the bag over his shoulder and scanned the predawn waterfront.
There was a security gate at the clubâs dock entrance, but he knew it was only manned during the day. After hours it only opened out, to accommodate club members who arrived during the night. There were no cameras. Within minutes heâd passed beyond the gate and strolled up Kowloon Park Drive until he came to the park itself.
Entering on the western edge from Haiphong Road, he walked past the Lily Pond until he came to the circular Water Garden. The tinkling sound of the various fountains was muted by the surrounding woodland park. It wouldâve been charming under other circumstances but the mercenary couldnât have cared less.
Just beyond the garden was a rectangle cut in the trees that contained a menâs lavatory. These toilets contained showers and private stalls due to their proximity to the mosque at the southwestern corner of the park.
No one was moving about to notice him enter the park toilet a few minutes after four A.M. Taking a corner shower stall away from the door he hung his two bags on a wall hook and stripped, showered, and shaved. Toweling off with the turtleneck, he opened the larger bag. Slipping on a pair of black lizard-skin Mezlan moccasins, he then quickly dressed in a dark, beautifully tailored Caraceni double-breasted suit.
The black leather bag was now folded into a compact satchel holding the data cartridge and his shaving kit. His primary and backup travel documents were carried in both inside pockets of his suit. Concealing them in baggage was too risky these days as they would show up on airport scanners. The only way they could be discovered on his person was from a physical search. This rarely happened to well-dressed, polite businessmen, which was exactly how he appeared. In any event, heâd only fly commercial as a last resort.
Emerging from the toilet, the mercenary walked briskly past Bird Lake and exited the park to the north via the footbridge. Turning left, back toward the harbor, he entered the Kowloon Airport Express metro station ten minutes later. The Hong Kong Metro was clean, efficient, and fast. There was only one stop and no train changes, so heâd strolled into the Chep Lap Kok Airport station at eight minutes past five in the morning.
Buying a newspaper and hot tea, the mercenary spent the next thirty minutes unobtrusively studying the morning crowd. Convinced that nothing was out of the ordinary, he folded the paper and quietly walked outside to hail a cab. Twenty minutes later he walked through the doors of the Business Aviation Center on the south side of the airport.
Greeted obsequiously by the agent for JAC Jet Executive Charters, heâd been shown into a plush lounge. The agent politely requested his passport and apologized profusely for the tiresome customs requirements to screen outgoing passengers. Especially those who paid substantial sums in advance for the luxurious and efficient services JAC offered. In the old days, the agent said, such things did not happen. But it was a result of 9/11. The Global War on Terrorism, of course. The mercenary quite understood, and gave the man his passport.
Switching on CNN International, he noted that the âapparent gas pipeline explosionâ outside Taipei the previous evening was being thoroughly investigated. That had produced the merest glimmer of a smile. Taipei knew. And China knew. And the Americans knew. And everyone knew that they knew.
It was a knowledgeable world.
By 0620 hours, two pilots dressed in black blazers, white shirts, and black ties had appeared to show him to the jet. A six-passenger Hawker with a 3,000-mile range. The agent fawned his good-byes and returned the passport. Priority departures were commonplace for exclusive private jets and the wheels came up precisely . . . at fifty minutes past six. As Hong Kong disappeared in the clouds beneath the Hawkerâs tail, the mercenary slowly
There was a security gate at the clubâs dock entrance, but he knew it was only manned during the day. After hours it only opened out, to accommodate club members who arrived during the night. There were no cameras. Within minutes heâd passed beyond the gate and strolled up Kowloon Park Drive until he came to the park itself.
Entering on the western edge from Haiphong Road, he walked past the Lily Pond until he came to the circular Water Garden. The tinkling sound of the various fountains was muted by the surrounding woodland park. It wouldâve been charming under other circumstances but the mercenary couldnât have cared less.
Just beyond the garden was a rectangle cut in the trees that contained a menâs lavatory. These toilets contained showers and private stalls due to their proximity to the mosque at the southwestern corner of the park.
No one was moving about to notice him enter the park toilet a few minutes after four A.M. Taking a corner shower stall away from the door he hung his two bags on a wall hook and stripped, showered, and shaved. Toweling off with the turtleneck, he opened the larger bag. Slipping on a pair of black lizard-skin Mezlan moccasins, he then quickly dressed in a dark, beautifully tailored Caraceni double-breasted suit.
The black leather bag was now folded into a compact satchel holding the data cartridge and his shaving kit. His primary and backup travel documents were carried in both inside pockets of his suit. Concealing them in baggage was too risky these days as they would show up on airport scanners. The only way they could be discovered on his person was from a physical search. This rarely happened to well-dressed, polite businessmen, which was exactly how he appeared. In any event, heâd only fly commercial as a last resort.
Emerging from the toilet, the mercenary walked briskly past Bird Lake and exited the park to the north via the footbridge. Turning left, back toward the harbor, he entered the Kowloon Airport Express metro station ten minutes later. The Hong Kong Metro was clean, efficient, and fast. There was only one stop and no train changes, so heâd strolled into the Chep Lap Kok Airport station at eight minutes past five in the morning.
Buying a newspaper and hot tea, the mercenary spent the next thirty minutes unobtrusively studying the morning crowd. Convinced that nothing was out of the ordinary, he folded the paper and quietly walked outside to hail a cab. Twenty minutes later he walked through the doors of the Business Aviation Center on the south side of the airport.
Greeted obsequiously by the agent for JAC Jet Executive Charters, heâd been shown into a plush lounge. The agent politely requested his passport and apologized profusely for the tiresome customs requirements to screen outgoing passengers. Especially those who paid substantial sums in advance for the luxurious and efficient services JAC offered. In the old days, the agent said, such things did not happen. But it was a result of 9/11. The Global War on Terrorism, of course. The mercenary quite understood, and gave the man his passport.
Switching on CNN International, he noted that the âapparent gas pipeline explosionâ outside Taipei the previous evening was being thoroughly investigated. That had produced the merest glimmer of a smile. Taipei knew. And China knew. And the Americans knew. And everyone knew that they knew.
It was a knowledgeable world.
By 0620 hours, two pilots dressed in black blazers, white shirts, and black ties had appeared to show him to the jet. A six-passenger Hawker with a 3,000-mile range. The agent fawned his good-byes and returned the passport. Priority departures were commonplace for exclusive private jets and the wheels came up precisely . . . at fifty minutes past six. As Hong Kong disappeared in the clouds beneath the Hawkerâs tail, the mercenary slowly
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