he could enjoy the memory of these women somewhere private.

"All right," he said, eyes fixed on where the man's wallet was held against the pleasant backdrop of the redhead's thigh. "There is a place where the below-board stuff comes through. I can't guarantee they've got what you're looking for tonight, but if it's going to be anywhere it'll be there. It's to the east, down by the sea . . ."

Jim listened intently, and when the man was done he handed the man two fifties. He was probably over-tipping, but he didn't want to blow their cover by undervaluing, and it wasn't his money. He wondered what this fell under in the Snow Valley budget. Special Account for Financial Coercion?

While wearing barely anything, it's always good to find a place to hold the money and weapons. Betsy placed her hand into her fingerless black gloves and pulled out a wad of hundred dollar bills, bringing it directly into Deon's eyesight. "Buy yourself something nice," Betsy said. "I'm sure we can write it off as a business expenditure."

Deon took the money with a look on his face that indicated he was suddenly willing to excuse the foreigners their abruptness, their lack of propriety, and the sacrifice of a small animal in front of his eyes. Though Jim's face didn't change, he couldn't resist the telepathic touch. #I assume that's your way of telling me I've undertipped.#

#Honey, let's not fight in front of the bad guy?# Betsy sent to Haller, her gaze leveled at Deon. "Thank you for helping us in our time of need." Her expression grew, lion-like. #In the future, if you plan to buy intel, I suggest aiming higher. Benjamin gets you information but McKinley buys you silence. And Grover promises all manor of fancy things, such as castration, if you screw me.#

#Don't get me wrong, babe, but that kind of hands-on work is why I leave espionage to the professionals.# Replacing his wallet, Jim broadened the link to the rest of the group as Deon returned to the bar, exuding the vibe of expensive noninvolvement. #All right, guys, I think we've got it.#

Thanks to the team's information, Wisdom and Christian visit an underworld boss whom they both once had dealings with.



'Little Papi' Beauchamp's estate was palatial by every stretch of the imagination, the result of thirty years of work smuggling drugs, guns, contraband of all types, and a healthy relationship with the intelligence agencies of the Western democracies, making sure illegal shipments of supplies and arms made it to revolutionaries all over Central and South America. Neither of the former British agents had been that surprised to see his name turn up, since both had made use of the man at various points in their careers. A slightly wry smile had really been their only response when the rest of the team had identified him as being involved in the chain through which they had to track the reflectors Zemo was after.

***

Beauchamp was tied, hands and feet to a chair in front of them, in an otherwise empty cellar. Pete lit a cigarette, and then pulled the man's blindfold off.

"Hello, squire. You've dealt with both of in the past, so I'm hoping we can skip the preamble, and the pointless claims that you don't know what we're talking about, because we both know that you fucking do, and you know we know. So don't insult our intelligence. Would you like to take a guess why we've both coming calling at the same time?"


***

"Beauchamp's not going to roll over easily, is he? Shit. Shit." Pete drummed his fingers on the table for a second or two while he thought. "Feel up to some exercise? If you get a car and and somewhere we can take him afterward where we won't be interrupted sorted out, I'll go have a quick word with the others..."

***

"Do you remember Anton Vasjic? Czech interrogator, trained in Moscow? He once said that the most innovative trick he learned was from a couple of boys in the Congo. They'd tourniquet the arm, cut deep lateral cuts along the muscle, and literally peel it away from the bone while the limb itself is still attached. It's supposed to be excruciatingly painful." Christian looked away from Beauchamp's fear laced bulging eyes to Pete. "Did I send you to kill him? It's been a few years."

Pete shrugged. "Don't remember. Might've. Not a bad thought, though." He lit a cigarette with a fingertip, then looked at it thoughtfully. You know, I probably don't need a tourniquet."

"You think I am so soft that I will give up my son for threats?" Beauchamp's voice shook as he tried for bravado.

"Actually, squire, no, we don't." Pete leaned over, and ran a finger along the man's bicep, a blade of energy extending several inches into the man's flesh, cauterising as it cut. Beachamp screamed.

***

"Right, I've set them off to the cove to see if the ship is still anchored there. I can do without them having to do something like this just yet."

"That's not something you'll long have the option to do, Pete." Christian said, casually looking over the living wreckage of Beauchamp. "The world in which we live requires a great deal from us. We do not have the option of saying that there are methods we won't use, that there is a moral line we cannot cross, for the very simple fact that what we protect requires us to be able to suppress our personal morality in favour of what we believe. For me, it was always England. If what they believe is enough, it will keep them from being monsters."

The elder spy shrugged and turned to the door. "Let's get out of this abattoir."

***

The door lock dropped soundlessly on the heavy carpets, cut neatly from the wood by a hotknife. Despite his age, Christian still moved lightly on his feet, and 'Little Papi' Beauchamp hadn't even turned from his drink when he found himself in a tight throat lock, with a Scottish voice in his ear.

"Good afternoon, Beauchamp. We let ourselves in. Hope you don't mind."

***

The screaming had stopped a few minutes ago. Beauchamp was just making small wet sounds, a drool of spittle hanging of one side of his lip. Pete lifted his head up, and looked him in the eye.

"Right then. I think we've established that we're not fucking around here. Now this can go one of two ways. You can talk now, and if you're lucky, you might regain some of the use of your left arm, one day. Or you can keep holding out, and I'll start in on the right. I'm sure you don't want to to be fed by a nurse every day for the rest of your fucking life, do you?"

Defiance flashed briefly in Beauchamp's eyes.

"Ffff-fff-fuck.."

Pete let go of his head.

"No skin off my nose, cunt." He reached out. Beauchamp screamed again.

***

Pete pulled away from the red light, eyes scanning the traffic up ahead.

"I'm not fucking stupid. I know I can't keep them away from it forever. Sooner or later, we're going to need something quickly, and I'm not going to be around, or one of them will just take it on themselves..." He trailed off for a second. "You really think it's not worth putting that day off for as long as possible?"

"I think that you're doing it for yourself, Pete, and not for them." Kane said have a moments consideration. "The reason that you made such a good operative was your humanity, Wisdom. You possessed the ability to do horrible things because you either understood where people had stepped away from being a human being and needed to be neutralized, or you understood how pain and suffering multiplied. Some people understand the big picture. You, on the other hand, felt the big picture."

The aging spy made a gesture to the landscape going past them. "The lines of morality that people use is because they lack the confidence that they are right. The moral codes they stick to mean they don't have to question it. Your people, on the other hand, all that they have is the belief that what they do is necessary and they are right to be doing it."

***

"Reflectors, Beauchamp. Large multifaceted mirrors, like a disco ball unfolded and flattened."

"I have access to many things, Kane. For a price. There is no need for this." Beauchamp for a moment was hoping that he could talk his way out. After all, he'd been useful in the past to these men.

"Your son wants them. He's been acting odd since he took that sword you bought after the break-in at the British Museum. Been having you look for those reflectors for him." Kane slapped him lightly on the side of the cheek. "So you won't sell them to us, because he won't let you. But what you will do is tell us where he is. Now, or eventually, you will. The only decision you need to make is what would you like to have left when you do."

***

Pete slapped at Beauchamp's face, suprisingly gently. "Oh no, you don't get to go and pass out on us now."

Beauchamp came round slowly, muttering and whimpering. He screamed, before tailing off into sobs.

Eventually, he spoke, his voice cracked and broken, about an octave deeper than it had been. "N-n-n--no."

"No what, sunshine?"

"Sh-ship. Nn-no m-more. Ship." Beauchamp's eyes were distant, as if he was focusing on something beyond the walls of the house.

"What ship?" Kane snapped his fingers in front of Beauchamp's eyes. "What ship, Beauchamp?"

"They came in a ship. Some of them sing and chant and some of them pray." His voice rasped, singing softly. Christian sighed and stood up.

"I think that Beauchamp isn't coming back from this one. It's always the ones who like ordering torture that break the fastest. Divine irony, I suppose." Kane turned from the man in the chair, having already put him out of his mind. "Doesn't matter. I think I know what he's talking about. Beauchamp used to use a secluded cove when running weapons out of here. It's just a deep channel between two sandbars, so it looks like a shallow bay and gets ignored my naval forces. But if you know the exact route, you can get a midsize cargo vessel into the place."

***

Pete didn't speak again until he'd parked the car.

"You might be right, squire. You might be right." He shrugged. "You telling me you never did anything just so it'd be a little easier to look at yourself in the mirror, either?"

"I did, until it got good people killed." Kane shook his head. "Personally, I think the only way to be in this business is all the way. Any half measures and you're just looking at a greater fall. Still, the shadow world is changing, Pete. You might have the right of it now. It's certainly not the same as it was even as recently as when I was sending you in the field. So, I'll trust your judgment, but I'd also advise you to trust theirs as well."

Kane nodded his head. "Now let's get the fat bastard and the tool case out of the boot, shall we?"