It’s six in the evening and a westward sky has that slightly indefinable band of Paines Grey washing up against the burnished, retreating sun. At thirty-eight thousand feet, I stare out at the nothingness, the steady, low-pitched hum of engines felt, maybe just imagined, comfortably reassuring, somewhere behind.
The flight is interminable, a generous scotch, over ice, already in hand. I see the staff in the galley preparing dinner. I have the roast beef on order, Bearnaise sauce, chat potatoes and a green salad on the side. There are fresh berries over a delicate, coffee-based gelato, following. On medical advice, I will have just the one glass of red, but it will be the best that the house can offer. On the flight up to London last month, they had a wonderful Hill of Grace Syrah, I was hoping for another drop – 1998 was such a wonderful year! But on this Emirates flight, I have to doubt such offerings.
Through the window, never-ending emptiness, I can feel the silence. I note icy cold beads of moisture trapped between the double glazing are battling existence; the exterior hostility and the comparative ambience of the cabin. I idly wonder how the moisture gets into the cavity.
Another assignment. This time, two targets; the first in Muscat, then up the Gulf to Dubai. Two tobacco traders, both in breach of contracts, both to be reminded of Australian commitments, both to be forcefully told of the cost associated with delivery failures! I am acutely aware of the on-ground turf wars, following Border Force’s interception of our most recent consignments: but that is not my concern. I am just the Contract Enforcer!
I recall the cynical banter from the family – accusations of me; the lush, on the company purse, drifting around the globe wining and dining. I try unsuccessfully to paint a judicious slice of my international routines; the endless, lonely hotel suites, living out of a suitcase, the late-night encounters. I think they saw my life as some sort of permanent junket – if only they knew.
This trip should only take a couple of weeks. On arrival, I will secure a ‘piece’, packed with the essential silencer and ammunition. It’s prearranged but always just a little risky, I’m ever alert for possible slipups. Then the stakeout, the last-minute refinements to maximise the educational outcomes and my all-important exit strategies.
I like using the anonymity of bicycles for my getaway, although in some circumstances tuk-tuks or rickshaws also give me that capacity to disappear into a crowd. In the UAE, I think a small motorbike will do the trick.
I can see reflective silver slivers out of my window: other planes, pods of travellers, other destinations, their sleekness reflecting the last of the sunset, their cometlike vapours, trailing. There is a change in background noise, the engines are slowing—thirty minutes to arrival.
The pointy end of this assignment is drawing nigh. I briefly review my operational imperatives. I smile; yep, all my ducks are aligned!