The next morning, the sun rose at just after five o’clock. A cool fog hung lazily about the town as Cardinal loaded up their Land Rover and made sure that their GPS was up and functioning. He watched a couple of mangy-looking stray dogs chase after a rabbit, which easily outran them and quickly disappeared under the floorboards of an old wooden building. The smell of dust and diesel exhaust from the dozens of trucks already making their way to the border hung heavy in the air. After placing a quick call back to the States on her satphone, Sam nipped inside to pay their hotel bill. They drove over to the gas station they had visited the day before. Cardinal was relieved to find that it was already open in anticipation of the flood of trucks waiting to come up the road the instant the border opened. While buying what they needed, on a hunch, Sam showed the gray-haired owner of the gas station a picture of the missing students and asked if he remembered seeing them come through a few weeks back. With a smoldering cigarette hanging loosely from his lips, the old man looked at the picture for a few seconds before shaking his head. He told Sam that plenty of foreigners come through on their way to the capital, he might have served them, but he honestly couldn’t remember. Thanking the man for his time, Sam paid for their supplies, walked back to their Rover and then climbed in. With a honk of the horn and a friendly wave good-bye to the gray-haired man, Cardinal pulled out onto the empty road and started the long drive north.
7
The steady, high-pitched whine from the Learjet’s engines filled the empty hangar as it slowly taxied inside, guided by two airport technicians dressed in navy blue coveralls. Outside, a light rain fell. Painted deep-yellow with white lettering and a stylized cherry blossom, the symbol of the Satori Corporation, adorning the nose section of the jet, the plane came to a halt inside an expansive hangar that catered almost exclusively to VIPs, diplomats and celebrities who wished to travel in anonymity.
Mitchell stood to one side, dressed in a form-fitting gray suit with a crisp black shirt and matching tie, his blue-gray eyes following the jet in. As soon as it parked, several more technicians ran over, placed metal chocks under the plane’s wheels, and then hurried to the back of the plane, ready to unload the passengers’ luggage. Parked behind Mitchell were two up-armored vehicles. The first was a brand new, silver-and-blue Bentley Mulsanne limousine. With 39mm-thick glass windows, reinforced fuel-tank protection, fire suppression system, run-flat tires, and underbody armor, this was a vehicle that was built to withstand an assault while still offering the finest in comfort to its rich occupants. The second car was a standard, company-black, up-armored Hummer H2.
Smoothly, the front door to the Learjet slid open and its stairs lowered to the floor. Almost immediately, a solidly built Japanese man in his late twenties, wearing a silver-gray suit and dark sunglasses, stepped off the plane and warily looked around the hangar. Seeing Mitchell standing alone, the man strode over. By the way the man moved, Mitchell could tell that he was most likely a former police officer now working as a bodyguard for Atsuko Satomi. The man stopped in front of Mitchell, and removed his sunglasses; his dark eyes looked deep into Mitchell’s, as if trying to read what was hidden there.
“Mister Ryan Mitchell?” said the man in flawless English.
“At your service,” replied Mitchell, with a smile and a slight, respectful bow.
The man, likewise, bowed. “Good day, sir, my name is Masaki Matsuda. I have been hired by the Satomi Corporation to protect Atsuko Satomi during her visit to the United States,” said the man, offering his hand to Mitchell in greeting.
“My pleasure,” replied Mitchell as he shook Matsuda’s firm hand. The man stood several inches shorter than Mitchell, with short, black hair and dark, almost black, eyes. He was in superb shape and moved easily, like a panther stalking its prey.
“My people told me that there were three of you in your security detail,” Mitchell said, looking over at the jet.
“That is correct. My men are still on the plane with Miss Satomi and her personal assistant. I told them all to wait inside while I checked things out before they disembarked.”
Mitchell took a liking to the man. It was obvious that he was a no-nonsense professional. He quickly briefed Matsuda on where they would be staying in D.C. before the unveiling of her father’s donated art at the gallery later tonight. This had all been pre-arranged last week between Mitchell and the Satomi Corporation, but he found that it was always good to go over the small details with the people he was working with, as things in his business had a habit of changing on the fly. With a quick, understanding nod, Matsuda walked back to the plane and climbed on board to brief his team. A few seconds later, Matsuda stepped back outside and then stood in front of the stairs, his body tense, ready to react at a moment’s notice.
Turning to the limo driver, a former Washington D.C. cop and now a tactical driving instructor at Polaris, Mitchell told him to pull the limo up beside the plane while he walked over.
The instant the limo stopped, Matsuda turned sideways, facing the nose of the plane, using his body as a shield, ready to protect Atsuko as she left the plane. A second later, a man dressed identically to Matsuda climbed down the stairs and opened the passenger door of the limo, his hand resting on his holstered pistol inside his jacket.
Mitchell looked back at the open door just as Atsuko Satomi walked off the plane. She was wearing an all-black suit with a white, open-collared shirt. Standing at just over five feet tall, she seemed exceptionally diminutive compared to Mitchell and her muscle-bound bodyguards. Seeing the open door of the waiting limo, Atsuko climbed down the stairs, calmly walked past Mitchell and then climbed into the white leather interior of the limo. She was followed by a young woman dressed in an unbuttoned black jacket, white shirt and a form-fitting, knee-length, black skirt. The woman said nothing; she quietly waited for the bodyguard to open her door on the far side of the vehicle, after ensuring Miss Satomi was comfortably seated inside.
Mitchell saw that their luggage had already been cross-loaded into the back of the Hummer; with that, he turned to look at Matsuda. “You and your people will follow in the Hummer. I’ll ride with Miss Satomi in the limo,” said Mitchell firmly.
“Mister Mitchell, it is my job to protect her,” protested Matsuda.
“Yes, but my people and I have been hired to assist you in ensuring that nothing goes wrong during her stay. However, from now until you board your jet for the return trip to Japan, I’ll call the shots,” said Mitchell. He was trying his best not to be overly blunt, but there could only be one Alpha male in charge, and he was it.
A flash of hesitation filled Matsuda’s eyes. It was obvious to Mitchell that he was used to getting his own way.
“Please,” Mitchell said to Matsuda, with a smile on his face as he waved to the idling Hummer parked right behind the limo. “My people and I know this city like the back of our hands and have already liaised with the local law enforcement agencies. Her physical security is still your responsibility. I am just here to make sure that Miss Satomi gets to and from the event safely.”
With a quick but reluctant nod, Matsuda ordered his two men to get into the Hummer.
Waiting until Matsuda and his men were in the Hummer; Mitchell walked over, opened the front passenger-side door on the Bentley, and then got in.
“To the Ritz Carlton?” asked the driver, a fiftyish, blonde-haired man with a thick moustache, confirming that there hadn’t been any changes to their original plan.