Justin cleaned himself up in the spacious washroom. He shaved and changed into a fresh set of lounge pants and t-shirt, courtesy of the flight attendants. He was served a fresh-made hot breakfast — eggs and bacon — complete with orange juice and hot coffee. The Chinese businessman had tailored the airplane’s interior to suit his needs, with extra-large seats and a divan that became a double bed. As soon as he lay down on the cozy bed, he drifted into a deep, heavy sleep, before the flight attendant could even draw the curtains cocooning his bed.
He woke up disoriented by the low hum of the airplane. It took him a few seconds to gather his bearings. A blue fluffy blanket was wrapped around him. Justin raised himself on his elbows and looked out of the large window. An endless field of white cotton-ball clouds and the occasional speck of clear blue. He squinted and realized it was the ocean, the sea to be more precise, and not the sky. The Red Sea. We’re getting close.
He sat on his bed, once again amazed at its softness. Those were probably my best two hours of sleep in a long time, he thought, glancing at his wristwatch he had placed on the nightstand. He smoothed his hair with his hands, stood up, and pulled one of the curtains to the side.
“Hello, Mr. Hall,” he heard a soft, sexy voice. “Did you have a good rest?”
One of the flight attendants, whose exotic-sounding name he could not remember. She was on her feet, a few steps away and smiling at him.
“I… yes, I did,” he replied and stepped out of the bedroom.
“Coffee?” asked the other flight attendant. She was standing next to the galley with a pot of coffee in her right hand.
“Hmmm, sure, thank you.”
“Sugar? Honey? Cream?”
“No, just black coffee.”
“Of course.”
He wrapped his fingers around the white porcelain cup she handed him and stumbled into the closest seat.
“Have you seen my—”
A brown briefcase materialized from thin air before he could finish his sentence. The flight attendant who had first greeted him placed it on the table in front of him.
“Thank you.”
She nodded, smiled. “You’re welcome. If you need anything else, let us know.”
“Will do.”
She retreated to a seat just off the galley. Justin opened the briefcase and retrieved a thick file that was delivered to him prior to boarding the Gulfstream. Romanov had put together basic information about the team — eleven men and one woman — waiting for Justin in Sana’a. Eight of the men were former members of Spetsnaz, the Russian elite special forces. They had worked for the GRU, the Main Intelligence Directorate — the most feared of all Soviet Union secret services — until it was disbanded, its command transferred to the Russian Army. Justin flipped through the photographs, scanning through the files. He did not recognize any of the faces or the names. Most of them had served all over the world. Afghanistan. Chechnya. Georgia.
The other three men and the woman were identified as current members of Alpha Group, one of the Spetsnaz forces of the Federal Security Service or FSB, the main successor of the notorious KGB. The mission of Alpha Group was counter-terrorism. Justin realized Romanov must have greased some serious government wheels to secure such topnotch people. It was an indication of this mission’s importance to Romanov, as well as the level of hostilities he was expecting on the ground. Or perhaps he just wanted to teach a good lesson to the crew who had betrayed him, as well as to anyone else stupid enough to get in the way.
Interesting enough, Romanov had not provided any briefings, pictures, or anything at all about the people who has stolen his cargo. It was not an oversight. Romanov would have had access to information about the people working for him. Justin frowned. Why is this page blank? Who are these people? What is Romanov not telling me?
The Russian government’s implicit seal of approval for this black operation meant certain advantages, at least when the team entered Yemen and in case of any contacts with local police. But when the time came to deal with the cargo thieves and Houthis insurgents, the battlefield was leveled. Everyone would have to prove themselves.
Justin took a few sips of his coffee, then placed his cup back on the table, next to the woman’s picture. Her name was Yuliya Markov. She had short light brown hair that reached her slender neck and hazel eyes that showed a barely noticeable hint of sadness. Her long narrow nose and thick luscious lips would have guaranteed her a career in skin care products modeling, if she had chosen that path. She was dressed in desert camouflage fatigues, but Justin could still tell she had a trimmed body, in perfect shape.
“More coffee?” asked one of the flight attendants.
Justin looked up at the smiling face, then down at Yuliya’s stoic position, her hands gripping an AK. Two beautiful women with two lives that couldn’t be any more different from each other.
“Sure, thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
He closed the file and enjoyed the hot drink, while lying back in his oversized seat. Who knows if I’ll get the chance to sit back and relax in Yemen?
Justin finished his coffee and gladly accepted a refill from the ever-smiling and always attentive flight attendants. As he was finishing it, the pilot informed him they were going to land soon. Justin asked one of the flight attendants for a change of clothes, and she led him to the galley.
She opened the folding doors of a walk-in closet. Justin glanced in surprise at the vast wardrobe that appeared in front of his eyes. There were perhaps twenty suits of various shades of black, blue, and gray, along with matching shirts and ties. A large number of dress shoes and even a few pair of boots sat on the bottom shelves.
“The casual wear closet is at the other end of the plane,” explained the flight attendant. “But these are much nicer clothes. You’ll look fantastic in a black suit.” She reached for one that seemed quite expensive. “It’s a Brioni. Hand made in Italy.”
Justin ran his hand over the front of the suit. The surface was smooth and the texture felt rich. He tried it on. “A bit snug around the shoulders, but it will do.”
The flight attendant smiled. “You look like Bond, you know the British—”
“Yes, I know about James Bond.” He returned her smile.
She picked him a light blue shirt and a matching tie, a shade darker than the shirt. “Whites are so boring,” she said.
Justin took the clothes, then reached for a pair of ankle-high boots. “I plan to do some running,” he told the flight attendant, as she began her objections.
She nodded and smiled. “Whatever you want. And here’s a belt.” She gave him one she had taken from a hanger at the end of the closet.
“Thank you. For everything.”
Five minutes later, he barely recognized the man staring back at him from the washroom’s mirror. She was right, I kind of resemble Bond. Well, maybe just a little.
The troubles in Yemen began even before the Gulfstream landed at El Rahaba Airport, Sana’a International Airport. The air traffic control tower insisted the airplane did not have the full authorization in order to land. The Yemeni Air Force used the same airport, operating out of al-Daylami military base adjacent to the airport. The control tower claimed the Gulfstream needed permission from the military base as well. Justin was not sure about the truthfulness of that claim, but he wanted in no way to infuriate the air force, whose fighter jets were stationed at the far end of the airport. Some heated arguments followed, but Justin heard only bits and pieces through explanations of one of the pilots. Then someone higher up in the airport administration concluded no further permits were necessary, and the airplane landed safely after a thirty-minute delay.