His finger flicked across the smartphone’s screen. ‘There are a whole bunch of other apps, like Mission Status, Threat Level and SOS – that’s my own program,’ Amir said proudly.
‘So it worked!’ remarked Connor. ‘Can you now tell me what it’s for?’
‘Real emergencies,’ Amir replied, his expression serious. ‘Even when you don’t have a phone signal, the SOS app can send a short burst of location data to a GPS satellite which is bounced back here to headquarters. Works anywhere in the world. Drains the battery like crazy, mind. I’m still trying to fix that. But you can explore all these apps when you’re on the plane. I’ve also added the latest Angry Birds game in case you get bored.’
‘Not much chance of that!’ replied Connor.
Amir laid the smartphone gently on the table, seeming almost reluctant to let it go. Connor knew his friend was a bit of a tech-head and was dying to keep it for himself.
‘That’s the showpiece,’ Amir sighed, returning to the bag. ‘The other items I’ve prepped include a basic medical kit, mini-halogen torch, prepaid credit cards and this set of clothes for high-threat situations.’
Alongside the rest of the gear, he laid a baseball cap, a pair of sunglasses, a black T-shirt, a cream-coloured fashion shirt and a styled leather jacket.
‘Jody promises me that they’ll fit. Why not try them on for size?’
Connor slipped on the jacket. The cut was perfect, the quality equal to top-brand Italian leather, but the weight was odd.
‘Feels a little … heavy,’ he remarked.
‘That’s because it’s bulletproof,’ explained Amir. ‘Both this and the shirt can stop a handgun at close range. The jacket’s stab-proof too, as is this T-shirt.’
Connor took a moment to inspect the clothes more closely. His fingers felt the thick cotton-like fabric of the collared shirt. ‘Are you certain this will stop a bullet?’
Amir nodded his head with the utmost conviction. ‘You can ask Jody, but I wouldn’t recommend it.’
‘Why not?’
‘When I did, she shot me.’
‘What?’ exclaimed Connor, not sure he’d heard right.
Amir lifted his shirt to reveal a purple bruise across his chest. ‘She got me to wear one. It’s constructed from a hi-tech woven fabric that “catches” the bullet and spreads the impact over the whole torso rather than in one specific area. So I can guarantee you – on my life – that the shirt works.’
‘I bet that hurt, though,’ said Connor, grimacing in sympathy as Amir re-covered his bruised chest.
‘I’d be lying if I said no. It felt like a battering ram. But at the time I was more worried about the contents of my pants! She scared me half to death. I’m never going to hand in homework late again.’
Amir began to repack the bag for him.
‘It’s all right. I’ve already got my own backpack,’ said Connor.
‘Not like this one you haven’t,’ he replied. ‘This backpack could save your life too.’ He tapped the rear panel, then flexed it. ‘State-of-the-art liquid body armour. The jacket and shirt are only effective against handguns. This backpack will shield you from high-powered assault rifles and machine guns like the MP5.’
‘That’s reassuring to know,’ said Connor, hoping he wouldn’t be confronted by that sort of firepower.
‘Colonel Black spares no expense on our safety equipment,’ explained Amir, showing Connor how the panel folded out to double its coverage. Then he resumed packing the bag.
Connor was astonished by the gear at his disposal. State-of-the-art phones, bulletproof clothing, anti-ambush backpacks. ‘I feel like James Bond,’ he said, picking up the snazzy pair of sunglasses with dark mirrored lens. ‘So what do these do?’
Connor was hoping for a ‘heads-up’ display with augmented reality like the heroes used in the movies.
‘Now these are really clever – one hundred per cent anti-radiation, anti-glare devices,’ explained Amir, slipping them on and grinning. ‘They keep the sun out of your eyes!’
The Gulfstream jet touched down on the runway and taxied to the small private air terminal. As its engines wound down, the passenger door opened and the steps automatically unfolded. An immaculately presented air stewardess checked the exit was clear before ushering the sole passenger from the plane.
‘Thank you for flying with us,’ she said with a well-practised smile of service, then added in farewell, ‘Ma’as-salama.’
‘Allah ysalmak,’ replied the man in his native Arabic, his amber eyes admiring the attractive stewardess one last time. Stepping on to the tarmac, he felt a wave of heat that was pleasant, but by no means comparable to the arid warmth of his own country.
An airport official greeted him. ‘Sir, if you’d like to follow me.’
They walked the short distance to the terminal building. A pair of glass doors slid efficiently open and they were met by a blast of cold conditioned air. Once inside, the doors closed behind, sealing out the noise of the whirring jet engines. The lobby was virtually deserted, only a few employees milling about. A large flatscreen TV on the wall was running CNN in the background, the news coverage following the increased tension in the Arabian Peninsula over the recent oil blockade.
Crossing the thickly carpeted floor, the man was escorted over to Passport Control. A lone US Customs and Border Protection officer sat in his cubicle, his face fixed with a courteous but aloof expression.
‘Passport,’ he said in a detached monotone.
The traveller handed over his documentation and the officer swiped it into his computer. He inspected the monitor. ‘Welcome, Mr Khalid Al …’
‘Khalid Al-Naimi,’ helped the man.
‘And today you’ve come from …?’
‘Saudi Arabia,’ he replied, wondering why travellers were required to fill such details out on an I-94 form if the passport officials never looked at them.
‘What is the purpose of your visit? Business or pleasure?’
‘Business,’ he replied. ‘Although, with any luck, it’ll be pleasurable too.’
The officer’s dour expression failed to register the good-natured reply.
‘And how long do you intend staying?’
‘No more than a month.’
The officer swivelled a webcam to focus on the man’s face. ‘Please look into the camera.’
An image of a late middle-aged Arab man with a silver-grey beard and amber eyes filled the screen. The officer took a photo, then gestured towards a black and green box fixed to the cubicle. ‘Now place your fingers on the scanner.’
Putting down his briefcase, the man laid his right hand across the green plastic. Then his thumb.
The officer re-examined the details that appeared on his monitor. ‘What type of business are you in, Mr Al-Naimi?’
‘Oil.’
The officer nodded, the answer seeming of no interest to him despite his eyes flicking to the newscast. For a brief moment, he appeared reluctant to authorize the visitor’s entry visa. But then he stamped the passport and returned the documents. With the formalities complete, he waved him through. ‘Welcome to the United States. Enjoy your stay.’
The Arab smiled. ‘I intend to.’
He passed the inspection station and baggage collection without further security screening. His luggage had already been transferred and his driver was waiting for him. Stepping outside into the bright sunshine, he was guided towards a blacked-out limousine by the chauffeur. The driver held open the rear passenger door and the man slid into the plush leather seat. Once the door was closed, he was plunged into air-conditioned, shaded privacy.
With a casual yet careful look round the airport car park, the driver got behind the wheel and pulled away from the terminal.
‘Pleasant flight, sir?’ asked the driver, as they joined the highway heading north to Washington DC.
In the back, the Arab was peeling off the first layer of skin from his right hand. The micro-thin latex parted to expose the man’s real fingerprints.
‘Yes, Hazim,’ replied Malik, now removing the coloured contact lenses and returning his eyes from amber to their natural coal-black. Later he would wash the silver dye from his beard too and trim it back. ‘And Bahir was right – security is relaxed at this private airport.’