Sleeper's Run

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

Jim drives us to the Doha's International Airport. I rest next to him, trying to recover from my torture session. He enters the air charter service area of the terminal and stops at a hangar where a private jet awaits. Jim points to his luggage bag on the back seat, where I find a suit to change into, while he tells the flight crew to prepare for take off.

After Jim rescued me, we used the plastic explosives provided for the mercenaries and attached them to every single combustible item we could find: the propane tanks of the forklifts, barrels of industrial chemicals, and the gasoline tank of the van used to transport the mercenaries to the warehouse. Then we poured gasoline over the bodies. The result was an explosion that shook the vast warehouse like a tin hut, creating a raging inferno.

"Here, I found this with your laptop," Jim says, as he hands me the South African passport that The Egyptian had given me. "No one saw it but me."

"Perfect," I say taking it.

"I'd chuck that away and use this instead," he says as he gives me a British passport. "I know border jumping comes natural for you, but this might come in handy."

My picture sits over the name "Desmond Kendrick" from London. It looks like the real deal. It has entry and exit papers for Qatar, all the documents for the charter jet, and a European Union driver's license. Impressed, I look over at Jim.

"Trishna called in a favor. The pilot has his instructions. He'll take you all the way to London. After that, you are on your own, but I suggest you stay away from Europe for a while; the French are really pissed."

"I can live with that," I say as I pocket both passports anyway. Who knows when I might need backup?

"If anybody asks, you're a businessman exploring opportunities over here. There's a briefcase in the airplane that will support your cover, but I doubt anyone will give you any grief back in England."

"Thanks."

"Don't thank me yet. This is the numbered account of a bank in Monaco. There's a million euros Singleton setup as operational funds for this mission. It's a black account, so nobody knows it exists, hence nobody will miss it. And here's a thousand bucks for traveling expenses. Now you can thank me, you rich motherfucker."

"Surely you're not going to begrudge a brother government handouts?" I say, as I fix my tie and don my jacket.

"Ha, ha. When you told me about your plan, I thought you'd lost your damn mind. And look at you now; alive, whole and rich. Next time, I hope they brainwash my ass."

"Yeah, well. My plan didn't call for getting tortured," I say, as we walk to the jet's door. "What happened to 'First There'?" I quote the combat controllers' motto.

"Stop being a bitch."

"What about you?"

"I'm taken care of. I was officially never here and I'll be going back home through Al Udeid Air Base in less than two hours. What I can gather so far is that the CIA wants to handle this internally, before producing an 'official version.' Too many screw-ups."

We both fall quiet.

I don't know how I can ever—"

"Just get in the fucking plane already. That's how," Jim says.

We pound fists and give each other a powerful hug.

"You take care of your sorry ass," Jim says.

"You too."