breathed out a quiet sigh and settled down to sleep.
Two hours later, the jet dropped smoothly into the tiny sultanate of Brunei, on Malaysiaâs north coast. Heâd awoken with the change in altitude and casually strolled up to the cockpit. Professing an interest in aviation, heâd managed to stand behind the pilots during most of the descent. Listening to the radio transmissions to air traffic and watching the instrument approach, he was satisfied that everything was normal. There would be no unwelcome reception waiting for him.
JAC provided a limousine to the main terminal, and by 10:15 A.M. the mercenary was through security and waiting in the Royal Brunei Airlines business-class lounge. From there heâd made two communications. First to one of his Lichtenstein clearing banks, which informed him that no wire transfer had occurred within the past twenty-four hours. This bank was a conduit to other offshore accounts where his considerable fortune was hidden beneath various corporate fronts.
The second communication was made just before boarding. A simple message in plain English to an email forwarding service in Bangkok. It would automatically resend the message directly to an unclassified computer belonging to the Chinese staff intelligence officer in Luqiao. It read:
HUIFENG. CARTRIDGE TO YOU WHEN XFER CONFIRMED. SANDMAN.
Royal Brunei Flight 873 lifted off precisely on time, at 12:30, and the Sandman relaxed with a hot gourmet lunch. Rewarding himself slightly with a half carafe of wine, heâd tried to get interested in the private movie selection, but Tom Cruiseâs latest hyperactive short-man antics put him fast asleep instead. Ten hours and twelve minutes later, the mercenary stepped off the jetway in Amman, Jordan, more than twenty hours since heâd landed the FLANKER in China.
Standing now at the window of his suite at the InterContinental Hotel, the Sandman felt reasonably well rested. Heâd arrived at the hotel at six P.M. , showered, and ordered room service. Sending his suit down to the valet for a press, heâd eaten hummus and spiced lamb, then gone straight to bed.
Glancing at his watch, he saw it was just after ten A.M . Quickly dressing in his dark suit and a clean burgundy shirt, the Sandman took the mirrored elevator to the ground floor. Strolling through the lobby, he walked onto the stone-tiled forecourt. Three sides were enclosed by an arcade with various shops. A double row of enormous date palms stood like sentries amid rectangular reflecting pools and fountains. It was a clear, hot morning and he paused a moment beyond the big doors. Unmistakable, he thought, sniffing the air. A faint, slightly sweet odor of burning trash, dust, and roses. Middle Eastern cities were always an assault on the nose. Each one was different and, in its own way, exotic.
He nodded to the two security guards in their dark suits and ties and stepped out into the arched walkway. Lining the promenade, before the security checkpoint, were several upper-end clothing stores, and he spent the next hour buying what he needed from Benetton, Pal Zileri, and Ralph Lauren.
Afterward, in the suite, he dressed in his new athletic clothes, draped a towel over his shoulder, and then returned to the lobby. There was a separate elevator to the health club and within minutes he was walking through the tunnel that connected the spa to the hotel. The InterContinental had a state-of-the-art health club. Real free weights. Man weights. And the place was almost always empty since Arabs rarely worked out.
For an hour he worked out the kinks and then enjoyed a massage. By three P.M . he was showered and casually dressed in baggy tan linen pants, sandals, and an oversized white cotton shirt.
Taking a small table by a pillar in the enormous lobby, he ordered an orange juice and ostensibly scanned the two papers in front of him. No one noticed the casually dressed gentleman reading his papers. But he noticed
Two hours later, the jet dropped smoothly into the tiny sultanate of Brunei, on Malaysiaâs north coast. Heâd awoken with the change in altitude and casually strolled up to the cockpit. Professing an interest in aviation, heâd managed to stand behind the pilots during most of the descent. Listening to the radio transmissions to air traffic and watching the instrument approach, he was satisfied that everything was normal. There would be no unwelcome reception waiting for him.
JAC provided a limousine to the main terminal, and by 10:15 A.M. the mercenary was through security and waiting in the Royal Brunei Airlines business-class lounge. From there heâd made two communications. First to one of his Lichtenstein clearing banks, which informed him that no wire transfer had occurred within the past twenty-four hours. This bank was a conduit to other offshore accounts where his considerable fortune was hidden beneath various corporate fronts.
The second communication was made just before boarding. A simple message in plain English to an email forwarding service in Bangkok. It would automatically resend the message directly to an unclassified computer belonging to the Chinese staff intelligence officer in Luqiao. It read:
HUIFENG. CARTRIDGE TO YOU WHEN XFER CONFIRMED. SANDMAN.
Royal Brunei Flight 873 lifted off precisely on time, at 12:30, and the Sandman relaxed with a hot gourmet lunch. Rewarding himself slightly with a half carafe of wine, heâd tried to get interested in the private movie selection, but Tom Cruiseâs latest hyperactive short-man antics put him fast asleep instead. Ten hours and twelve minutes later, the mercenary stepped off the jetway in Amman, Jordan, more than twenty hours since heâd landed the FLANKER in China.
Standing now at the window of his suite at the InterContinental Hotel, the Sandman felt reasonably well rested. Heâd arrived at the hotel at six P.M. , showered, and ordered room service. Sending his suit down to the valet for a press, heâd eaten hummus and spiced lamb, then gone straight to bed.
Glancing at his watch, he saw it was just after ten A.M . Quickly dressing in his dark suit and a clean burgundy shirt, the Sandman took the mirrored elevator to the ground floor. Strolling through the lobby, he walked onto the stone-tiled forecourt. Three sides were enclosed by an arcade with various shops. A double row of enormous date palms stood like sentries amid rectangular reflecting pools and fountains. It was a clear, hot morning and he paused a moment beyond the big doors. Unmistakable, he thought, sniffing the air. A faint, slightly sweet odor of burning trash, dust, and roses. Middle Eastern cities were always an assault on the nose. Each one was different and, in its own way, exotic.
He nodded to the two security guards in their dark suits and ties and stepped out into the arched walkway. Lining the promenade, before the security checkpoint, were several upper-end clothing stores, and he spent the next hour buying what he needed from Benetton, Pal Zileri, and Ralph Lauren.
Afterward, in the suite, he dressed in his new athletic clothes, draped a towel over his shoulder, and then returned to the lobby. There was a separate elevator to the health club and within minutes he was walking through the tunnel that connected the spa to the hotel. The InterContinental had a state-of-the-art health club. Real free weights. Man weights. And the place was almost always empty since Arabs rarely worked out.
For an hour he worked out the kinks and then enjoyed a massage. By three P.M . he was showered and casually dressed in baggy tan linen pants, sandals, and an oversized white cotton shirt.
Taking a small table by a pillar in the enormous lobby, he ordered an orange juice and ostensibly scanned the two papers in front of him. No one noticed the casually dressed gentleman reading his papers. But he noticed
Similar Books
