“No funds?” Mike asked.

“Apparently not,” the policeman said, taking a sip of the tea. “The Chechens run drugs, mostly opium, through the mountains and pick up many of their sex slaves in this area. Then they sell them in various places, use the money to buy guns and run them back through. They even force the locals to give them food and money. If they don’t they burn down the farms and kill the farmers, taking the prettier girls for their sex slave rings. I’ve tried to form local militias, again no funds. It requires more than just giving them guns; if that’s all you do the Chechens just ‘inherit’ them.”

“Sounds frustrating,” Mike said. “And a tad dangerous for the local police representative.”

“Not so much,” Vadim said, deprecatingly. “Since it is quite impossible, I simply don’t try. Much safer all around.”

“And if it was possible?” Mike asked.

“Oh, then I’d be quite interested,” the Georgian said, narrowing his eyes. “The most frustrating aspect is the lack of authority and the responsibility. I’d like to discharge my responsibilities, but without the funding, it’s quite impossible.” He regarded Mike carefully and then shrugged again. “The subject has, I’m told, come to the attention of the American government. Russia has threatened to enter this part of Georgia and ‘clean it up,’ as if they could do any better than they have done in Chechnya. But the possibility of a border war with two countries that are nominal allies has the American government upset, or so I’m told. Which is why I wonder how you came here, really.”

“Ah,” Mike said, grinning. “I really got lost. I’m not a representative of the American government. Truly.”

“Very well,” Vadim said, sighing. “It was too much to hope, I suppose, that we might actually get some help.”

“I’m just traveling,” Mike said, shrugging. “Looking for someplace to settle for a while, I guess.”