The Protector (3 page)

One of the guards had brought him to this small office, saying someone was there to meet him. Jazz guessed it was Hawk. He looked around. The room had a noisy fan in the corner. The old table, with paperwork strewn all over, inkstains and cigarette burns scarring its shellac veneer, revealed more about the situation before Hawk told him anything. Probably the office of some low-ranking personnel, and the fact that there weren’t any guards outside or inside the room implied that he wasn’t regarded as a prisoner who might flee.

“My roommate snores,” Jazz complained.

“What’s the cell like?”

“Regular. Ten by ten. One window to the outside. They change guards every four hours.” Jazz sat back, eyed Hawk quizzically. “Is there a problem getting me out?”

Hawk scratched his stubble. “Yes and no.”

Jazz raised a brow. “It’s not like you to be undecided, pal.” There were two options. Regular channels, which meant paperwork. But a covert SEAL team from the black operations group wasn’t on any paperwork. If someone checked on their military “backgrounds,” they weren’t supposed to be anywhere near here. The other option was more unconventional.

“Do you know there’s really nothing they could do except hole you up in here till your base or someone in charge calls up and gets you out?” Hawk asked. “Technically, you didn’t break any local law, but since this is a UN directive, they go around pulling in military personnel because they’re easier to stop.”

“To stop what, soldiers from buying kids for sex?” Jazz leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “And are you suggesting that I sit in the cell a little longer?”

“Yeah, to both questions.”

“If I didn’t break any local law, and they had technically stopped me, then why am I still here? Why not just let me go?”

“It’s not that simple. Interpol has a team that tracks global child sex trends, and certain individuals in there also support an organization called United Third World Against Exploitation of Women. They take the data collected by Interpol and use it for their cause.”

Jazz raised his eyebrows. “Trends? Is that what they’re calling it?”

“For the study, yeah.” Hawk shrugged. “We both know criminal acts when we see them, but I don’t think Interpol can actually call them crimes unless every UN country agrees. So anyway, you just participated in a study, buddy.”

“Let me guess. A public list of military personnel in the kind of sex scandal that would horrify Westerners. That, in turn, might embarrass a government into a more active role to help fight child prostitution.” Jazz rocked his chair as he thought about it. “Good tactic. But not good for us.”

“Nope.”

“So why aren’t you busting me out?”

“Because the admiral knows where you are. Normally, getting you out would be a snap, but it would still have taken a few days for me to locate you because Interpol doesn’t release information to anyone except the proper governing authorities. And since we don’t exactly want the authorities to know where we are…” Hawk trailed off and shrugged.

Jazz shook his head. “You know, you’re lucky I’m not your wife. You’d drive me insane with the way you give nonanswers.”

Hawk’s lips quirked. “You’re lucky? I’m lucky you’re not my wife. It’d be disconcerting to wake up hugging a snoring Cajun son of a bitch, to say the least.” He looked around the room. “You don’t think they’d just grant me access to you so easily, do you? And let me use one of their offices for a quiet chat?”

Jazz gave an exaggerated sigh. “There you go again. Are you suggesting you told them that I was your wife?” He was used to Hawk baiting him. They were coleaders in this team, and often challenged each other physically and mentally. “Don’t you think they might be a bit skeptical about the relationship?”

“Unfortunately, they were. You’re a bit too ugly for the part, so I had to call Admiral Madison for help.”

Calling Mad Dog before debriefing was not good. It was almost admitting that they’d failed their mission. Jazz frowned. “You didn’t.” When Hawk shrugged, he added, “Okay, you did, and that’s why you can talk to me without guards. But you aren’t getting me out immediately, so I’m assuming that Mad Dog has a plan.”

“Yeah. Remember that old lady that tried to stop you from going in there?”

“Yeah.”

Hawk rubbed his stubble again. “She gave me the number to Interpol’s UN sector. If she hadn’t told me, I wouldn’t have gotten through to you so quickly.”

“And you wouldn’t have found out that they don’t release any apprehended military personnel to anyone but their
commanding officer,” Jazz said, his mind going through the possibilities. “So you called Mad Dog to see how to avoid the paperwork and still get them to release me without any covert activities. Who was that old woman?”

Hawk shrugged. “Some local lady who’s being paid for the sting operations, I’m guessing.” He gave a sly smile. “But she fancied you. I had to promise her two kisses from you to get her to talk.”

Jazz stopped rocking the chair. “If she were some young chick, you would have offered your own lips instead of mine,” he said dryly.

Hawk’s smile widened. “Hey, you were the one who insisted on entering that backroom.” His expression turned serious. “As far as Interpol’s concerned, the moment you handed the money over, you bought the services of an underage female. Didn’t matter what your intentions were, buddy.”

“So this old lady…she was trying to help me all along,” Jazz said thoughtfully. “Okay, what now?”

“Admiral Madison is calling our UN liaison to see how to extricate you out of this without hardware.”

Hardware meant the use of force. Jazz could see the potential problems of busting a soldier out of jail when so many international organizations were involved.

“Okay, I guess I could use more sleep.”

Hawk nodded. “It’ll take a few more days. The liaison happens to be on vacation. You can imagine she isn’t going to be too happy to get a call from Mad Dog about helping out a stupid SEAL boy in trouble for buying an underage prostitute.”

“I’ll have to apologize to Admiral Madison for my mistake,” Jazz said quietly. “And to the team.”

Hawk shrugged again. “You didn’t know. Any of us would have stepped in to help that girl. For what it’s worth, that part of it wasn’t staged. I did some checking and found out that the stings are independent, without warning to the bartenders or the local pimps. The object of the UN directive is
to take action against the soldiers, not the locals, especially those from nations that signed the Human Rights Treaty.”

Jazz never did like politics. To him, it was mumbo-jumbo territory, making sense only to the people who played that game. He could see the political intentions were always good, as in this case, trying to stop the trafficking of children as sex slaves. However, he could never understand the long-winded way they took to reach that objective. He was a soldier, and the simple solution was to attack the problem head on.

“Okay, teacher,” Jazz said. “Tell me why they don’t just arrest the bartenders and the local pimps along with the customers? They’re the ones trafficking these girls. You just said that what we saw wasn’t staged, so those girls are back out on the street again, right?”

He didn’t like that at all. What was the use of any directive that was only a temporary stopgap? How did that protect Rose, or kids like her?

Hawk was silent for a few moments. Jazz studied him as he waited. He’d known Hawk for ten years, from the wild days of gung-ho youth to the cynical realization of experience. Their job had always been to complete missions, and not question the politics behind them. They had celebrated and sacrificed together, and he was closer to Hawk than to his own brother. Yet sometimes he could feel Hawk distancing himself, as he was now, as if he didn’t want to say aloud what was on his mind.

“The system can only do so much. In this instance, the locals don’t care and their culture might seem a bit barbaric to us.” He looked straight at Jazz, his clear golden eyes glittering. “I could easily kill every one of the bastards, but they’re replaced immediately by others. I suppose the UN thinks taking away a source of their income is better than nothing.”

“Sucks,” Jazz said.

Hawk stood up. End of discussion. “You can spend the next few days writing a UN treatise if you have a better solu
tion. I’m going to find out how this delayed our timetable.” A corner of his lips curled up. “I’ll make sure Grandmamasan knows you’re coming to thank her.”

Jazz narrowed his eyes. “I’m not kissing that mean old woman,” he said, as Hawk left the room.

Hawk turned and gave his usual nonchalant salute. “A deal’s a deal,” he said.

Vivi’s back hurt. It wasn’t easy to hunch with the
extra weight of padding. Her lips twisted into a wry smile. Next time she would have to use a less strenuous disguise. Her smile turned bitter. If she were successful, she wouldn’t need any of these disguises any longer.

She sat on a stool near the doorway, hidden in the semidarkness, listening to the activities outside. Another bar. God, she was getting so tired of these dives. Another day, another bar. There were the familiar sounds of clanking glass and macho chortlings, the odd camaraderie that men found so easy whenever they gathered together.

Women would never clasp strangers around the shoulders and sing dirty ditties, with glasses of beer in their hands. But then women would never go to a bar without a little bit of perfume. These men definitely needed something. There were manly smells, and there were…manly smells.

She sniffed, peering out from between the plastic curtain. The girls were sitting at their corner and she frowned at the sight of a familiar face among them. Damn, it was that one who hated her. The last time she had “interfered” in her livelihood, the kid had gone after her with her nails, missing Vivi’s eyes by mere inches.

Kid. She was barely fourteen, but there was no kid left in
that girl. She had a “business,” and hated what Interpol was doing, refusing everyone’s help. Her language was specific. “Fuck off,” the young girl had screamed. “
Bookoo
fuck off!”

Vivi shifted in her seat, looking at the men. They would be coming over soon and she’d click the remote to signal the agents. She’d picked out the most likely to move over to the corner first; they were often already drunk and rowdy, waving their cash like kings. When they handed over their cash to her, she’d give the second signal.

Her eyes narrowed at the sight of a loner sitting in the corner. It was the grunt she’d talked to the other day…Hawk, that was what the men in his group had called him. What the hell was he doing here now? He was quietly drinking his beer, but his eyes were watchful.

She didn’t think he was there to just drink beer. There was something dangerous about him. Same with his buddy, Jazz. She had been told he had paid Jazz a visit that morning, and was easily given access to his friend. That was interesting by itself. No one had ever gotten access so quickly before; obviously someone with a lot of power had called in ahead of time.

Even more interesting was the email she’d received this afternoon. It was from her operations chief, T., and after decrypting it, she had sat and pondered her instructions. It had to do, of all things, with the two men she’d met—Mr. Jazz and Mr. Hawk.
Bookoo, bookoo
interesting, as the local lingo went. She started at her own use of the corrupted form of
beaucoup.
God, she’d avoided using that for decades, and now it had slipped back into her vocabulary like some thief.

Her frown deepened as she continued studying Hawk at his table. Her orders were clear but it would have been nice to have an explanation. Who the hell was countermanding over and above her contract? Sure, Jazz hadn’t deserved to be taken in. He’d told her he was just escorting Rose to the back and leaving, but—she shrugged—words meant nothing. The Interpol agents said they caught him unbuttoning her blouse. Besides, it wasn’t
her
job to prove his innocence. Where was his commander or operations chief?

Instead, somehow, she was now responsible for that dumb GI who wouldn’t listen to her warning. She didn’t have time to go through all the paperwork to get him out. Who was he, anyway? The email told her to leave her fax line open, so she should have some answers soon.

She watched three party-hearty males in uniform staggering over to the corner. Right now, it was time to focus on her job. Once they handed over their cash in exchange for services, she had the evidence necessary to call in the operatives outside. After that—she gave Hawk a last peek—she would handle that one.

It didn’t take long before he wandered over. She gave him good marks for waiting until after Interpol had taken away the new detainees.

“Grandmamasan.”

She feigned surprise as she looked up from the cash box. “Oho, you! Golden eye. What the soldiers say? Whazz-up?” She cackled in amusement as she imitated the American slang, then coughed feebly as she peered up at the tall soldier.

The man really had remarkably pretty eyes. They glittered back with amusement. “You funny, Grandmamasan,” he commented and squatted down in front of her without her asking. She stared straight into his eyes, knowing the semidarkness protected her. “I’m still waiting for my friend to be released.”

“GI number ten,” she reminded him, suppressing a cheeky grin.

“Yes, GI number ten. I was wondering, since you’ve done this with Interpol so many times, how the operation works. First, you get the bar owner to agree to all this operation, then when the men pay you and go back there, Interpol comes in and does their part. Like clockwork. Everything very practiced. What do you do after this happens, Grandmamasan?”

She paused a few seconds, half tempted to tell him the truth. “Why you want to know?” she countered in her broken English.

“To help my friend.”

She shook her head. “Oh, he in big trouble. I tell Interpol people he give me money and say he want room. I sign papers. Interpol agents also sign papers, tell what they see in room.”

“Okay, that makes sense. Have you ever been told not to sign any papers?”

She smiled slyly. “Of course,” she replied. Hell, if she had to release the guy, she might as well have some fun. “Old woman smart. Never give things for free.”

“How much?”

She leaned close and whispered
sotto voce
, “I always ask for kiss. Some GI, no problem. Some GI, they rather go to jail.” She cackled.

Hawk laughed aloud. “That’s the price?” he asked, his eyes thoughtful.

“That’s only for all GI number ten. For all GI number one, I have special offer,” she told him airily, enjoying herself now, wondering how far she dared to push this. She wanted to test these two grunts who were so important that their leader had managed to contact her operations chief.

“And what is that?”

“You have to give time. Old woman thinks slow.”

“No problem, but I have a favor to ask.”

“What?”

“You find me that girl Rose, the one Jazz took to the back room. I want to give her more cash to help her out.”

Now that was unexpected. She was intrigued. These two men seemed genuinely concerned about Rose.

Later that day, after getting out of her disguise, Vivi went to the Interpol office to start the usual paperwork. As Hawk had said, everything was done in clockwork fashion, down to the part where many of the prisoners would be released without being punished. Their commanding officers always assured that the men would face punishment in their respective military courts but Vivi knew very little was done.

She felt disgusted at the system, and helpless. But her employer was satisfied for now—the crimes were stopped and
they had data for evidence, important facts that would help them get the UN recognition and funding they desperately needed. The big picture was more important, they’d told her.

Not today. She had new orders from her own agency.

Pushing the authorization papers aside, Vivi gestured to the girl waiting patiently on the nearby sofa. She pressed the intercom. “Send the comptroller in,” she said. “Rose, come with me to the window.”

Rose obediently got off the sofa and followed her. The “detainees” were given a little time in the small courtyard for fresh air. As usual, the UN had special terms—the men weren’t “prisoners” because they hadn’t broken any local law. Only their own countries could charge and bring them to trial.

Vivi could recite the UN directive by heart, all ten paragraphs of weaving passages that had nothing to do with the crime. Instead, the whole process was slowed down by paperwork that didn’t do a thing to end the purpose of the directive—to curtail the encouragement of prostitution of minor children in Third World countries by citizens from developed countries. As far as she was concerned, people who traveled to poor countries to prey on children should be the targets. Instead, she had these men down there in the courtyard, most of them young and stupid, like kids driving drunk for the first time.

It didn’t excuse what they did or had planned to do. She understood the corruption that went along with the business of war. Someone who started walking down a tainted path would most likely continue, and soldiers who treated children like pieces of meat should be punished.

But she also knew they weren’t. Not by their governments, anyhow. They would be whisked away as soon as their superiors found out what had happened, with no one the wiser. Unless there was a major fuck-up, like the couple of soldiers raping a teenager in Japan, there wouldn’t be any black marks in these men’s records. In the Japanese case, all
eyes had been watching and the soldiers were taken through the system.

Vivi studied the men from behind the tinted glass window, knowing they couldn’t see her. She didn’t want to be here, looking at them in their uniforms. Murder was okay to men like them. Sometimes rape. Or, if they were just friendly peacekeepers, a couple of visits to the local young girls went unquestioned. Uniforms were like political words, used to commit crimes.

Her eyes were drawn to the only man who was shirtless at the moment. Unlike the others, who were talking in small groups or smoking cigarettes, he was alone, hanging on the hoop of the rusty iron basketball post. His body gleamed with perspiration in the sun as he used the post, which was buried in concrete, to exercise. She had watched as he shimmied up the post and, dangling from the hoop, did pull-ups, his powerful muscles straining as he kept going.

He was impressive to watch. He hadn’t stopped since…she’d lost count a few minutes ago as she’d stood there admiring his physique. Up and down he went, apparently unaware of how his chest expanded as he pulled up and his stomach muscles contracted as he lowered himself down. She wanted to run her hand down that hard wall of muscles to test its strength.

He suddenly paused in mid-pull and looked in her direction, as if aware of her thoughts. Vivi blinked and almost took a step back. He couldn’t see her, but that didn’t stop her heart from beating a tad faster. She watched as he resumed his exercise, pulling up till he was chin level with the hoop, the muscles in his arms rippling in the sunlight. Strength. The kind that could hold a girl down. Damn that man. Why did she have to be responsible for his release?

“Come in,” Vivi said, at the knock on the door. It was the comptroller. “Ready?”

“Yes, Miss Verreau.”

Vivi put her hand on Rose’s shoulder. The girl had been
standing quietly beside her, looking out at the scene. At her touch, she turned her attention to Vivi.

“He cannot see you,” Vivi assured. “Everything you have told me is the truth, right? Are you sure he never touched you anywhere?”

Rose looked back at Jazz in the courtyard and shook her head. “No touch me,” she said softly. “He no want me.”

Vivi looked over Rose’s head at the comptroller, who was taking notes as well as handling the tape recorder. He nodded when she arched a brow at him, answering her silent question that he was recording Rose’s words.

“He never touched you intimately?”

Rose nodded in agreement. “No touch me,” she repeated.

Vivi looked at the comptroller again. “Will they okay his release after I sign the papers? I don’t want them protesting later because they didn’t have enough figures and facts.”

“They” were the members of the United Third World Against Exploitation of Women, a group that was writing a report for the UN and that was also the watchdog for the directive. They had asked the UN for an independent contract agent to facilitate part of the operation and to authenticate the study, as well as be responsible for future references. GEM had been chosen because of one very important factor. It was an agency made up of eighty percent female operatives. Perfect for the group. They even approved the GEM candidate—a woman who came from the region, who could communicate in several languages.

Vivi had wanted the job. It was a chance to return home. A way to personally find out what had happened…

“They won’t like it,” the comptroller said.

“They don’t have to like it,” she said. “The man’s innocent, and surely they don’t want the wrong people to be charged.”

She said the last sentence with barely hidden cynicism. She had worked in projects where numbers were more important than truth, especially those that brought funding for the all-important bolstered figures. There were always radi
cals in every organization, even her own. The last thing she wanted was to come between a group and its cause, but—she glanced again at the object of her thoughts—if her operations chief wanted him out of here, there must be a good reason. T. had never done anything without one. Vivi might not trust this man’s seemingly good morals and his superhuman stamina, but she trusted her operations chief implicitly.

She abruptly turned away from the window. “Give them the report, Monsieur Comptroller. Tell them I stand by it. I’ll personally conduct another interview with the man and they can watch and review on their own.”

“Yes, I’ll set it up.”

Vivi affectionately squeezed Rose’s shoulder. “We have a few more things to do, Rose, then I’ll take you home, okay?”

“I not want to go home,” the young girl said.

Vivi sighed inwardly. That was the other problem. Stopping soldiers didn’t stop the parents from pushing their daughters toward an awful fate. Poverty was pervasive in these areas, and daughters were considered useless, with their need for dowries. And she had only so much cash to give away, to stall for time.

“I’ll see what I can do, Rose,” she told the girl, without a single idea how to solve her problem long-term.

A couple of days of R and R—albeit behind bars—Jazz found himself in a standard interview room, with a nice clean table for a change, and a fake mirror. Just like a regular TV show. He sat there and waited. If he were a prisoner of war, all he would be required to do was give his name, rank, and serial number. But they’d assured him that he was just being “detained” by the UN police. That was the problem with politics. Too many ways to explain a situation. Either he was a prisoner or he wasn’t.